Seduced by a Cajun Werewolf Read online

The furnishings were elegant and sleek, if somewhat sparse for the large space. Across from the bed, a pair of French doors stood open, revealing a balcony.

  Rain pattered outside. He smelled its freshness and the accompanying humidity filled his lungs. What he wouldn't give for a sip of rainwater right now.

  Street lamps illuminated the rain splattered concrete. No lights were on inside his cement prison, but that didn't bother him as much as the fact that cold steel bit into his wrists. He craned his neck to get a better look.

  Fuck. This was not good.

  How had it happened? He searched his memory and remembered the shadowy form and the dart in his chest. Then, blackness. How in hell had he let himself be captured?

  The simple answer was…her. He’d been so surprised to see her that he'd let down his guard. Where was she? How was it that she was still alive?

  Damn, his head hurt. Had he just imagined her? Had he let himself believe it was her when it wasn’t? Had he put her face on another woman’s body? Perhaps he’d been kidnapped for a ransom. It wasn’t as if Sebastian had been low key about their wealth these past few years.

  Or maybe he’d been taken by a competing company. Not that it mattered right now. He had to get out of here.

  His wolf rushed forward, and he braced himself for the change that would snap his bones and stretch his muscles. He gave in to the power that would free him.

  His captor stepped into the open doorway, the lights from the street silhouetting her lithe form.

  “Sorry about the heat,” she said but didn’t sound remorseful. “Storm caused a power surge that knocked out the air conditioner.”

  He pulled back the reins on his wolf. “Let me go, Violet.”

  She made a tsking sound and cocked her head to one side. When she made no move to free him, he pulled at the chains. They rattled and clanked but didn't budge.

  “That's not my name,” she said in French, her tone soft, lyrical. Though she denied it, she couldn't fake her voice. Couldn't change or hide it. And he'd never forgotten it. Never forgotten her laugh or anything else about her. Not her goodness. Not her kindness. Not the gentle way she'd plucked a splinter from his palm one afternoon in mid Spring.

  Although she sounded the same, her words carried an icy edge, reminding him that she was not the delicate flower he remembered.

  “Well, whatever your name is, let me go.” If she didn’t have such an odd look in her eye, he might question his determination to get out of her bed.

  “That's not going to happen.”

  She sounded so calm. Eerily calm. As if having a man tied to her bed was an everyday occurrence. The thought brought on a wave of jealousy that threatened to overtake his rising ire. For two hundred years, he'd dreamed of having a second chance with this woman. He’d yearned for it, had wanted nothing else...and now he was tied to her bed.

  “Why not?” he asked, testing the chains again. He knew he could probably just rip them apart, but a part of him wanted to know why she'd chained him...before he got loose.

  But she denied who she was. Didn't seem to recognize him. Her resistance was just one more dagger to his chest. Damn the Fates and their bitter sense of humor.

  “You have information I need.”

  He frowned. What kind of information could he possibly have?

  She crossed her arms. “Your name, for starters.”

  “You know my name, sweetheart.” A gust of wind brought a spattering of water droplets on his feet and lifted her hair into a dark cloud before letting it settle around her shoulders. The ebony strands were straight now, not curly. But he still remembered the silky softness of it against his fingertips. Remembered the brush of it against his lips.

  “I'm not your sweetheart,” she bit out.

  At one time, she had been. “How is it that you're in New Orleans?”

  “I was hired to do a job,” she said simply. A job? As a fashion designer, maybe. He took in her form fitting coat. It looked tailored to fit her, showing off the perfect indentation of her waist, the flair of her hips.

  “I mean, this year. How is it possible that you're still alive? Your entire family was massacred two hundred years ago.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, monsieur.”

  “Of course you don't,” he said sarcastically. Why was she denying her past?

  Before he could blink, she launched herself into the air and came down on top of him. She landed easily, with her knees on either side of his hips.

