Your Cheatin' Heart

YOUR CHEATIN ’ HEART …I’m so in trouble. As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on his side, p...

Author: Riser Mimi

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YOUR CHEATIN ’ HEART

…I’m so in trouble. As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on his side, propped up on an elbow, and obviously unclad except for a black satin sheet pulled over his lower half. I also see we’re in a big bed in a large, lavishly furnished room, and I’m wearing nothing but the same sheet he is. What I don’t see is how I’m going to survive even another five minutes without jumping his bodacious bod and screwing him to the mattress—or demanding that he screw me. Giving or receiving, it’s all the same, whoever does what to whom. I’m not choosy. Just suddenly hot and horny, painfully hard. And painfully in love. But then I have been since the second I first laid eyes on Hunter Steele. Werewolves have an inbred sense that tells us when we meet our life-mate. By some unfathomable, unfunny cosmic joke, mine happens to be him. This is why I tried to ditch Hunter outside Turnville, while we wore fur. I’ve no defense against him when we’re naked and human. God help me, it’s been nearly two months since we’ve physically bonded. Two months that feel like centuries. The sight of him now makes me salivate. Long, strong limbs, narrow hips and broad shoulders. A solid chest dusted with downy, dark curls that taper to a vee at the edge of the sheet, an arrow pointing to a satin-covered mound of masculine meat—the outline of a thick, juicy cock. My gaze slides back up his torso to a stubborn jaw…sensuous mouth…amber eyes that promise savage, sultry sex. Irresistible. He looks and smells like a feast. And I’m starving…

ALSO BY MIMI RISER The Adventures Of Cassie Nova, Book I: Rebel Queen Can’t Fight The Feeling The Cowboys And The Courtesan Cymric’s Rose Dungeons & Dirty Dreams My Knightly Adventures, Books I – III Pirates & Other Wicked Pleasures Pirates Do It With Passion Playing Pirates Return To The Burn Romeo’s Revenge Samantha White And The Seven Dwarves Saving Sally Savoy Sherwood Charade Tina Takes A Tumble Wicked Comes The Beast

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART BY MIMI RISER

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

YOUR C HEATIN ’ HEART AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2009 by Mimi Riser ISBN 978-1-60272-623-9 Cover Art © 2009 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the memory of Anthony Sbragia (1962-2006), amazing artist, amazing person, and a very dear friend. The world is a better place for having been graced by his presence… Tony, we love you and miss you.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART “You don’t like what you see, blame my parents,” I tell the granite-faced deputy who’s just pulled me over for speeding on a barren ribbon of backcountry road. He stands close by my car while I sit behind the wheel, one eye on him and the other on a large, lazy tumbleweed a short distance away. Propelled by a prairie breeze, it appears to know exactly where it’s going, but seems in no rush to get there. Wish I could say the same for myself. Around us sprawls a rugged vista of parched soil dotted with sagebrush and prickly pear, thorny mesquites, and scraggly clumps of tall grass. Classic southwestern terrain. Wild and lonely. I know just how it feels. Approaching autumn, crisp and earthy, scents the air, warmed 1


by a whiff of lingering summer. Overhead shines a fat full moon, like a floodlight, bright enough to cast shadows. A great night for hunting, were I so inclined. Which I’m not—yet. Lunar energy thrums in my veins, an ancient siren’s call, but I learned early how to master its magic and draw it forth at will, moon or no. My kind don’t survive long if we can’t. There’s a time and place for everything, y’know? “Dear old dad wanted a son,” I explain, “whereas Mom, bless her heart, longed for a daughter. I guess they compromised by having me.” Deputy Dumbstruck grunts like the pig he resembles and stares at my driver’s license in stony suspicion. The problem is he was aroused—all oily smirks and calling me “sugar”—until he saw my ID. We’ve never met before, but I’ve heard about him, since I grew up in this area, and he’s one of the legendary locals. Lloyd Phelps, corruption in uniform. Rumor has it his brother, Floyd, is even worse, but Lloyd is bad enough. One of his games is stopping young babes and “allowing” them the barfo option of providing sexual favors to escape an expensive traffic violation. Gross, but it’s probably the only way he can get laid. He had high hopes for this babe, I’ll betcha. Now he feels cheated, and he’s pissed. Me, too. But then, I have been for weeks. Join the club, bub. “Sylvester Starr?” His face turns beet red as he sputters my name. A male name. And famous, if you read the gossip rags, which Lloyd doesn’t, apparently, since he shows no sign of recognition. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or slighted. “Sylver for short,” I purr. “Sylver Starr. Catchy, huh?” 2


I don’t add that Starr is also an abbreviation, short for Starrvoski, one of the old family names of Turnville, Texas. I changed it when I left here several years ago to seek my fortune as a torch singer in the world’s nightclubs. I ended up doing something else entirely, but that’s another story, and not a pretty one. Suffice it to say I’m home again, battle scarred and not doing much of anything except licking my wounds and pondering the fickle foibles of fate. And, at the moment, taunting Lloyd with a seductive grin. Bad move. I was speeding in the first place because I’m in a hurry, for godssake. I don’t have time for this shit. But I can’t help myself. People like him bring out the devil in me—as opposed to the beast, which is a whole other matter. I flutter long, mascaraladen lashes, and he steps back a pace from my little red Toyota as though whatever I have might be catching. It is, but not the way he’s worried about, and only if I bite him—gag—which I’ve no intention of doing. Asshole. You’d think he’d never ticketed a cross-dresser before. Well, not one like me. As a man, I’m considered merely cute— kind of a sprightly, sparkly Jack Frost type—medium height and slender, with hair so pale it’s almost white, and eyes that can’t decide from one day to the next whether they’re blue, gray, or green. As a woman, I make hearts pound and cocks want to do the same. Really. In a blond wig and movie-queen makeup, with my Dcup falsies jutting forth like nuclear warheads, straining the bodice of my sequined gown, I drew every eye in the place when I sashayed into Smoky Joe’s Beef & Brew Steakhouse a half hour ago and strutted my stuff up to the bar. Admiring eyes that took me 3


at face value, never guessing how phony that face was. The attention felt good, regardless, boosted my morale, as I’ve been lonely and damned depressed lately. Not to mention bored out of my gourd. One gets so few opportunities to dress up out here in the sticks. Tonight, however, I had a legitimate excuse for it and planned to enjoy myself, while winning some much needed cash. Carefully, of course. Incognito. I’m gay, not stupid. And this is rural west Texas. Nuff said. “I heard you’re hosting a celebrity look-alike contest. Where do I sign up to enter?” I asked the bartender, old Smoky Joe himself, in my best Mae West impersonation. He beamed me a big smile full of tobacco stained teeth and good-natured lechery. “Well, I’ll be danged, if it ain’t Dolly Parton.” Close enough. “You got my vote, darlin’,” he added with a wink. How flattering. Given the choice, I’d rather have been Mae, who was one classy dame, plus a sympathetic and vocal supporter of gays when few others dared to speak out. But if ol’ Joe preferred countrywestern, I could oblige—for a cash prize of a hundred bucks. I’ve been unemployed since moving back home to live with my dad’s sister, Aunt Tashi, and any amount of money would have seemed like manna from heaven. Instead of the honky-tonk rendition of “Frankie and Johnnie” I’d planned to sing for the talent part of the competition, I decided to do “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” With my love life—or the lack thereof—and considering why I’ve buried myself on the old family homestead in Turnville, I could have performed both songs with emotional authority. 4


As luck would have it, I never got the chance to sing either. The luck of the gene pool, I mean. Blame my parents again. They were psychic—among other things—along with all my clan, and I’m as cursed as the rest of them. As Joe handed me a pen and the sign-up sheet for the contest, a precognitive prickle struck, raising goose bumps on my skin. Through a sudden rift in the dimensional veils I saw trouble hovering over Turnville thirty miles away. An alien spacecraft, invisible to the naked eye but not my inner vision. Temporarily entranced, I peered closer, into the ship, and saw grayish green and brown warriors, tall, fanged and ferocious. My hand clenched convulsively, and a sharp crack sounded as the pen in my grip snapped in two. “Dang,” Joe cussed. “Strong little gal, ain’t ya?” He had no idea. “Sorry,” I muttered, spun about and fled out to my car. Vroom! I estimated I could easily reach home before the alien shit hit the fan, yet still drove like a maniac, because… Well, hell, if I was heading into battle, I needed time to change clothes first, right? God forbid I dirty a designer original gown—even though I’d like to do worse to the one who gave it to me. On top of which, I wasn’t sure what to wear instead. Something serviceable but attractive. I always fight better when I feel pretty. I’d just about decided on an embroidered peasant blouse paired with black jeans and cowboy boots, and was almost in sight of Turnville when I got pulled over. Which is where I am now, and just about out of patience with this game. Lloyd, unfortunately, seems to have decided to play it straight—because I’m not—and swaggeringly slow. Big tough lawman. I’m so impressed. 5


