Quicksilver had given me the doggie third degree when I returned from my rendezvous with Ric. He’d not only sniffed my crotch and growled, but he sniffed my discarded clothes and growled even more. Then he curled up in the corner of my bedroom and regarded me accusingly while I began preparing for bed. At least I was home alone. Sort of.
That intent pale-blue gaze was enough to make me take my underwear off behind the closed bathroom door. Jeez! I escape having overprotective parents to answer to by being born an orphan and then I get a dog that thinks he’s a duenna, which means chaperone in Spanish.
All I, or anybody reasonable, would say about a twenty-four-year-old fallen woman was . . . high time, honey! as Irma put it.
The shower water reminded me of the many fountains in Ric’s house. I adjusted the temperature until it fell like flowing warm satin on my body. I really wouldn’t have felt comfortable sleeping in Ric’s bed yet. One stage at a time. I donned my long granny nightgown and slunk back into the bedroom in the dark, easing under the covers.
I heard a long, disappointed, canine sigh from the corner. I’d call Quicksilver a bluestocking, except that he didn’t wear any.
* * * *
Morning was the usual bright and sunny. I decided to take Quick for a nice long run in the park to make up for my absence last night, and the absence of my supposed innocence, which his wolfhound nose could apparently detect.
Halfway through it, I let Quick off the leash to run far and wide, and sat out the rest of the marathon on a bench.
“Tender?” Irma asked me. “¡Ai, carumba, chica!”
Ric had warned me, but tender was a way too nice word for it. I was as sore as hell. On the other hand, the abiding discomfort reminded me of the excellent adventure we’d shared last night. I couldn’t wait to do it again, probably much sooner than advisable, like today.
I must have been giving off super-satisfied pheromones because two strange guys immediately plopped down on the bench on either side of me.
They wore those bright-colored knit golf shirts with the itty-bitty alligator embroidered on the chest, one pink, one green, and plaid pants to match. Serious muscles filled out the Florida duds on all fronts. Their faces were hawk-nosed and bleak-eyed.
“Our employer wants to see you,” Mr. Flamingo Pink said.
“Here I am.”
“On his turf.”
Oops. “Turf” was not a respectable corporate byword unless it was part of a Surf and Turf lobster and rib eye dinner at the local Stake and Ale.
“I can’t right now. I’m walking my dog.”
“You’re not walking and I don’t see a dog,” Mr. Chartreuse answered. “Let’s go, doll.”
Each had taken me politely but firmly by the elbow. Together they lifted me almost off the ground. I spotted a white van idling by the curb.
Elbows, as I may have mentioned before, are the
strongest offensive part of the human body. I was about
to smash mine into colorful kidneys on either side and
sprint to freedom.
Then the name on the side of the van registered.
Who sends a labeled van to kidnap an unwilling woman? The Magnus-Gehenna-Megalith Hotel and Casino Consortium, that’s who.
“It’s to your advantage,” Flamingo Pink growled. “The head man is interested in you. You know how rare that is?”
Yeah, very rare, which was probably just the way he wanted me cooked, the freaking werewolf.
“He wishes to talk to you about a job,” Mr. Chartreuse chimed in.
With these guys, “a job” was probably dangerous, illegal, and maybe even fattening. But I’d been itching to get on the inside of the M-G-M operation. Voilà! as Christophe might say, if he was really French.
“Okay. But I, ah, I can’t just leave my dog alone here in the park.”
“God,” Flamingo said to Chartreuse. “These dames today and their little purse pooches. Who do they think they all are, Paris Hilton?”
“All right,” Chartreuse said, “but it had better be house-broken.”
Quicksilver chose that minute to come barreling back toward me, fangs bared.
The men jumped back, leaving me free.
“We can’t take that thing.” Flamingo sounded afraid of more than Quicksilver.
“It’s Team Malamute or nothing,” I said.
Their brows wrinkled until their hairlines lowered a full inch. I think I got their problem. The M-G-M was a were-run operation and Quicksilver was half wolfhound.
“Sit,” I told Quick, who promptly obeyed. “He’s really well-behaved.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s both of us, or I do my tae kwan do routine and he eats you.”
My introduction to werewolves at Los Lobos had made me regard them, perhaps foolishly, as just another breed of dog with alpha and beta modes bred into the bone. If they had the upper fang, they’d bite. If they were the slightest bit conflicted, they’d cave and wait for their master’s voice.
“Well, we could always use him out at Starlight Lodge,” Chartreuse said, snickering uneasily.
“At the lodge, right. Can always use an extra canine there.”
With a mutual, rather mysterious shrug, Flamingo and Chartreuse caved.
They weren’t in full werewolf power and the boss wanted to see me. Presumably he could stomach seeing Quicksilver too. At least for a while.