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  From what Connor had said, the Shifters seemed to regard all males as threats. Not surprising that they hadn’t liked Brennan, then.

  “I’ll have to think about it.” Carly stood up, wanting Brennan to get the idea that the interview was over.

  Brennan didn’t. He sat leafing through his briefcase. “I can’t fit you out with fancy equipment—digital recorders, laptops, and the like. No budget. A steno pad and pen will have to be the way to go, unless you have your own laptop. If I hire you on, you can write that off as a business expense.”

  “I said I’d have to think about it, Dr. Brennan.”

  Walker, having never sat down, glanced through the blinds to Carly’s front drive. “Who’s that?”

  Carly went to the window to look, even though she had to lean over Brennan on the sofa to do it. She’d expected to see Connor trying to ride away on his motorcycle, but instead she saw Armand climbing out of his BMW, Yvette exiting the other side. Both were talking, loudly, in French, carrying on whatever animated conversation they’d begun inside the car.

  “My boss,” Carly said turning away. Armand looked angry, and Yvette was yelling at him—Carly could hear them as she made her way through the tiled foyer to open the front door. She didn’t know enough French to understand what they were yelling about, but she had a pretty good idea.

  “Carly!” Armand said in his earsplitting roar as soon as Carly pulled open the door. “Ma petite.” The big bear of a man threw his arms around Carly and dragged her against his soft body. “You are all right. I heard of a shooting at Ethan’s house, and you were nowhere to be found. I was so worried . . .”

  Carly had held up all the way to the hospital, throughout her concern about Tiger, having Connor stick to her, even Brennan’s weird request, but now, embraced by the fatherly Armand, she wanted to let go, hang on to him, and sob. Armand had been more of a father to her than her own ever had been.

  “Carly, you poor thing.” Yvette patted her cheek as she stepped into the house, her rings cool on Carly’s hot face. “We heard about the shooting at Ethan’s house on the news, and Armand said you’d been going back there, and we had to come and make sure you were all right. But others have come too. Who are these people?”

  Yvette had halted in the archway to the living room, staring at Brennan and Walker. Yvette was tall and willowy, a brunette with short and sleek hair, her pencil-slim dress hugging her figure and emphasizing her long legs. At fifty, she still looked like the runway model she’d been at twenty.

  Brennan’s mouth was slightly open; he was finally reacting like a man instead of a data-collecting machine. Yvette had that effect on unsuspecting males. Walker, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be impressed by her. He only watched Yvette and Armand, his expression unchanging.

  “That’s Dr. Brennan, from UT,” Carly said. “And his friend Walker. They were just leaving.”

  Walker at least could take a hint. He shut the professor’s briefcase for him, and Brennan finally got to his feet.

  “You have my card,” Brennan said as he straightened his tie and took up his briefcase. “Give me a call in the next few days, Ms. Randal. I want to do this. Ma’am.” He gave the straight-faced Yvette a nod and a smile and then walked out the door without looking at Carly.

  Walker followed him without a good-bye, but Carly saw Walker look over Armand and Yvette again, and then the rest of the house, with an assessing eye. Brennan called to him from outside, and Walker shut the door.

  “Interesting people,” Yvette said. She took up a tote bag that Armand had dropped when he’d embraced Carly and headed for the kitchen. “We’re cooking dinner for you, after your hard day. I told Armand it wasn’t your fault.”

  Armand released Carly, patted her shoulders, and went after his wife. “How was I to know our Carly was in danger? Tell us everything, Carly. What happened?”

  “And who is that?” Yvette asked sharply, frozen in the act of taking a wine bottle from the brown canvas bag.

  Her blue eyes were now fixed on Connor, who leaned casually against the wall next to the sliding glass door that led to the back patio.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Carly yelped and jammed her hand to her chest. “Connor,” she said, gasping. “Don’t do that. I thought you’d gone.”