“Do you know how fast you were goin’?” he drawls. The gleam in his beady little eyes says my ass is grass and he’s a lawnmower. Hah. He should be so lucky. “No,” I answer, tapping red lacquered fingernails on the steering wheel. “But I’m sure you intend to tell me.” Soon, I hope. “Too fast.” His thick lips twist into a malicious sneer. “You weren’t wearin’ your seat belt neither, another violation.” Yep, sure is. My bad. “The shoulder harness cramps my boobs,” I quip, which sours his sneer into a snarl. Some people have no sense of humor. With a hard yank, my car door flies open. Fingers fat as greasy sausage links dig into the flesh of my upper arm. “Out!” Lloyd orders. “You’re in deep shit, faggot.” So is he. I have a short fuse and zero tolerance for jerks, especially his sort. A speeding ticket is one thing, but he’s just crossed a dangerous line. No guy who values his nuts manhandles me. Well, not without amorous intent and my breathless cooperation—and this guy is so not my type. Pasting a frosty smile on my face, I let him haul me to my feet. Let him, mind you. He stands a head taller and his beer gut alone outweighs me, I’ll bet. But he’s dead meat if he pushes me too far. He just doesn’t know it. I wonder if I should warn him… Nah. “Am I under arrest?” I counter. “For what? I don’t hear any rights being read.” Lloyd’s heavy-handed grip tightens, and he leans in, his nose scant inches from mine. Ugh. His breath almost melts my makeup. “Perverts like you don’t have rights,” he says. “Fuckin’ fairy.” 6


Hardly. Although I’ve worked with feys, real ones, in my illfated former job as an undercover agent for a secret organization funded and run by billionaire Hunter Steele—the mere thought of whom makes my stomach and teeth clench in unison. Hunter’s agency, Earth Guardians, Inc., is an equal opportunity employer, hiring everything from vampires to pixies. For that matter, Hunter’s personal affairs are as expansive as his professional. He has the morals of an alley cat, and the sexual appetite to match. Understandable, considering who he is. But impossible to deal with for someone like myself, being what I am. And, yes, I’d love to show Lloyd what that is. Except, this close to Turnville, I don’t dare. The residents of my town— Turners, we call ourselves—are a private, insular breed, wary of outsiders and more secretive even than the Earth Guardians. Life isn’t easy for us here, but we survive by flying low under the radar, so to speak, hiding our true nature from those who wouldn’t understand it. Like Lloyd. Who seems hell-bent on a fight. I can smell the rage in him like a tangible stink, but it stems more from fear than hatred, I suspect. Honestly, he plummets the term homophobic to dismal new depths. “Was your mother, perhaps, frightened by a queer when she was pregnant with you?” I ask. “Or is your problem simply that a man like me threatens your own obviously shaky machismo too much?” His nostrils flare like an angry bull’s, and I can’t help noticing that he doesn’t trim his nose hair—and he needs to. Ew. But I’ve hit a nerve, I see. My suspicions were right; I’d lay money on it— if I had any money. Poor Lloyd harbors latent homosexual desires. 7


He’s just terrified to admit it to himself. Idiot. “Man?” he growls. “Fuck, you’re just a mangy little cur.” Wrong again. No fairy and no dog. But he’s getting closer. So is the danger I sensed back at Smoky Joe’s. Shit. Suddenly, I realize the stench here is more than Lloyd’s. A swampy fetid odor, reminiscent of rotten reptile eggs, pervades the air—the kind of odor that if once smelled is never forgotten. And I smelled it a lot during my time with the Earth Guardians. “Crocodoids.” I spit out the name as though it’s poison. It is, if you’ve ever met one. Which Lloyd might, unless I get him out of here. “Croca what?” His gaze narrows. “You gotta funny look in your eye, boy. What the hell you been smokin’? You high on somethin’?” I wish. A little intoxication would go a long way toward helping me accomplish this task. “Lizard people. Crocodoids,” I repeat, speaking quickly and telling the truth because it’s the easiest route and I know he won’t believe it anyway. Hell, by the time I’m through with him, he won’t even remember this conversation. “Alien invaders from the satellite galaxy Draco Dwarf that orbits the Milky Way,” I elaborate. “I knew they were headed for Turnville, but didn’t expect them quite this soon. From what I’m sensing, they’ve just beamed down and are scanning the area in preparation for attack.” “Uh-huh,” Lloyd says, looming over me and clenching his fist—for an attack of his own, I assume. I pretend not to notice. “They look like crocodiles with shortened snouts and elongated 8


limbs, but walk upright on two legs and stink like stagnant swamp water,” I add, sniffing the air and making a face. “Smell that?” Lloyd grimaces, too, but not from the stench, I’m sure. As putrid as Croc odor smells to me, an ordinary human nose can’t detect it until the creatures are right on top of you. And by then it’s too late. “Croc-a-doids, crock-a-shit,” he grumbles. “All I smell is a stinkin’ little faggot trying to save his ass by makin’ me think he’s nuts.” Actually, I’m trying to save his ass. Good God, I am nuts. There’s no avoiding this, though. When I joined the Earth Guardians I pledged myself to protect this planet and all her children. Even the ones I don’t like. I may have quit Hunter and his eclectic, clandestine crew, but playing hero is a difficult habit to break. Seriously, I oughta wear a big red S on my chest. Not for super, but for sucker, and that’s no joke. Just ask Hunter—who’s also a difficult habit to break, come to think of it. Handsome, heroic Hunter, who’s why I joined EG, and why I left it. Fearless but faithless Hunter, whose memory gives me nightmares and wet dreams combined. Thinking of him now makes me want to wallop something. Him, preferably. However, Lloyd is closer and needs a wallop for his own safety. “I’m gonna pound your ass good,” he threatens. Oh, what an opening. “You do realize that could be taken in a sexual sense, don’t you?” I shoot him a saucy wink and a grin. “Arrgh!” Roaring, he aims his fat fist at my face. 9


Whiz—wham—splat! I block the blow with my left forearm, land a hard right uppercut to the jaw, and catch him as he keels over, knocked cold. Oof. He weighs a ton, but I’ve hefted heavier. None sorrier, though—as he will be when he wakes up. Moving fast, I lower Lloyd onto his back in the weeds by my Toyota, unbutton his shirt, unfasten his pants, and generally arrange him in a state of naughty disarray. Then I grab my purse off the car’s front seat, dig out my lipstick, repaint my lips, and try not to gag while I pucker up and plant cherry red kisses all over him. As a final touch, I use the lipstick to draw a huge heart on his potbelly and write “Lloyd loves Sylver” inside it. Very artistic. Now comes the fun part. I pull off my wig, pop out my falsies, and hike my gown to the waist to leave no doubt as to my gender, then straddle Lloyd’s thighs and rouse him with a rapid series of little slaps on his face. His eyes open, bleary and dazed at first, then horrorstruck as he takes in me…himself…and realizes what’s happened. Or what he thinks has happened. “Fuck,” he curses. “Mmm, yeah, we sure did. And you were fantastic. Rowrrr…” I punctuate the statement with a sexy growl. “How about another round, huh?” I lick my lips, and he turns pea green in the stark moonlight. The beauty of this ploy is that deep down inside he had wanted to fuck me, I’m pretty sure. That’s where the bulk of his rage came from. He was angry with himself more than me. Hence, he can’t be certain now that, in the heat of temper, he didn’t surrender to his secret desires. As Obi-Wan showed Luke in the original Star Wars—God, I loved that movie—the Force, discreetly wielded, 10


has influential power over weak minds. Granted, I’m no Jedi, but in this instance just being me is enough, as the main force at work is that of simple suggestion, coupled with Lloyd’s guilty inner angst and the fact he’s not overly bright. Put it all together and he can only assume the worst, poor schmuck. I pout and look hurt as he shoves me aside, hauls upright like a water buffalo floundering out of a mud hole, and stumbles to his car, hitching up his pants en route. “Lloyd honey, wait!” I scramble to my feet and race after him, but give him time to climb inside and gun the engine before I reach through the driver’s side open window and grab his arm. “Let go, dang it.” He flinches at my touch and yanks free. Good. Because I don’t want to stop him, just make sure that when he does zoom off he won’t look back. “Where are you going?” I wail, blinking back crocodile tears— an ironic image, considering why he needs to run. “I’m not some cheap little toy you can play with, then push away!” Which is the honest truth, and something else Hunter can vouch for. Damn him. I’m a hardcore commitment freak, in fact. It’s in my blood. Yeah, my parents really have a lot to answer for. So does Hunter, but we won’t go into that right now. “I thought we had a beautiful thing started,” I complain with a sniffle. “Didn’t you say you loved me?” “God almighty, I hope not,” Lloyd moans, but he’s afraid he did. I see it in his hangdog expression as he turns desperate eyes on me. “Listen, son, what happened was a big mistake. I’ve had a bad day and wasn’t thinkin’ too good, understand? I lost my head, didn’t know what I was doin’. Now you forget all about it, and I will, too. No tickets, no trouble, and not a word to anyone. Deal?” 11


