More Than Magic (43 page)

Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?’

“A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“And you are here for the bones.”

“So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”

“I am not staff. I am the chef.”

“Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”

“And that is how you know
poissonnier
.” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.

“The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”

Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”

“No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”

Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”

“I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”

“Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.
 

“I want to eat here.”

“And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”

She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”

“
Oui
.”

She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.

Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the
derrière
that he got the feeling that under the loose tunic top was a nice body. It had been a long time since he’d been drawn to a woman the way he was drawn to her. And it wasn’t just physical attraction—she was intelligent and strong.

He was so distracted by her
derrière
and his unexpected reaction to her that it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t headed for the front door, but deeper into the restaurant.

“
Mademoiselle
,” he said, jogging a few steps to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m hungry.” She stopped for a moment, looked around and then headed for the kitchen.
 

Tristan darted ahead of her, positioning himself in front of the swinging doors. He folded his arms. Pretty or not, intriguing or not, she wasn’t going to interfere with his dinner prep.

“This is my kitchen.”

“I can tell. I’m excited to see it.”

She tried to push past him, and he grabbed her upper arms. She made a little noise, and her eyes widened with pain. The case she carried fell from her hand.

Tristan released her. He’d barely touched her, yet it seemed he’d caused her pain.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“I…have a bruise there.”

Tristan raised a brow. “From another chef whose kitchen you tried to disrupt?”

“The result of killing the last man who tried to come between me and my dinner.”

Her expression was so deadly serious that Tristan had a moment of real worry. Then she smiled and laughed. It changed her whole face, making her seem less serious and disconnected—more warm and approachable.
 

“You looked quite alarmed,” she said as her laugh faded.

“I do not understand English humor.”

“Too bad, I’m quite funny.” With a smile, she grabbed her case and slid past him into the kitchen.

Cursing, Tristan followed her.
 

“Hello everyone.”

The busy sounds of the kitchen stopped as everyone looked up at the strange blonde woman standing in the doorway. “My name is Melissa Heavey and I’m hungry. Is there someone here who might be able to—”

Tristan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back out through the doors.
 

“You are…crazy,” he said as he set her down. He was too surprised to be really angry.

“You’re not the first to mention that.”

Resigned, Tristan threw his hands in the air, then planted them on his hips. “Fine, I will bring you food. You will have stew, fresh bread, a salad.” That was as far as he was willing to relent.

“That sounds lovely.” She stooped and picked up her case. “Thank you very much…?”

“Tristan, Tristan Fontaine.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tristan.” She held out her hand. “As I said, I’m Melissa.”

Rather than shaking, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “
Enchanté, mademoiselle
.”

He was both surprised and pleased when she blushed. He’d expected her to laugh.

“
Enchanté, monsieur
,” she replied.

He held her hand for a moment longer than was casual. When she pulled back, he let her go, watching her walk to her table with a smile. Tristan was looking forward to learning more about Dr. Melissa Heavey.

Logic says wait. Their bodies scream go. And their spirit guides are playing dirty.

Cougar’s Courage

© 2013 Teresa Noelle Roberts

Duals and Donovans: The Different, Book 3

Toronto cop Cara Many-Winters Mackenzie is still reeling from her fiancé’s murder when her orderly life takes a turn toward the weird, complete with voices in her head and phantom bleeding wounds.

This violent awakening is the rise of her Different gift—a chaotic, Bugs-Bunny-on-crack magic that she must learn to control before it destroys her. There’s only one place to get help: her mother’s ancestral village, and a mentor who seems to have stepped straight out of the smoke of her erotic dreams.

Cougar Dual Jack Long-Claw reluctantly agrees to take Cara under his wing, though he’d much rather take the beautiful city girl into his bed. As he guides her through a crash course in shamanic magic, sparks fly—some sexy, some snarky. But when an ancient enemy attacks the village, they must work together to hone a magical weapon against certain destruction.

Common sense tells them it’s a terrible time to fall in love. Their spirit guides have other ideas. And shamans who don’t listen to their spirit guides are dead shamans…

Warning: Hot shape-shifting feline hero. Strong but shell-shocked heroine. Snarky, meddling spirit guides. And lots and lots of sex: angry sex, crazy sex, magical sex, and just plain sexy sex.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Cougar’s Courage:

“Officer Mackenzie?” The voice sounded like her captain’s, but Bell wasn’t known for his stealthy tread. Had Cara been that lost in thought?

Cara jumped a little and looked up from the incident report she was struggling with, the words dancing behind a rising headache and the pervading sense of anger and uselessness she’d been fighting since Phil’s death five months ago. She expected to see her captain’s bulky, blue-clad form looming over her with that awkward no, I’m not checking up on you expression that was way more annoying than open concern would be—and open concern had gotten annoying sometime before her fiancé’s grave was filled in.

Instead, she saw a totally unexpected person, a tiny, wiry old woman with long white braids, no taller than most ten-year-olds, who bristled with energy.

