Wolf Undaunted. Shannon Curtis
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years, and disappointment came with the role. “I’ll see if I’m free.” She quickly pressed a few buttons on her phone, and scanned her calendar. Sure enough, she had a meeting scheduled.
“Push it to eight and I can make it.”
His lips pressed together. “I’m fairly busy—”
“So am I, Dad,” she interrupted. It was the family business she was working at, after all. Besides, she’d learned that if you didn’t push back a little with her father, he could be a steamroller, crushing everything in his path.
He sighed noisily, clearly communicating his disappointment, before finally nodding—once. “Fine. Eight.”
“Can you give me any idea what this is about?” She could try to guess, but she’d learned she could never figure out how her father thought.
“A campaign,” her father stated shortly. “I’ll see you then.”
The phone screen went black. Vivianne’s shoulders sagged. “Good talk, Dad. Yeah, love you, too.” She stared at the blank screen for a moment. Just once, she wondered what it would be like to have a genuine conversation that didn’t revolve around business, or what he wanted her to do for him, or what he expected her to do for family.
But that kind of wondering led to wishes, and wishes were a waste of time. She was a centuries-old working woman. She wasn’t some simpering little girl with pointless dreams. She grabbed up the remote to her stereo and switched it on. Rock and roll music from the 1950’s era, before The Troubles. She shimmied her shoulders to the beat, singing out “tequila!” She never got tired of this music, and used it to unwind from the stresses of the day—like talking to her dad.
She rose from her dressing table and danced barefoot across the charcoal-colored plush carpet to the wardrobe. She had about twenty minutes before Mike was due to pick her up. She was so surprised and yes, flattered, that he’d invited her out. She’d seen that glint of desire in his eyes, the attraction...she wasn’t a novice when it came to men. It was just rare that guys acted on that attraction. She was the head of the Nightwing colony, she also ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And she knew she wasn’t the easiest woman to get to know. All that was enough to intimidate most men. But apparently not Mike Falcone. She started to do the twist, swinging her hips with her hands swaying. God, she remembered dancing to this music in the dance halls. But then, she remembered dancing the Charleston, too.
Vivianne flicked through the hangars, head bopping along as Chuck Berry told Beethoven to roll over. Her lips quirked. She’d met Ludwig, once. Weird little guy. She pulled two dresses out: one red, one black. She held the red one up to her body, turning a little. It was a figure-hugging dress with a deep V neckline. Sexy and feminine. She hung it on the hook near the mirror, and held up the black dress. This one was also slim-fitting, but with a bateau neckline. Demure and feminine.
“Go with the black—you don’t want to look desperate.”
She whirled, glancing wildly about her room. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The music blared across the room. Her breath hitched as she strode over to the crimson curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse apartment that looked out over the city of Irondell, and she twitched the fabric, checking to see if someone was hiding behind it.
Nobody was. She strode over to the dressing table, and switched the music off, listening intently. Nothing.
She dropped to her knees and peered under the king-size bed. Nobody there, either. She covered her face, rocking on her knees for a moment. “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” she whispered to herself, until she could calm her racing heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. Get dressed. Go out. Pretend everything is just hunky-dory.
She rose to her feet, and padded over to the mirror where she’d dropped the dress. Black, huh? She reached for the red dress, in an open act of rebellion, and untied the silken belt around her waist. The silk robe parted, and she slipped it off her shoulders, revealing her black, lacy, unlined uplift bra and matching lacy panties.
She heard a low whistle. “Better yet, don’t wear a dress at all.”
Her wide-eyed gaze lifted to the mirror. In its reflection she saw the figure of a man behind her. He was tall—huge, really—and broad-shouldered, his muscled arms and chest revealed by a white singlet. He wore khakis that flattered the long, muscled length of his legs, and his brown hair was scruffy, matching the stubble on his face. A weird light glowed through the dark tendrils of fog or smoke gently swirling around him.
Vivianne screamed.
* * *
Zane winced at the ear-piercing shriek. God, that woman could break glass, if she put in just a little more effort.
She backed away from him, her head slowly shaking in denial, and then it hit him.
“You can see me,” he breathed.
“Get out!” she screamed again, then raced to her dressing table. “Get out, you pervert.” She picked up a container of moisturizer, turned, and hurled it to him. He ducked.
“Hey, if I could get out of here, princess, I would,” he snarled back at her.
“Get. Out. Of my. House!” She picked up another bottle, then another, and threw them in quick succession at him. He dodged the first, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to get out of the way of the second missile. He froze as it sailed through his chest and smashed against the wall behind him. Er. Yeesh. That felt weird. Like fuzzy electrical shocks.
Vivianne’s eyes grew even rounder, if that was possible, and she picked up the vase off the end of the table and hurled it. He shifted, but it still caught him in the shoulder. Or rather, through it. More fuzzy tingling, like he’d cut off the circulation, and the numbness was about to wear off, right before the pins and needles.
She stalked up to him, her eyes glowing red like cigarettes, incisors lengthening, dark hair streaming behind her, silken robe flapping around her, and that curvaceous body quivering with rage. She fisted her hand and punched him—right through the face. He felt a nice little frisson, but that was about it.
He arched his eyebrow. “I can keep this up for hours. You?” He looked around the room. “There’s a crystal lampshade over there that looks handy.”
This time both of her hands clenched into fists. Her chest rose and fell in furious pants, and for a moment he just followed the movement: in, out, in...he blinked. She was...magnificent. He frowned. And she was not happy.
“Who—or what—the hell are you?” she rasped, her eyes bright with anger.
“You don’t—you don’t know me?” His jaw dropped, and then he raised both hands in exasperation. “Oh, come on. That is so unfair.” He’d been stuck as this vamp’s sidekick for—hell, he didn’t even know how long, but it felt like an eternity. She had become his guide, his anchor... Everything he saw was around her, bound to her.
And she had no idea who he was. Well, that sucked. He pursed his lips. His ego would recover, but he’d need a minute.
Her hand shot out to grasp his throat and passed through him. His lips quirked. So far the only good thing about this was watching her try to hit him and fail. Again, and again. He liked sharing the frustration. He folded his arms, waiting patiently as she tried to move, shove, punch, kick, bite...in scraps of lace that barely covered her.
“This reminds me of a movie I once saw, but I think there was jelly involved.”
She halted, glaring at him through a curtain of dark curls. He waggled his eyebrows and mouthed the word jelly.
“What the hell is going on here?” she snarled as she pulled her robe tight around her, concealing her golden-skinned curves framed in black