“Fine,” I say stiffly, the wounded lover trying to hang on to a ragged shred of pride. An ace performance. I’m redefining the term “drama queen.” Then again, I’ve had a lot of practice with this sort of scene. Screw you, Hunter. “If that’s what you want,” I tell Lloyd. “That’s the way it’s gotta be.” He fumbles out his wallet, pulls out a fistful of bills and hands them to me. “Here, buy yourself somethin’ nice,” he mumbles, looking contrite and sheepish. Hmph, three twenties, two tens, and a fifty, more than I would have made at Joe’s steakhouse, and Lloyd deserves to lose it. But the offer itself chills me inside, opens old wounds. It’s the principle of the thing. “Thanks anyway, but I can’t accept this. I don’t work that way.” Contrary to what some think, not everyone can be bought. Hear that, Hunter? The hell with you and your billions. A smoky chuckle rumbles inside my mind, as though in answer. Oh shit, it can’t be… With a suddenly tense, white-knuckled grip, I thrust the money at Lloyd. He waves it away and revs his car engine, slanting me a sideways glance. “Nah, I’d rather you keep it. Please? It ain’t a bribe. Consider it a, um”—he clears his throat—“an apology.” Flushed and flustered, he roars off down the empty road. Well, I’ll be damned. I believe he meant that. There may be hope for Lloyd after all. He’s an ass, but at least he knows it. Unlike some people I could name. Eyes narrowed, I stalk back to my car and stuff the cash in my purse—I’ll give it to Aunt Tashi—then stand a moment, scanning 12


the moonlit range and sniffing the air. The breath of danger brushes my skin along with the night breezes, and I don’t mean alien danger. Something worse than Crocs lurks nearby. Worse for me, anyway. I feel the scorch of a hot amber gaze and need to pinpoint the position of its owner. So I can kill him. ::You don’t mean that,:: a sultry purr of a voice taunts deep inside my skull. ::You love me.:: I go rigid at the mind-to-mind contact, which I find an invasion of privacy, given who’s on the other end—hardly surprising though. I’ve had telepathic conversations before. It goes with the territory of who and what I am. Sigh. Mom, Dad, no offense, but sometimes I really hate being your son. ::Bitch, bitch, bitch,:: the mental voice mocks. ::But you can’t deny you still love me.:: Hell, I’m not trying to. That’s why I want to kill him. Remember the contest I almost entered tonight and my original song selection? Sure, I could have performed a winning tear-inyour-beer rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” instead, but “Frankie and Johnnie” is really more my style. Frankie loved Johnnie. Johnnie cheated. Frankie shot him. I can relate. ::Then I guess I’m lucky you’re not holding a gun.:: I don’t need one, damn it. That smoky chuckle sounds in my head, and a small, blackfurred form pads out of a thick patch of weeds in front of me, amber eyes glowing in the moonlight, and grinning like the cynical Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland. Or was it Alice Through The Looking Glass? I can never remember. Whatever. 13


It’s a cat at any rate. And cynical. It’s also my very wealthy, very aggravating ex-boss and ex-lover. The arrogant, fickle, felineshifter Hunter Steele. Who’s in big trouble because I’m not Alice—although I dress like her sometimes—and this meeting is anything but wonderful. “What are you doing here?” I demand. ::My job, what else? EG scanners picked up Croc activity near Turnville. I popped in from HQ to check it out. Stopped by Tashi’s first and talked to her, then scented your presence not too far away. So I shifted and came looking for you.:: “Lucky me.” I smell a rat. Popped? EG has hidden bases all over the world, concealed under cover of Hunter’s many public business ventures. But the crown jewel of his corporate empire, and covert headquarters for his secret inner organization, is the magnificent Steele Star—named for us both, during happier days—Earth’s first and, so far, only orbiting hotel. A floating palace, filled with glitz, ritz, and futuristic fantasy. Specifically, it’s a luxury resort space station that caters to the über rich and famous while keeping a clandestine and protective eye on things down here. I’ve never visited it myself, because I get deathly rocket-sick and can’t handle the shuttle trips back and forth. A psychosomatic ailment, I’ve been told, triggered by fear. Scared? Me? Yep, shitless. Intellectually, I know it’s safe. The scientific part of my brain understands what holds the station in orbit. But the rest of me is certain the instant I set foot on the damn thing it’ll fall down and crash. Hunter, however, spends a lot of time up there. Too much time, 14


I always thought. I can’t handle long-distance relationships either, and the Steele Star is about as distant as it gets. Way too far to “pop in” from. ::Not anymore. EG’s tech team made us a shiny new toy. Transistorized. You hook it on your belt, visualize where you want to go, and—pop—you’re there.:: “A teleportation device?” I have a bad feeling about this. ::I can’t imagine why.:: He blinks at me. Mr. Innocent. ::It’s still in the testing stage, but worked well enough to get me to Turnville.:: “Terrific.” I grit my teeth into a grin. “Then it can get you out again. Now, if you’re smart.” ::Not from here. Do you see a belt on me, dimwit? The teleporter is at your aunt’s house with my clothes and communicator. She likes me, by the way.:: She would. Aunt Tashi has lousy taste in men. That must be how I ended up with the same problem. Have I mentioned I think heredity sucks? ::Not in the last ten seconds, no. I was getting worried about it, too. Such reticence is so unlike you.:: Hunter licks his paw and smoothes his whiskers. Smug bastard. He’s reading my mind like an unfolded newspaper, but giving me only the top headlines of his. I hate that he’s more adept at shielding his thoughts than I am—as he damn well knows. It was a constant bone of contention between us. Whenever we argued the subject, he accused me of being overly suspicious. While my stance was—and is—if he’s got nothing to hide from me, why does he? Huh? ::Just feline nature, Sylver. Let’s not start that old pissing 15


match, okay? Cats are an inscrutable breed. We can’t help looking like we know things others don’t.:: Yeah, whereas my breed only knows silly, inconsequential things like truth, honor, respect… And loyalty. “Meow,” Hunter says aloud. In other words, he thinks I’m being the catty one. Hey, if I am, I learned it from a master. “Up yours,” I reply—and he lifts his tail and sprays the right rear tire of my car. Talk about a pissing match. I hate cats. ::But you love me.:: Which brings us back to square one. Can I kill him now? ::With doglike devotion,:: he adds. “Not quite.” And not funny. ::You married me, didn’t you? Tied the knot all legal and tight, according to Massachusetts state law.:: Guilty as charged. What can I say? That it seemed a good idea at the time? The crime occurred last year in artsy Provincetown, in a fabulously festive affair. The most elegant, gayest wedding on record, according to the media, which dubbed it a “fairy-tale event.” Yes, the puns flew thick and fast, but overall it was excellent positive publicity for the GLBT cause, Hunter being a multibillionaire and patron saint of countless charities. People respect money and looks, and he’s got both in spades. The celebrity darling of the decade, regardless of sexual persuasion. Public Hero Number One—complete with secret identity, Catman instead of Batman. Though few realize that part. Really, he’s very easy to admire. Until you get to know him. For the ceremony, Hunter wore a black velvet tux and looked 16


like a prince. I felt like Cinderella at the ball in white satin and lace. Then the clock struck twelve, and my life turned into a squashed pumpkin, metaphorically speaking. “I can divorce you, too,” I say. ::But you won’t. Because marriage, as you’ve always told me— :: “And you never listened,” I interrupt. ::—is a sacred institution,:: he continues without missing a beat, ::and you take your vows seriously.:: And he doesn’t. Which is why I left him. On our first anniversary, which seemed ironically appropriate somehow. One month, three weeks, five days, thirteen hours, and—I glance at my watch—nine minutes ago. But who’s counting? ::You?:: he suggests with an insufferable feline smirk. “Definitely not you.” ::So sure, Sylver?:: “Is the Pope Catholic?” Hunter’s chuckle vibrates my skull. I’m getting a bitch of a headache. Honestly, I should divorce him, whatever it costs me. But I think of the ongoing struggle for gay rights, how our wedding helped the crusade, how a subsequent divorce might give it a black eye… And I just can’t bring myself to start proceedings. Social consciousness, yep, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. What puzzles me is why Hunter hasn’t filed. With his resources he could sever the knot quicker than I could. I can only assume he’s been too busy or, more likely, too indifferent to bother. ::You assume a lot, don’t you?:: Hunter stares up at me, his eyes hypnotic amber slits, his mind 17


shrouded in smoke, letting me see only the tip of his thoughts. Like an iceberg, much more lurks hidden beneath his surface. ::An iceberg?:: He blinks like the cat who swallowed the canary. I smile. Not pleasantly. Okay, wrong image. Whatever else Hunter is, he’s anything but cold. My back hairs prickle with warning. More hair than I had a few seconds ago; the extra has just started to sprout. I feel an electric tingle deep inside and know my eyes are beginning to glow as bright as his. Not that he seems to care. His mistake. ::Yours, too. It’s never occurred to you I might not want a divorce? That maybe I’m sorry you left? Maybe I want you back?:: Which doesn’t mean he is or does. Notice how he presents the issue as an open-ended question? A buncha bullshit. He’s just trying to rattle me. ::And succeeding.:: Like hell. I’m not some romance novel heroine, bosom heaving and all aquiver at the hunky hero’s seductive insinuations. At the moment, I don’t even look like one, since my bosom is lying in the bushes where I tossed it before sitting on Lloyd. Besides, in his current form, Hunter is hardly my idea of a hunk. ::But you still love m—:: “Don’t push it,” I warn. He sits, points his hind toes in the air, and washes his privates. Feline for “kiss my ass” or “bite me.” I choose the latter, delighted to oblige. “Grrr…” A bestial growl rumbles out of me, and I drop to a crouch, bursting the seams of my tight gown. Shit. I lose more pretty clothes this way. It took me an hour to transform myself into a blonde bombshell. In mere seconds I become something far more 18


