Thunderball

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…Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub—a manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar “beach bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast. A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the world white, but we’re warm and toasty in here—too warm, I’m afraid— surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic splendor, lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the promise of fleshy delights. “Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips. My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.” “Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.” Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume… He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side. Uh-uh… No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal seductive force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing sex— especially Hunter’s brand—isn’t something I’m famous for, but the headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the other ache lower down. Neck deep in hot water—in more ways than one—I scoot my endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left. “Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge…”

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

THUNDERBALL BY MIMI RISER

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

THUNDERBALL 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 © 2010 by Mimi Riser ISBN 978-1-60272-646-8 Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To all dogs and cats everywhere and the people who are smart enough to love them.

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THUNDERBALL What’s in a name? Not much, according to Shakespeare’s Juliet. Remember her? She’s the one who said, “That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” Poor kid obviously knew nothing about marketing. Think about it. If roses were called stinkweed, for instance, who’d want to find out how they smelled? Nope, like it or not, names are important, and mine is Sylver Starr—something I’m trying hard to focus on, lest my unleashed inner beast grab control of my actions. To handle what’s coming I need wits more than brute strength. Sylver Starr… I stamp it on a mental marquee, emblazon it in bright lights in my brain. It looks good in neon. Short, flashy, and gender neutral. 1

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Very me. The name’s actually an abbreviated form of Sylvester Starrvoski, which was okay for the west Texas farm boy I started out as, but would have sucked for the world famous nightclub performer I left home to become. God, I was naive back then, almost as dreamy eyed as Lady Juliet—and dressed even prettier. An effervescent bundle of raw nerve and theatrical high hopes, ready to conquer the world. Armed with a sultry singing voice, moonlight pale silvery hair, and a red-hot satin gown, I envisioned myself as the next Mae West. I tumbled into a warped version of James Bond instead. But still ended up famous via billionaire Hunter Steele, the love of my life and bane of my existence. How? I married him. All legal and binding, too, according to the state of Massachusetts. Just one of those small, quiet affairs that included a mere ten thousand of our nearest and dearest friends and almost trashed Provincetown where it happened. Don’t worry. Hunter sent in supplies and workmen to restore the town afterward. He’s very civic minded. So, okay, it turned into a worldwide media extravaganza, but it did seem a good idea at the time. Hunter is a king—of the corporate variety. And I am, by more than one definition of the term, a queen (drag or drama, take your pick). Queens are supposed to marry kings, right? Mind you, I’ve had cause to reconsider things since. Especially now as I crouch in the corner of a clandestine fighting pit set up in the center of a cavernous basement, pondering bloody death and the machinations that brought me here. One of Hunter’s plots, of course. He’s a genuine James Bond, though few 2

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realize it. Publicly, Hunter is the adored sovereign of a business empire that spans the globe, the patron saint of countless charities. Also an unabashed advocate of gay rights, animal rights, and green living, but the masses forgive his radical views. People respect money and looks, and he’s dripping with both. You’d think that would be enough for him, wouldn’t you? But, oh no, in secret the suave celebrity is the bad-ass founder and chief of Earth Guardians, Inc., an underground organization dedicated to defending this planet, by fair means or foul, from all threats, inner and outer. Its top agents are those who defy modern logic, creatures of legend who once moved about openly but now live hidden among humans. A tough team if you can find them and get them working together—which Hunter has, being one of them. Recruiting from the dark fringes of society, he’s built a force more formidable than Navy Seals. Come to think of it, some of them are seals, complete with flippers and fish breath. That would be EG’s selkie division from Scotland. There’s also a vampire division, gargoyles, dragons, several fey squads of various and sundry sorts… The pixies are the wickedest, by the way. They all carry knives, did you know that? Vicious little sprites. And then there’s me. A five-foot-eight, slender, devilishly cute cross-dresser. Who just happens to be descended from a clan of werewolves as ancient as the clan that spawned Hunter. Yeah, he and I are both hereditary shape-shifters, except I turn into a huge silver white wolf, whereas he becomes a twelve-pound black tomcat. Canine and feline, a match made in heaven. Not. More like a cosmic joke. In shifter terminology, we’re each other’s divinely appointed 3

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lifemates—for better or worse. And it’s often the latter. Someone in heaven has a lot of explaining to do. Still, I was considered a prime candidate for Earth Guardian status. Whether I wanted it or not, I might add. Let’s face it, if we’re talking about the fringes of society, I’m about as fringy as you can get. Hunter recognized my abilities instantly. Whatever else he is, he’s not stupid. He’s ruthlessly charismatic and lethally gorgeous—a tall, amber eyed, dark haired Adonis, sizzling with sex appeal. Damn him. Within hours of our first meeting he’d lured me into his covert crew. Shortly thereafter, I landed in his bed. Of the two places, I much prefer the latter. ::Yeah, well, you can’t have one without the other. Love me, love my brainchild.:: Ouch. In heavy boots, and with no regard for my delicate sensibilities, a husky mental voice stomps into my thoughts, rattling my cranium. ::Delicate, my ass,:: it scoffs. ::You were drifting. I reeled you back.:: Heil, Hunter. Rigid as a rail—and not in the good way—he stands at attention inside the fence that shields the audience from the performers in this evil circus of high-stakes intrigue and torture. He’s standing over me, actually, muscular legs straddling my withers and one hand gripping the collar I wear. Bossiness comes naturally to the great Hunter Steele, but he’s pushing it a bit tonight, if you ask me. ::Which no one did,:: he interjects. Jawohl, mein fuhrer. ::Sylver, eat shit.:: 4

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Just ignore him. I’m in white wolf form, but he’s in ramrod stiff military-mode for this gig, from the shiny black toes of his cavalry boots to the frizzled top of his gray wig. Some incredibly talented makeup artist—me, in fact—has disguised him as an eccentric old baron decked out with vintage medals, a riding crop, monocle, and false whiskers. A cleverly crafted dueling scar decorates the crest of his left cheekbone. I never do anything halfway, and neither does Hunter. And he’s always reading my mind. Then complaining about what he finds there. Bitch, bitch, bitch. To add insult to injury, I’m not allowed to return the favor. I hate that he’s more adept at shielding his thoughts than I am. Look into his head and all you see is a smokescreen. Very inscrutable. It’s a cat thing. I do like the boots, though. Knee high and naughty. Sinister and sexy both, in a Marquis de Sade sort of way. Not that I’ve ever really been into the bondage and dominance scene. But with Hunter in those boots—and nothing else—I’d be willing to give it a try. ::Terrific. I’ll keep that in mind for later.:: A jerk on my collar punctuates the telepathic intrusion. ::Now, pay attention to business!:: Or there may not be a later, he means. Hunter can be such an alarmist at times. But in this case, he has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. The business in question involves someone—me, again—squaring off with a massive, enraged mastiff called Cujo. Talk about name branding. Cujo was led into the pit shortly after I was, and it’s taking two burly handlers to hold him in his corner. I’m not surprised. A sea of pond scum in fashionably faded denims and polo shirts surrounds us. Outwardly, the sort of crowd you might see at any 5

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football game, except these guys aren’t here for the beer and hotdogs. They’re sportsmen, but not nice ones. To my nose—and Cujo’s, too, I’m sure—they stink of violence and brutality. A stench that worsens with the mounting tension as we all await the referee’s signal for the bout to begin. Cujo is a “titled” Grand Champion, which means he’s already won at least five fights. A daunting feat in an activity where the average life expectancy for all contenders is very, very short. I’m the challenger, billed as Thunderball and pretending to be a new breed of giant sized Siberian husky developed by Baron Heinrich Von Blitzen, alias guess who. Huskies do resemble wolves, and I am a giant in this form, two hundred and thirty pounds of savage muscle and sinew, much larger than my human state. But in reality there is no such new breed or baron. That’s just our cover story—not great, but the best we could manage on short notice. A charity fundraiser we attended yesterday and a grand old lady’s tragic tale spurred us to find and infiltrate this hellhole. In short, we’re on a rush job rescue mission, seeking to free a kidnapping victim. My opponent. Except now that I’ve had a chance to study him, I’m afraid we’ve arrived too late to do much good. Which leaves us nothing but vengeance—to strike holy terror into the bastards who took him. Granted, that was part of the plan, anyway. Hunter wants to put the fear of God into this crowd. Unfortunately, I’m his designated instrument of divine wrath. All things considered, is it any wonder I’d rather think about sex? Hell, I’d rather think about getting a root canal job. It’s a dangerous, uncertain charade we’re playing. 6

