Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (54 page)

She sighed. “You judge me for who my father is. You make assumptions about me, just as everyone does. And maybe it’s for the best, because maybe I’m nothing but a vacuous shell of a woman with nothing to offer the world.”

“Your father, as it turns out, isn’t such a bad guy,” said Dascha. “Or hadn’t you heard?”

“What are you talking about?”

Dascha told her about the latest story to rock Wolf Rock: how Cecile had been taken, how Conrad Malcolm had turned out to be far more human than anyone suspected. He had come to accept her mate, Nash, despite his initial prejudices. And how he had learned to love his daughters again.

“So they’ve reconciled properly? Wow, that’s something. Of course, she was always more patient with him than I was. She’s a lot nicer.”

“I don’t know. Your sister’s very nice, but I think that under that hostile exterior of yours, you might be pretty sweet, too.” Dascha’s lips itched to smile.

“What about you? Are you nice?” asked Estée, avoiding expanding on the thought.

“Apparently not. But I’m trying to learn to be a better man.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Very original answer.”

“Yeah. Listen, we should get out of here when you’ve finished your wine and find somewhere quiet to crash. This wolf chauffeur will be here at dawn.”

“Okay. So can I trust you to keep your hands off me for the night?”

Dascha raised his hands, palms out, as though in surrender.

“Scout’s honour,” he said. “Wait, you said
hands,
right?”

T
he two walked
down a set of stairs to the edge of the Seine, where one of the tourist boats known as a “Bateau Mouche” or “Fly Boat” floated along, taking hordes of mosquito-slapping families on sight-seeing tours down the river.

“And to your right,” announced Dascha, doing his best impersonation of a tour guide as he watched the men and women on board point fingers towards famous landmarks, “You see a wolf and a tiger shifter in their incredibly
un
natural habitat. Take their photo and they will rip your faces off. By the way, the female has told the male not to touch her. If he does, apparently it will result in immediate castration. Whether by claws or teeth is as yet unclear.”

Estée laughed. “The tiger shifter has been known to leap thirty feet across water, sinking its teeth directly into the jugulars of innocent tourists,” she added. “And when provoked, they can actually remove your spleen with a single swipe of their claw. Don’t even get me started on what they do to the testicles of horny men. I believe that’s already been covered, though.”

“Is that right?” asked Dascha, for once seeming relaxed and amused. “I didn’t know you were a certified surgeon as well as…everything else.”

“Well, I’m good at removing organs. It’s the stitching you up afterwards bit that needs a little work.”

“We can’t all be perfect.”

They strolled until they came to a stone bench overhung by a long bridge spanning the river. It would conceal them from the eyes of those above and allowed them to keep an eye on anyone coming at them from either side, if necessary.

“This looks like an excellent place to spend the night,” said Dascha. “I mean, until a cop shines a flashlight in our faces, accuses you of being a hooker, me your disappointed client, and threatens to lock us both up with some hunchback in Notre Dame’s crypts.”

“Your perception of Paris is quite different from mine,” said Estée. “Most people think this place is pretty romantic.”

“What can I say? I’m a practically-minded guy.”

“I’ll bet you’re not. I’d put money on your having at least one romantic bone in that body of yours.”

“Is that thing about a bone a euphemism of some sort?”

“I retract my previous statement.” Estée laughed as she seated herself on the bench. “Well, this bed’s not pretty, but it’ll do.”

“I don’t know about being a romantic,” Dascha said. “But I’ll admit one thing: I was pissed at you for leaving London.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve never been much of a traveler. But ever since I was little I’ve wanted to go see the Tower Bridge—the London Bridge, whatever they call it. I suppose because of the nursery rhyme about it falling down. I guess I wanted to make sure it’s still standing.”

“I’m sorry. But hey, we’re going back there. Maybe you’ll get a chance after all.”

“Yeah, sure. We’ll head back, you can apologize to the guy who’s trying his best to ensure that you get killed by a cop or an assassin’s bullet, then we’ll pop by the bridge and pay our regards.”

“You never know, Dascha,” she said, looking up at him. “Your wish may come true when all’s said and done. And for what it’s worth, I hope it does.”

Dascha sat down a foot or so to her left, feeling warmer than he should as a cool breeze swept under the bridge. His wishes were changing from hour to hour, this woman working some kind of spell on him. Here he was, in the gravest danger of his life, about to spend a restless night in a place that’s normally the domain of trolls. And yet there was nowhere on earth he’d rather be.