explosive. My lips curl, baring wicked, sharp fangs. Snarling, I tense for a leap. Hunter springs upright, arches his back and hisses, his tail fat as a bottlebrush. ::Hey, whitey, don’t try to scare me with that cheap trick. Who do you think I am, Little Red Riding Hood?:: No, but I am a big bad wolf, one of the last of a rare, ancient breed. Silver white, powerful, and pissed. The problem here, of course—what’s always been the problem between Hunter and me—is we’re two different species, genetically coded for opposite behavior patterns. An impossible union. Wolves mate for life. And we all know how tomcats are. Right? ::Wrong. We’re also both males—another “impossible union,” to hear some factions tell it—but you still married me. It was on all the news channels, remember? The whole world watched you promise to stay with me for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…till death do us part.:: He said it, I didn’t. Really, why divorce when murder is so much simpler? And more satisfying. Throwing back my head, I let out a long angry howl, then lunge for his throat. He dodges to the side, hissing and spitting, swats at my snout— ow—then turns tail and runs. In the interest of fair play, I allow him a head start before loping after him, yipping and snapping at his furry little heels. Man or cat, Hunter is strong, with agility, speed, and a confidence that borders on sheer arrogance. But at present, he’s only twelve pounds, whereas I weigh almost twenty times that. Amazing, huh? In human form, I’m five-foot-eight and slender, not a large man. Yet by a curious quirk of fate, when I turn, as my clan calls it, I morph into a giant canine, the biggest of my magical 19


breed. Go figure. Hunter may not be scared, but he’s worried. ::The hell I am, but you better be!:: he threatens as we bound through the brush. ::I’ll get you for this, you ungrateful son of a bitch.:: Tough talk for a fur ball. Mind you, he could shift back to a man. But then he’d be naked and weaponless, surrounded by rough scrubland—and still facing a huge, irate wolf. ::Let’s leave my mother out of this, shall we?:: I respond telepathically, since audible speech is no longer an option. Wolves do have rather a complex vocal language, but Hunter understands it no better than I comprehend cat-talk. Yet one more barrier between us. ::Big fucking deal. We speak the same language when we’re men, and can communicate mind-to-mind anytime, can’t we?:: Talk, yes. Argue? Constantly. But communicate? Forget it. We’re at odds on too many issues. ::Not the important ones,:: he taunts, beaming steamy images into my head. Him. Me. In human form. In bed. Naked, hot and sweaty. Screwing each other’s brains out… An evil ploy. Dirty pool. But that’s Hunter for you. To make it worse, he adds a lush vision of all the delicious outfits he gave me. ::Behave yourself, and there’s plenty more where that came from,:: he promises, not specifying whether he means the clothes or the sex. 20


Both, probably. He thinks anyone can be bought or seduced into compliance. ::Anyone but you, right, Sylver?:: Do I detect a note of sarcasm? ::Damn straight,:: I reply. ::We’ll see about that.:: Typical Hunter. Often wrong, but never in doubt. I slow down a bit, because he’s starting to pant, and I don’t want to run him into the ground too soon. Such moments should be savored. It’s not often I get the upper hand—or paw—with Hunter. Frankly, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages. ::You’re a sick puppy, you know that?:: he grouses. ::Save your temper tantrums for the Crocs. Or did you forget about them?:: With their alien odor stinging my nose? Of course not. But they haven’t attacked yet, and Turnville will be ready for them when they do. ::Which could be any second. Don’t you think we should fight them instead of each other?:: Getting desperate, are we? ::I see no reason why I can’t do both, pussycat.:: In fact, I’m chasing Hunter straight toward Turnville, the lights of which shine like a beacon through a line of skeletal mesquites that border the south edge of town and mark the end of Main Street. The only street, actually. And I use the term “town” loosely. Turnville is just a few dozen ramshackle buildings surrounded by rugged open range and several small farms growing whatever their owners can coax out of the dry soil—which doesn’t amount to much. Most Turners make crappy farmers. But, in this region, it’s either that or ranching, and the latter goes against our natural instincts. We’re hunters, not herders and butchers—a tiny, tight 21


knit community bound together by blood and a dark heritage none of us can escape. Over two centuries ago our ancestors, fleeing persecution in Europe, immigrated to New England, and from there moved south and west, traveling on four legs more than two. The last of an ancient clan of Carpathian werewolves. This was Comanche country then, but their shamans respected my people’s powers and dubbed us “Those Who Turn.” They gave us a wide berth, half fearful, half reverent, yet helped guard our secret when so-called civilization invaded the area. Which makes me wish we could have somehow helped them. The Comanche lost their lands, while we Turners managed to hang on to ours, living here poor but proud, eking out a meager existence farming and hunting—though not with guns. Like most rural west Texans we own firearms and know how to use them, but never on game. Defense is another matter. Pow-pow-pow! A staccato burst of gunfire shatters the night. Either Turnville’s alpha mayor, Boris Khazarro—or Boris Bizarro, as I often think of him—is drunk and shooting at pink elephants again, or the Crocodoids have just hit the town. In which case, I’m glad for once that Boris and his sons, Ivan, Igor, and Bubba, are on my team. Crack shots, all of ’em, plastered or sober. Wolf fangs work great in some conflicts, but won’t repel Crocs, who have fangs, too, and hide like…well, crocodiles. Tough, but not enough to withstand both barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun. I expect this to be a short fight. ::It will be once I reach Tashi’s and my communicator so I can signal HQ.:: With a sudden, fresh surge of speed, Hunter plunges ahead toward the line of mesquites. 22


My hero. Catman to the rescue. Dumb-ass. He figures our personal fight is on hold for the moment. It is, I suppose. But his concern for the town? Hah. Hunter doesn’t know Turners like I do. ::I don’t have to, whitey. I know Crocs and their bloody appetite for all shifters.:: Which makes it sound like they want to eat us. And they do. But only because the opposite didn’t work out the way they’d hoped—meaning shifters chomping on them. What they really want is a beautiful blue-green world they already view as theirs, for reasons we don’t need to discuss now. Suffice it to say that in their one-track minds they see themselves on what amounts to a rescue mission. They want Earth. I suspect they think her current caretakers aren’t doing right by her. They may be correct about that, unfortunately. However, that doesn’t give them carte blanche to pillage and slaughter, which they intend to do, ruthlessly, if they gain control of the planet. Vicious, vengeful creatures, Crocs. Their dilemma is they don’t have the forces to take us openly, so they’ve been searching for the means to morph into men and conquer us from the inside. They got the idea from watching stray TV transmissions of old sci-fi shows about alien invaders masquerading as humans. Initially, they thought being bitten by shifters would give them the same ability. Duh. Shifters are people who turn into animals, not animals who turn into people. A fine line, but an important distinction. For instance, if a werewolf bites a man, and the man survives, he’s then able to become a wolf. If a werewolf bites a Croc, it can become a wolf, too. From man to wolf, or Crocodoid to wolf, that’s as far as it goes. Except that won’t help the Crocs infiltrate 23


the world’s governments. You see their problem? Anyway, they’re now laboring under the delusion that shiftermagic stems from a microscopic parasite embedded in a werebeast’s flesh. Why? It was something they saw in an old horror flick, I think. They’ve decided if they eat a bunch of shifters of all flavors and varieties—werewolves, were-hippos, were-parakeets, etcetera—they’ll ingest the power to transform into any shape they wish, including human. Crocs aren’t famous for intelligence. ::No, but they’re fuckin’ ferocious fighters,:: Hunter argues. ::Too much for a handful of furry farmers to deal with. Let EG handle this. I’ve had a battle squad on standby, waiting for my signal to move in. With our new teleporters, they can be here in the blink of an eye.:: Too long. The Crocs are already here. And didn’t he say earlier that the teleporters are still in the testing stage? Too risky. I’d have to be pretty damned desperate or drunk before I tried one—even after full tests and the EG seal of approval. Sci-fi gadgets look way cool on the screen. In real life, they give me the willies—always have—like the Steele Star, the biggest gadget of all. Weird, I know, for someone who battles aliens. You’d think I’d be used to the techno stuff by now, but I’m not. Magic, of course, is a different thing, my inescapable birthright. Magic, I understand. It’s all a moot point, in any case. Turnville doesn’t need EG’s help, and I sure don’t want Hunter’s. He’s influenced me before by making me feel indebted to him. It won’t happen again. The instant we reach the mesquites at the edge of town, I leap forward with a savage growl and snap at his haunches. Feline instinct takes over, and he darts straight up into the thorny branches of the tree at the end of Main Street. Right where I want 24