  “Why do I dream of you?” she demanded in English. Her fingernails bit into his naked chest, and he hissed out a breath.

  “I don't know. Why do you dream of me?” She dreamed of him? Yet she didn't know who he was? Nevertheless, the thought pleased him, and he was suddenly a little cocky.

  She cut those aqua eyes at him and dug her nails a little deeper. “I don't have memories. But you and I have obviously met. Where? When?”

  He stared up at her for a long time. A thousand times he'd dreamt of this. Of her, above him. But in his dream, she was riding his cock all the way to pleasure, not slicing and dicing him with her fingernails.

  Could she really not know? She couldn't remember? He swallowed the venomous words that sprang to mind. They’d only bring more harm than good. He had to keep his cool.

  The look in her eyes was cold and distant, yet inquisitive. She really didn't remember him. The crazy little sprig of hope that had blossomed inside his heart when he'd first seen her in the bar died a quick death. And as it did, his wolf snapped forward, lashing out at the pain.

  It wasn't right; wasn't natural for a wolf to go his whole life without a mate. He'd decided long ago that if he couldn't have Violet, then he wouldn't take anyone as his other half. He couldn't. He hadn't.

  And yet, here she was!

  “We met in France two hundred years ago,” he said. Bitterness dried his mouth, and he looked away. She was no longer the woman he'd once loved.

  His patience wearing thin, he pulled hard at the chains.

  “It won't help,” she said. “They're reinforced.”

  “Too fucking bad. I'm not your hostage.”

  “Oh, but you are.” She hiked her fingers up his chest, and he couldn't stop the shudder that wracked his body. As much as he hated being tied down, chained and immobile, he still loved her touch. He couldn't let her know that, though. Wouldn't give her any more ammunition to use against him.

  “What the fuck do you want?” He tried to ignore the way the apex of her thighs cradled his crotch. Failed to ignore the pale sliver of skin peaking from beneath the V of her coat.

  “Your name.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I need to be sure I have the right man.”

  At one time, he'd been the right man. And she'd been the right woman. His heart ached because that time was gone. Stolen. Grains of sand, fallen through the hour glass. Or had they? Did the Fates, with their twisted sense of humor, believe in second chances?

  “Are you supposed to give me a show? A little strip tease?” he taunted.

  The smile she gave him made every muscle in his body tighten, from his throat to his toes. It was sexy, sultry, and even a little sadistic. She leaned closer and stared into his eyes.

  She was all vixen. This side of her was completely different from the sweet, innocent girl he'd known. She still had the same angelic features, but her attitude was edgy and alluring.

  “Would you like that?” She watched him closely.

  He groaned low in his throat. She was just toying with him, but he couldn’t stop his body’s traitorous reaction. Could no longer ignore the way her thighs hugged him and held his cock prisoner against her. She rolled her hips, rubbing herself against him. His eyes rolled back.

  “I just bet you would,” she murmured. She sat back and regarded him for a moment. Then her hands went to the buttons of her coat.

  He sucked in a breath and held it, his eyes following every movement of her elegant fingers. She p
opped one button open to reveal more skin. The next displayed the curve of her breasts. He licked his lips, wishing for more light so he wouldn't miss a single detail. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a siren blared. He ignored the warning that this could be a trick. Some witch or wizard playing with his mind. It didn't matter. This was the closest he'd ever come to being with her, and he couldn't stop now.

  The final button popped free, and her coat hung open. His gaze traveled over the naked skin of her flat, lean stomach. Black lace clung to her breasts like a second skin. Dying to cup those perfect globes in his hands, he jerked at the chains.

  Obviously startled, she sailed through the air, landing gently beside the bed. Her aerodynamics lead him to a single conclusion.

  She was a vampiress.

  Chapter Three

  North of New Orleans

  Burke sipped his iced tea, relishing the cool liquid. The heat was oppressive this time of year, even at two am.

