Buch lesen: «Moonlight and Diamonds»

Chapter 1

Paris

“Achoo!”

Stryke Saint-Pierre chuckled at the power sneeze that had blown out of Summer Santiago’s two-year-old mouth. Her dad, Vail, instead of wiping his daughter’s nose and cooing reassurance, lifted his head and fiercely scanned up and down the Parisian street. They stood before the Hawkes Associates building, along with Rhys Hawkes, Vail’s stepfather. The trio were enjoying the cloudy day and discussing Rhys’s need for help.

“See any?” Rhys, a tall, salty-haired half vampire, half werewolf, asked his son.

Vail, full-blooded vampire, nodded across the street.

Stryke followed the vampire’s nod and spied a lanky man wearing a blue hoodie, tattered jeans and combat boots who strode down the sidewalk. The stranger glanced toward them. Red eyes glowed.

“Demon,” Vail confirmed. “He’s cool, though. Doesn’t appear as though he means any trouble. Does he, sweetie?” He kissed his daughter’s curly blond hair.

“Demons are not my favorite breed,” Rhys muttered. “But he looks harmless. She still allergic?” he asked Vail.

Vail, with coal-black hair and silver rings on his fingers that glinted even with the lacking sunlight, nodded. He explained to Stryke. “Ever since Summer had a little run-in with Himself last year she’s been allergic to sulfur. Good demon alarm, though.”

“How does a baby have a run-in with Himself?” Stryke had been in Paris all of two days and was staying in an apartment owned by his grandfather—the rest of his family was, as well—and what he’d learned since arriving was that paranormal breeds of all varieties were in abundance here as compared to Minnesota, which he called home.

“Himself kidnapped her,” Vail provided. “Long story. She’s good. Wasn’t hurt. But you know. Allergic now. I have to head out. Lyric is probably already at the tailor’s waiting for me. I have to try on the tuxedo again. I hope the tailor got the studs right this time.”

Stryke smirked. Vail wore black velvet jeans and a crisp black shirt with black lace around the wrists. And there was enough silver and diamonds on his wrists, ears and rings to flash signals to the moon. The vamp defined glamour rock, but with a bite.

“I sent a suit to your apartment, Stryke,” Vail said. “Your mother reported to my wife that her sons hadn’t properly packed. Ha! Anyway, not sure if they’ll fit you with a tux for the wedding. But in case not, I thought you could borrow one of mine. I sent one to your brother Trouble’s apartment too, but that guy is a block. Not sure my stuff will fit him.”

Indeed, Stryke hadn’t packed anything fancy for the family wedding. When he’d learned it was black-tie, he’d shaken his head and tried not to moan too loudly. Suits were not his style. But it was generous of the vamp to send him a loaner. Stryke’s shoulders were broader than the vampire’s and his biceps were definitely bigger, but he figured he could make it work. Unless it was velvet. It was probably too late to specify a more subtle fabric choice, so he’d keep that worry to himself.

“Thanks, man.” Stryke met Vail’s fist bump and then tweaked Summer’s button nose. “See you at the wedding, Summer.”

The shy toddler tucked her face against her dad’s neck yet, with a giggle, peeked back at Stryke.

“Hug?” Stryke held out his arms.

Surprisingly, she stretched out her arms and he took her into a bear hug. A hug from a kid defied explanation. Stryke wanted a pack of his own. Soon. The urge to raise a couple of sons, and heck, why not a few daughters too, was strong. Hugs seemed a very necessary purpose to life.

“She likes you.” Vail retrieved his daughter.

Summer said, “Puppy?”

“Ha! She’s already got a nose for the wolves,” Vail said.

Stryke playfully barked at her, and Summer giggled.

“See you at the wedding!”

The vampire strode off toward the red Maserati convertible parked down the street. Stryke and Rhys waved to Summer in the front car seat as the twosome rolled by.

“That’s the third Maserati in so many years,” Rhys commented on the sleek vehicle that sported a noticeable dent on the passenger door. “That boy needs to take a driver’s course.”