him. He’ll have a good view of the action from there. ::Are you crazy?:: he hisses into my head. Nope. Just keeping him out of trouble and out of my hair…er, fur. From a canine perspective, I’m a happy camper. Above me, a treed cat, spitting mad but not daring to descend, and in front, a ton of excitement to watch. While Hunter blisters my brain with telepathic obscenities, I crouch at the mesquite’s gnarled base and stare down the street, sizing up the situation. Not a pretty sight, but about what I expected. Blood and guts everywhere—all of it Crocodoid, I think. The stench is enough to flounder an ox. The din is deafening. Turner yells and alien screeches. Ka-boom! The blast of shotgun fire. Aiming from the cover of doorways and windows, Boris and his three beefy boys, aided by about a dozen others, have the Crocs trapped in the center of the street, surrounded by smoking gun barrels. Ducks in a shooting gallery. Big ones, seven feet tall. Looks like a full unit. Crocs fight in what they call “pods” of fifty. I count only eleven still standing. Boom! Boom! Make that nine. Pow! Eight… ::Holy shit,:: Hunter curses. ::I feel like I’ve fallen into a warped remake of The Shoot-Out At The OK Corral.:: Interesting observation. I wonder if the Crocs ever caught that movie, or any other western. If they had, they might have rethought this attack. The thing about Turners is we’re not just “furry farmers.” Our ancestors may have started in the forests of the Carpathians, but from there they became Wild West pioneers, making an independent and strong breed even stronger. Those of 25


us here now are more than werewolves. We’re also born and bred Texans. Combine the two, and the Crocs never stood a chance. As Hunter and I watch, the last of the aliens bites the dust. Although they instigated the battle, I suddenly feel sorry for them. ::You and me both,:: Hunter whispers in my mind. We don’t condone their crimes, but we understand their motives. The Crocodoids are an incredibly old race, eons older than man. Way back in the dinosaur era, they established colonies here, then lost contact with them—why, I don’t know. Millions of years passed before any of their spacecraft returned. Meanwhile, cut off from their mother planet, stranded in primeval surroundings, the Croc colonists regressed over time to a pure bestial state. In essence, they de-evolved and became Earth’s crocodiles, many species of which have been hunted to extinction, or nearly so. Add in the ones poisoned by pollution or lost when their habitats were destroyed, and it’s not too surprising Crocodoids hate humans of all kinds. When I ponder things like toxic waste, melting icecaps, or bashing baby seals for their fur, I’m not real fond of us either. ::Ditto. Y’know, Sylver, of all the dangers that threaten Earth, I sometimes wonder if our worst enemy isn’t ourselves.:: A blanket of silence falls over us, and I’m forced to remember there are moments when Hunter and I do agree. Just not enough of them. Few and far between and flimsy as soap bubbles. This one bursts at the sound of a shout. “Yeehaw! That was almost too easy.” Brandishing his battered Stetson in the air, Bubba Khazarro, bounds out of cover, followed more slowly by the rest of the Turner team. In faded denims and scuffed boots, muttering and 26


mumbling, they line the street, glancing from each other to the carnage of Croc bodies oozing sticky brown blood. “Easier than cleanin’ up this mess,” Boris grumbles. His shoulders heave with a resigned sigh. “C’mon, boys, we got a long night ahead of us. Better break out the tractors and backhoes, load up these carcasses and bury ’em before any nosy neighbors get wind of what’s happened.” “Do we hafta?” Bubba slants a calculating look at the corpses, a wolfish glint in his gaze. “I’ve heard tell alligator tails make good eatin’. Reckon these might, too?” Gag. His oldest brother, Ivan, slaps him in the head. “Let’s not find out. I ain’t that hungry.” “Me neither.” The middle Khazarro son, Igor, wrinkles his nose and squats down to scratch his side. With his foot. Woof. He forgets himself so effortlessly. “Wouldn’t seem proper no how,” he muses. “It ain’t like they’re prey. Sylver’s fought ’em lots, right? He says they’re almost kinda human—’cept I don’t think he meant it as a compliment. But I figure if they got spaceships and stuff, they must be pretty smart.” “Which is more’n I can say for you three.” Boris gives them all the evil eye. “Get movin’ before I plant my boot in your butts.” He spits a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt and trudges off, reluctantly but respectfully trailed by his sons and the others. Clan hierarchy rules. I watch till they’re out of sight. As part of the pack, like it or not, I should probably turn, pull on a pair of overalls—yuck—and join them. Boris is right, I’m afraid, even though Turnville’s nearest neighbors are miles away and generally ignore us as much as we 27


ignore them. Most ordinary humans know nothing about Crocodoids and the plots to invade Earth. Hell, most humans don’t know beings such as werewolves walk among them, and said beings would like to keep it that way. The last thing we need is word of an alien attack leaking out, and media people from all over descending on the town, like a horde of hungry locusts. ::I can bring in EG’s fey force to help,:: Hunter offers, all altruistic innocence. ::Magic, Sylver, not gadgets. Will that make you feel better? A few waves of their wands, a sprinkle of pixie dust, and they’ll have this place clean in minutes. No muss, no fuss.:: ::No, thanks.:: I know Hunter, and he never does anything for free. If nothing else, he demands undying gratitude and devotion for his help. Hero worship. He digs putting people in his debt—makes them easier to manipulate. To him, love itself is a power game, all about control. In some ways, he’s more spider than cat. I won’t let my clan fall into his web the way I did. ::Well, if that’s what you think, forget it—and I hope you have a fun night on your tractor, farm boy.:: Aw, I seem to have hurt his feelings. And if you believe that, I’ve got a great bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you. ::Oh hell… I’ll buy you a bridge if you’ll come home with me. But not the Brooklyn. It’s so passé. How about the Golden Gate?:: My ears snap up, and my hackles rise. Say what? A furious rasping filters down from above. Feline agitation, a cat sharpening its claws. ::You heard me. I’m asking you to come home. Now! I’m tired, and these thorns are a pain in the ass. Literally. If you want to 28


fight, let’s do it someplace comfortable, for godssake.:: Asking? That sounded like an order. ::What if it is? I’ve had a bellyful of you and your woundedwolf attitude. Be warned. I’m not pussyfooting around.:: Could’ve fooled me. I wonder if he’s listening to himself. ::Shove it. If you know so much, you must know it was more than Crocs that brought me here tonight. You were my best agent, Sylver. Besides which, you’re my spouse! I want you back in the Earth Guardians and back in my bed! Is that so fucking hard to believe?:: Actually… Yes. ::Why? You’re the one who walked out, remember. I didn’t leave you.:: He didn’t try to stop me either. And in all the time I’ve been gone, this is the first he’s bothered to contact me. Weeks without one friggin’ word. What does that say? ::That I was trying to be patient and un-manipulative, maybe? There’s no reasoning with you when you’re pissed. I was giving you a chance to cool off and think things over without any pressure—hoping you’d come home on your own.:: Bullshit. He seems to forget why I left. One extracurricular dalliance too many. I can’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Although, in his present form, I could throw him pretty far—and will if I get my jaws around him. Bastard. I have to get rid of him now, while he’s a cat, because once he’s human, I’ll be lost. “Grrr…” Frothing at the mouth, I gather powerful hindquarters under myself in preparation for springing upward and dragging him off the branch he’s perched on. “Sylver?” A soprano-voiced summons halts me in mid-leap. 29


“Thank goodness you’re home! You okay? I been worried ’bout you, sugarplum. Ain’t this a godawful mess?” Terrific, here comes Aunt Tashi, frilly and sweet as cotton candy in a lacy pink negligee, trotting up the street. My negligee. She’s always snitching my clothes. But at least she doesn’t mind me wearing them, too, which is more than I can say for most members of my clan. Seriously, wouldn’t you think guys who become wolves might understand a man who not only becomes a wolf, but also a woman? It’s just another type of shifting, the way I see it. But, oh no. Aside from my parents, who no longer live here, Aunt Tashi is the only Turner who accepts and appreciates me, unconditionally, as I am. Granted, she’s a little flaky, with a mouth that runs a mile a minute, but I love her to pieces. Uh-oh… Why does that thought make my fur stand on end? “Hey, you seen Hunter?” she calls. “Mercy, he’s a bad boy, but he sure is cute, ain’t he? I know you’re mad at him, honey, but I been worried ’bout him, too—and, if you ask me, he’s lookin’ to make up. He was here a while back, anyway. Popped in sudden like and startled the starch outta me. Said trouble was comin’—like I hadn’t already sensed it m’self—then ran out to find you, and I ain’t seen him since. I’m scared these lizard things might’ve got him.” No such luck. But in a sudden nightmare moment, one of them gets her. One Croc, with one wheezing breath of life left in it, rears half up and fires a ray-gun, then collapses face first again into the blood-stained dust, dead for good this time. But a little too late. Because Aunt Tashi could soon be dead, too. 30


The beam hit her between the shoulder blades, freezing her stiff and still as a marble statue, and blanching her almost as white as one. Fuck… A paralyzing ice-ray. I’ve seen the weapon in action before. Crocs use it not only to kill, but also to prepare victims they intend to eat. The same as Earth’s crocodiles, their fangs are good only for biting, not chewing, so they have to fragment flesh into pieces small enough to swallow whole. Ice-rays simplify the process for them with a rapid, progressive chill that starts at the skin and works its way inside. Unless an antidote is administered—and EG has an effective one—Aunt Tashi will be brittle as frost in a few minutes, and shatter at a single tap into a pile of bite-size freezer-pops. I think I’m going to be sick. I also think I’m ready to try that goddamned teleporter. ::Oh, sure, now you’ll be happy to accept my help.:: Happy? God, no, just fucking desperate, and Hunter knows it. To save Tashi I’d make a deal with the devil himself. ::Yeah, well, lucky for you, Sylver, you only have to deal with me.:: Same thing. I glance up into the mesquite and see amber eyes burning like coals. Raw heat. It’s a wonder he doesn’t set the branches ablaze. With a smooth dive, Hunter sails out of the tree, his body glowing, lengthening, shifting… In the moment it takes him to land, he’s a man again, tall, tan and muscular, a naked Adonis with a gaze like molten gold, and satiny black hair grazing his shoulders. My heart stutters at the sight. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, facing him in human form. For me, naturally, he’s far easier to resist as a cat. 31


