Wilder's Mate (8 page)

And he did. On the first night he stroked every inch of her and teased her until she was begging. She came around his fingers and whimpered helplessly when he slicked his thumb into her ass and made her come again. But he wouldn’t use his cock, not then and not on the second night when he coaxed her astride his face and thrust into her mouth while he drove her to four painfully sharp climaxes.

By the third night she was praying that he’d turn his attention toward procuring a condom, and counting the days frantically on her fingers. Instead he used
his
fingers, two so thick and wide the stretch danced the line between pleasure and pain until he added his clever tongue and made her see stars. She begged for him to fuck her and he laughed and made her come again. Then he put her on her knees and whispered dirty promises while she worked him with her mouth, illicit words about the way he’d push his cock deep until he was slick and wet, then take her ass.

Which made the fourth evening’s dinner torturous. She hated herself for wanting to escape the cloying confines of the latest common room and retreat to the darkness of a bedroom and a plain mattress. A better woman would be focused on her mission. The man she’d come to rescue, and whatever mysterious
Moira Rogers

information Wilder swore he would soon have within his grasp. But as long and troubled as her days were, as soon as he walked into her room at night she could think of nothing but the moment when he’d take her back upstairs and drown worry in bliss.

Perhaps wanton behavior bred true.

“You’re distracted,” Wilder murmured, his mouth close to her ear. “You’re starting to look antsy instead of bored.”

She shivered as his breath danced over her skin. Distracted was a mild, ineffectual word. She was frantic. Foolish. She inched her chair to the side and tried to summon a glare.
Don’t make it worse.

“Now you just look angry.”

Probably because she
was
angry—at herself. She reached for the banged-up goblet holding wine so tart it wasn’t hard to let her puckered lips and wrinkled nose pass as disdain.

“That’s my girl.” He leaned back, sweeping his gaze around the room. “I’m starting to wonder if this is going to work.”

At least the words concerned her enough to banish thoughts of sex. She waited until a particularly amorous gunslinger stopped gaping at her, then chanced a reply, moving her lips as little as possible. “Then what next?”

Wilder shrugged. “We try something else.”

They had resources. Their wits. Wilder’s strength. Her stubbornness. She took another slow sip of her wine and gave a small nod.

Several moments later, Wilder tensed beside her as a blond man approached the table, his hat in his hand.

He was tall. Shaggy hair and a rough beard gave him a wild look, and dark, feral eyes made every instinct she possessed sharpen in recognition. She’d seen enough bloodhounds to recognize
something
in the way they walked, as if they owned the world and had nothing to fear from anyone in it.

The man stopped next to the table and bowed low before glancing up. He winked at her, a sly, amused smile curling his lips as if they shared a secret, then straightened and turned his attention to Wilder. “I have an offer for your lady.”

Wilder kicked out a chair. “My lady will listen.”

His
lady
wasn’t supposed to understand English, which meant Satira had to keep her expression blank and not let on she knew anything was different about this particular man, aside from her protector’s willingness to let him sit.

The new bloodhound spun the chair around and straddled it, crossing strong arms across the back. “A hundred dollars a week,” he said without preamble. “Her own suite of rooms. Two lady’s maids, three servants. Two nights to herself out of every seven.”

For the first time, Satira understood why a woman might offer her neck to a vampire.

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Wilder’s Mate

“One-twenty,” Wilder countered. “Two maids, three servants, and a coach of her own.”

“Horse-drawn or steam?”

“At your master’s discretion.”

The stranger glanced at Satira, his gaze sliding over her in a manner a hairsbreadth short of too familiar. “Is your continued presence a condition, or is this a short-term job?” He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “That point is open for negotiation.” Satira fought the urge to squirm as the man continued to study her. Instead she looked away, cultivating her best bored look as her fingers curled into her skirts under the table. After a long silence, the chair scraped across the floor. “Why don’t we take our negations somewhere a little more private, and see what we can settle upon?”

Wilder turned to her and nodded. “The choice is yours.”

If he was giving her a choice at all, it followed he wanted her to agree. She nodded once and then held out her hand.