  “Not me.” Connor moved to the counter with natural grace—Feline grace, Carly supposed. “I was told to look out for you, and I’m doing it.” Connor leaned his arms on the counter and gazed with interest at Yvette’s open canvas bag. “Are those shallots in there? And bell peppers? Our Sean makes them into a kick-ass ratatouille. Only he calls it Irish stew.”

  Armand came to stand next to Yvette, and Connor extended a young and sinewy hand at them from the end of a well-muscled arm. “I’m Connor. Connor Morrissey. Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  They kept staring at him, taking in his Collar above his T-shirt, his good-natured tanned face, his tall Shifter body. His eyes, cobalt blue like both his uncles’, were watchful. He and Walker had much the same look, Carly realized, except Connor smiled.

  “It’s all right,” Carly said quickly to Connor. “This is Armand, my boss, and his wife, Yvette. They’re friends, good friends.”

  “I’m seeing that.” Connor leaned the slightest bit forward, inhaling a little. “Not a threat.”

  “Where’d you disappear to?” Carly asked nervously. “I thought Dr. Brennan and that Walker guy were a threat.”

  “Yes, and it wouldn’t be so good if someone from the Shifter Bureau found a Shifter in your house, would it?” Connor asked, his friendly look unwavering. “I laid low. Not so low I couldn’t get back in here if you needed me, plus I took the opportunity to call Liam.” He showed the cell phone in his hand, then shoved it into his pocket. “I gave him the all clear just now, but he might overreact. Liam does sometimes.” He shrugged, as though the actions of his uncle were unfathomable to him.

  “Overreact how?” Carly asked.

  “He might send reinforcements. His trackers. Don’t worry, it will take a few minutes for them to get here, and Liam might change his mind.”

  “How many more?” Yvette demanded. She took three red peppers out of her bag. “I only brought so much.”

  Connor gestured to her. “Cook for Carly. She needs it. Ronan and Ellison aren’t much into fancy food anyway. Sean’s the gourmet.”

  Yvette took a chef’s knife out of her bag. Connor watched her very closely, but Yvette only rinsed off the peppers, cored them, and started chopping them, then the shallots. Armand had water boiling on the stove, and Yvette briefly plunged tomatoes into the pot to split their skins so she could peel them and then chop them up.

  Carly stood in kind of a daze while Yvette went through the soothing motions of cooking. Connor watched Yvette’s every move as she oiled a sauté pan and tossed the vegetables and tomatoes into it.

  Armand uncorked a bottle of dark red wine, poured a glass, and shoved it at Carly. Connor had already helped himself to the beer Carly had left on the counter when Brennan arrived.

  “Tell us what happened to you,” Armand said.

  The wine, the warmth in the house, and the smell of one of Yvette’s excellent meals in the making loosened Carly’s tongue. She told them the story, without inflection, without crying, holding it all in as the words came out. She told them about giving Tiger a ride, finding Ethan with the other woman, forgetting about Tiger as she rushed away from Ethan’s, and Tiger getting shot by Ethan and ending up in the hospital.

  Her friends listened in shock, horror, and sympathy. Yvette took out her anger by banging the vegetables around in the pan.

  “He cannot shoot people and get away with it,” Armand said, thunder in his voice. “A Shifter is a person, eh? Like this one.” He gestured with his wineglass at Connor. “I could never shoot him. He looks like my nephew.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Connor winked. “I wouldn’t shoot you either.”

  “Ethan must be arrested,” Arma
nd said.

  “He’ll claim self-defense,” Carly said. She drained her glass and reached for the wine bottle to pour another. “That’s what he did when he shot his new pool man in the leg last year. Poor kid climbed the fence because the gate hadn’t been unlocked for him. Ethan saw him, said he thought he was a burglar, and shot at him. Ethan was very apologetic and paid the hospital bill, but he was never arrested for it, and the kid lost a year’s worth of work. Ethan knows powerful people.”

  “As do I,” Armand said without modesty. “I will call my lawyer. The Shifters can sue Ethan if the police will do nothing. And you shall sue him for breach of contract.”