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::But not over yet. Don’t forget who’s waiting for us in the juvenile ward of the Sunshine Medical Rehabilitation Center. There are dozens of brave kids housed there, undergoing long-term physical therapy. They miss their favorite mascot and want him back. And what about Honey Jansen? That little girl has already lost her parents. She shouldn’t be forced to lose the big, lovable pup she was raised with, too.:: Thanks for the newsflash, Baron Buttinski. I know why we’re here. The problem is the “pup” doesn’t. To him this isn’t a charade; it’s the real deal. Weeks of constant abuse, administered coldly and methodically to make him mean, have plunged his mind into a black abyss. Under better circumstances I’d be able to reach him, calm him, as all animals are naturally telepathic. I have tried to make silent, canine-to-canine contact with him—introduced myself as a “manwolf” here to help—but I can’t penetrate his pain. He refuses my mind-call. ::Then keep trying.:: Hey, pussycat, if you think it’s so easy, you try. ::I did. He told me to go chase a mouse.:: Figures. Sigh. Cujo’s current conditioning and racial memory conspire against us. His guard-dog ancestors fought off wolves in ancient times, and their battered descendant has good cause now to distrust and hate all men, regardless of form. It breaks my heart because I know he wasn’t always like this, ears ragged, eyes crazed, his fawn coat riddled with half healed wounds. ::Hell,:: Hunter curses. ::Up until a few months ago, he wasn’t even Cujo.:: Tell me about it. He used to be Sam, the pride of Dr. Margo 7

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Jansen’s therapy-dog program, the comfort and cheer of her young patients. And her five-year-old orphaned granddaughter Honey’s best friend. We may save what’s left of his body, but his mind? ::We’ll retrain him. Most animals are smarter than people give them credit for, and this one’s a friggin’ Einstein, according to Margo.:: I don’t doubt it, but even with retraining, I can’t imagine he’ll ever be allowed to return to the children who love him. Once she sees him, I think even Margo will consider it too risky. I’m sure the Sunshine Center’s legal department will. What was once a regal, gentle giant is now a battle-scarred monster. He looks like a killer, and he is. A smart one who’s learned that if he doesn’t kill he’ll be punished. Badly. I can tell by his body language he intends to kill me. His audience demands it. Most of them have big bets riding on the coming contest. ::Among other shit. Look around. I see a lot of suspicious packages changing hands.:: Yep, many are also here for the sideline profiteering in illegal substances. You can’t separate one vice from the other at these events; they all go together. Drug dealing, gambling, and the thrill of watching two tormented creatures rip each other to shreds. That’s entertainment. From “hobbyist” encounters in rural barns, to street gang competitions in urban basements, to the big organized crime operations like this one, dog fighting in America has reached epidemic proportions, despite being outlawed in all fifty states and a hardcore felony in forty-eight. And contrary to what some of its advocates—who liken it to boxing—claim, there’s nothing noble or heroic about it. Boxers enter the ring by choice. The dogs don’t. 8

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Some are doomed from the start, having been bred for the blood sport by their trainers. Some are bought. Some are adopted from animal shelters, under false pretenses. Worst of all, many— like “Cujo” here, little Honey’s poor Sam—were once cherished companions who were stolen from their original homes. Small dogs and cats are stolen, too, for use as bait during savage training sessions. All suffer, and most die young, often at the hands of their keepers. A popular motto in dog fighting circles is “Breed the best and bury the rest.” Seriously. I found that on the Internet yesterday while researching the subject—after we met Margo at the med center’s fundraiser, heard about Sam’s theft and guessed the motive for it. My search, in fact, led me to an online bulletin board and a ballsy notice seeking opponents for a mighty mastiff. Which “Baron Von Blitzen” answered. Which brought us here. You might think we got lucky finding Sam so fast, but really it was easy. Okay, so Hunter’s hacking skills helped a bit, too. There are a noxious number of sites staunchly devoted to dog fighting. Print publications also. Its aficionados seem quite proud of themselves, advertise their champion stock, and love to share tips and tricks of the trade. Want to know more? ::Hell, no,:: Hunter gripes. ::You’re preaching to the choir, whitey.:: Tough shit, pussycat. I’m not preaching to him or anyone else, merely mulling over the issue—and I’m not finished yet. Let’s consider the name question again. The simple fact these contests fall under the 9

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specific heading of blood sport pretty much says it all, doesn’t it? Dog fighting is bloody. Cruel. Sick. A violent crime. A social disease. But difficult to police and prosecute, due to a number of convoluted factors, including lack of awareness, an incomplete understanding of the problem and how it damages society as a whole. It would help, I think, if more people realized animal abuse has been proven to be directly related to human abuse. ::You think too damned much. It would help if you’d get your ass into gear,:: Hunter suggests. Not pleasantly. I mentioned he was bossy, right? With a rough jerk, he lets go of my collar and dives into a phony German accent. “Achtung, Thunderball! Attack!” So soon? The order coincides with a sudden commotion at the opposite end of the pit. Snarls and sharp shouts pierce my sensitive ears. Fuck, the Hound of the Baskervilles has broken free from his handlers—and without the referee’s signal. According to the infamous Cajun Rules of dog fighting, isn’t that a foul? ::Who cares? We never play by the rules, anyway. Move it!:: Oh, we’re back to telepathy, are we? I wish he’d make up his damn mind. Hunter knows it jars me when he jumps from audible to silent speech. ::Bullshit. Now this is jarring.:: The sole of a sexy black boot, applied with Steele force to my rump, propels me forward to meet Sam’s charge. Ow. Baron Blitzkrieg is cruisin’ for a real bruisin’. Too bad I probably won’t live long enough to give him one. 10

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Sam isn’t playing by the rules either. Instead of attacking head-on, as I expect, he lunges to the side, then spins around and leaps on my back, body slamming me to the floor, like a wrestler. Except we’re not on a mat. My skull connects—hard—with cold concrete. Crack! It knocks the wind out of me, almost knocks me senseless. The floor seems to pitch and roll like the deck of a typhoon tossed ship. Whoa… I’m getting seasick. Everything blurs, and a wave of dizziness swamps me. Great. Besides struggling with Sam, I now have an inner battle just to hang on to consciousness. If I pass out, my body will automatically revert to human form—which weighs eighty pounds less than my wolf form, which is already twenty pounds less than Sam’s bulk. Two hundred and fifty pounds of fanged fury squashes me flat. Oh sure, I’ve got fangs, too, as long as I stay cognizant. But under the circumstances—under Sam—I’m also in deep shit. Oof. I think I just heard a rib snap. Mine. Werewolves aren’t invincible, you know. We’re difficult to kill, but it’s not impossible. Basically, anything that annihilates our bodies will do the trick. Being blown to bits or burned to a cinder, for instance. Biting us into small portions always works well. Hunter, God love him (because at the moment, I don’t), has booted me straight into the jaws of hell. Trust me, this wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to engage in one brief tumble with Sam, then break loose, leap the fence, and wreak wolfish havoc among the audience. Scare the fuckin’ shit out of them. In the ensuing chaos, Hunter was going to zap Sam with a miniaturized short-range tranquilizer-ray, developed by EG’s 11