“Wow.” Stryke shoved his hands in his front jeans pockets. He couldn’t imagine having the kind of disposable income to afford a six-figure car—three times over. While set for life, thanks to investments, he lived a middle-class existence in a small town. He gladly claimed the title of redneck. Happiness to him was living simply.

Though he wouldn’t mind hooking up with a pretty Parisian werewolf while here. The available females back home were slim-pickings, and his werewolf had never had the pleasure of dating another of his breed. It was what he most desired. That, and starting a family that he could call a pack.

Finding a woman had actually become necessity since Stryke’s father had given him the task of starting a new pack. Malakai Saint-Pierre was ready to retire and travel the world with his wife, Rissa. The Saint-Pierre pack consisted of only family. They needed a strong new pack in the area. A diverse pack made up of many families. It was how the werewolves in Minnesota would finally grow their numbers.

The Saint-Pierre pack’s scion was currently Trouble, Stryke’s eldest brother. Trouble hadn’t the calm control to step into his father’s position as principal and lead others. Malakai had said as much to Stryke. His oldest brother was a loose cannon, who picked fights at the drop of a shifty glance and reveled in partying all night. Slightly ADD? Always possible with Trouble.

Stryke was eager to head a pack and had the confidence to do so. But to grow a pack a man needed a good woman at his side.

“So you said you were going to stay on a bit after your family heads home?”

“A few days, for sure.” Stryke returned his attention to Rhys, who owned Hawkes Associates, a sort of bank/savings/storage conglomerate that catered to all paranormal species. “My parents and brothers and sister are here for five days. But Grandpa Creed said we could stay in the apartments as long as we like, so I’m going to fit in some touring when the wedding is over.”

“When you’re not wandering and checking out the sights I’d love it if you’d consider helping me out. I’m shorthanded and have a lot of work in the office. My assistant is out of town on his honeymoon. I’ve a pickup with the Order of the Stake. It would be simple. You’d meet Tor and he’ll hand over the artifacts.”

“Is the Order of the Stake what I think it is?”

“Yes, they are an ancient order of mortal knights who hunt vampires. But they’re cool. Vail informs for them on occasion. Torsten Rindle does their spin. He also handles exchanges with Hawkes Associates. Sometimes the knights in the Order come upon treasure or, let’s just say...their victims’ belongings have to be cataloged. They’ve recently acquired a demon artifact that I bought for my own collection. It wouldn’t take long. But I don’t have the time to run over there myself with all this wedding stuff.”

“I can do that. Doesn’t sound too difficult. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll text you the information and provide Tor with your name. Thanks, Stryke. I appreciate it. Oh, and now that I think of it... Here.” Rhys tugged out two tickets from his jacket pocket. “You have any interest in gallery showings?”

Stryke shrugged. “I do hope to catch some of the museums and culture while I’m in town. Always willing to put new ideas in my brain and learn what I can about art and history.”

“I think this is a seventeenth-century jewelry collection on display. I got the tickets weeks ago, but won’t be able to make it tonight. As grandparents of the groom, my wife and I have to attend a rehearsal dinner tonight. Tedious.”

Stryke accepted the tickets. He wasn’t much for jewels, but he’d made the decision to take in as much of the city as he could while here. This was the first time he’d been overseas. He wasn’t sure he could survive being cooped up in an airplane for nine hours to ever make the return visit, so while on land he would do the town up right.

“Maybe one of my brothers will go along with me. Do I have to dress up?”

“You’ll probably want to wear the suit Vail sent to your place. Thanks, Stryke. I’ll call you in the morning with details on the job.”

Rhys clapped a hand across Stryke’s shoulder then wandered back inside the six-story black granite building where he did business.

Stryke tucked the tickets in his back pocket and shook his head as a bright pink Vespa scooted by. A gorgeous woman wearing a skirt commandeered the scooter. She even wore high heels. The women here were so different from back in the States. They liked to look good, no matter what the activity.

He didn’t understand a single word of the language, so he had gotten more sneers and snide side glances than he’d experienced in a lifetime. He was taking it in stride. He wasn’t the sort to anger easily. That was his brother Trouble’s forte. Maybe by the time he boarded the plane for the return trip home he’d actually know a bit of the language and have found that fantasy werewolf he dreamed about meeting?

