Hotter After Midnight (33 page)

“It was for you. Just you.” He pressed a kiss to her neck, to the faint bruise on her skin. The mark not made by Jake’s claws, but by Colin’s mouth.

“But why don’t—”

“I don’t want to take this time. I just wanted to give.”

And he’d sure as hell done that. Given her so much pleasure that her body still tingled. Emily rolled to face him. Found his expression tense, guarded. “I’m not sure I understand you, shifter.” Just when she thought she’d figured him out, he managed to surprise her.

“You don’t have to understand me.” A pause. “But…” He stopped, jaw tightening.

Emily pushed out of his arms, sat up, uncaring of her nudity and the bandages that covered her stomach. “What?” Something was happening here. Something important. She could feel his tension. His…fear?

Why would Colin be afraid? Donnelley was dead. No more homicidal monsters were wandering the streets. The city was safe…for the moment. “What is it?”

“Do you think…you could ever love me?” Stark words. And she saw the fear then. In his eyes, in the unguarded expression on his face.

She touched his cheek. Smoothed her fingers down the side of his face.

Not a human. Not the simple, easygoing partner she would have chosen.

He carried a beast with him. A creature of enormous power.

Man and beast. Strength and danger.

Do you think…you could ever love me?

Being moments from death had made her realize a damn important fact. Her hand lifted, stroked his cheek. “I already do, Colin. I already do.” She kissed him, brushing her lips lightly across his. His hands curled around her and he pulled her close, holding her right against his pounding heart.

Just where she wanted to be.

Safe…with her monster.

“J
ake Donnelley, the perpetrator known as the Night Butcher, was killed last night when the woman he’d kidnapped, Chief Medical Examiner Natalhia Smith, shot him in the throat.”

A chorus of questions erupted at this news.

But McNeal just kept talking. “Evidence links Jake Donnelley to the murders of Gillian Nemont, Preston Myers, and Darla Mitchell. We also have reason to suspect that he was behind the recent killing of four John Does…”

The watch on Emily’s arm vibrated. Glancing down, she saw that it was nearly time for her to meet up with her last appointment of the day. Marvin was scheduled to come in, and she was eager to see how the vampire fared.

She’d snuck away from the office to catch the news conference. She’d been curious about how McNeal would spin Jake’s death.

Shot in the throat. Nice touch.

Colin stood just behind McNeal. Brooks was at his side. Both were looking straight ahead, their attention on the crowd.

Time to go.

Emily stepped back, turned—

And nearly walked into Smith.

The ME looked tired. Her eyes were bloodshot. Scratches covered her face and arms. But her chin was lifted high, and there was a determined expression on her face.

“How many of them…” she muttered, her attention on the crowd of reporters, “are even human?”

Emily glanced back at the group. “At least two-thirds.”
Once you know the truth, you can never stop suspecting
.

Smith sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. “You see them, don’t you?”

It would be too hard to explain how she could really recognize them all, so she just nodded.

“Do…they scare you?”

Niol’s image flashed through her mind. “Some of them do.” She met Smith’s stare. “But then, some humans scare the hell out of me too.”

The ME nodded, understanding. “It’s just…what am I supposed to do now? Now that I—”

Know.

“Keep doing exactly what you’ve been doing.” Only now, maybe McNeal wouldn’t have to come up with so many stories to explain certain anomalies Smith found with the bodies. “Everything is just like it was before, you know.”

Smith’s dark gaze swept over the crowd. “No, it isn’t.”

“The monsters were there before, you just didn’t see them.” But now she would—she’d notice every difference. Always wonder.

The blinders were off for Smith.

But still on for the rest of the world.

One day they’d all realize. They’d wake up, and they’d all finally understand.

Monsters weren’t just stories to frighten small children. Weren’t just myths to whisper in the dark.

They were real.

And they were everywhere.

Emily reached into her purse, pulled out a small, white business card. She offered it to Smith. “If you ever want to talk about what happened, call me.” Being nearly murdered by a creature straight out of a nightmare wouldn’t be an easy thing to deal with, and if she could help Smith, she would. Even if the ME wasn’t her usual type of client.