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diabolical tech team—mad scientists, all of them, in my wary opinion—then spirit him away. Now, however, he’ll be lucky if he can gather up enough pieces of me to enable a decent burial. Damn. I was kinda looking forward to the havoc part, too, dangerous though it was. Hunter always researches his targets, so we know this particular “sports club” is comprised of gang leaders and mob bosses, the head honchos of illicit industry. Not just drugs but weapons smuggling, child pornography, slavery… You name it, they’re in it up to their eyeballs. Most of the surrounding crowd is packing heat, as they say in the gangster flicks. But bullets are one of the things that can’t hurt me—much—unless they’re silver. Yes, that myth really is true. But, no, the cartridges don’t need to be inscribed with a cross first. Whose idiot idea was that, anyway? ::Not mine. But men do many foolish things I cannot understand. Many evil things.:: Say what? That wasn’t Hunter. And the message didn’t come through in words, per se, but pure thought-images and projected emotion, the way animals communicate mind-to-mind. I literally feel another’s distress, an empathic blast of pain that wrenches my heart and gut until I want to whimper. So sad, so angry… So hopeless. Sam? I suddenly realize that, in human terms, he’s pulling his punches, biting me hard enough to bruise, maybe, but not draw blood—not nearly as hard as he could. A mock mauling? Why? ::Because it is not your death I want, man-wolf. But the evil 12

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ones who watch us must not be allowed to suspect that, true?:: Hell, even I didn’t suspect it till now. ::No, but you should have.:: True to arrogant form, Hunter’s consciousness elbows its way into the fray. ::I said he’s a smart dog, didn’t I?:: And I never said he wasn’t, but animal intelligence is different from the human variety—more straightforward. What Sam’s doing implies a level of deviousness that’s usually the province of mankind. I likened him to a wrestler before, and like a pro wrestler, indeed, he’s putting on a show. I’m amazed. ::I’m not,:: Hunter declares. Liar. He didn’t see this twist coming any more than I did. But don’t hold your breath waiting for him to admit it. ::I do not intend to,:: Sam says. Dogs are so literal minded. ::But I shall soon stop the breath of the evil ones.:: Shit. In a lightning flash of stormy thoughts I read in his mind what he’s planning. ::Yeah, but he read you first,:: Hunter thunders in my skull. ::He just refused to communicate until he found proof he could trust us.:: Which was? ::Margo and Honey, dimwit. His people. Friends. Sam saw their images in your head.:: Which marked us as friendly, too, of course. I knew that. I was just testing to see if Hunter did. ::Yeah, I’ll bet. The problem is Sam also saw your doom and gloom doubts. Now he believes there’s no hope for him. I told you that you think too damn much.:: Oh sure, blame it on me. None of this cloak-and-dagger plot 13

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was my idea. And I never thought Sam was doomed—provided we could rescue him—just that where he’ll be living afterward is…uncertain. ::Which amounts to the same thing in his black and white reasoning. Animals rarely think in gray tones. Sam’s devoted to Margo and loves her granddaughter as much as Honey loves him. Probe his mind and you’ll discover what’s kept him alive these past weeks.:: Survival instinct? ::No, the blind faith he’d somehow return to the Jansens. Now he thinks that even if we free him, he’ll never see his human family again.:: So he’s decided to chuck it all by taking over my job here tonight. ::Right. And since he pulled the idea from your brain, Dunderballs, you get to convince him otherwise.:: Me? I’m the “dimwit,” remember? You’re the one with the tranquilizer-ray, Baron Blowhard. Just stun him, for godssake. ::I can’t without hitting you, too.:: Sounds good. I could use a little tranquility right now. Go for it, ace. ::Enough. You two make my head hurt,:: Sam complains. ::I must take your place, man-wolf, for you sought only to frighten the wicked ones. That is too little. Fear will not end their evil. They must be destroyed!:: And before either Hunter or I can argue the point, a growling freight load of mastiff-on-a-mission hurtles off me and charges the fence. I’d planned to jump its wooden slats. Sam crashes through it like the Cannonball Express, sending a shower of broken boards and splinters over the tough guys in the ringside seats. None of 14

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whom look very tough as they fall over each other in a mad scramble to escape snapping jaws. Can we spell surprised? How about pandemonium? Jerks. They’ll be more surprised in a second. I refuse to be upstaged by a self-appointed vigilante in fur. I get enough of that from Hunter. Springing upright, I throw back my head and let fly the call of the wild—a loud, bloodcurdling howl. The pandemonium slams to a halt. Even Sam stops to listen. Ta-da! For a gratifying instant all eyes are on me; I’m in the spotlight. My element. Then Sam bites a nearby butt, its owner squawks, and chaos reigns anew. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. Making a spectacle of myself is one of my specialties. I do it better in sequins and high heels, actually, but the howl netted me some attention, at least. “Holy fuckin’ shit!” one of Sam’s beefy handlers screams. “That ain’t no husky. It’s a goddamn wolf!” Bright boy. I’ve been wondering when someone would figure that out. Yelling useless commands—to no one in particular, it seems, and no one heeds him either—the other handler whips out his piece. No, not the dinky one between his legs, the automatic from his shoulder holster. I bare fangs and snarl, and he starts backing toward the pit’s exit. Coward. C’mon, punk, make my day. Bullets sting like the dickens, but don’t slow me. If he shoots, he’ll regret it. There’s nothing like taking a chest full of lead, then 15

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attacking, to scare the piss out of the opposition. Real horror movie stuff. Freaks ’em out every time. “Forget the cheap party tricks. I’ll deal with Beefhead and Bozo here if they want a fight, but I can’t use the T-ray on Sam from this range,” Hunter bellows aloud—sans accent, since everyone is too busy with their own shouting to hear his. Except me, which is ironic because I don’t want to hear him. I know what he’s going to say. “Then hop to it. What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Go after Sam before he gets himself creamed!” Yep, me again. It’s always me who ends up with the tricky jobs. Hunter cooks up these crazy plots, and I get stuck with the dirty dishes. Enough, already. Sam is doing fine on his own. I’ve been watching him out the corner of my eye, and he’s a cagey fighter, hitting one target after another, but too fast for anyone to hit back. It’s the creeps he’s chasing who are in trouble, but I’ll be damned if I’ll rush to rescue any of them. This is what you get when you train an animal to kill. What goes around comes around—and right now Sam is what’s coming around. Looks like he’s enjoying himself, too. I’m not. I hate being a secret agent, and I hate being married to one. Hunter and I are always fighting and facing death, damn it. It’s ruining my nerves. I hate living on the edge, never being able to let my guard down—and I really, really hate being ordered around all the time. “Bullshit. You’re a natural for this work. You love excitement and disguises and playing hero.” Or heroine? I bat my eyes at him and curl wolf lips in a saucy 16

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snarl of a sneer. Yes, I’m in a bitchy mood. “Whatever.” He glowers. “And to top it all off, you’re making a friggin’ mint.” Not that I need the money, being married to a multi-billionaire. “Who runs the company that pays your exorbitant salary,” Hunter grits out through clenched teeth. “I was your employer before we became lovers, remember? Marriage didn’t change that. You knew from the start what you were getting into.” In other words, business is business. “Damn straight. As long as you’re on my payroll, you do what I say. Got it?” No, but he will, once this mission is over. I’ve just decided something, but I can’t think about it or Hunter will read it in my mind and try to manipulate me out of it. He’d probably succeed, too. He usually does in high stress situations like this one, which is why I won’t risk arguing the matter now. As soon as the idea strikes, I shove it to the back of my brain and survey the action outside the pit. Sam’s still doing great, I notice—surprisingly well, more power to him. Me, I’m tired and pissed, aching to climb out of my wolf form and into a long, hot bubble bath. So let’s blow this joint, as the saying goes, finish the job and get the hell out of here. “That’s what I’ve been saying.” Hunter huffs out an exasperated sigh. “But, no, you always have to stop and debate every detail. Your timing, as usual, sucks.” I resist the urge to lift my leg and spray his knees so it’ll run down into his boots and make his socks squish. Instead, I turn my hindquarters toward him and swish my plume of a tail under his nose. Kiss my lily-white ass, pussycat. 17