“Don’t worry, you’re safe…for the present. Come on!” He hits the ground running, sprints forward and scoops up Tashi—but carefully, as though she’s the most fragile of china dolls, which is pretty close to the truth—then hastens down the street to her house. “We have two minutes at best to get her to the Steele Star.” I know. Still in wolf garb, moving fast on four legs, I beat him to the door and hurl my weight against it. Solid wood crashes inward, broken off its hinges. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Hunter says, hurrying in on my heels. Hell, I’m thinking only speed. Where the fuck are his clothes? Aunt Tashi, being a neat freak, probably folded and put them away somewhere. Not that there’s time for him to dress—or me, either, so I’m disinclined to ditch my fur just yet—but we need the teleporter. “It’s on my utility belt,” he reminds me. Right. Several seconds of hyper-canine chaos ensue while I bound about, sniffing, finally locate his gear in the back bedroom, and fetch his belt in my teeth. “Good boy.” Supporting Tashi, deathly pale in a frozen coma, against his side with one arm, he pats my head with his free hand. “Man’s best friend.” I’m not amused. Grrr… Can we go now? “We?” Hunter slings the belt, bandolier style, over his shoulder. I assume the shiny rectangle clipped to it is the—gulp— teleporter. His brows arch up. “You mean you’re actually coming to the dreaded Steele Star with me?” 32


Sarcasm is unnecessary. Panting with anxiety, I glare at him. He meets my stare with razor-edged calm. Saving lives, after all, is just part of an average day’s work for Catman. It used to be for me, too—but none of those lives were ever an adored aunt, a woman who’s like a second mother to me. His look softens for a split second. Or is that my imagination? As soon as I see what might be a glimmer of compassion, it’s gone, replaced by something inscrutable. Something dangerous. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. I’m sure I don’t have a choice. “I don’t need help carrying her,” he persists. “You can wait here.” Not a chance. Tashi has never before been farther than fifty miles from Turnville. She’ll be frightened, panicked, and need a family member near when she wakes up in a strange place. Really strange. Whimper… She will wake up. I have to believe that. “She’ll be fine. Probably,” Hunter answers the thought. He’s such a comfort. “The question is, will you?” His eyes narrow into smoky slits. “Just remember, you’re the one who said I never do anything for free. If you join me now, I’ll expect you to stay with me. For good. Once Tashi is awake, calm and comfortable, I want you in my bed. Naked. Human. And hot. Understand?” Too well. A low growl rumbles deep in my chest, sudden outrage held on a short leash because saving my aunt is more important than maiming Hunter. I’ll get him later. “Not if you want to come with me, you won’t. You’ll agree to 33


my terms or I’ll leave you here. And I’m leaving now—with or without you.” He knows I will agree. I have to, for Tashi’s sake. Emotional blackmail, that’s what this is! “No. Just proving that everyone has a price, Sylver.” The shadow of a grin touches his lips. “And also helping you keep your mind off scary teleporters and space stations by giving you something worse to worry about.” How kind. Grrr… “Oh, yeah, one other thing…” His hand buries in the thick fur at the scruff of my neck. “The teleporters were developed primarily for individual travel. I think this will work as long as we stay close and maintain physical contact—but I’ve never tried transporting three with one device before.” Shit, now he tells me. “Too late to back out.” Hunter tightens his grip and hauls me snug against his hip. “Beam us up, Scotty.” Very funny. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut—only for a second, it seems. When I open them again, I’m… Blind? Ominous, dense black presses in on me. Monster black, heavy and oozy thick. Horrifying. “Aagghhh!” I hear a bloodcurdling scream. Mine, I think. “Fuck,” a husky voice curses. That’s not me. “No, it’s me, loudmouth. And you’re not blind, but I’ve been 34


deafened.” Good. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. I recognize Hunter’s sexy scent along with his tone. Very sexy. I hate my nose. Help… A bright light clicks on—some big, fat help—and I blink in the glare, blinded in a different way now, gasping for air like a beached tuna. Damp with sweat. Lying on my back. Human? When did I turn? My heart’s battering my ribs like a berserk jackhammer. Where the hell am I? What happened? Where’s Aunt Tashi? “The Steele Star, where else? You fainted during teleportation. A nervous reaction to stress, the doctors decided. They gave you a light sedative and said to just let you sleep it off. Feel better?” No, but he’s explained why I’m human. My wolf form can be called forth only during consciousness. The moment I pass out or fall asleep, my body reverts to Man, what might be termed its “default state.” “And Tashi is having a blast. A couple of EG agents are giving her a tour of the station,” Hunter adds. “The antidote worked like a charm, and she recovered quickly. Wasn’t a bit frightened, either, when she came to. Fascinated, is more like it. Said she’s always wanted to see more of the world—and she can see a lot of it from up here. Quite a spectacular sight. Look for yourself. There’s a view-screen in the ceiling. I can activate it for you.” Please, don’t do me any favors. I’m sure it’s awesome, but as long as I don’t see the Earth I can pretend I’m still on it. Hunter, unfortunately, is another matter. He’s awesome looking, too, and impossible to ignore. There’s no pretending he’s not here. I’m very 35


relieved Tashi’s safe. But me? I’m so in trouble. As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on his side, propped up on an elbow, and obviously unclad except for a black satin sheet pulled over his lower half. I also see we’re in a big bed in a large, lavishly furnished room, and I’m wearing nothing but the same sheet he is. What I don’t see is how I’m going to survive even another five minutes without jumping his bodacious bod and screwing him to the mattress—or demanding that he screw me. Giving or receiving, it’s all the same, whoever does what to whom. I’m not choosy. Just suddenly hot and horny, painfully hard. And painfully in love. But then I have been since the second I first laid eyes on Hunter Steele. Werewolves have an inbred sense that tells us when we meet our life-mate. By some unfathomable, unfunny cosmic joke, mine happens to be him. This is why I tried to ditch Hunter outside Turnville, while we wore fur. I’ve no defense against him when we’re naked and human. God help me, it’s been nearly two months since we’ve physically bonded. Two months that feel like centuries. The sight of him now makes me salivate. Long, strong limbs, narrow hips and broad shoulders. A solid chest dusted with downy, dark curls that taper to a vee at the edge of the sheet, an arrow pointing to a satin-covered mound of masculine meat—the outline of a thick, juicy cock. My gaze slides back up his torso to a stubborn jaw…sensuous mouth…amber eyes that promise savage, sultry sex. Irresistible. He looks and smells like a feast. And I’m starving. 36


He knows it. While I watch, a predatory grin curls his lips. A soft velvet rumble, feral and feline, rasps my ears—nonverbal but saying much. Catman without mercy. His scent fills me like a drug, a tantalizing musk. All spicy warmth. All male. The mere sound of him, the husky purr of his voice, speeds my pulse, boils my blood. His handsome face is burned into my brain, always with me wherever I go, even when I try to escape him. Yeah, I’ve got it bad. “I keep telling you that you love me.” The grin waxes wicked, and he sidles closer under the sheet, not quite close enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Anticipation shivers up and down my spine. Hunter stretches out a hand. Fingertips, feathery as moth wings, blistering as branding irons, trace over my biceps and pectorals— seduction that seems subtle and is anything but. I’m dry tinder, and he’s a torch. The pad of his thumb grazes my nipples, and I blaze into flames. For the record, I’m still angry, fuming mad at him for always winning—and myself for letting him. Yet passion and rage are both fiery emotions. Sometimes only a hairline’s difference separates the two. I’m pathetic, is what I am—hopeless, doomed—tied body, mind, and soul to a man who doesn’t have it in him to love me the way I love him. At the moment, I don’t fucking care. I just want to fuck. This is how it always goes with Hunter and me. We fight like cats and dogs. Big surprise. But toss us in bed, and we hump like rabbits. “Right. So let’s get hopping,” he taunts. “You can hate yourself in the morning.” 37