  “No.” Carly lifted her hands, still holding her glass of wine. “If the Shifters want to go after him, fine. But I don’t want to face Ethan again. Not in a courtroom, not through lawyers. I’m done. It’s over.” Tears stung her eyes. No use crying, she told herself. Good riddance. “At least I found out he was a lying, cheating scumbag before the wedding.”

  The tears spilled from her eyes anyway. Today had been horrible, horrible. A person didn’t walk away from a two-year relationship and an engagement with a laugh and a shrug.

  “Carly.” Armand was there with another hug.

  “He will be sorry,” Yvette said matter-of-factly.

  “Spike and Sean will scare the shite out of him,” Connor said. “Trust me.”

  “He’ll shoot them too,” Carly said, worried.

  “No, he won’t. Sean’s very good at talking people out of hurting anyone, including himself. And Spike just has to stand there. They’ll be fine.”

  Carly broke away from Armand. She drained the last of her wine again and poured another glass. Armand always brought the best wine—smooth, full-bodied, a caress for the tongue. The wine went down easily and made her stomach feel better.

  She raised her glass. “To Spike and Sean.” Connor clinked his bottle against her glass, and Carly drank. “And to Tiger. Bless him.”

  Again she and Connor toasted and drank. Yvette served up the sauté with thin strips of beef she’d precooked and a smattering of mushrooms. She deglazed the pan with a little of the wine to make a tasty sauce and put everything neatly on a plate for Carly.

  “The best medicine,” Yvette said. “Good food, good friends. You eat now.”

  Carly sat on a stool next to Connor at the counter and pushed the food around the plate. Because Yvette’s cooking shouldn’t be sneered at, but mostly because Yvette was standing over her giving her a steely look, Carly ate.

  The mixture of peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes, meat, and wine was heavenly, but it felt leaden on Carly’s tongue. Life was indeed tragic when she couldn’t appreciate one of Yvette’s meals.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Carly said, pouring herself more wine. The bottle released its last drop, but Armand had brought more. “How was the exhibit opening? From the fact that you didn’t instantly fire me, I take it you sold a piece?”

  “Three.” Armand’s smile beamed out. “And interest in more. That young man is on fire.”

  “Good,” Carly said. “Good.” At least someone’s day had gone well.

  More food and more wine disappeared, but Carly stopped following the conversation. Exhaustion, worry, heartbreak, and too much alcohol was taking its toll, and taking it fast. Connor ate a helping of the meal and talked easily with Yvette and Armand, telling them more about the events of the day. They started discussing Brennan and Walker, speculating about what they really wanted, but Carly was finished.

  She slid off the stool, ready to explain that they could all leave now so she could shower and lie down. She found her legs buckling, and only Connor’s strong arms kept her from sliding to the floor.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I jus’ need to rest.” Carly heard the slur in her words and started to laugh.

  “I will put you to bed,” Yvette said. “Come.”

  She held out her long, slim arm. Carly grabbed the wine bottle and her glass as she let Yvette take her back into her bedroom. Once inside, Carly poured another glass and spun around, laughing. “I feel so free. No more Ethan, no more sitting around his pool or taking one of his fancy cars to go shopping. Damn, I would have hated that life.” Carly stopped spinning, but the room kept on going. “No, I wouldn’t have. I wanted to be a pampered puddle. I mean, a pumpered poodle. A . . .”

  “You lie down. You sleep. You will feel better.”

  Sure she would. Yvette took the bottle and glass out of Carly’s hands and gently but firmly guided her to the bed.

  Carly didn’t remember much after that, but she supposed Yvette had gotten her to settle down and sleep, because the next thing she knew, Carly was waking up, her mouth like cotton, her head pounding, her stomach in knots.

  She slid out of bed, noting that the house was dark and silent, the clock beside the bed telling her it was three in the morning. Carly staggered to the bathroom, sacrificed Yvette’s great meal to the toilet, then washed her face and got ready for the next long trek—down the hall to the kitchen. As tempting as it had been to drink from the bathroom tap, Austin water wasn’t the way to go on a roiling stomach. Carly needed bottled water. Cold. Lots of it.