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“All in good time,” he whispers wickedly. I’ll ignore that. “How about if I scrub it for you, too…inside and out.” He projects a mental image of him in the tub with me. Naked. Wet. Aroused. Radiating raw lust and shrouded in steam. Um…that’s not so easy to ignore, but I manage. The handlers have already fled, by the way, leaving us alone in the pit, an island of tension surrounded by a mad sea. Neither man paused long enough to waste any ammo on me. And no one else appears willing to leap from the mastiff-frying-pan into a wolf-fire. I’d call them chicken, but that would be an insult to poultry the world over. “How about chicken shit?” Hunter offers. Very funny. First sexual taunts, and now jokes. He’s trying to tease me into complacency, make nice-nice in his smug feline way—like a cat who shreds the upholstery of your favorite armchair, then, while you’re sitting in it, jumps on your lap and purrs. But it won’t work. The bird poop suggestion does, though. They just don’t make thugs like they used to. If Mugsy Malone were here, I’ll bet he’d have shot me. Not that it would have done him any good. And flight won’t help Beefy and Bozo either, or anyone else. This illegal arena is set up in the cavernous basement of a deserted warehouse outside of Boston. There are no windows down here and only one exit, which should be magically sealed, if the Tinkerbell team Hunter left stationed outside when we arrived did their job on cue. A metallic reverberation mixes with the shouts. The sound of frantic fists banging on a big iron door. Yep, we’re locked in, and the bad guys have just discovered it. 18

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This was done to keep them contained and at my mercy, as per the original plan. But it works the same way now. Anyone looking to escape is shit outta luck until Baron Bigwig decides they’ve had enough and gives the order to release them. “Of course the door is locked. The pixies always do their jobs without question, unlike some agents I could name. They know which side their bread is buttered on.” Hunter, don’t make me hurt you. It so happens my howl wasn’t just for show. In case he’s forgotten, it was also the prearranged signal to seal the area. I did my job, too. Well, part of it. Sam has taken over the rest—and with more force than I could have used. Responsible werewolves, like me, are hampered in battle by the fact that anyone we bite, who survives it, will himself become a werewolf. There are some people you just don’t want to give that power to. Like this bunch. Though I’d planned to scare them out of their skins—and hopefully out of the business of dog fighting—I really couldn’t have done much more than lunge, snap, and look ferocious. And Sam was right, that’s not enough. He, on the other hand, can inflict genuine pain, a stronger deterrent. “But he’s doomed himself in the process, Sylver. There’s a double standard at work here. An animal fighting another animal can be overlooked, but when he goes on a rampage against humans—however much they deserve it—that’s the end of him. We might be able to protect Sam from being euthanized for his aggression, but…” The words disappear into a black void, but I sense what’s coming. Hunter looks like a man on the way to the gallows, except to him this is worse than a hanging. I can’t resist nudging him toward the scaffold. I even switch from pure thought to telepathic 19

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speech for this momentous occasion, to spare him the effort of probing my brain. He’s under enough strain already. ::But what? We can’t return Sam to his former life? The med center won’t risk it, and Margo will be forced to agree?:: His lips press into a tight line. ::Yes, Hunter?:: Lightning flashes in his amber eyes. ::Come on, pussycat, you can do it.:: In a throaty grumble, he answers aloud, “Yeah. I was wrong before, and you were right. Happy now?” Delighted. It’s moments like this I live for. My tail is wagging a mile a minute. If I were in man form I’d be chuckling. Not only have I just had the rare thrill of hearing Hunter say something he almost never says—especially not to me—but I get the added pleasure of telling him he’s still wrong. So was I, for that matter, but unlike him I have no difficulty admitting my mistakes. “Since when?” ::About a minute ago. When I saw Sam pass up not one, not two, but three golden opportunities to rip out three tempting, juicy jugulars…speaking from a canine perspective, that is. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s getting in some good bites, but nothing fatal. Contrary to killing anyone, he’s going out of his way to avoid it.:: “Which is in direct contrast to what he was thinking when he broke through the fence.” ::True. But thinking something and actually doing it are two very different things.:: As I’ve discovered every time I’ve had a belly full of Hunter’s bullying and planned to quit the Earth Guardians. Um…cough…forget that, because I’m not planning it now. 20

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Nope. Really. I glance at Hunter to see if I’ve just screwed myself, but he shows no sign of noticing. Eyes narrowed, he scans the melee and witnesses the same thing I’ve been watching. A powerful dog who’s been used and abused, and has the means and the motive to commit bloody murder, is refusing chance after chance to do so. Sam’s not a killer, after all. He may be punishing his tormentors, but not executing them. ::Interesting, huh, Hunter?:: Margo said Sam was not only the smartest dog she’d ever worked with, but also the most trustworthy and noble natured. It looks like he still is. He certainly knows how to control himself, even in anger, which is more than can be said for many humans. His captors tried to make him vicious, but failed. Left to his own devices, he just can’t bring himself to slaughter. And I’m through with telepathy for the night. Receiving, maybe, but it’s taking too much energy to transmit. Between the knock I took earlier and the noise, I’ve got a real bitch of a headache. Let Hunter fucking read my mind. He will anyway, whatever I do. “What about the dogs Sam slaughtered in pit fights?” he asks. You see what I mean? I swear, he spends more time in my head than his own. To answer the question, though, we can be pretty sure Sam’s battle trained opponents tried to kill him. If he got them instead, it was only in self-defense. Which is something Hunter and I have been forced to do more than once—another reason why I’m sick of the secret agent show. I don’t like killing any more than Sam does. Yes, in wolf form I’ve hunted prey for food. Growing up poor in west Texas, sometimes all I had to eat was what I 21

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caught. But that’s different. “Not by much. Hunting is hunting, Sylver. It’s what you were born to do, the same as I was. We’re natural predators. You can’t escape it. And I won’t let you quit the Earth Guardians.” Fuck. I’ve been busted. “What else? You didn’t think I’d let an idiot idea like that pass by unnoticed, did you?” Well, hell, I was going to tell him. Eventually. I just wanted time to compose a formal letter of resignation and submit it to EG’s advisory council before the shit hit the fan and Hunter hit the roof. Taking the official red tape route would have proved I meant business and bolstered my argument, not to mention my resolve. “There is no argument. And no resignation. Protecting this world isn’t just a job, it’s a lifetime commitment, a mystical mission. Case closed. Once an Earth Guardian, always an Earth Guardian.” Until retirement. “Which you are way too young for.” What about death? “Not allowed. I need you. If you die on me, I’ll kill you.” Uh-huh. Hunter logic. Don’t bother trying to figure it out. I never do. Still, it’s nice to know he cares. I bare fangs in a wolf grin. Gee, pussycat, we’re not about to have one of our tender moments, are we? “Sylver, don’t press your luck. You’re looking for an asskicking.” Good luck delivering it, ace. What I’m looking for is a loophole in EG’s employment contract—which I probably should have read more carefully before signing. But who wants to slog through twenty pages of tangled, 22