“So listen, about this plan of yours,” said Estée. “I’m going along with it because I don’t have a choice. But I’m not convinced that you really know what you’re getting yourself into. These guys mean business. You could get yourself killed, and to be honest, you probably will.”

“As I see it, Estée, I have two options: take you back to London and give you a fighting chance, or leave you here to fend for yourself, head back to Wolf Rock and forget you ever existed.”

“So why don’t you do the second one, then? At least you’d be safe.”

“It’s tempting, believe me.” Dascha leaned forward, propping himself up against his knees as he watched the water lap against the edge of the embankment in the wake of passing boats. “I’m almost selfish enough to do it. But I’m also too selfish to leave you. Because if I go back without you I’ll get my ass kicked out of there faster than you can say
vive la différence.
”

“So you’re leading me into the arms of danger for your own sake.”

“Yes.” He turned his face towards her, prepared to divulge a little more of the truth. “But also for yours. You can’t run forever, no matter how strong you might think you are. That’s no life. Look, you’re a young woman, and you have a lot to offer.”

Estée scoffed. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Oh, jeez. Are you really going to make me do this?”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You’d damn well better bet I am. Is it really so painful to consider saying something nice to a woman?”

“Fine, then. You seem sort of smart. And you’re not bad-looking.”

“You know, they say that Shakespeare wrote some pretty poetry, but that guy had nothing on you.”

“I’m trying, all right? Let’s see: you’re stubborn. But that can be a good thing; it means that you’re driven. You’re adventurous or you wouldn’t have taken off to London and run away to Paris.”

“But now I’m wanted by a group of killers,” said Estée. “That’s not a desirable quality in a woman.”

“Desirable,” repeated Dascha, wondering if she had any idea just how desirable she was. “Maybe it’s not. But I’ll admit that it makes you sort of intriguing. Most intriguing girl I’ve met in a while, in fact.”

Estée felt a rush of endorphins at the words. What was it about this man that felt so damn good when he gave her anything like a compliment? She wanted his approval, and yet she couldn’t think of a logical reason why.

“But you’re going to have to stop being so damned intriguing,” Dascha added, his tone serious. “And help me. We need to fix whatever mayhem you’ve caused. If these guys are as nasty as you say, this Syndicate, they won’t just go after you, as you’ve said. They’ll go after your friends and family, so that means that my hometown is under threat.”

“Understood,” said Estée quietly.

“Wolf Rock has been under constant judgment ever since the pack came out publicly. The last thing we need is more pressure from the outside, more danger. Those guys deserve a break from it all.”

Estée didn’t reply this time. Something inside her felt like a young girl being scolded by a parent. And she hated herself for letting his words sting. But sting they did, hitting her squarely in the chest like a blow. So she was just a pest to him; an annoyance.

“I’m tired,” she finally uttered. “I think I’m going to lie down.”

Dascha stood up. “Okay. I’ll keep watch. Try to get some sleep; tomorrow will be a long day.” He wandered to the edge of the river and tossed something in, which hit the water with the sound of a heavy stone.

“What was that?” Estée asked.

“The cheetah’s gun,” he said. “I didn’t think we should try and carry it across the border.”

She nodded before pulling her legs up onto the bench and laying her head down on top of her bag. She shut her eyes, trying to convince herself that if she could sleep, she’d awaken to a different life; one where none of this had happened. Where she’d never driven the man known as Grendel to sic the police or his men on her; where Dascha turned out just to be a pleasant dream wrapped up in leather and denim.

A life where she was simply Estée, the lost young woman without a plan, without direction, and without a man who now stood over her protectively, each minute that passed increasing her desire for him.

S
he woke
in the middle of the night, shivering. The Paris air had turned cold and damp, and the bench was coated in chilly droplets of water.

Dascha remained a few feet away, his face taut with alertness as he stood, arms crossed, eyes focused on the distance. Estée watched him for a moment, taking care to remain still as she did so. He was like a human guardian, but more than that, she could see the shadow of the wolf in him, waiting, anticipating the worst. Hunting for trouble, ready to pounce on it if anything threatened her.

She’d known shifters; there had always been a few around, though until recently most of them had kept their identities concealed. But a shifter always recognized his or herself in another. It was the eyes, the mannerisms, the scent. To an average human it wasn’t always obvious. But a tiger could sniff out a wolf a mile away, and likewise, a wolf’s keen eyes and nose made it the best sort of hunter.

