Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (51 page)

A
s night began
to set in, streetlights sprang to life, illuminating the Paris avenues. Cobblestones glimmered in the twilight, reflecting the lamps and the movement of pedestrians, cars and bicycles. The dark slate rooftops glowed under the moon, lights coming on in their gabled eaves as people returned from work and lovers crawled under the covers and on top of each other.

But down below, a woman slipped quietly along the street, gripping a small package tightly in her fist. Her destination was close now. Grey stone buildings displayed a series of shallow wrought iron balconies on one side of her, vespas and cars whizzing by on the other, getting out of the neighbourhood as quickly as they’d come into it. Very few wanted to linger here.

But to her, nothing in the world mattered other than the small object in her hand, concealed as it was within layers of a white cotton handkerchief. She eased her fingers between the folds of the fabric, along its smooth contours, not for a moment regretting the trouble that it had caused her. Oblivious to the mayhem that it had yet to create.

For now she knew this: she was free of those who had briefly pursued her in London, free of her tyrannical father, free of the constraints of a life that had been forced on her by fate, free of the expectations laid arbitrarily on the daughter of an important man. The fact that the word “important” was a synonym for “very wealthy” had always pissed Estée off. Being rich had never made him a great father, or an especially kind person. It had only meant that he was too busy to exhibit human emotion, that his priorities were skewed, and that ever since her mother’s death over a decade earlier, he’d had no time for her or for her sister.

But no matter; he was out of her life now. And the only thing that brought her down, other than the temporary lack of a place to live, was that she couldn’t tell her sister Cecile where she was. To do so would be suicide, figuratively as well as literally.

When she shrugged off the brief moments of sadness, she managed to march along happily enough, money belt strapped securely under her leather pants and loose grey shirt.

After several days spent making inquiries in town, Estée had discovered a series of establishments in the seedy, and secret, underbelly of Paris. If you wanted something done under the table for a price, this was the place to come. And as she turned to her right and wandered along the cobbled lane away from traffic, she began to understand why.

Scruffy, disreputable-looking men stood in the street, underhandedly exchanging money and objects which might have been drugs, guns, or any number of other illicit items. Each of the shady dealers had eyes that shifted up and down the street, sizing up potential threats. And when they weren’t conducting their questionable business transactions, each man in turn ogled her like she was something they’d like to lay on the floor and violate.

Occasionally she’d hear French words thrown her way, which might have sounded sexy and elegant in any other neighbourhood, but which seemed dirty and foul here. For the first time, Estée regretted having studied the language in school.

You would look so fucking good, bouncing up and down on my cock.

How much for twenty minutes with your mouth? I’ll give you double if you swallow.

Your pants must be made of mirrors, because I can see myself in them.
That one, apparently, was universal.

She pulled her dark hair back , tying it into a tight ponytail in an attempt to render herself less feminine, more stern-looking, but nothing could conceal that Estée was a beautiful woman: round hips, large breasts, light green eyes that, like her sister’s, were shaped like slightly-tilted almonds, bright and penetrating. Her skin was ivory and smooth, unmarred by age. A woman like her should not have been wandering such streets alone.

But then of course, she
wasn’t
alone.

Inside her, ready to emerge at a moment’s notice, was a creature who could have torn the face off any man who got too close; who could bite off a finger or three without a second thought, let alone what she could have done to anything between their legs that they might try and force near her mouth. They should have known better than to fuck with her, but then, most of them knew nothing of her kind. If they had, they would have kept their disgusting mouths shut.

And so she ignored the vile come-ons, embracing the knowledge that even if every single man on the street jumped her at once, they would find themselves in a bloody heap at the end of it all, taken by surprise by a sleek white tiger.

After only a few minutes she came to the bar that had been recommended to her, the drug dealer she’d cornered in a nearby alley telling her that it would contain the sort of man she sought: one who could be bought, whose silence would be guaranteed for life.