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jungle-dense legalese while wearing a corset and feather boa? You need a pith helmet and machete for something like that. Hmm… I know we’re on a tight schedule. We always are. Sigh. But it’s only been a few short minutes since Sam bolted out of the pit. The talk has progressed swiftly, thanks to the lightning speed of my thought-words. Which are also rapier sharp and dazzle the discerning intellect with brilliance, don’t you think? “No.” Excuse me? I shoot him a glare. I wasn’t talking to you, Hunter. Not everything is about you. Some musings are just for myself. Honestly, the nerve of some people. Where was I? “Finished!” He returns the glare. “I’m ending this asinine discussion—forever—and ending the mission now. We’re immune to bullets, Sam’s not.” So? Who’s firing at him? No one. He’s staying too deep in the crowd for anyone to get a bead on him. “And I don’t want to risk that anyone will. We’ve got to corral him and teleport out of here while he’s still in one piece.” Well, of course. I was just thinking that we haven’t much time, wasn’t I? But I also think Sam has earned the right to avenge himself. He deserves another minute to vent before we— Shit. Hunter leaves me eating his dust. Moving fast for a gray haired baron who arrived here with a fake limp, he vaults over the remains of the fence and hits the deck running. Okay, okay, I’ll continue the “discussion” at home. But it will continue. I leap after him, and together we dive into a mob of besieged men, all scrambling to avoid a one-dog task force. They do look ridiculous. No escape route and nowhere to hide—except behind each other, which isn’t working too well. In situations like this, 23

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tempers flare, so they’re also brawling among themselves. Morons. Hunter clears a path for himself with sledgehammer fists. Me, all I have to do is howl, and the whole bunch, save for Sam, hauls ass out of my way. I can empty a straight bar with equal speed if word leaks out I’m a guy in drag. I bristle my fur and snarl—grrrr—and they all flee to launch a fresh attack on the pixie-sealed portal, pounding on it and one another. But this time the door opens, as my second howl was the signal to unlock it. With whoops of joy, the mob tumbles out into a precarious freedom. The pixies, bless their devious little hearts, aren’t finished yet. Hunter has given them free rein to target and torment these goons for as long as the mischievous sprites desire. And, believe me, an infestation of pixies in your life is worse than a plague of locusts, cockroaches, and fleas combined. Plus, it enables EG to keep a close eye on the riff-raff. No doubt the FBI will be receiving some anonymous tips in the future as to where certain suspected felons can be located, along with proof of their guilt. A grim smile on his face, Hunter skids to a halt in front of Sam, who stands winded but steady, staring up at him with a hopeful gaze. He’s very sexy after a fight—Hunter, I mean—eyes blazing, muscles tensed, all hot and sweaty. And those boots… “Later,” his voice rumbles in my ears in a tone that sets my teeth on edge. “We’re not out of here yet. Keep your scattered brain on business.” Oh, we’re back to that, are we? I got news for him. If all he can do is insult me, ain’t no later gonna happen. Sorry, dear, not tonight, I have a headache. “You have a fucking concussion,” he answers in a growl. No shit. I wonder if he just figured that out. I guessed it the 24

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instant my head hit the concrete, and I’ve been playing mental hopscotch ever since, jumping from one thought to the next in an escalating struggle to stay alert. “Which is what you do all the time, anyway, so how’s a person to recognize the difference?” With the words, Hunter ruffles the fur of my neck and gives me a little pat. The gentle gesture belies his gruff tone. He’s not without sympathy, just the macho type who hates to display it. Besides, we both know shifters are a durable breed. Shaky but sure I’ll survive, I watch him pull a small, shiny rectangle from his pocket and snap it onto his belt. By simply envisioning where we want to go, it’ll take us there. I hope. Gulp. Standing between Sam and me, he lays a hand on each of us and draws us snug against his hips—and no tranquilizer-ray needed. Hah! I love being right, especially in this instance. Wolves aren’t supposed to be able to cry, but a salty mist blurs my vision as I meet Sam’s soulful brown eyes. I’m too woozy to transmit a telepathic message, but I visualize his coming reunion with Honey and Margo, and hope he can read it in my mind. ::Truly? I will go home?:: he responds. I swear I see tears in his eyes, too. ::Yeah, Sam, we’re all going to go home now,:: Hunter says in the thought-image mind-speak of animals. He never cries, but I notice he’s suddenly blinking awfully fast. “Ready to beam out?” he asks me. God, no. I’m never ready for teleportation. I don’t trust sci-fi gizmos, never have, but we use a lot of them in EG. Yet one more reason why I want to— 25

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“No!” Hunter roars at a volume that almost shatters my throbbing skull and makes even Sam wince. “You’re not quitting the Earth Guardians!” Sam flashes him a reproachful look. ::That was not very nice of you, cat-man. You hurt his sore head.:: I’m starting to really like that dog. He heaves a canine sigh. ::But I made it sore. I am sorry, manwolf. I did not know your head would break so easily.:: ::Don’t worry about it, Sam,:: Hunter says right before we teleport out. ::It was cracked to begin with.:: *

*

*

I’ll crack him… No quitting, huh? Once you’re in, there’s no out? Only Hunter and the devil would dream up a contract like that and expect people to abide by it. “Everyone does except you,” he grumbles from behind a veil of spicy steam. “I never hear any of my other agents complain about EG’s service terms.” Like he would listen if they did? Don’t make me laugh. It makes my headache worse. “Want me to kiss it for you and make it better?” he offers. With a flick of my wrist, I send a splash of suds at his lecherous leer. We arrived home from the mission an hour ago, but too late to return Sam to the Jansens. We’ll do that in the morning. In the meantime, I’ve consigned him to the excellent care of Frederick, Hunter’s longsuffering English butler, who’s a dog himself—part of the time. To those in the know, Freddy is what’s called a lunar26

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shifter. He becomes a basset hound during the full moon. In his capable and sympathetic hands, Sam will be fed and groomed, petted and pampered, then bedded down in luxury for the night. Freddy and I both agreed he should have the guest suite reserved for visiting royalty. Nothing but the best for Sam. “And if he ruins the carpet, it’s coming out of your salary.” I roll my eyes. Puh-lease. Sam’s better behaved than most people we host. You should’ve seen what Count Claudio—Poopsie to his friends—did after one butterscotch martini too many. We had to replace the carpet and the drapes. Which I paid for, too, now I think of it. “Because you egged him on!” Ouch. Whatever happened to “quiet as a cat”? Injuries come with me when I turn from one form to the other. Given my special genetic structure, I can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. My wounds heal fast, but that doesn’t make them any less painful. Meaning, I’m human again but still have a sore head. And Hunter’s still in it. He’s also in my bubble bath, but slyly keeping his distance, lounged across from me at the opposite side of our gargantuan sunken tub. “For now,” he whispers, lowering his tone to the husky purr my cock loves—although the rest of me is determined to ignore it. “Right. We’ll see how long that lasts.” He chuckles. I frown. “Looks damn cute on you, too. Anyone ever tell you those pouty lips of yours are just made for kissing?” “All the time.” When you got it, you got it. I’m adorable. “But don’t change the subject.” “I thought sex was the subject.” 27

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He would. Even in man form, Hunter’s all feline, sleek, sensual, and predatory. Utterly full of himself. “Sylver, people who live in glass houses—” “Get lots of sunlight,” I finish for him. So I have a healthy selfimage. Sue me. “I will if you try to break your contract.” Oh, goody, we’re back to the real subject. Mine. “In what court?” I ask with a yawn. Ho-hum, I’m so scared. Earth Guardians operate outside the mainstream legal system. Hell, the mainstream world doesn’t even know we exist. “I’ll create my own,” Hunter says, looking devious— something he’s very good at. Practice does make perfect. “An EG tribunal,” he elaborates. “Like a military court-martial.” Sounds boring as mule shit. “So is your mind tonight. How about if I give you something more interesting to think about?” Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub—a manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar “beach bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast. A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the world white, but we’re warm and toasty in here—too warm, I’m afraid—surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic splendor, lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the promise of fleshy delights. “Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips. 28