Then again, he’d be thankful to not starve—because he couldn’t ask for what he wanted in French—not get arrested, and not make a fool of himself if a pretty woman did glance his way.

And if he was lucky he might happen upon some danger. Because before he started the dream family and pack, he needed to satisfy a soul-deep craving for adventure. His brothers always seemed to find danger and excitement in spades.

Stryke had survived a near-death experience last winter. Time to live his life and make the most of it.

Private gallery, 10:00 p.m.

Two hundred people wandered about the airy gallery off the Rue de Rivoli. Excellent turnout. The champagne flowed, and the silver-dusted vanilla macarons catered from Pierre Hermes were nibbled even by those women who would never deem to smudge their lipstick. It wasn’t the calories, chéri; it was the humility of being seen chewing in public.

Blyss Sauveterre had owned the gallery for two years and it wasn’t so much a labor of love as her means to keep tabs on society. By featuring a new exhibit every month she ensured the flow of the rich and famous in and out of the gallery doors never ceased. The diamonds on display this evening were once Marie Antoinette’s prized possessions. Gifts from her lover, Count Axel von Fersen.

Blyss wasn’t sure she believed the provenance. Axel Fersen had been a rake, a solider, an opportunist. Had he really garnered enough wages to afford such elaborate diamonds for the queen? History painted him more a lover than a businessman, which she was inclined to agree with. Whether or not he’d had an affair with the doomed queen? She certainly hoped that part was true.

The fantasy of it all intrigued her, and no one this evening had questioned the story behind the beautiful gemstones glinting within their rococo silver-and-gold settings.

The exhibit tonight was a preshow to the grand event Blyss and her assistant planned to feature perhaps next month—the unveiling of Le Diabolique to the public.

Le Diabolique was a fifty-carat black diamond that glinted red from within. History told that it had been given by a seventeenth-century Belgian duke to the French Queen Anne. It had been stolen less than a week after she’d taken it in hand. The diamond had been recovered and stolen throughout history many times over, and rumor told that anyone who possessed it faced great torment, wickedness and terrible evil. If not the ultimate misfortune of death.

Blyss believed the rumors. The diamond would prove her greatest torment should she not pull off the heist properly this evening. Part one had already been accomplished. Now the handoff.

“Blyss!”

Her assistant, Lorcan Price, was bedecked in a pink bespoke suit and bright purple bow tie. He adjusted his thick black-rimmed glasses and crossed the room, weaving between patrons and wielding champagne flutes in each hand. He gained her side and pressed a cool champagne glass into her hand.

The man seemed to possess a sixth sense about how to please her. Bon mots uttered at the precise moment she was beginning to doubt herself, a compliment about her designer shoes, even a conspiratorially catty wink from across the room during such events as tonight.

Blyss tilted back a few sips of bubbly, eyeing the crowd over the crystal rim as she did so. Most men had a woman draped on their arm this evening and looked oh-so-bored. If they were wise, they’d pay attention to those things that attracted their partners’ eyes, such as all things sparkly. Blyss’s usual type, an older man who wore an expensive suit, tended his nails and hair, and who reeked money, were spread throughout the gallery. Some had even come alone. Such fortune.

But tonight she required someone different.

“The show is going well,” Lorcan said in his quiet yet enthusiastic voice. “The duchess Konstantinov has suggested to me she may loan the gallery her grandmother’s sapphire collection. She’s from old Russian money. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve a Fabergé egg stashed away, as well. Isn’t that spectacular?”

“Exquisite,” Blyss agreed. Yet the intrigue of whether or not the duchess did own a Fabergé egg didn’t pique her curiosity. Her heart wasn’t in the moment. Too much to think about. The plan must go off or she faced a horrible future.

“Is all well with the, erm...big surprise?” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Oui, bien sur.” At least, not if anyone cared to study Le Diabolique too closely. “Soon, Lorcan. But I don’t know about announcing it tonight.”

“I will leave it to you, then. You do have the only key to the storage room.”