Estée’s father had always maintained a fairly aloof and snooty attitude towards wolves in general. pack animals held no interest for him; they struck him as mere followers. And after all,
he
was a natural born leader. But he had also given up on his animal side; he thought himself above it. He was what shifters labelled a traitor to their kind; a man who felt humans superior and denied his own tiger blood and genes.

If what Dascha had told her was correct, though, Conrad Malcolm had recently learned to accept himself and others. If Estée ever got to see him again, perhaps he could prove it to her.

Something in the man who guarded her now seemed noble, not at all like a thuggish pack wolf, and not inhuman. He would have fought to the death to protect her, a woman he’d known less than twenty-four hours, and for that alone he deserved respect and admiration. He was more man than anyone she could imagine.

Either that, or he was foolish, she reminded herself, her brain abruptly switching gears. What kind of a man throws himself in danger’s way to protect a woman, particularly one who hasn’t exactly been kind to him? She’d made his life hell ever since they’d met, and he’d relentlessly looked after her.

Stupid girl,
she reprimanded herself.
You’re just trying to convince yourself that you’re not attracted to him. And you know perfectly well that you want to lick every inch of that hot body of his. You want him to know how you feel, yet your feelings terrify you.

“Hey,” she muttered as she raised herself to a sitting position.

“Hey,” said Dascha, turning to her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little cold.”

He approached, pulling off his leather jacket and handing it to her. Its shoulders were broad enough that she could have fit twin versions of herself inside it.

“Thanks,” she said. “Wow, this thing makes me feel tiny. There are five words I never thought I’d utter.”

“Really? Because I hear that from a lot of women,” Dascha grinned.

“You’re not talking about the jacket, are you?” she asked, a pang of jealousy mixed with amusement. She wondered how many other women had seen his not-so-tiny parts.

“Not so much.”

Estée stood and walked over to the water’s edge to watch the boats moored in the distance, lapping against the tires which kept them from hitting the concrete siding.

“Have you been with a lot of women?” she asked, her back turned to him.

“No, not really. I’m a lone wolf, you see.” He kept his distance, sensing that he shouldn’t approach a woman who was in the mood to ask such a question.

“I suppose we have that in common, at least. Solitude means you can’t get hurt,” said Estée. “Well, except by assholes with guns who pretend to bring you room service, but that’s a whole other kind of pain.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the instances when a friend with sharp teeth can be a helpful thing.”

Estée turned and looked at him. In the moonlight his toned arms looked more shapely even than before, his eyes bright blue, thoughtful. Maybe it was a bad idea to examine hot men under the light of a Parisian moon.

“Do you think there’s any truth to the notion that we have mates out there, ones that we’re meant to find, to be with?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dascha. “But I’ve seen it. In Tristan. Even your sister, with Nash…”

“Ah yes, the mysterious Nash. I’ll have to meet him, if I ever make it home.”

“He seems like a decent guy, and he sure loves Cecile,” said Dascha.

“Well, that’s good.” Estée turned away again, feeling a new sort of ache. It was the loss of her sister now that pained her, as well as Cecile’s happiness. Of course she wanted just that—she’d never wanted anything short of pure happiness for Cecile. But she’d never imagined that she could find happiness herself, so it seemed pointless to think too much about it.

“Anyhow,” said Dascha. “Our ride will be here in a few hours. Maybe you should get a little more sleep.”

“No, you go ahead. I don’t think I can sleep anymore.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am. Lie down.”

Dascha lay on the bench as Estée had done, his head on his bag. He tossed and turned a little, trying to cram his large frame onto the small structure as Estée chuckled.

“Here,” she said. “I can at least be a little useful.”

She sat down and offered him her lap. He lay his head in it sideways, his face pointed out at the Seine.

“Thank you,” he said softly. She could feel the vibration of his words along her thighs.

“You’re welcome.”

A moment later, she could hear the soft in and out of his breath as he settled into a deep sleep. She kept her hands at her sides, not daring to hang them over him, to touch. It was hard enough having any part of him touching her. His physical proximity seemed to set something off in her, like a magnet coming closer, drawing another to it across a wide gap. It was as though her body wanted to move towards his, to collide with him as she had when she’d run out of the alleyway.

But this time she didn’t want him to let her go.

He was gorgeous. But that in itself was the worst possible reason to get involved with a man. Hot men were dangerous, unpredictable. What she needed, if in fact she needed anyone, was someone safe; someone boring. Why was it so hard to find a decent, boring man in this day and age?

And why did the most divine one she’d ever seen have his face buried in her lap in the most romantic city in the world?

Damn you, fate.