  His brother had yet to return home and he was keeping vigil from the top porch, surveying the vast property of the Deveraux estate. The creatures of the night harmonized in a sweet song. Only in Louisiana…

  “Why are you still up?”

  André.

  “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

  “Keep thinkin’ about Laurent. He seemed so distant tonight.”

  Burke nodded at the empty chair beside him. André collapsed into it with a sigh.

  “It’s her,” Burke said, knowing André wouldn’t need an explanation.

  “I know ‘get over her’ would be pointless advice,” André said.

  “Especially in this family,” Burke agreed. Deveraux men loved their women forever. Together or not. Mated or not. And Laurent was suffering for it. Had been suffering for centuries.

  “You don’t think he got himself into trouble, do ya?”

  Burke grunted and took another sip of his tea. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He seems to go lookin’ for trouble this time of year.”

  “Remember that time we had to pull him outta that bar in Baton Rouge?” André asked with a dry laugh.

  They sat for a moment, the night silent save for the wildlife.

  “I remember.”

  “I imagine it’s gotta be harder for him,” André said, putting the rocking chair into motion.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Not knowing what happened to her.”

  “Yeah.” Burke understood loss all too well. But in his case…at least he knew—He stopped his train of thought. “I think about that every so often. Wondering if he’d be different, feel different if he knew for sure what happened to her.”

  “I always hoped, for his sake, that she’d come back one day. That she just ran for her life and it took her a while to find her way back to him.”

  “Or maybe it was post traumatic stress,” Burke added, knowing how that felt too.

  “Or maybe amnesia. It’s possible she got conked on da head.”

  Burke let out a sigh. He’d thought of that too. He’d thought of a dozen different scenerios. Each one was plausible. But the more time passed, the more he thought Violet had been mortally wounded that night and they’d just never found her body. And that was the worst scenario of all.

  It meant that Laurent would never know any peace.

  Cayenne stared at the big man on her bed. His eyes were fixed on her body, and he watched her slide the coat from her shoulders like he would remember this moment forever. She smelled the desire coursing through his veins and wanted to taste it. She prided herself on feeling nothing at all, save for her usual hunger, so it was strange to feel a tendril of need deep in her own belly.

  He was so familiar. And not just because he'd appeared in her dreams over the years. A hint of memory skittered through her mind. That pitch black, unruly hair. Those piercing black/brown eyes. Eyes meant to seduce and enchant. Eyes that now raked over her body like tiny hands, touching and caressing every inch he could see. Another tremor erupted in her belly, and she suddenly felt hot all over. She welcomed the warmth. Craved it, in fact.

  Who was he? Why couldn’t she remember? She put her hands on her hips and glared down at him. He was more than a mark. More than a bull’s-eye at the end of her scope. He'd become more the moment he'd called her Violet. The name caused more memories to flutter...incomplete snippets that still alluded her. She'd track them down soon enough. Tracking was part of the game.

  She shouldn't like how he was looking at her. As if she were a prized possession and he wanted her all to himself. She'd never slept with a target, and she wasn't going to start now. But damn, she was tempted.

  “Now--you were telling me your name,” she said, leaning against one of the tall square posts at the end of the bed. She let her eyes take a survey of their own, starting at his bare feet and moving up his hard, muscled legs. Well worn denim, still damp from the rain, encased thighs she ached to touch. Then across his wide, hair-dusted chest. Every muscle was perfectly sculpted.

  Tension and frustration radiated off of him as he pulled at the chains binding his wrists. The bed groaned under the stress, and she stifled a moan at the sight of his big biceps in full flex.

  Cayenne gave herself a mental shake and straightened. She was here for a job, not a romp between the sheets. If she wanted that, all she had to do was head back to the French Quarter and find an unsuspecting tourist. Though there were plenty of mortals who would gladly offer themselves for her feeding, she wasn't hungry for them. She was hungry for him.

  Him in all his fine glory, splayed out across the huge bed like a writhing fish on a platter. Lightning lit the room, lighting up his dark eyes. She held them with her own.