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My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.” “Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.” Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume… He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side. Uh-uh… No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal seductive force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing sex—especially Hunter’s brand—isn’t something I’m famous for, but the headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the other ache lower down. Neck deep in hot water—in more ways than one—I scoot my endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left. “Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge.” So do I, but not this kind. Unfortunately for me, it’s been “up” since he invaded my bath, shortly after I’d settled my bruised body—and ego—into the bubbles. “I know. I can sense your arousal.” Which increases his. And with it, his speed. To maintain my distance, I’m forced to match his pace. Advance and retreat, around and around… I don’t know why I thought a bath would relax me. Soon we’ve made two full circuits and begun a third, moving faster and faster but always opposite each other, neither of us gaining or losing ground. Cripes, this is making me dizzy. The chase whips up additional lather. Perfumed froth, lacy white and lush with the earthy aroma of patchouli, sloshes over the marble rim. Glub. I just swallowed some. The stuff smells a lot better than it tastes. Yuck. “Here, try a mouthful of this instead.” Without warning, Hunter stops. I hit my own brakes just in time to avoid slamming into him. For a breathless moment, I 29

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freeze, trapped in a high-beam amber glare. Then, like Poseidon rising out of the sea foam, Hunter stands and looms over me in an upright straddle stance. Real upright. I’m nose to nose with a mesmerizing erection. Um…if cocks had noses, I mean. My eyes cross studying it. How about nose to plum-sized swollen head? A big plum, purple tinted, ripe and juicy, satin smooth and slick with suds. Glistening with the diamond sparkle of water droplets… Smelling of patchouli and male musk… Yes, I’m rambling. Who wouldn’t be with a delicious dick like this staring them in the face? The helpful headache melts away in the heat of the moment—softens and dulls as something else grows harder. It can’t compete with the sharper ache. All I feel is the pressure and burn as my own dick gains painful new proportions. All my awareness now centers on imminent sex. My nostrils flare and I lick my lips, inhaling the heady scent of desire…the scent of Hunter. I’m so in trouble. My breath quickens, and my pulse speeds right along with it. Lord, have mercy… Help me, Herne, the Horned God of animals and shifters. Except Herne is pretty lusty, as most pagan deities are. He’d probably be on Hunter’s side… Hey, what about the Horned Goddess, Hathor? “She’d agree with me, too.” A sinister chuckle underscores the words. “And you’re still rambling.” “Yeah, well, it’s a defense mechanism, okay?” “How’s it working?” Like crap. As if he didn’t know. Hah. While I stare, fixated, an iridescent pearl of pre-cum appears at the end of his shaft. 30

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Suddenly, I’m salivating. I can almost taste Hunter’s succulent flavor, salty and rich, on my tongue. “So why don’t you?” Raising his right knee, he plants an ebony black foot on the marble rim to the left side of my head. Black? I blink. He’s wearing boots? The boots. Uh-oh… “I was wondering when you’d notice,” he purrs. “This is what you get for trying to ignore me when I hopped in our bath.” More like sneaked in. And it’s my bath. I called dibs on the garden first. I also told him not to follow me out here, that I wasn’t in the mood—and won’t be until he cuts me some slack regarding EG. I lied. I’m always in the mood. But I still have my pride, damn it. Specifically, I told him to take a cold shower and a flying fuck at the moon, but no one ever listens to me, do they? So, yeah, I was pissed when he joined me—also dozing, had my eyes closed because of the headache. By the time I opened them, his lower half was obscured by the bubbles. Then I tried to ignore him. “Either way, you’re being punished for it now…slave.” Slave? My back hairs bristle. “Dems fightin’ words, mister.” “Not mister. Master. I’m the sultan, remember? We’re playing a game.” “Not one that I agreed to.” “You don’t have to. Slaves don’t get that option. I will give you one choice, though.” Hunter rests his right forearm on the raised 31

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knee and leans in closer. “You can decide which you want to lick—my balls, or my boots.” How magnanimous. “Since when do sultans wear cavalry boots?” I demand. No mean feat with his cock a scant inch from my mouth. “When they’re gearing up to go for a long, hard ride. Count your blessings I’m not wearing spurs, too.” He smiles. I don’t. In a split second, neither does he. Without thinking about it—pure reflex action, so he has no warning—my hands flash up, my palms connect with his chest, and I shove him backward into the bath. Splash! Wow, look at that. Fluffy white froth sprays in all directions as he lands flat on his sexy ass. For a magical moment it’s snowing inside as well as out. Now I can smile. Except when I do, it displays fangs and probably seems more like a snarl. Considering my mood, either works. When he hit the water, I hit wolf mode. Another reflex action. Self-preservation. As a shifter—or Turner, as my clan calls it—I’m strong even in human form. But so is Hunter, and when we’re men he tops me by several inches and weighs almost fifty pounds more. I had to turn, or he’ll skin me alive. “I will anyway—and use your pelt for a throw rug, you son of a bitch.” What did I tell you? He’s mad all right. And so am I. It’s bad enough when he insults me, but there’s no reason to bring my mother into this. 32

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Grrrr… I snap at him as he dives forward in a valiant but vain attempt to grab my tail. Then I bound out of the bath and shake the soapy water off my fur straight into his handsome, scowling face. Ride that, pussycat. “Arrgh!” Hunter’s growl echoes mine. He’s so feral in the throes of fury. What a stud, huh? Hopefully some soap got in his eyes because I need a few minutes head start. But I don’t wait to see. I snatch up both our towels in my jaws and hide them in the moist mulch under a big gardenia bush. That should buy me another moment or two. Way pleased with myself thus far, I prance out of the courtyard, into the house, and up a wide flight of stairs, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints on the immaculate cream colored carpeting. Guess who’ll be paying to replace it… Several seconds later I’m human again, facing a full-length mirror in Hunter’s and my bedroom, and playing quick-change artist, one of my many theatrical talents. In less than a minute, I pull on black fishnet stockings, a scarlet satin G-string and corset with black lace trim, and five-inch stilettos, which will bring me close to Hunter’s height. There’s not much I can do with my wet hair, so I just slick it back off my face, and pause an instant to study the effect. Hmm, it makes me look kind of severe. Good. A speedy application of eye shadow, mascara, and ruby red lipstick completes the ensemble. Almost. As a finishing touch, I raid Hunter’s closet and confiscate Baron Von Blitzen’s riding crop, then return to the mirror for a 33

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final check. A tall, sultry-eyed dominatrix stares back at me. Wickedly winsome and kinky as hell with a sizable bulge straining her G-string. A dominatrix with a dick. Perfect. And not a moment too soon. Stomp, slosh, stomp… Here comes Puss in soggy boots. They must feel awfully uncomfortable. He really shouldn’t have worn them into the bath. It’s okay, though. He won’t be in them much longer. I’m wearing the boots now…metaphorically speaking. There’s just one last thing I need. My gaze slants to the tranquilizer-ray. Tiny and shiny, disguised as a cigarette lighter, it sits atop Hunter’s dresser, where he placed it when we arrived home tonight. A single step carries me within reach, but I’m hesitant to touch it. Why, I’m not sure. God knows I’ve been forced to use weirder gadgets while working for EG, but I’m always leery of them. As a shape-shifter, magic doesn’t faze me, yet technology does. Blame it on my backwoodsy upbringing. Maybe deep down a part of me is still an innocent, naive country boy. “Innocent as a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Hunter bellows through the bedroom’s closed door. “Baaa,” I bleat as the door bangs open. In the same instant, I snatch up the T-ray, aim, and zap him between the eyes. Damn, that was almost too easy. I guess he thought I wouldn’t shoot—or that he’d be able to stop me before I did. His mistake. I think. I’m wary, but stand firm, watching while he staggers forward. One…two…three paces… Timber! He keels over like a toppled sequoia, and lands face34