Its door sat beneath the street’s surface, down several once elegant marble steps. Lit only by a small neon sign that simply said, “Boire,” or “To Drink.” There was nothing fancy in the name; no pretence.
Welcome. Just come in and get shit-faced with the city’s vermin,
it seemed to say. Perfect. There would be nary a reputable soul in such a joint. And she would fit right in.

The pulse of loud music throbbed through the floor, working its way through her body as she stepped forwards, scanning the place for the most suitable candidate: someone who really looked as though he belonged in this trash repository. It didn’t take long for her eyes to settle on a man sitting in a far-off corner, scoping the room for people such as herself who’d come in looking to spend their dirty money. Desperate fools who would sell their souls for a chance at escape, whether via drugs or other means.

He seemed to anticipate her arrival as his back straightened, eyes fixed on her while she walked towards him. When she stopped in front of him he gestured to a chair opposite his.

“Sit,” he said, the word coming out as something more like “Seet.” Estée obliged.

“How did you know to speak English to me?” she asked, genuinely curious as to what made her look less than French.

“I could all but smell the American on you,” he replied. “Your style is entirely different from the French. Besides, if you were one of us you would look pissed off rather than afraid. French women have learned to look displeased at all times.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Oh, ma belle, of course you are. But that’s all right. You should be. Only the desperate come to such places as this, and your every instinct should tell you to get out as quickly as possible. There can be no good reason for a woman like you to show her face in a place like this.”

Estée wasn’t overly keen on his crafty attempts at mind-reading, or whatever game it was that he was playing. But mostly she was annoyed that he was right; she
was
desperate. As for fear, the guy clearly had no understanding of what a shifter was. And all the better.

“I want a new identity,” she said, getting quickly to the point as she handed him a passport photograph, extracted from a largely empty wallet. “I want to disappear, and the sooner the better.”

“Passport, bank accounts,” he said. “Easy. Two-thousand euros, cash.”

“Two thousand? But I don’t have that kind of money.”

The man leaned in, his stubble-coated face taut with amusement. “Yes you do,
ma petite.
In fact, I would wager that you have far more that that, tucked under your clothing. Don’t waste my time with lies.”

“Fine,” she said. “Two thousand. When will you have them?”

“Give me the night to work. Meet me back here at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Fine,” she said, rising as quickly as she’d sat. “I’ll be here.”

“And watch your back,” said the man as she turned away. “It’s a very nice one; I would hate to see anything happen to it that didn’t involve my naked body and olive oil.”

“Fucking horny Frenchmen,” she muttered as she made her way to the door.

The man hadn’t asked for a name for the passport. But he was a pro; only a professional could be such a sleaze. Or else he was a con artist, or, worse still, a cop. But even cops could be bought. And con artists could be hunted down and tortured. Tiger claws served a great many uses.

Estée had exactly one hundred thousand euros on her person; an old savings account emptied before she’d disappeared. It had until recently been one of her father’s secondary accounts, in which he’d shoved money over the years for trips that he’d never taken.

He hadn’t known that she had found a way to access it with the help of a hacker friend back in the States, or even that she’d known about its existence. Of course, that ice cold excuse for a parent didn’t know a damn thing about her; he hadn’t given a crap about her sister or her in years. He probably wouldn’t even notice that the money was gone, the self-centered prick.

In her careful, somewhat paranoid state, Estée had changed hotels nightly: one thing that Paris didn’t lack was an abundance of places to stay. And on this night, a run-down hotel down the road gladly accepted a small portion of her cash for a one-night stay, the man behind its desk handing her a key while eyeing her suspiciously. What was a pretty young American woman doing, staying in a place like this?

But he let her go without any questions, and without any salacious come-ons, for once.

She’d start her new life the following day, beginning with an apartment or at least a nicer hotel; something with a safe and better security. The package which she carried was too precious to keep under a pillow or mattress.

But it was also the reason she needed a new name.

A
fter a reinvigorating shower
in Estée’s former apartment, kindly agreed upon by Little Miss “Boy, I’d love to see a shifter naked,” Dascha managed to extricate himself from her company without revealing more than two bare, admittedly muscular, arms.