Always trying to gain that access, Blyss thought. Maybe someday she would trust him to tend the acquisitions. But not yet.

“Keep working the room, Lorcan. And do be sure to introduce yourself to Madame Horchard. She’s filthy.” As in rich. A shorthand the two of them shared. Because if there was one thing that had drawn Blyss to Lorcan, it was his desire to climb the social ladder by means of attaching himself to money. “I must make another round through the gallery.”

They bussed each other’s cheeks. Lorcan knew well that Blyss abhorred getting her lipstick or her hair mussed.

Clutching the goblet, she strode slowly through the crowd, nodding in acknowledgment to those she knew. Normally she noted the flash of bling on ears, at necks, and wrists and fingers. So she had managed ten carats from her lover? Lucky girl. But tonight her mind was a scatter. Nerves made her tense.

Her heartbeats thundered. She inhaled and then exhaled deeply, vying for calm. She hated this feeling of desperation that had settled into her being the past few days. She’d thought to have perfected her life and that smooth sailing was all her future held.

Until her father, Colin Sauveterre, had shown up at her door a month ago, slobbering drunk and crying. His gambling debts had caught up to him. He’d needed her help. But by helping him, she had placed herself on a precipice that loomed over a dangerous fall.

Would she ever again feel safe and sure? As if her life was exactly as she had designed it? All she desired was to drop her shoulders and relax, knowing all was well. And that she fit in.

Exhaling heavily, she drew in a breath of courage. She could do this. She had to do this.

She managed a fake smile to a dignitary whose name she could not recall, and drifted away from the velvet-and-glass displays that featured dazzling diamonds and colored stones in gorgeous settings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Rubbing a hand along her lace dress, Blyss cursed the fact her palm was moist. Nerves were not her thing. She could work a room peopled with hundreds and never let them see her sweat. But tonight was different. And she hadn’t found the right man yet.

But she remained hopeful.

Trading her empty flute of champagne for a fresh one from a waiter’s silver tray, she glided through the room and out into the large gallery that housed marble sculptures and where many had gone to chatter louder and more gregariously than the smaller room allowed.

The men were of all varieties. Old, young, middle-aged. Handsome, ugly, oddly alluring. Black ties and designer labels, mostly. Some lesser suits, of which she did not recognize the designer. The women were all dressed to dazzle and reveal.

The couture made her wish she had a credit card that wasn’t maxed out. Alexander McQueen? Oh, yes, please.

Blyss revealed as much as the other women. The black lace dress was cut low in the back to expose almost everything, and the front featured a deep V that clung to her breasts yet revealed their inner curves. A thigh-high slit on the floor-length skirt showed off her red-soled Louboutins. Diamonds at her neck and ears were prizes earned on the quest for the rich and bored who hunted for a sparkling trophy to hang on his arm. But never commitment. No, she chose her men for their expiration dates—and the wanderlust in their eyes. And if they suggested something longer than a fling or a few weekends in Madrid? She quickly extricated herself.

It wasn’t easy maintaining the lifestyle she enjoyed, but every kiss, every extravagant meal, every late night hookup in a lavish hotel room was worth it. Blyss adored luxury.

Most of all, she adored being adored.

Hmm, now there stood a possibility. The man chatting with the waiter over by the Rodin. She hadn’t seen him at any of the gallery’s previous functions. He was tall, nicely tanned—perhaps from yachting?—and wore his hair in a close shave against his head. Bright white teeth flashed beneath his blade nose. An easy stance advertised a certain laissez-faire. He didn’t care what others thought about him.

Blyss could not relate to lacking concern. As well, something about him didn’t quite fit him among the elite crowd. Was it the fabric that stretched at his broad shoulders? The suit had been poorly tailored. Or his seeming awestruck gaze as he took in the festivities? He was...big. Almost awkward. Like a boulder tossed into a flower garden.

Well, he wouldn’t be here without an invite. And Blyss tendered her invites carefully. He was worth checking out—if not, using.

