Collector's Item (2 page)

Andi tensed.
Someone’s watching
.

He’s being a gentleman.
Still, KT shifted position, again, just enough to give her maneuvering room. The heavy square head of the deadbolt key met her fingers and she slid the key into the lock, opened the door.

Behind her, she heard Massey take a step, but she sensed him moving toward her instead of around to the next flight. A shift in the air behind her—too close behind her—and KT’s instincts shifted into overdrive. She glanced over her shoulder.

Massey reached for her, his gaze flat and hard.

Collector!
She drove a kick backward at his groin. His eyes narrowed as he tried to evade her move. Her foot impacted his hip and forced a grunt from his lips. KT ignored the jolt up her leg and dropped everything to free her hands. Envelopes scattered like confetti and her backpack hit the floor with a thud. She spun around, hands up, tensed for an attack that didn’t come.

Instead, a dark figure plowed into Massey. Shocked, KT watched a man in a duster wrestle Massey on the floor. A bedraggled fedora rolled to a stop against the wall beside KT’s feet.

“What the hell!” Massey landed a solid right that rocked the attacker back enough that Massey could roll aside and spring to his feet. “Son of a bitch.”

Andi roiled under KT’s skin, the jag’s fight or flight reflex making it difficult for KT to concentrate. For a dangerous second, KT’s knees threatened to buckle as the heat of transformation surged over her. Years of practice kicked into place and KT regained control of herself and Andi.

The attacker ignored KT and flowed to his feet, focused on Massey. Massey swung. His fist connected with the attacker’s jaw. The other man shook off the blow and followed with a lightning-fast jab that snapped Massey’s head backward.

Braced, KT watched the fight, trying to anticipate when it might shift in her direction. At the same time, she couldn’t quite understand what was happening. A mugging gone awry? Was the threat Massey or the stranger in the duster? Could either of them be Collectors?

Massey had a key to the building. A simple mugger would have taken her down at the door or in the lobby for a quick escape. Why come inside and escort her to her door?

The memory of his expression as he reached for her played across KT’s mind, raising the hair on her arms. No, whatever he was, he wasn’t one of the good guys.

As for the man in the duster—where had he come from, and why was he fighting with Massey? It made no sense, unless… A tiny thought niggled at the back of her mind, and she hated it. Had her father sent a bodyguard to protect her, against her wishes?

Well, she could defend herself. She snatched her backpack from the floor. With a prayer for her laptop, she swung it at the known threat, Massey. The backpack connected with a solid thunk.

“What the—” Massey turned, his face twisted with rage, and then staggered toward her.

“Damn!” KT pulled the pack back for another try, but the stranger blocked it mid-swing with one arm as Massey sank to the floor out cold.

“That’s enough,” the stranger said, his voice low and harsh, his eyes pale gold in the light from her open doorway. “Get inside!” The words came out in a growling snarl so like her father’s that she started to obey, and then turned back.

The unmistakable scent of musk and fur hit her.
He’s a were.
Not only a were but a were-jaguar. That earlier tiny suspicion began to blossom and her temper right along with it.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

“I’m the man who’s trying to keep your high-blood ass from becoming a Collector’s Item.” He bent and hauled Massey’s unconscious body off the floor. He grunted as he hefted Massey over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and turned toward her. Even bent under Massey’s weight, the stranger stood head and shoulders over her.

“I said get inside.” His words rushed at her in a violent whisper. “Do you want the neighbors calling the police?”

The police! KT started to reach for her cell, and the man glared at her, the planes of his face razor-sharp with suppressed fury.

“I don’t think you want to spend the next four or five hours explaining clan business to the police.”

KT glanced at Massey’s limp body. So, her instincts were right. Massey was a Collector—and after her. The final puzzle piece clicked into place, and she did
not
like the picture.

Her fingers tightened on the straps of her backpack while she matched his glare with one of her own. “My father sent you, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t send me. I was already here.” He shifted Massey’s weight on his shoulders and jerked his head toward the door of her apartment. “Inside. Before someone comes up the stairs.”

Furious, KT wanted to tell him to go to hell, but if he was right about Massey, then he had just saved her life. And he had a point—wherever possible, keep paranormal business private. She stepped back. He brushed past, and she leaned into him to sniff again. Definitely! The familiar musky scent of jaguar.

Andi’s interest sparkled along KT’s nerves.
Alpha.
A fighter
.

KT huffed.
Oh great! Him, too?
She bent to scoop up her mail and the hat that lay against the wall.

She glanced at the opposite corner of the hall, nearly invisible in the gloom. With that dark-colored duster and his hat pulled low, no wonder she hadn’t seen him at first. Her cheeks warmed. She should have scented him. Her grandmother would have been so disappointed in her.

KT shook her head, checked the hall one last time, then closed and locked the door. After tossing the envelopes in the basket on the hall table, she hung the hat on a coat peg. She started to set her backpack on the floor and froze as she remembered hitting Massey, the feel of the impact, the sound, and the fear. Forcing herself to complete the movement, she set her backpack on the floor and straightened, releasing the memory with a slow breath.

When she turned around, Massey lay on her living room rug, wrists and ankles trussed with plastic ties and mouth gagged with a white cloth. Bruises had already begun to darken on his face and one eye was swelling. The man knelt over Massey, searching the inside pockets of his coat.

“What are you looking for?” She walked into the living room and stopped behind the couch.

He ignored her question, as well as the blood that trickled from his split lip and the cut above his eye, and continued his search.

“Is he going to be okay?” She moved to lean over the back of the couch. “I hit him pretty hard.”

“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Ah hah.” He straightened and held up a capped syringe for her inspection.