He’d quickly explained that he’d be fired from his job if he didn’t find Estée immediately, omitting the bit about his “job” being the non-paying one which involved life among a pack of wolves. Cara seemed to accept his excuse, though the word “disappointed” may as well have been scrawled on her forehead in Sharpie.

What’d she want me to do? Fuck her brains out to prove how virile shifters are?
Dascha grumbled internally, knowing full well that the answer was a resounding
yes.
Grudgingly he made his way towards the station to study maps and figure out how to grab the next available train to Paris.

He was even more lost now than he had been on his way to London, where at least he’d had a lead as to her possible whereabouts. Damn it, he was no private detective. He was a wolf shifter who’d lived in a small mountain town most of his life, hunting down bad guys and…

That was it
. He reminded himself that wolves were excellent hunters. And this was a hunt, plain and simple. It was time to find his prey. And he had several hours of travel ahead of him to assess the situation.

He had nothing to go on, no scent to follow, at least not yet. So he asked himself where he would go if he were a woman wanting to disappear in a large city. The first step, he supposed, would be to assume a new identity.

Maybe Estée had even dyed her hair, which, he had to admit, would be a shame. Its raven black set off her striking eyes, at least in photographs. It would be a sin to risk losing such beauty, even in favour of anonymity. Not that he really cared, of course. Her beauty was for the eyes of other men. If this plan were to succeed and he were to keep his distance, he’d need to picture her as homely, uninteresting.

“She’s a suitcase, remember,” he reminded himself. “Luggage.”

Very pretty luggage, damn her.

What he knew already: she didn’t want to be found. Something had spooked her. Someone had her on the run. But who was it? Was someone hunting her? And if so, why?

After doing a quick web search on his phone he determined that the area around the Rue de L’envers would be a sensible first stop once he hit Paris. Plenty of shady bars, and apparently tourists stayed the hell away. Sounded like a perfect breeding ground for local corruption and sleazy con artists.

He allowed himself a nap on the train, waking only to show his passport at the border and grateful not to have anyone talking his ear off. And at last, he emerged from the train reinvigorated, ready to begin fresh. His attitude had improved with silence, sleep and a ham and cheese sandwich; the three important components of inner peace.

From the train station he embarked on a series of brief trips on the Paris Metro only to be met at the end with an onslaught of scents: cars, humans, French pastries, infuriatingly enticing on the breeze.
Fucking carbs.
Damn, he was hungry again. Sometimes, being an enormous man was a freaking drag and a half.

And so he began to wander, asking himself question after question: who was Estée, really? Was she the sort of girl who might break the law? Would she even know how?

Something in the whole idea of the find-the-tigress game was becoming increasingly appealing, and he found himself excited for the first time since leaving Wolf Rock. He finally had a purpose in life that didn’t involve playing second fiddle to his Alpha.

Not only that, but he was wandering the streets of a beautiful city, away from his old stresses. And somehow the pressure of his mission had diminished with his departure from London; no one would blame him if he tracked her to another city entirely and lost her trail. This was not the mission he’d been assigned—
this
had become an international manhunt. Well,
womanhunt.
And for some reason, that made it more interesting, more enticing.

It was possible that his enthusiasm was increased by the photo of Estée which he’d studied on the train, revealing the face of a woman who knew more than she let on. A woman with secrets, who was, perhaps, more complex and interesting than the spoiled princess that he’d expected. Something in her face was intelligent, mischievous, even. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said that there wasn’t a prim and proper bone in that woman’s body.

“Who are you, Estée?” he muttered as he walked through Paris’s streets, looking around at other wanderers as though any and all might be a suspect in her abduction.

He stopped, finally, when the aroma of food became too much to resist, entering a small café to his right, filled with bistro tables and elegant wrought iron chairs.

As he sat down a waiter approached, pad and pen in hand.

“Oui,” the man said, more as an abrupt whip crack than an offer of help. He may as well have asked, “What the hell do YOU want?”