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first on our king-sized mattress. Helpless. Naked. At my mercy. Right where I want him. Success. Way cool. And I’m suddenly very hot—sweating, almost drooling. The sight of him kindles a fire in my belly, hungry flames demanding fuel. And we ain’t talkin’ charcoal. Wolf fires need meat. Fortunately, there’s a smorgasbord spread out before me. Long, strong limbs, broad shoulders, a muscular back, and an ass so good it oughta be framed and hanging on the wall. If only I could. But there’s nothing here to tie him to that would put Hunter in an upright position. I’ll have to lash him, spread-eagled, to the bedposts. Not that I’m complaining. Whew, this G-string is getting tighter by the second. And, no, I’m not complaining about that either. I’m pondering the evil possibilities, panting with anticipation. The big question is should I secure my captive with baby blue silk scarves, or pink? Fuchsia, maybe? Fashion accessories are so important, y’know. Okay, yeah, I’m rambling. Again. It’s difficult to think straight with such a juicy array of options to choose from. Such a juicy man… The real question, of course, is should I flip Hunter over before tying him, or leave him facedown? Where do I want to begin the feast? His luscious cock, or his scrumptious ass? Suck him first, or fuck him? I can imagine both acts in torrid, tempting detail. The exquisite taste and texture as his hard length slides, inch by inch, into my mouth—the tightness and burn as I shove my rod deep into him. Decisions, decisions… 35

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“I thought you weren’t in the mood for either,” a husky voice interrupts my plotting. “And you forgot the T-ray was tuned to a canine frequency,” it adds with an incorrigible chuckle. “At its current setting the device won’t work on anything human or feline.” Fuck. Who forgot? EG’s full-sized T-rays don’t have different settings. I didn’t know this new mini model did. But I knew Hunter was faking. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Well, I’d suspected it, at any rate. Then I got distracted by his bodacious bod. I’m so damn aggravated I could spit. But somehow spitting doesn’t seem the sort of thing a dominatrix would do—not a classy one. I stamp my foot instead. Ker-ack! Super. I just broke a stiletto. Now I’m aggravated and lopsided. Hunter’s chuckle rolls into raucous guffaws. My teeth clench. I wasn’t certain about the spitting, but I’m damn sure no dominatrix would tolerate being laughed at. This one won’t. Riding a fresh wave of reflex action, my hand snaps up and the crop slams down. The laughter explodes into a roar. “Ow!” Oh, shit… Horrified, I stare at the ugly red welt marring one hell of a beautiful bottom. I’m mortified. The thing is, Hunter and I are always threatening each other with bodily damage, but we never deliver it. We argue, yes—it’s our contrary natures (also we kinda get off on it)—but beneath the bickering, we’re really very truly and madly in love. Aren’t we? 36

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I sure am. “With the emphasis on mad.” Slowly, with sinister stealth, like a panther about to pounce, Hunter shifts to his side and props up on an elbow. I hold my ground—and my breath—bracing for a blow from a granite fist. God knows I deserve it. I’m ready to receive a retaliatory strike, but not at all prepared for the golden glow in those gorgeous feline eyes. The hot gleam of a tease. Pure devilment without a trace of malice or rage. Pure passion. My heart hitches as a matching devil of a grin curls his lips. “Mad as in crazy, Sylver, not angry. But it’s obviously catching, because I’m crazy in love with you, too. Despite the fact you’re a certifiable fruit loop.” “Tangy and sweet?” Hey, I can live with that. I return the grin. “I don’t know. I’ll have to taste you and find out, won’t I?” Hunter stretches out his free hand and snags me by the G-string. Warm fingers curve over the lace trimmed edge, grazing my cock, tugging, pulling me close to the bed. “Can we screw the games now? I’d rather we spend what’s left of the night just screwing. How about it?” He’s asking me? Frankly, I’m in no position to disagree even if I wanted to—which I don’t. Off balance, teetering on a broken shoe, I stumble and fall full-length on top of him. Sparks fly at the contact. I’m swept into a furnace, the intense scorch of his flesh molded to mine. Somehow in the impetuous second that follows, my G-string snaps—okay, so I ripped it off—my thighs straddle and hug Hunter’s hips, and my lips land on his. ::I’ll take that for a yes,:: he says telepathically—then fists a hand in my hair and proceeds to kiss the stuffing out of me. Yeah, I’m easy. 37

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And greedy for Hunter’s awesome lovemaking, ravenous for the flavor and feel of him—solid and sensual. Hard muscle and hot lust. Fevered skin dusted with downy dark curls in all the right places. Iron and velvet, that’s my man. I’d planned to make him submit to my will, but now I willingly surrender to his. What the hell. The end result is the same. Waving the figurative white flag, I lower my defenses and suck in his tongue, let him plunder my mouth. Mmm…minty. He’s been smoking catnip again. No wonder his pupils are dilated. And here I thought it was the sultry sight of me that put the glow in his eyes. ::You’re the glow in my heart, you idiot. I love your costume, okay?:: He’s so romantic. Thanks, pussycat. I just wanted to make sure he’d noticed. ::How could I miss it? Those fishnets drive me wild.:: Me, too, actually, but the man I wore them for drives me wilder. In frenzied sync we devour each other, chest to chest and groin to groin, two stiffening rods squashed between us. Hands grope and grab, rove everywhere. Hearts hammer. Pulses pound. Tongues duel, and the oral attack deepens. A harmony of growls rumbles out—his and mine blended together—deep and throaty, way sexy. We do have our kinks, Hunter and I. He digs me in drag, and I’m more than happy to oblige in that area. It works for us because we both know, beneath the feminine frills, I’m all male. A fact that sticks out like a sore thumb when Hunter pushes me up and off him onto my ass, then sits opposite me to ogle his handiwork, what a long, skilled kiss has accomplished. “It’s your cock that’s sticking out,” he corrects, looking 38

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lecherous. Yep, but it’s still sore—in the good way. Like a big, beefy storm trooper in a Darth Vader helmet, my swollen dick stands at rigid attention. How I hid it during my torch singer days, performing in female attire, is a trade secret, but those who dared to peek under my skirt got quite a surprise. Really. I have an impressive package. Not as great as Hunter’s (no one’s is), but not bad. “Good enough for me,” he says, and flattens a hand on my chest. A hot thrill sluices through me as I’m pressed backward onto creamy smooth satin. We always use satin sheets, mostly black, Hunter’s signature hue, but this set is purple. Damn. They’ll clash with my scarlet corset. Don’t you just hate it when that happens? “Easily remedied.” Rip! Hunter tears off the garment and sends it sailing across the room. I lose more pretty clothes this way. “You can keep the stockings,” he purrs. “They’re my color, after all.” A feral, feline glint lights his eyes. “What’s in them is mine, too, isn’t it?” God, yes. I love it when he goes possessive, although he doesn’t go there often. Usually I’m the possessive one. Wolf nature. We mate for life, whereas tomcats…well, they’re not famous for monogamy, are they? I will say Hunter’s been doing his damnedest to be the exception to the rule, though. “To stray or not” used to be our favorite topic of discord. He tried to defend the practice—from the cat’s perspective, of course. I tried to leave him because of it. Neither of us succeeded. Now he devotes his full sexual attention to his spouse, and we find other things to fight about. 39