KT backed away. “Shit!”
Could that be what I smelled earlier?

“No, sedative.” The man popped off the cap, pushed down the back of Massey’s collar, and jabbed the needle into the exposed skin just below his hairline.

“Hey!” KT stepped forward, hand out to stop him. “What’re you doing?”

“What he was going to do to you.” He pushed the plunger down just a little before he pulled the needle free. He replaced the cap and straightened up again, tucking the syringe into a coat pocket. His dark gaze captured hers.

“We need to talk.”

Chapter Two

Peyton Allers struggled to contain his temper as he faced the “princess” of the Marant clan, AKA Katarina Teresa Marant. Because a high-blood princess had slipped her leash and made herself a target for the Collectors, his cover and his operation were blown. No simple “chip & tip” would do for this Collector’s Item, damn it!

Added to the inevitable hysterics and demands for protection, he’d be elbow deep in politics. God, he hated politics. Bowing and scraping while maneuvering to find the best location to stick in the knife.

Not with this one,
his jag, Max asserted.

The princess stood behind the couch, hands on hips, a tiny crease between her eyebrows while she looked from Massey on the rug to him and back. No hysterics in sight, Peyton noted with relief. Points for restraint.

Alpha
, said Max.

Princess
, Peyton countered. Even
they
had their moments of intelligence, but he knew better than to expect more.

In the half-light coming through the apartment windows, he could see the thin rim of white around the edges of her eyes. However, her breathing had calmed and her attitude leaned more toward pissed than frightened.

“Who the hell are you and why should I trust you?” she demanded, pinning him with a belligerent stare.

With those rain-snarled ebony curls and eyes so dark they appeared black, she reminded him of a drenched and enraged kitten. The comparison helped bring his temper down, but only a little.

“Good questions, but a little late, don’t you think?” He gestured to Massey. “Besides, you trusted
him.
Trusted him enough to agree to go for a drink on what, a five-minute conversation?”

Max’s disapproval of Peyton’s unfair judgment did nothing to sweeten Peyton’s mood. Of course, she didn’t know about the pheromones Massey mixed into his aftershave, but any paranormal who let their hormones override their logic only set themselves up for trouble. Didn’t he know it!

She blinked, but didn’t back down. “That’s none of your business.”

Her rapid downshift from accusation to dismissal made Peyton’s hands itch to shake her. He settled for a sub-vocalized growl. “Since your poor judgment forced me to blow my cover, it’s very much my business, princess.”

Her eyes narrowed and her hands curled into fists against her hips. “So you keep saying.” She took a deep breath and released it. “Now, who are you?”

“Peyton Allers, Protectorate.” He slipped his hand into his coat pocket. He paused when she backed into the small desk behind her. Her fingers curled around the handle of the desk drawer—weapon, he guessed. Fat lot of good it did her in there.

He gave her a tight smile and put as much reassurance as he could into his voice. “Just getting out my ID.”

She nodded, her gaze almost a physical weight. “Okay.”

He eased his wallet out of his inside pocket, unfolded it, and dug out his Protectorate identification card. Bringing it had been a risk, but he’d figured the princess wouldn’t just accept his word. The elite seldom accepted anything without all the necessary documentation, usually in triplicate.

She let go of the drawer and reached over to twist the knob on the desk lamp. A golden glow filled the room as she leaned forward to look at the card. Her gaze flickered from the ID to his face and back. She straightened, her hand returning to the drawer handle. However, her fingers just rested against it instead of holding it.

“Okay. So, what were you doing outside my door?”

He shoved the card into his wallet, folded it shut, and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. He wiped his mouth and winced at the sting. When his fingers came away bloody, he took a firmer hold on his temper and kept his tone calm. “Listen, I’d be glad to answer your questions, but could I get a towel or something?”

Her expression hardened and she didn’t budge. “Did my father send you? I told him I could take care of myself.”

Peyton let his gaze drop to Massey’s unconscious form and then flick up to hers.

Her cheeks blazed scarlet, but she refused to back down. “Did he?”

He blew out a breath of frustration. He’d just saved her from a world of hurt and she wanted to argue about her father? Clueless, absolutely clueless.

Instead of grabbing her and shaking her until her teeth rattled, he crossed his arms, fists tucked under his elbows. He jerked his chin at the man lying on the rug between them.

“Just so you know, that dose should keep him down for a while, but not long enough for a game of fifty questions.” He looked around for a box of tissues or something. “Listen, can I at least get a paper towel?”

She shook her head. “As I see it, you lurked in the shadows outside of my apartment for God only knows what reason, attacked a human unprovoked, and then strong-armed your way into my home. Explain or I’m calling the police.”

He ground his teeth. “I guess the fact that I’ve saved you from being tranked and carted off to decorate some Collector’s private menagerie doesn’t mean anything?”

She gave a disbelieving lift of one shoulder. “That’s your story. You haven’t offered me anything substantial to support it.”

And there was proof positive she was Anton Marant’s daughter. As the Paranormal Alliance’s spokesperson, Anton Marant had a reputation—nothing got past him. She’d certainly inherited his no-nonsense stare.

Peyton weighed and discarded several options before he decided on the truth. Why not? This game was over, called on account of an extra player on the field. The thought made him angry all over again, but he swallowed it.

He’d find another way in. Another angle. He had to.

“Okay, have it your way.” Unable to stand still, he paced the length of the room and back as he talked. “I was with the Protectorate for ten years, then two years ago, one of my best friends, Lance Thompson, disappeared. He was found murdered down in Virginia.”

Peyton stopped, his back to her, and stared at the wall in front of him. Even after all this time, the memory remained an open wound. He drove the pain deep and pivoted to face the woman watching him.