“Uhnn…cafay, sil vow plate,” replied Dascha in his extremely limited, terribly pronounced French.

The man took off unceremoniously, mumbling something that sounded insulting as Dascha eyed the menu. Well, they served every kind of crêpe. French pancakes. You could have one filled with apples, bananas, ham, chicken or asparagus. None of it sounded filling enough to satisfy his needs, and he began to wonder if one could find a pancake-wrapped steak somewhere in this town.

“Excuse me,” he said when the waiter returned a minute later. “I’m looking for a girl.”

He pulled the photo out of his wallet and handed it over.

The restaurant’s employee smiled for the first time. “I do not blame you, monsieur,” he said. “I would look for her too, if I were you. In fact, I may look for her tonight, under my sheets.”

“That’s about as charming as a mule’s butt. Have you seen her or not?”

“If I had seen her she would already be in my bed, and I would not be serving coffee to some American who wears more leather than a herd of cattle.”

“Well, aren’t you a guy who’d love to have your snooty ass handed to you?” growled Dascha, the wolf inside him beginning to feel that the waiter needed a shot of fur and fangs to get him off his arrogant pedestal. Nothing pissed him off like a self-righteous asshole.

“I…” began the man, the whites of his eyes suddenly prominent, as though he could sense what Dascha might become. He laid the photo back on the table. “I did not mean to offend, monsieur. Americans are lovely, of course. And leather looks very good on your…very large body.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked—no, bolted—to the kitchen.

All right. So Dascha now knew that French waiters were tactless, spineless horndogs, that Estée hadn’t been here and the obvious: that she was hot, as if he needed any man to point that out to him.

When the frightened waiter had returned, he took Dascha’s order, his eyes trained on the shifter’s face, looking like a small child who wanted to ask a question but couldn’t muster the courage. And the wolf wasn’t going to encourage him; it was best to keep a low profile. For all he knew, the French had a nasty prejudice against his kind.

“Monsieur,” the waiter said before turning away. “If you want to find someone who has disappeared, you should try the area called Monsignol. It is not far from here. Many foreigners who come to this city in the hopes of escape go there. It is dangerous, but I think you would be all right. You are so very…big.”

“Thank you,” said Dascha. “That’s helpful information.”

“You’re welcome,” said the man, turning away once again. Dascha thought he heard the words, “Please do not eat moi.”

But he may have imagined them.

He removed a Paris map from his bag. Modern technology would normally have dictated using GPS but he’d turned his cell phone off, partly to save money. But also to take Estée into account. Anyone easily accessing his whereabouts might do the math and deduce that she was close by.

Already he was protecting her from harm, and they’d never met. Hopefully he’d find that he’d been wrong about her; that she wasn’t in fact a giant pain in the posterior. But he wasn’t holding his breath.

He pinpointed his location on the corner of two elegantly-named avenues, and then located the area that the waiter had mentioned, only a few blocks to the northeast.

All signs pointed to Estée essentially being a fugitive, so it seemed as good a place as any to start.

When he’d drunk the last of his coffee he left payment, being sure to leave exactly one American penny as a tip, and took off on his mission. If he couldn’t find a sign of Estée soon, he’d have to consider seeking out a hotel for the night and starting fresh in the morning.

E
stée met
with the sketchy man outside the bar at eleven a.m., as promised. He gave her what she’d asked for: a bank account number for a newly-opened account, and a passport with the photo of a woman who looked uncannily like her; a Canadian called Anita Grant. She paid him the two thousand Euros cash and left, the goods tucked firmly into her concealed money belt alongside the rest of her small fortune. The man wished her well and took off quickly, no doubt on to his next illegal transaction.

The night before she’d wandered restlessly after checking into the hotel, knowing that walking around Paris at 1:30 a.m. alone was probably not a great idea for a young woman. But a part of her almost invited anyone to make trouble for her; she was temporarily bored of hiding. Baring her fangs and causing one night of trouble for a deserving soul would have offered far more satisfaction.