“I hate you now,” I snarl, fist a hand in his hair, and drag his head down to mine. “Yeah, I can tell,” he growls as our mouths collide in an explosive kiss that dynamites my brain and shoots sizzling shrapnel into my groin. Firebombed! Electricity crackles, frying my circuits. The air clouds with smoke. My balls tighten, and my cock swells big as a bazooka. Hunter’s seems more like a cannon. He rolls over me, like a tank, heavy and hard, grinding me into the mattress, rubbing our rods together. Both well primed and fully loaded. Ready, aim— “Fire too soon, and I’ll slap you from here to next Sunday.” He pushes up slightly, eyes blazing. “Why do you always think in battle imagery when we fuck? Haven’t you heard of ‘make love, not war’?” “With you, what’s the difference?” I zap back. Which brings to mind another classic adage: War is hell. “So is dealing with you,” he bitches. Damn, I was going to tell him that. “I know. That’s why I said it first.” “Sit on it and spin, pussycat.” “Good idea. After you, whitey.” Me and my big mouth. “Even better. I’ll start there.” Evil intent in his gaze, Hunter crawls up my body and cages my head and shoulders between his hands and knees, presenting his cannon for close inspection. The tip of it touches my nose, and I go cross-eyed studying it, mesmerized by its size, intoxicated by his musky aroma. My mouth waters, and I swallow—hard. No matter how many times I see his equipment, I’m always impressed. 38


And ravenous for a long, luscious taste. “Not too long,” he warns. “Just enough to make it nice and slick. Then I’m going to shove it up your cute little ass and fuck you till you howl.” Not if I fuck him first. When Hunter talks rough, I take it as a challenge, even if I want what he’s threatening. And I do. A lot. Inner muscles clench with torrid, tingling lust at the prospect. But my pride’s on the line. Taller and heavier muscled, Hunter certainly looks the stronger of us—and is—but not by much. He seems to forget that inside this “cute little” form lurks the force of a two-hundred and thirty pound wolf—with an attitude. It’s just the neat packaging that fools you. I think he needs a reminder. Quick as a lick—which I’ll get to in a moment—I grab his hips and heave him off me onto his back, then jump on top. Before he can retaliate, I’ve got him by the balls, literally and figuratively, one hand cupping his nuts, the other fisted around his dick, ready to milk it dry. I’ll use the cream to grease his crack before I skewer and roast him. “Sylver…” The name rasps out on a hoarse breath, something between a growl and a groan. “Why do you have to turn everything into a contest of wills?” “Like you don’t? It takes two to argue.” And we’re both basically alphas. At least half our disputes can be chalked up to male ego. It often surprises people to discover I have one of those. They assume a man who dresses like a woman must want to be one. Some do, but the issue isn’t so simple. Probably there are as many motives for cross-dressing as there are individuals who practice it. My own personal reasons aren’t entirely clear even to me, yet I know none of them involve a need 39


to feel feminine. More like a need to feel attractive, maybe—admired, appreciated. Loved? Growing up gay in Turnville, I didn’t get much of that. I’ve always been a bit outside the pack, a lone wolf in more ways than one. The smallest human male of my clan and the largest canine. Also the only white one. An enigma. Some in my position might have become an introvert. Me, I went the opposite direction. A shrinking violet, I’m not. If you got it, flaunt it. I like spotlights and glitter and look good in both. To me, cross-dressing is something of a performance art. I do it partly because I can. Let’s face it, with my features and build I make a far prettier gal than a guy. “And both of you worry way too much about looks,” Hunter mutters, sounding throaty and strained—probably because I’ve just started sucking him. I give great head, all modesty aside (if I had any modesty, I mean). It’s all in the tongue action. Long, wet licks mixed with tiny, sharp nips. While he writhes, I encase him in my mouth and swallow him whole. “Uhhh…” he grunts. “Beauty isn’t everything.” Easy for him to say. Abundance breeds casual disregard. Hunter is, without a doubt, the handsomest man alive. And it’s not merely me who thinks so. Everyone falls for him. Everything he touches turns to gold. Mr. Purr-fect, who began at the top and climbs ever higher. The favored son of a regal, rich family—which most cat clans are. Feline-shifters possess an incorrigible knack for success. Unlike Turners who’ve always sweated for each dime. Cats were worshiped as gods in ancient Egypt. If you ask me, none of them have forgotten it. “That’s why I need you,” he pants out. “To keep me humble.” Caught with the head of his cock bumping my tonsils, I almost 40


choke. He’s lucky I didn’t just bite him off at the root. Gasping and sputtering, I lift up to glare. “When”—cough—“have I ever humbled you?” “Never. But I love the way you keep trying. You’re one of the few who dares tell me straight to my face exactly what you think.” A quick grin flashes. “And the only one who openly threatens murder.” His gaze narrows, and amber intensity gleams. Sudden gravity slams me in the gut. Oh, God, he’s going poignant—Hunter at his most lethal. I can argue with him in any other circumstances, even while we make love. But not when he declares it. With nothing but a heated stare he holds me motionless. “I do love you, Sylver.” I know he does, at least as much as any feline is capable of, which falls depressingly short of a wolf’s lifelong devotion. Still, it’s the best he can manage, and at times like this I give him credit for that. I’ve just never understood why he loves me even a little. I’m not insecure; I have a healthy self-image—too healthy, some might say—but I know myself and my limits, whereas Hunter has none. Limits, that is. Famously handsome, popular, and rolling in riches, he’s king of his own majestic empire. Beside him I’m nobody, just a poor country queen who wields a mean lipstick and mascara brush. Beautiful people flock to him in droves, throw themselves at his feet, beg for his favor. He could have anyone he wants—and does, more’s the pity. Yet, out of them all, I’m the one he always comes back to. I’m the one he married. Why? 41


“I just told you, dimwit. Love. And lots more than ‘a little.’ Why, God only knows. You sure don’t make it easy. But I love you in spite of your temper, mine, and all our differences. That’s the way it is, and that’s how it’ll stay. So fucking get used to it! You ever leave me again, I’ll drag you back by your tail and whip it off you.” Promises, promises. He’s so romantic. “Sylver, shut up and suck.” Excuse me? I’m not talking. I’m thinking. “Too much!” Hunter’s hands flatten on each side of my skull, and he hauls me up over his stomach and chest to meet him nose to nose. Smoking hot, his gaze sizzles into mine. His nostrils flare, and he snorts steam. “Reading your mind is like riding a high speed merry-goround. You’re making me dizzy.” “Then stay out of my head,” I tell him with an evil smile. He returns it with interest. “Whatever you say. I’d rather be in your ass, anyway.” In a lightning series of moves, he grabs, twists, rolls, and pins me belly down beneath him in a tangle of sheets. I’m trapped between black satin and steel drive—or Steele drive, which amounts to the same thing—no choice but to hang on for a wild, wicked thrill ride. If I’m a merry-go-round, he’s a jet-powered roller coaster. Rock solid thighs pry mine apart, and a gravely rumble vibrates against my spine. Half growl, half chuckle. All sexy. With the sound, a battering ram breaks through my backdoor and fills me to near bursting. No preliminaries, just power and passion—hard, fast, and hotter than hell—an almost painful entry. But I like it that 42


way, and so does Hunter. Animals, in general, aren’t passive lovers, and neither are shifters. We relish the rough stuff. Our bodies are built to take it, and our cellular structure makes us immune to the diseases that menace the rest of humanity. Sex with us is rarely what you’d call safe, but it’s never fatal. “There’s always a first time,” Hunter gasps. He may have a point. Breathless and breathtaking both, with fire and fury, blistering force, he starts pounding me into a brainless, boneless pile of smoldering pulp. Holy steam drill, Catman… If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s trying to fuck me to death. Granted, it would be a great way to go. “No shit,” he groans. “The feel of you is killing me. God…” An earthquake tremor shudders through him, rocking the bed and us. With a roar, he rams in deep one final time and explodes inside me. Then collapses. Panting… Sweating… Heavy and spent. A lead weight on my back. And the sound of masculine mortification in my ears. “Shit,” he groans again, and rolls off me. “Sylver, I’m sorry. That was way too fast.” An apology? I shove up on an elbow to narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, bub, who are you and what have you done with Hunter Steele?” He makes a strangling noise in his throat, lassos my neck with an out-flung arm, and yanks me down against his side. “I’m trying to be serious, damn it.” “You’re worrying about nothing is what you’re doing.” I lay 43


my head on his shoulder and rest a hand on his abdomen. “So you popped your cork a little soon. So what? It happens to everyone occasionally.” Except me, of course. I have the stamina of an ox. “And the stubbornness to match,” Hunter grumbles. “Ow,” he adds when I dig nails into the taut, warm flesh of his belly. “I thought you weren’t going to read my mind.” “I can’t avoid it. You think too loud.” In that case, for his benefit, I think about what I’m doing—and plan to do. He owes me an orgasm. X-rated movies play in my brain, showing ways to collect. All sorts of imaginative methods in succulent, dripping detail. My favorite is the one where I bend him over the bed and nail him in place with my tongue in his sweet ass. Then my cock… He moans. My fingers drift lower in an exploratory tease, and the moan mellows into a purr. Feline reflex action. Sultry. Soft. So is he, yet not for much longer. Hunter may be fresh out of gas, but give me a few minutes and I’ll have him refueled. His breath hitches as I squeeze his stick shift. “You’re getting bigger,” I murmur into his neck, tasting and inhaling him, feeling the throb of his pulse on my lips. An open mouthed nuzzle. I’m in attack mode, capturing him north and south, stroking, kissing, lapping up salty beads of sweat. I firm my grip, pump him once, twice, three times, and— bam—he goes off in my hand. Whoa… Too much pressure on the accelerator? “No. Just not enough you for too long. I’m a little…overfueled,” Hunter says, a wry tint to his tone. “I haven’t been with anyone since you left.” 44