  “Tell me your name first,” he said, apparently giving up on the whole Violet thing.

  Seeing no reason for him not to know her name, especially since he'd be dead in an hour or so anyway, she gripped the other bedpost and swung gently to the side. “My name is Cayenne Laroque.”

  “I'd say it’s nice to meet you, Cayenne, but you shot me with a dart and chained me to your bed.” He sounded angry, and rightfully so. She hadn't expected him to fall so easily.

  Not that she'd expected to drug him and chain him to the bed, either. Doing so had been a last second decision on her part. This job was supposed to be quick and easy. Just like every single job she’d done for the last hundred and fifty three years.

  Except this one was different. He was different. She'd watched him enough over the last two weeks to pick up plenty of character traits that set him apart from her usual targets.

  He wasn’t the usual swine she was sent to dispatch. He didn’t have a wife he cheated on. Didn’t beat children or animals. Wasn’t a serial killer, from what she could tell. He didn’t always put the toilet seat down, but in her opinion, that was hardly a reason to off someone.

  But it wasn’t her call.

  She must really look like this Violet woman for him to let down his guard. Obviously he didn't know why she was here. He didn't seem the least bit nervous. Was he hiding his emotions? Or was he really that clueless?

  If he discovered why she was here, would he beg for his life? So many men had. Weak men, who'd cried like little girls and screamed like women. There was no honor in dying so pathetically. Their pleas and bribes hadn’t worked. She hadn't spared anyone; she’d only carried out each job.

  The proud set of his jaw told her he would not beg for his life. Something dark and troubling filled in his eyes. A sorrow so deep, even she had a hard time commiserating with him. Not that she'd allowed herself to do so in the past two centuries. At least not since—No. She couldn't afford the weakness.

  Emil had constantly reminded her that she was weak simply because she was female. Anger boiled deep inside at the unwelcome memory, and her fangs lengthened.

  Latching on to that dark, dangerous emotion, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. She had to remember all the terrible people she'd snuffed out in the past. Murderers, rapists, thieves. Men who'd given societ
y nothing but pain.

  She needed to focus.

  “You said we met in France.” She refused to be seduced by his gorgeous body or the intense pain in his eyes.

  “Yes.” He gritted his teeth. Anger vibrated off of him.

  She suspected she’d feel the same way, were she in his position. “How did we know each other?”

  “What's with all the questions? Don't you remember your own childhood?” Disbelief, pain, and longing filled his voice. “Don't you remember me?”

  So that’s why he was angry. He still believed she was Violet, denying her past. Their past.

  “I have no memories at all.” And no mercy, she reminded herself.

  He stared at her for endless seconds, the only sound in the room was of rain pouring against the concrete balcony.

  “How sad for you,” he finally said. “You were a delightful little girl, with such big, brown curls. It’s a shame you straightened them. Your eyes were so blue, even the sky was jealous.”

  “Such poetic words.” Words that spoke to what was left of her soul.

  He met her eyes. “True words. You made friends wherever you went, cheri. With men, women, and children, who all fell under your spell. You were quite the charmer.”

  She stepped across the room to the open doors. Drops of water splattered her boots, but she didn't care.

  “You grew up.”

  “And?” Her voice was so soft she wasn't sure if he'd even heard her, but she knew that what was said about werewolves was true. They had heightened senses.

  “You became the most beautiful woman in all of France,” he answered. She gave him a sharp look over her shoulder. Why had she asked? Why did she care? This was her life now. Her path was set. The past no longer mattered, certainly not after two hundred years. But if she could figure out exactly how they knew each other, perhaps she could get rid of the dreams. Lustful dreams that distracted her, consumed her, and left her with unfulfilled desires.

  “You turned heads everywhere you went, ma belle. Dieu. “ He cut off his words as if embarrassed by them. “I used to get so jealous—“

  “We were...an item?”