* * *

Stryke wandered through the marble-walled gallery, taking in the sculptures by artists he’d only read about in books. Yeah, so he was probably the only one of his brothers who claimed to read. Much unlike his brothers, who hadn’t the patience or interest in fine arts, he enjoyed learning new things and bulking up his cultural-knowledge quotient.

He took in the elite crowd who sipped champagne and nibbled caviar-coated crackers. He assessed every step, every gesture, every cut of fabric and deviously delivered bon mot. Diamonds glinted at ears, necks and cuff links. He was pretty sure the clothing cost a small fortune, and didn’t even want to guess at how long he’d have to work to afford the diamond choker around that old lady’s neck.

He wasn’t currently working for a paycheck. After a short stint as a volunteer fireman—the fire station had been closed due to budget problems—he was looking for something to fulfill his need for action and danger. It didn’t need to provide a paycheck; he was set for life. But as well, if it involved helping his own breed then he would be even more attracted to taking on the job.

These people were not his breed. They were human. Not his crowd. On the other hand, he was accustomed to existing among humans because that was simply life as he knew it. Wasn’t as if a private werewolf haven existed on an island in the Pacific.

He wouldn’t be interested if it did exist. He liked humans. They were just like him, but without the propensity to grow fur and flick out the claws when the mood struck. Poor humans.

Tonight’s biggest surprise? His brother Blade had come along with him. The last of the Saint-Pierre brothers he would have guessed had an interest in art. Reclusive almost to the extreme, Blade had nodded and muttered something about “getting away from the crazy chicks and their wedding talk.”

And yet, Blade had left fifteen minutes ago with his arms wrapped around sexy blonde twins wearing matching red miniskirts. So Blade’s idea of art was a little different than most.

Stryke had flown to Paris with his family. His parents, Malakai and Rissa Saint-Pierre, and their children, Trouble, Blade, Kelyn and Daisy Blu. Stryke’s aunt Kambriel was marrying Johnny Santiago in a few days. The Santiagos were the Hawkes side of the family, and they were vampires.

Fine by him. As with humans, he had nothing against vamps. His grandfather Creed Saint-Pierre was a vamp, and Blade was actually half faery—as well as vampire. It was all good so long as there were werewolves in the mix at the wedding.

Stryke had heard Europe’s werewolf population was booming and the females were in abundance, much the opposite of his native hometown. He hoped that was true. It would increase his chances of meeting a female werewolf, falling in love and getting married.

If only reality proved as simple as the fantasy.

Stryke likely wouldn’t hook up so easily as Blade had tonight. He was no slouch when it came to dating, but he did tend toward a specific type. Pretty, yet slightly tomboyish, able to embrace fun and a lover of all things outdoors, including snuggling by a midnight bonfire and long walks through the woods.

Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.

And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.

Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.

He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.

A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non, merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.

Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?

A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.

“But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.

Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.

Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.

After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.

Think rednecks and beer.

Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.

And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.

So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.

Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.

As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.

His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh, shit. Uh...” He followed as she walked, unknowing, until she did realize and turned to bump chests with him.

“Sorry,” he said. “My cuff link is hooked on your dress. You passed so close.” He twisted his wrist, but could feel the resistance. “Uh, parlez vous Anglais?”

“Interesting way of picking up a girl,” she said in a cultured voice that belonged in a jewelry box aside all that was precious. And on the box? A sign labeled Don’t Touch. “Oui, I can manage English when I must. Can you get it unhooked?”

“Give me a minute. Your dress is all lace and so delicate. I don’t want to tear it.”

“Please do not, monsieur. It’s one of my favorites.”

He’d snagged her right over the ass, and he worked the back of his hand against her derriere, feeling guilty for the stolen touch, yet at the same time, loving the freebie. The diamond cuff link Vail had loaned him was worth a pretty penny, he felt sure. One of the clasps holding a stone had dug its clutches into the thin black lace.

He straightened, standing beside her with his hand behind her and fingers curled so he didn’t blatantly cup her ass. Causing a scene was the last thing he wanted to do, so he’d act casual. Mercy. She smelled good. It was all he could do not to tilt his head against hers to sniff her hair.

“My name’s Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”

“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”

“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”

“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.

Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.

“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”