Smith’s fingers curled around the card. “Thanks.” She swallowed, then stepped away.

Emily watched her slow stride across the room. Smith had a long road to go, but the woman was a survivor. She’d make it.

And she’d learn to live with the monsters around her.

Emily’s attention turned back to the swarm of reporters. The humans were leaning forward, a sort of greedy interest on their faces, but the
Other
, they hung back, as if realizing there were more details to this particular case that were best left uncovered.

Yes, one day the humans would turn around and realize they were surrounded by the
Other.

But today, well, today wasn’t going to be that day of dawning realization.
Not today
…

Her wrist alarm vibrated again.

Time to get back to work. She needed to chat with her vampire. See how his blood diet was going.

And after that…she turned her head slightly, met Colin’s bright stare. Saw the hunger in his eyes.

After meeting the vampire, she had a date with a wolf.

Another busy night for the Monster Doctor.

Meet the BADDEST BAD BOYS in

three wickedly irresistible stories from

Shannon McKenna, E.C. Sheedy, and Cate Noble.

Available now from Brava.

Here’s an excerpt from Shannon’s story,

“Anytime, Anywhere.”

H
e forced his leaden body into action. Shoved open the truck door, grabbed his grip and the bag of groceries. He made his way with heavy feet up the switchback path to the hillside cabin—and froze.

Footsteps around the corner of the cabin. Someone was passing through the foliage. The
shush-shush
of jeans legs rubbing each other. The
swish-slap
of bushes. He heard every sound like it was miked.

He let the duffel, the groceries drop. His gun materialized in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it, or flattening his back to the weather-beaten shingles, creeping towards the corner…waiting—

Grab, twist, and he had the fucker bent over in a hammerlock, wrist torqued at an agonizing angle, gun to the nape. It squawked.

Female. Long hair, swishing and tickling over his bare arm. A delicate wrist that felt like it might break in his grip. What the
hell
…?

“Jon! Stop this! Let go! It’s me!”

Huh? The chick knew him? His body had ascertained that she was no physical threat, so he shoved her away to take a better look.

His jaw dropped when she straightened up, rubbing her twisted wrist. He tried to drag in oxygen, but his lungs were locked. Holy shit. No way had he met this girl before. He would have remembered.
Wow.

Long hair swung to her waist. Big dark eyes, exotically tilted, flashing with anger. High cheekbones, perfect skin, pointy chin. That full pink mouth, glossed up with lip goo, calculated to make a guy think of one thing only, and suffer the immediate physiological consequences.

And her body, Jesus. Feline grace; long legs, slim waist, round hips. High, suckable, braless tits, the nipples of which poked through a thin cotton blouse. Low-rise jeans that clung desperately to the undercurve of that perfect ass. Who the hell…? This was private property, in the middle of nowhere. His dick twitched, swelled.

She did not look armed. He slipped the Glock back into the shoulder holster. “You scared me,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

Her eyes widened in outrage. “What do you mean, who the hell am I? It’s me! Robin!”

Robin?
His brain spun its wheels to reconcile the irreconcilable.

Danny’s baby sister? He’d practically pissed himself laughing the night she’d juggled flaming torches in Danny’s kitchen, although Danny hadn’t been amused when the rib-eye he’d grilled got unexpectedly flambéd. The steak had tasted faintly of petroleum fuel, but what the hell. She hadn’t burned down the building.

Robin
…? Robin of the dorky glasses, the mouthful of metal? Robin who was as cute and funny as a bouncing Labrador puppy?

The irreconcilable images slammed together, like a truck hitting his mind. Those big brown eyes, magnified behind Coke bottle lenses.

It
was
Robin. Holy shit. In his mind he’d already been nailing this girl, right and left and center. Danny would kill him if he knew Jon had entertained pornographic thoughts about his baby sister. “Ah, sorry,” he muttered lamely. “I didn’t recognize you. You look…

different than I remembered. Do your brothers know you’re out dressed like that?”