Before Wilder could take it, the blond man rose from his chair and closed his gloved fingers around hers with another of those wicked smiles that probably set female hearts aflutter whenever he chose to wield it. Cool, firm lips brushed her knuckles, his mustache tickling the back of her hand before he glanced up. “Archer, at your service, m’lady.”

Wilder’s expression didn’t change, but he kicked the chair again, slamming it into the man’s knee.

Satira was close enough to see his tiny flinch—and the odd little flash of satisfaction across Archer’s face as he released her hand and straightened. “I’ve taken the liberty of securing the private dining room. If you care to escort your lady?”

Wilder rose and pulled back her chair before offering his arm, his sharp gaze still on the blond man.

“If you please.”

It seemed as if every eye followed them as Wilder led her to the far side of the common room. A heavy wooden door opened to reveal a smaller dining room decorated in golds and rich burgundy, from fabric draped haplessly on the walls to the too-large tablecloth that dragged against the floor.

Satira pulled free of Wilder the moment the door closed and braced both hands on her hips, fixing the man with her best glare.

It made Archer laugh. “Well, old man, you can still rile the ladies up, true as you ever did.” Wilder punched him on the arm. “Maybe you should keep your lecherous stares to yourself, Archer.” Her ire rose another notch. “I’m glad the two of you find this amusing.”

“I’m not amused,” Wilder retorted. “I’m about to kick this turd’s ass.” Satira ground her teeth together until her voice came out as clenched as her jaw. “
Why
?” Archer laughed. “Bloodhounds are territorial, sweet thing.” He tossed his hat onto the table. “Best remember that if you plan to run with one.”

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45

Moira Rogers

Wilder turned a chair around and sat. “What the hell are you doing here anyway, Arch?”

“Undercover.” Archer sprawled in the opposite chair and lifted both booted feet to the table, heedless of the damage they’d probably do to the precious tablecloth. “Been deep in the Deadlands for six months now.”

“Doing what?”

“Inciting the bloodsucking bastards into killing each other off. Most of them are in a blood feud with at least a half dozen of the other ones. Keeping them stirred up isn’t so hard.” Wilder chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”

It sounded useful. Satira stepped forward and planted herself firmly between the two men, intent on capturing Archer’s undivided attention. “Have you heard anything about a Guild inventor who’s been taken captive?”

The man’s humor faded, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “I’ve heard rumors. Been waiting for confirmation.”

Too many nights in Wilder’s bed had dulled her sense of self-preservation. She’d already taken a step forward before she remembered that the man sprawled so casually in front of her wasn’t a man at all. The urge to curl her fingers in a bloodhound’s vest and shake him until answers tumbled out was damn close to suicidal.

Her hands shook with the effort control cost her. “What rumors?” He watched her sharply. “That one of the younger bloodsuckers is planning a coup, but he needed a weapon. He needed a Guild inventor.”

“Which one?”

Archer huffed out a laugh, and Wilder spoke. “We plan to head out, Arch, so you may as well tell us.” He shook his head. “You’re heading for a fight with a lady in tow? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

“The lady can take care of herself.”

That warmed her a little. Enough to let her take a step back. Toward Wilder. “Please tell us.” Archer didn’t relax, though his expression cleared. “His name is Thaddeus Lowe. Ever heard of him?” Wilder tensed again. “Some.”

“Some?” Satira demanded, panic rising. Wilder’s reaction was enough to scare half of the life out of her. “Is it worse than you expected?”

It was Archer who answered. “Lowe is a shrewd son of a bitch. Mean. It won’t be easy getting close, but I might be able to get it done.”

“I’ll do anything,” she whispered. “
Anything
.”

“Satira.” Wilder rose and stepped in front of her. “I’d be much obliged, Arch. We have to get Nate out of there.”

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The other bloodhound nodded and dropped his hat back on his head as he stood. “I’ll be in touch. This time tomorrow at the latest.”