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Like me quitting EG… “No.” The syllable comes out on a groan. The glint in Hunter’s eyes darkens. “We are not going to argue anymore tonight.” “Shit, I wasn’t ‘arguing.’ Just thinking. If you don’t like it, there’s an easy solution. Stay the hell out of my head.” “Impossible. Your thoughts are the mental equivalent of quicksand. Once I fall in, I’m stuck.” He flashes me an evil grin. “The only remedy is to fuck you into a blind stupor.” “Promises, promises—” “Arrgh!” With a savage growl, Hunter grips me behind the knees and shoves them up to meet my shoulders, pinning me in a very vulnerable and exposed position, putting my big erection and sweet little ass at his mercy—and he has none. Utterly ruthless, locking me down with one arm braced across my legs and chest, he reaches to the side and grabs a gag gift, from Count Poopsie, off the nightstand. A fluorescent yellow glow-inthe-dark dildo. We’ve been using it as a flashlight. ::But I have a better use for it now,:: Hunter warns, while sucking the thing like a banana freeze-pop. When it’s slick with saliva, he deftly screws it into my rear. Yikes, it’s almost as cold as a freeze-pop, too. ::Don’t worry, I’m not. That’s just to hold my place for me until I’m ready for it.:: Hot and hungry, he descends on my dick, nibbling his way down its length…laving my balls with raspy licks…teasing me with tiny bites…then closing lips around my shaft and swallowing me whole. I writhe beneath him, but I can’t escape. And, really, who wants to? He sucks me into a spinning vortex of molten heat, liquid fire. An undulating inferno… 40

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The center of a volcano. The center of hell. And it feels heavenly. Flames lick me with Hunter’s tongue—demonic, divine. He’s blowing me and blowing my mind. Psychedelic colors burst in my brain, a kaleidoscopic whirl of smoldering reds and fiery orange. Purple smoke billows around me… No, wait, that’s the sheets. Still, they oughta be smoking. I am. Hunter sets me ablaze. I’m gasping for breath, drowning in a scalding sea of sensation, quivering, about to erupt— ::Sylver! Stop thinking and just come for godssake.:: Finally. Something we can agree on. His wish is my command. Or, rather, his command happens to be my wish. The mere mention of the act triggers it, and—bam—I shoot a load of hot lava down his throat, then melt into the mattress. Through a steamy haze, I watch him lick his lips, savoring the last drops. “Mmm,” he murmurs, sounding incorrigibly pleased with himself, “cats do love cream.” So do wolves—at least this one does—but I haven’t the strength or chance right now to suck Hunter. While I lay panting and spent, drained, he removes the dildo and replaces it with the real deal—grabs me behind the knees again, raises and spreads my legs, and rams his cock in up to my tonsils. Then he pulls out and rams in again…and again…stretching my tight hole, straining me, nailing me to the bed with wicked Steele strokes, bestial friction and force. He’s an animal. Luckily, so am I. My wolf soul worships this unbridled physical communion, and my Turner body is built to take it. My body wants it, wallows in it, needs it for nourishment, even as my heart needs Hunter in order to keep on beating. I’m tousled and 41

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sweaty, trapped under his weight… And, yep, he’s still wearing the boots. God, I love the rough stuff. “Uhh…” A guttural grunt escapes me. It means wow. Only better. He’s a lot larger than the rubber banana, and far more effective. I knew that, of course, but it never ceases to amaze me how great he feels—how great he fucks. Potent, powerful, perfect. He almost crackles with energy—so much sizzle, he recharges my batteries in seconds. You might think we were hotwired together, and in a way, we are. Electricity surges between us. Fresh heat floods my veins; heated blood swells my dick. It’s wonderful how that works, isn’t it? I’m reloaded and ready for action again. “You’re also thinking again,” Hunter says on a hoarse breath. “Which means I haven’t fucked you nearly enough.” I hate to tell him, but that’s actually an inducement for me to keep thinking, if you catch my drift. “Catch this,” he growls. Digging a hand between us, he fists my new hard-on in a warm, firm grip, then starts pumping it in counterpoint rhythm to the pounding he’s giving my ass. He’s so clever at multitasking. And I’ve caught it, all right—fore and aft, coming and going— kind of like catching fire. Every nerve ending ignites. Now I know how a bag of popcorn in a microwave oven feels as the kernels cook from the inside out, expand and explode. Hunter’s dual action blisters my brain and nukes the rest of me. “That’s the idea,” he whispers. Smug bastard. I got an idea for him, too. But I don’t think about it, which should make him happy. I just do it. A hard, fast contraction of inner muscles that stops Hunter in his tracks and 42

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squeezes his cock in a hot satin vise. Sweet agony and ecstasy combined. I know exactly what it feels like to him, because I’ve ploughed his back acres as often as he’s ploughed mine. What I forgot is that every action has an equal reaction. As my ass squeezes him, Hunter’s fist squeezes me. Result: The eruption of Mount Saint Helens in stereo. We both climax. Instantly. Explosively. Gloriously. Then sink into the purple smoke…um, sheets. Hunter rolls off me and collapses onto his back, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Neither of us speak, neither of us move. We don’t need to. We’re both sated and content with each other. Yeah, it does happen occasionally. After a minute, Hunter pushes up to a sitting position and collects his pipe and a pouch of pure, organically grown catnip from off the nightstand. Through drowsy eyes, I watch him fill the bowl of the meerschaum and light it…wait while he takes a few puffs. He looks gorgeous with his black hair rumpled, his tanned skin still moist and flushed from our lovemaking. His muscles ripple like molten brass. A soft, almost gentle light shines in his usually sharp amber eyes. It’s moments like this that I love him the most. He looks so at peace, so relaxed… I think now would be a great time to discuss my leaving the Earth Guard— “No.” With the word, Hunter slams down his pipe so hard it cracks. “No. No. Never!” He fires a laser beam glare at me. “You are not resigning. You are not retiring. No quitting. Period. You are going to stay in EG, and that’s that! Got it?” 43

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Nope. But I think I’m about to get it. Again. I see more than rekindled rage in that golden glare. Rekindled lust burns in his eyes, also, and burns brighter than the anger. The fact is, where I’m concerned, it’s difficult for Hunter to separate the two. Maybe that’s why I often deliberately piss him off. Because it makes him horny. Of course, he goes out of his way to annoy me, too. And I can get as turned on by it as he does. I sometimes suspect we love to argue almost as much as we love each other. Fighting and fucking just seem to be a natural match for us. Go figure. I lounge on my back and raise first my right leg then the left into the air to peel off my black fishnets and toss them aside. The gesture signals a challenge from me to Hunter. Man to man. The gloves are off, so to speak, along with all the girly garb and the theatrics that go with it. Being a drag queen, for me, is a performance art as much as anything—and one I’m damn good at. But just because I dress like a woman doesn’t mean I want to be one. Especially not now. From the corner of my eye I watch Hunter’s gaze grow hotter and hotter. A wicked thrill prickles up and down my spine as he begins inching my way—a cat stalking its prey. But, hey, the prey is a predator, too. Desire coils in my core, like a cobra ready to strike. The job subject isn’t closed so far as I’m concerned. It’s not that I hate EG or the work we do, protecting the environment and helping animals and people in need. I suppose I could still lend a hand now and then…in an unofficial capacity. I just don’t want to be my spouse’s employee. The two positions simply don’t mix. I’m sure there’s a loophole somewhere in that contract. Tomorrow, after we return Sam, I’ll find it. I’ll put on some jungle music, 44

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something with a driving drumbeat, grab a bottle of mosquito repellent, and safari through the damn thing page by page until— “Oh, no you’re not.” Pure sin in his eyes, Hunter leans over me, his breath warm and minty on my face. “I’m going to fuck that idea right out of your stubborn head.” “Y’think?” I beam him a wolfish grin. Frankly, he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. But it’s going to be a ton of fun letting him try.

45

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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Don’t miss Your Cheatin’ Heart by Mimi Riser, available at AmberAllure.com!

For Sylver Starr, it’s not easy being a cross-dressing werewolf, a secret agent for Earth Guardians, Inc., and also being married to one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire who just happens to be a cat-shifter. Yep, canine and feline, a match made in heaven. Not! The problem is, wolves mate for life, and we all know about tomcats when it comes to fidelity, right? Add to Sylver’s trouble a homophobic deputy sheriff and an alien invasion of Crocodoids from the satellite galaxy Draco Dwarf, and… Well, let’s just say Sylver Starr, werewolf and secret agent extraordinaire, is about to have a very interesting night.

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