  The rest of the house was quiet, but a nightlight shone in the kitchen. Yvette and Armand must have gone home a while ago.

  Connor? A glance around the kitchen showed her that it was empty, but at least someone had done the dishes. Everything gleamed. Probably Armand had cleaned up, as he usually did after Yvette cooked. She felt a moment of gratitude toward him.

  Carly pulled open the refrigerator and took out a gallon jug of water. She thought about reaching for a glass.

  “To hell with it.” She upended the jug and drank straight from it, swallow after swallow. She wiped her mouth, noting that she’d dribbled plenty of water onto her T-shirt, but she felt slightly better.

  Not much though. She needed aspirin. Her purse in the living room was closer than the bathroom, which was all the way back down the hall.

  Sipping again from the gallon jug, Carly made her way into the dark living room, navigating by the light from the kitchen. She thought she’d dropped the purse behind the chair when the weird professor and his soldier had come in, but she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything about yesterday except Ethan’s bare butt going back and forth as he banged the woman on the counter, and . . .

  Carly snapped on the lamp to look for her purse. And let out a shriek.

  Tiger was sitting on her couch. Not really sitting—lounging back with his long legs stretched out in front of him. The light burnished the orange in his black hair, and his yellow eyes glittered.

  Connor lay on his back on the floor, his knees up, one arm over his eyes, breathing softly. He was asleep, but Tiger was wide awake and watching Carly.

  Carly realized she was in a T-shirt that came to her thighs and a pair of panties, and that was it. Her long legs were bare, and there was nothing between herself and the T-shirt but empty air.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” The words came out as a croak.

  “Protecting you,” Tiger said. “You are my mate.”

  Carly looked wildly from Tiger to Connor and back again. “Protecting me from what? And what are you doing out of bed? Weren’t you supposed to rest, take your meds, and get better?”

  “I am better.” Tiger slid his shirt up his stomach to reveal his abdomen—the skin whole and unbroken, with only round pink scars to show where the bullets had gone in. The rest of his abdomen was as hard, flat, tanned, and well-muscled as the rest of him. The man must work out three times a day.

  Carly stared in surprise. “How in the hell . . . ?”

  “I heal fast. Andrea helped. So did the touch of my mate.”

  “Andrea? Who’s Andrea?”

  Connor answered from the floor, sleepy but alert. “Sean’s mate. She’s half Fae. Has healing magic.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Tiger lowered his shirt. “I protect you
from the man who waits outside for you.”

  “What man?” Carly went for the window, but suddenly Tiger was there next to her, holding her back.

  “Wait.” Tiger snapped off the lamp, rendering the room dark again.

  How he’d gotten off the couch so fast, Carly didn’t know, but he led her to the dark back window, stopping her a few feet from it, and gestured outside.

  Carly saw absolutely nothing. No sinister figure waiting in the dark, no figure at all. “Where?”

  “He hides well. Connor saw him and called me.”

  “I think it’s that Walker guy,” Connor said. He rose from the floor in one sinuous motion, gaining his feet without making any noise. “Or one of his squad.”

  “Why?” Carly glanced out the window again, but she still couldn’t see Walker or anyone else. “You have to be dreaming this.”

  “He’s there,” Tiger said. “Between the shadow of the fence and the tree. He’s chosen a good place. He can look in here but not be seen. At least, not by a human.”

  “Shifters can see in the dark,” Connor said. “Especially Felines. Trust me, he’s there. I called Liam, and Tiger came.”

  “Why on earth should Walker be watching my house?”

  Carly looked once more where Tiger indicated, but she still couldn’t see anything . . . No, there. Something moved.

  The glint vanished as quickly as it had appeared, whoever was out there disappearing into the shadows again.

  “They want to know how much you have to do with Shifters,” Connor said. “Brennan asked you to spy on us, right?”

  “For his research project or whatever. He’s an anthropologist.”

  “Sure,” Connor said. “All I heard from him was he wanted you to get to know us and report to him. He can dress it up, but that sounds like spying to me. He wants Shifter secrets.”