Archer left, leaving Satira staring at Wilder’s rigid back as the door clicked shut again. “Wilder?” He turned slowly, releasing a shaky breath. “Didn’t like having him so close, that’s all.” It took her a moment to understand, and even when she did, she didn’t quite believe it. “So close to me?”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “Sorry. I’m usually much more reasonable.” Perhaps it wasn’t proper to feel a kindling warmth in her belly. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder. “I have never had a man be unreasonable about me before.” Wilder laughed a little. “You sound pleased.”

“It’s…” Thrilling. Exciting. Soothing, to think someone had strong enough emotions regarding her to behave irrationally. Soothing to
matter
to someone. “It’s pleasing. In moderation.” His hands framed her hips, pulled her close. “I’ll bear that in mind.” Satira turned her head and rested her cheek against his shoulder with a soft sigh. “Then tomorrow, we’ll know how to find Nate.”

He sobered. “Tomorrow. You should get some rest tonight.”

It wasn’t the loss of his promised wickedness that hurt, but the warmth and comfort of having his strong body curled around hers. “Alone?”

“You can sleep with me,” he told her, “but I do mean
sleep
.” She tried to hide her smile against his shoulder. “As long as you keep my feet warm.”

“That’s the only thing hounds are good for, sweetheart.”

It sounded like a warning. Perhaps he didn’t care for the way she held him, the way she’d snuggled up against him. Too intimate, too expectant. Satira stepped back and reminded herself that having a man’s lust could be a long way from having his regard. Her words must be lighthearted. Teasing. “You’re skilled at keeping
all
of me warm.”

His eyes were dark, and he closed his hands around her arms. “Don’t figure you’d agree to stay here tomorrow.”

If he’d bedded her for the last few nights in hopes of making her more agreeable to being left behind, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Don’t figure I would.”

He sighed. “Thought so.”

She had one point on which she had every intention of digging her heels in. “And I’ll be wearing something reasonable. So if you’d like to spend a moment admiring my tits, you’d best do it now.” Finally, he unbent enough to smile. “Tonight, perhaps, before we sleep.” So there’d be one more night of furtive touches and desperate pleasure. “Take me to bed, Wilder Harding. I yearn for your admiration.”

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47

Moira Rogers

He kissed her, a glancing brush of his lips on hers. “Now?”

“I’m only hungry for one thing.”

Wilder lifted her suddenly and set her on the nearest table, his hands hard on her hips, his breath hot on her ear. “Here?”

Her heart skipped. The hunger in his voice, in his grip… It was everything she’d craved without knowing it. Not a bloodhound interested in a conquest. A man who wanted
her
.

Oh, she was a fool. A terrible fool, because she couldn’t summon the will to build a wall around her heart. Instead she slid her fingers up his arms and curled them around his neck, drawing him down for another kiss.

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The sun was low, too low, and Wilder cursed under his breath. According to Archer’s message, this was the right rendezvous point, only he was nowhere to be found.

And darkness was fast approaching.

“Wilder?” Satira sat her horse more easily today, with the reins firm in her gloved hands. She seemed more relaxed in trousers and a rough jacket, though tension threaded her voice now.

Hiding his emotions and thoughts from her was growing harder with each passing day. “Archer’s late.”

“I take it that’s not like him?”

“No.” Not like
any
bloodhound to leave a comrade stranded in the desert borderlands with dusk fast approaching.

Wilder’s stomach twisted with a sick sense of foreboding.

Satira stripped off her gloves and tucked them behind her belt, then reached for the gun at her hip.

“Do you think something happened to him?”

“Could be.” If he’d tried to set things up for them, he could have gotten—

Really, Harding? You didn’t see it in his eyes? Ignore it when he tried to call you off?

He tightened one hand around his rifle and turned his horse. “Ride, Satira. Back toward town,
now
.” For one endless moment she stared at him, eyes conflicted. Then she gripped her reins. “You’d best be behind me, Wilder, or I
will
turn around.”

He started to speak, but the crack of a gunshot stilled his tongue. Wilder dragged Satira closer, heedless of the way her mount whinnied in protest.

Her heart hammered so loud he could hear it clearly, but her fingers found her gun. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”