Two months without sex? Him? He’s joking. “Do you hear me laughing? It’s no joke, damn it. Oh, I considered searching for relief a few times. But then I thought of you, and everyone else seemed so…boring. Hardly worth the effort.” Good God, he sounds serious. My heart skips a beat. I think I believe him. “You’d better. Trust me, Sylver, it wasn’t the least bit fun or funny.” I can imagine. For my breed, abstinence is unpleasant. For his, it’s excruciating. “But not impossible.” He grabs my upper arms, pushes, and reverses our positions, pinning me under him again. “Canines don’t have a monopoly on devotion. You’re just generally more upfront about it. You have to be. You’re pack animals. With certain exceptions, like lion prides, felines aren’t. For your breed, emotional bonding is almost mandatory. For mine, it’s more…optional. But no less sincere. When cats offer love, it’s not from some inbred need to please, but because we want to.” Leave it to Hunter to ruin what had been shaping up to be a beautiful moment. I cup his face in my hands and glare into his eyes. “What’s your point? You think the only reason I love you is a congenital need to please?” “Hell, no.” A devil of a grin twitches his lips. “I think you love me because I’m cute and loaded with charm. The point is I happen to think the same about you. You’re one of a kind, Sylver. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, and I don’t want to find out.” My lungs stall as he presses down until our noses touch. His muscular bulk traps me flat. I feel his heart thumping into mine, 45


feel the scorch of his skin, the pulse of sexual power. Warm breath brushes me with his words. “And right now I’m the one who needs to please,” he whispers. “I owe you an orgasm, do I? How do you want it?” “Medium rare with coleslaw and fries.” Sorry, that was the first answer that popped into my head. I’m not exactly firing on all mental cylinders at the moment. Hunter in hardcore seduction mode is distracting enough. Add love to the mix and he melts minds. Not to mention bodies. “Well, at least it’s more appetizing than your battle images.” He chuckles. The sound of sin, husky and low. “In fact, I’m suddenly very hungry.” And I feel like the Saturday night special at Smoky Joe’s. Texas barbequed beef smothered in chili peppers and Joe’s deadly delicious “Mad Mustang” hot sauce. It comes with spurs and a fire extinguisher. I don’t. “Yippie-ki-yay,” Hunter says, and kisses his way down my front, wreaking oral havoc with teeth and tongue. His mouth closes around my cock, which goes rigid as a fence post, and I’m sucked into a wild, wet whirl of fevered bliss. “Ride ’em, cowboy,” I rasp out. “I intend to.” A sensual snarl on his lips, he shoves up to kneel over me, straddling my pelvis, his hands braced on my chest and raw desire in his gaze. The air quivers with suspense. So do I. My eyes lock on his, and for an emotionally charged moment neither of us move. Then with a sudden drop, Hunter impales himself on me. “Giddy-up,” he urges on a harsh exhale. And I push upward to meet him. One sharp gasp, an extra thrust, and I’m buried deep in his tight ass. Inner muscles clench 46


me in a vise. Satin heat… Bonfire burn. Electric sizzle, like a lightning strike, courses through me and coils in my groin. My vision blurs, and I see Hunter through a steamy red haze, his face a mask of savage ecstasy as he begins rising and falling…rising and falling…goading me into a gallop, riding me like a rodeo bronc. Hi-yo, Sylver! I clutch his hips and buck beneath him, plunge in and out while he spurs me faster, both of us vying for command of the reins—a hot harmony of action laced with a titillating note of devilish discord. Wrestling match lovemaking. You might think we were having a contest to see who can make the other pop first. “We are.” A merciless gleam in his eye, Hunter hardens his hold on me and raises his right hand to his lips. Wanton and wicked, he sucks his forefinger. Oh shit, I know what’s coming. “Yeah. You.” He grins—Satan’s spawn—curves his left hand around the back of my neck, and leans in. His other hand digs under me, searching. And finding. In almost the same instant, he pulls my head toward his, spears his tongue into my mouth and his slick finger into my ass. Both move in evil mimic of what my cock is doing to him, pumping and probing me, sabotaging my control. A torrid, two-pronged sensory assault. Between his action and mine, I’m toast. Skyrockets burst in my brain. Farther down, a swollen ache escalates to the jagged edge of agony. Seismic pressure builds. Smoky clouds envelope me. I feel the fiery sting of volcanic ash. Something’s about to erupt… 47


Hunter’s finger finds a particularly responsive spot—the spot— and I shatter. Orgasm with a capital O, immense and intense, smashes into me with tidal wave force. I’m swamped, limp and gasping, bobbing about like a drunken cork in a scalding sea of sensation. Glub, glub. As the water recedes and the smoke clears, I see a smug smile hovering a few inches above my nose. Amber eyes glitter with feline satisfaction. A raspy purr tickles my ears. Looking incorrigibly pleased with himself, Hunter climbs off me and falls onto his back, causing the bed to bounce beneath us. “I win,” he says. I blink. “Won what?” “The contest.” Oh, that. He’s so competitive. “Pot. Kettle. Black.” I resist the urge to smack him. “I made you come,” he adds. Duh. Rolling my eyes, I twist around to face him. “Only one out of three, pussycat. If we’re keeping score, I’m still one ahead of you.” I smirk. “Besides, I don’t see any coleslaw and fries.” My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’m not really joking. More like starving. I never did get any dinner tonight. I’d planned to eat at Joe’s, but we all know how that went. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Hunter sits up and reaches for a cell on the bedside table. I throw him a dagger stare. “I didn’t think I needed to. You’re always reading my mind.” “Yeah, well”—a tiny grin tugs at his lips as he flips open the 48


phone—“I thought you were just hungry for me.” Unable to stop myself, I return the grin. “That, too.” Our gazes lock, and for several silent seconds we’re in perfect tune. One of those warm magic moments, tender and soft as a butterfly’s sigh, but no less beautiful for being so fragile, so rare. Hunter’s eyes look like golden glass backed by sunlight, suddenly transparent, letting me peer straight through to his soul. Most of the world sees only the corporate king and the celebrity playboy. Earth Guardians see the bad-ass hero, too. But me, I see the man. Hunter does have a few vulnerable spots. “No, Sylver. Only one. You.” A hint of uncertainty sharpens his gaze, a glimmer of almost-fear, anxious hope. “You are back, aren’t you? To stay? I can’t promise I’ll always behave…but I’ve proved I can try…haven’t I?” Amazingly, yes, and I know it wasn’t easy for him. That he made the effort, period, speaks volumes—none of which guarantee he’ll continue making it. A tomcat is a tomcat, after all. And a wolf is a wolf. Even if he strays, I can’t help but forgive him. Eventually. I’m bound by my own breeding, my own promises… My own heart, which I may as well dub “Hunter,” since he’s what keeps that organ beating. If I married him, he married me, defying ancient bloodlines, polar-opposite economic status, and social prejudice against same-sex unions. How we uphold our vows may differ, but together we made them. “To love and cherish,” Hunter whispers. “For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health…” “And for better or worse,” I finish. That’s the sticky one, of course, because with Hunter it’s often the latter. “Well, I’m rich and healthy, at least. Two out of three isn’t 49


bad.” With a dry chuckle, he punches a button on the cell. “Kitchen? Steele here. Send me up a couple of thick steaks with slaw and fries. Oh, yeah, and a big dish of whipped cream.” He slants me a glance. “That’s to top our dessert.” Uh-huh. Gauging by the glint in his eyes as he closes the phone and lays it aside, I can guess what he’s thinking, but ask anyway. “And what is dessert?” The glint increases. “Us. If you’re one up on me, I demand a rematch.” Or two, or three, or… Since neither of us are the sort to surrender easily, and we both hate losing, I suspect we’re in for a long night. “Long and hard,” Hunter says. Rowrrr… He’s so bad. I suppose I am, too. It occurs to me we bring out the worst in each other. But maybe also the best.

50

M IMI RISER

Mimi Riser has been an actress, model, clown, belly-dancer, jewelry designer, editor and publisher, but her first and foremost love is writing. She specializes in offbeat tales where laughter reigns and good always triumphs—but she makes her characters really work for their happy endings. Her books have been said to read like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and speed as it goes. But if you think her stories are crazy, you should see her life. Once devout city people, she and her husband exchanged the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia a lifetime or two ago for the natural, rugged splendor of the rural southwest. They were looking for a simpler way of life. They got it. It ended up being so “natural and rugged,” they spent their first six and a half years there in a hand-built house with dirt floors, no electricity and no plumbing. This has proved helpful for her historicals as she can now write about the “olden days” from personal experience. They have since rejoined the 21st century and enjoy life on the open range with a house full of eccentric cats and a large, wacky dog who thinks she’s a cat, too. Mimi has had five novels published to date along with numerous articles and short stories. Her historical romance, I Do, was a “Top Ten Finisher” in the mammoth Preditors & Editors Readers Poll of 2003, and her contemporary comedy, Every Jack Needs His Jil, won the poll the following year for the “Best Mainstream Novel of 2004.” Samantha White and The Seven Dwarves is her first erotic-

romance and was one of the winners in Amber Quill’s 2007 Heat Wave contest. To learn more about Mimi and her writing, please visit her website: http://www.mimiriser.com

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