Cara’s rational brain took in a few things. Normally, civilians didn’t get into the squad room without an escort, but the elderly lady was alone. Maybe someone had dropped her off, said something about why she was there, and then left? If that were the case, that was bad even for the mess Cara had been for the past five months.

The visitor wore a pale buckskin dress ornamented with beads and porcupine quills, not a fashion statement but traditional Native clothing, and no coat despite the frigid February weather. Her silvery braids were fastened with rawhide strips. Not something you saw every day in Toronto. Maybe the old lady figured serious business like a visit to the police station merited her version of a weddings-and-funerals suit or dress uniform.

“May I help you, ma’am?” The unusual visitor had roused her curiosity, which could only be good.

“No, but I can help you, Cara.”

How did she know Cara’s first name? Her name plate just said Mackenzie.

The elderly woman extended a small, bony hand, and Cara instinctively took it. She expected it to be icy. Instead, it was hot. As soon as they touched, Cara felt like she was focusing properly on the other woman for the first time. She blinked and recognized her visitor at last. “Grand-mère? Is that you?”

It couldn’t be. Cara had been ten the last time she’d seen the elder of her mother’s village, and the old lady must have been over eighty then. But the woman nodded and smiled. It was an odd smile, like a tree smiling, serene in a way that you didn’t normally see on a human face. “Of course it is, silly. Who else would I be? It’s time to come home, Cara. Come to Couguar-Caché before it’s too late.”

Couguar-Caché—“hidden cougar” in French—her mother’s ancestral village. A place so remote Cara had never been able to find it on a map, even though she knew she’d been there as a little girl. Yeah, just where she wanted to visit in the depths of winter.

As the old woman spoke, the room closed in, leaving only Cara and Grand-mère. The rest of the squad room was still out there—Cara could hear voices, a ringing cell phone—but they were hidden somehow, masked by a fog. Grand-mère had been seated, but suddenly, with no transition Cara noticed, she was standing in an archway made of snow-weighted evergreen boughs. Behind her, where Cara should have seen Dalhousie’s chaotic desk and the captain’s neat one, was forest and snow, woodland twilight and the corner of a log cabin. A cold, bracing wind blew through the archway, smelling of snow and pine and wood smoke. Somewhere in the background, she could make out a tall man with long dark hair. He turned and looked through the weird portal straight at her with intense amber eyes. He was movie-star gorgeous.

That proved it. She’d dozed off at her desk—it wouldn’t be the first time since Phil had been killed, seeing that the busy squad room felt safer and less lonely than her empty bed—and was having a particularly vivid dream. It had to be a dream, right? Because no one else in the squad room was even glancing at her unusual visitor, when normally, on a quiet, snowy afternoon, Goulding, who was a wolf dual, would have been literally sniffing the air and the others would be leaning in, hoping for something interesting. It was the first time Grand-mère had joined the cast of beloved dead people who romped through Cara’s mind whenever she closed her eyes, but unlike the others, Grand-mère was cheerful. And she’d brought a very decorative man with her.

But Cara shouldn’t be dreaming about handsome imaginary men. In some ways, that was more disturbing than dreaming about bloody dead ones. The involuntary surge of interest reminded her of the real man she’d lost.

Cara jumped to her feet, hoping the movement would bring her back to reality. As soon as she moved, pain drove an iron spike into Cara’s head, blurring her vision so Grand-mère appeared transparent and blended oddly with the tree behind her. The wrist Cara had sprained playing hockey in college swelled and stiffened. One leg buckled, screaming with pain—the one she’d broken as a kid.

And blood began to pour from the place she’d been shot two years ago in a domestic gone horribly wrong. More people she hadn’t been able to save. Like her mother and father. Like Phil.

She leaned against her desk, frantically trying to stay upright, but the pain was too much. As she collapsed to the floor, faces swam around her—Phil, both as he’d been in life and with a great hole in his chest and a look of shock on his death-pale face; her mother, talking to the trees in the backyard as if they were answering; her red-faced, angry drunk of a father in his own Toronto police uniform, and in his coffin. The wife and children a perp had murdered before shooting her, then turning the gun to his own crazy head.

Suddenly, she was in that crazy head, the dead man’s life crashing on her like a wave. He’d tried to be a good, gentle man, but he’d fought a lifelong battle with the monsters in his head, and in the end he’d lost. She knew things about him she’d never read in any of the reports, horrible secondhand memories that made her wonder how he’d lived that long before putting a bullet to his head to stop the pain and made her comprehend, a little, why to him, killing his wife and babies seemed like saving them from an ugly world.

On the floor by her desk, bleeding, in shattering pain, Cara began to cry as she hadn’t been able to cry for Phil.

Grand-mère touched her cheek. “It’s time, Cara-child. You’re ready. He’s ready. Go to Couguar-Caché. Or share your mother’s fate.” The old woman knelt and kissed her forehead, then stepped back through the doorway of evergreen branches and vanished.