But she made it through the night unchallenged, the only people she’d seen on her route a drunk heading home for the night and a couple of seedy-looking teenagers. It seemed that all the horny middle-aged men had retreated to their unfortunate wives for the night.

When her head had hit the questionably stained hotel room pillow around 2:30 a.m., she’d felt a sense of relief. This was the beginning of a new life with a new name. Everything new, except her face. And of course, the tiger inside her, who had an insatiable appetite for trouble, it seemed. But for now she’d need to rein the cat in. A white tiger would draw attention everywhere it went, and the last thing she needed was attention.

Solitude was becoming addictive.

After her brief meeting at eleven and a leisurely lunch under a patio umbrella, her plan for the rest of the day was to make her way to the bank to deposit the cash which she transported around her waist, and perhaps she’d get one of those safety deposit boxes as well, to conceal her package. That was, if she could in fact bear to part with it.

But first, coffee. Lots of it. Something about being on the run took a lot out of a person. This, she thought, was the thing they never showed in movies. It was always people running down city streets, pursued by killers. But hell, why did they never need food or caffeine? Everyone needed those things, for God’s sake. Bathrooms were another issue entirely; no one ever seemed to pee in movies.

She stopped at a little booth that sold take-out drinks and pastries, grabbed a pain au chocolat (a taste she’d quickly acquired in Paris; it was a combination of a croissant and melted chocolate deliciousness) and as large a coffee as they were willing to hand her, which was still far too small for her liking. As she savoured the sweetness of the fresh pastry, she began to stroll down the street.

The current plan was to make the move towards the more hospitable parts of town, where tourists would be congregating among a sea of savvy pickpockets, English would be spoken everywhere and she could ensconce herself in a nicer hotel until she found an apartment suitable for a quiet, single Canadian student to rent.

Then she’d sort out the rest of her life. Simple.

Her feet met the cobblestones lazily as she sipped at the hot brown liquid that was slowly managing to reinvigorate her, and she found her eyes moving to tall windows and wide wooden doors, wondering about the inhabitants of the various apartments and if anyone within them had as messed up a life as she did.

She hoped not, for their sakes.

It was only when she’d reached the first major intersection that a sense of worry began to prod at her gut, instinct taking over. This was her tiger inside her, bracing in preparation. Danger was close by, though in what form, Estée didn’t know. The creature paced inside her as though cursing the strong set of iron bars which held it inside its prison, its eyes darting around as it smelled the air, detecting the threat.

And Estée could smell it now too: a pursuer. Someone who, like her, was tense, apprehensive. This was not the scent of a pedestrian heading to work; no, it was a far uglier smell: that of someone, a man, who knew that he was in for a fight, and who hoped that he could get the first blow in.

She looked around, seeing only the happy, oblivious faces of the people wandering to and fro on the street; no indication of a pursuer. Yet.

So she turned to her right, choosing to head towards the Seine River, to the tourist areas where she could blend in, if ever a white tiger shifter could actually do such a thing.

But the scent stayed with her even as she walked, picking up her pace in hopes of arriving sooner rather than later at her destination, to lose him in the crowds.

As she moved she stared at those around her, most of whom avoided eye contact, aside from the usual overly flirtatious male stranger. The smell of fear lingered in the air, seeming to accompany her. She began to wonder if it was her own anxiety that she smelled.

Until, ahead of her, standing in the center of the sidewalk, she saw him: a tall, dark-eyed man, his feet apart, arms crossed over a massive chest. Tourists walked around him on either side, seemingly failing to notice his size or the fact that he was a shifter. He was simply a stationary object, a telephone pole in their way.

“Shit,” Estée hissed, her head darting around as she turned back.

Behind her, though, beyond another flock of tourists was another man, in a similar pose, mirroring the first. Both were concerned, she knew, that she would make this hard on them. A tiger was an unpredictable creature, and even the most confident shifter usually didn’t know how to deal with one.