Her back straightened, and her eyes narrowed to gleaming brown slits. “Mac and Danny have nothing to say about my wardrobe.”

“Maybe they should.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of her taut brown nipples, all too evident in the chill, and averted his eyes.

“Why should they?” Her slender arms folded over her chest, propping the tits up higher for his tormented perusal. “I’m twenty-five, Jon. That’s a two, and then a five.”

He blinked at her. “No shit.”

“Absolutely, shit. Want to see my driver’s license? I wear what I please. I answer to no one.”

This was surreal. He dragged his eyes away from her gleaming pink lips, and pulled himself together. “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but what the fuck does your age have to do with anything? And what are you doing up here, anyhow?”

The gleaming lips pursed. “I could ask you the same question.”

“You could,” he conceded. “But it would be none of your goddamn business. Your brother gave me the keys. I’m crashing up here for a couple of weeks to do some fishing and stare at the wall with my mouth hanging open. And now, your turn. What did you come up here for?”

Her gaze fell. She started to speak. Pressed her hand to her belly.

“Um…you,” she said.

You’ve got to try

THE ONE I WANT

by Nancy Warren,

new this month from Brava…

M
atthew wandered past his front door, yawning, fantasizing about the first strong, black cup of coffee of the day when he noticed a fat envelope on the mat inside his front door.

He stood there for a moment regarding it, eyes unconsciously narrowing. It wasn’t part of the regular mail delivery. He’d locked up just after midnight and the envelope hadn’t been there then. He glanced at his watch and wondered who had dropped off a fat piece of mail in the last seven hours and whether he should be alarmed.

As usual, curiosity was stronger than caution. He picked up the envelope.
Chloe
was handwritten on the front. The envelope was soft, the flap tucked in but not sealed. A man with strong moral fiber and a healthy conscience would walk right next door and push the envelope through the correct mail slot.

He pulled out the tucked flap and peeked inside, where he found a wad of cash. And a note.

“Chloe, thanks so much. Didn’t want this on my credit card for obvious reasons. Everything
worked out great. I’d use you again. Allan.”

He counted the money. Stood there chewing his upper lip with an unpleasant feeling that both he and his London acquaintance Gerald had been snowed. Then he shoved the money back and walked outside into the cool of the morning. Lights were on in a few of his neighbors’ windows and Horace Black across the street and two down, was backing his new truck down the driveway.

Up and down the street signs of life, but in his new neighbor’s house nothing. She’d been here for two weeks and while she seemed like a good tenant, she came and went at strange hours. He had a bad feeling he now knew why.

He strode next door and knocked on her front door, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary.

He’d been conned and he didn’t like being conned.

Probably he should go back to his house and drink some coffee, give himself a chance to cool down and little miss ‘I’ll use your services again,’ time to wake up. But he didn’t feel like doing the sensible thing.

He gave it a minute, then banged again, holding the bell with his finger at the same time.

After an age and a half, the front door opened. Chloe Flynt stood there, her black hair soft and tousled in the sexiest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the most amazing purple-blue, and they gazed at him in the vaguely unfocussed way of someone who’s not totally awake yet. He had no idea what—if anything—she was wearing since everything from the neck down was behind the door.

“You should have asked who it was before opening the door,” he snarled.

“I looked out the bedroom window,” she said on a yawn. “I could see you.” Almost as though his sharp advice to be cautious had the opposite effect, she straightened and opened the door fully.

He’d checked her out, the way a single man in his prime always checks women out. He’d sensed a very nice body was packaged in the trendy clothes she wore. But he’d had no idea.

She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was exquisite. She wore teeny-tiny girl boxer shorts with the Union Jack stamped all over them and a little white T-shirt with
Rule Britannia
printed across the chest. Her legs were shapely, her breasts small and perfect. Even the tiny strip of skin between the end of her shirt and the beginning of the shorts fascinated him. So white, so smooth.

His gaze returned to her eyes and he found them fully awake now and regarding him with a certain amused speculation. Damn it, she’d knocked him on his ass and she knew it.