Heart of the Wolf Read online

  HEART OF THE WOLF

  D. B. Reynolds

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  HEART OF THE WOLF

  Copyright © 2010 by Donna Beltz

  E-book ISBN: 1-60601-822-1

  First E-book Publication: June 2010

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

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  DEDICATION

  To all of the lost loves out there. May you soon be found.

  HEART OF THE WOLF

  D. B. REYNOLDS

  Copyright © 2010

  Chapter One

  The angels wept, beautiful faces ravaged with grief, tears coursing down perfect cheeks to fall unheeded on the body cradled between them. Kathryn Avinger gazed up at the huge sculpture and wondered if even the angels could find it in them to weep today. A bitter wind scored the hillside, scattering bits of dirt off the mausoleum and into her eyes. She turned her face aside only to have a fan of dark hair whip across her cheek.

  “Sorry,” Phoebe muttered, gathering her brown locks and twisting them beneath the stiff collar of her white shirt. She wore a business suit beneath her long, black coat and would no doubt rush right back to the office once this obligatory appearance at her father’s funeral was over.

  Kathryn only wished she could rush away as easily. Unfortunately, she was supposed to be the grieving widow at this spectacle, and there was the press to consider, appearances to be maintained. The not-so-dearly-departed Preston Avinger was big money, which meant his death was front page news. And unfortunately, Kathryn was a big part of that story—the trophy wife, decades younger than her aging husband and, suddenly, a very wealthy widow.

  She lifted her gaze slightly to see the reporters hovering like ghouls behind the weeping angels of the Avinger mausoleum, waiting for that perfect moment of grief to share with the world. Kathryn restrained a bitter smile. They were at the wrong funeral if they wanted grief. The angels might be the only true mourners here. She glanced at the people huddled around Preston’s grave, their faces somber as they pretended for the cameras. Most of them were well used to public scrutiny—leaders of business, the mayor, and both of the state’s U.S. senators, even though Preston had only contributed to one. He’d quite despised the other and made no pretense about it. Kathryn had always wondered what the woman had done to offend him. But maybe being a woman was enough. No one would ever accuse Preston Avinger of social liberalism.

  The wind kicked up again, harder this time, as if to urge them off the steep hillside. Kathryn hunched deeper into an elegant cashmere coat and wondered if she’d ever be warm again. Ten years in this city and she was still cold. She hated this place.

  “Christ, get on with it,” a deep voice muttered quietly behind her. That would be Preston Junior, the loving son, her stepson, she supposed, though he was fifteen years older than she was. His words were meant only for Kathryn and for his sister, Phoebe, to hear. Among the three of them, at least, there were no illusions of sorrow.

  For her own part, Kathryn felt nothing. She was numb, though certainly not with grief. Her husband had been sick for years before he died, and even before that…

  Well, surely it said something about a man when not even his wife and children mourned his passing.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as the minister finally ceased his fruitless prayers for Preston’s corrupt soul and laid a hand on her arm. She fought the urge to shake the hand off and looked up to meet his pale blue eyes. He seemed kind, solicitous even. But of course, he’d never really known Preston.

  “It is time, my dear,” he said gently.

  Kathryn nodded, tight-lipped beneath the camouflage of her dark glasses. She took a single step forward, bent down, and scooped up a handful of loose dirt, gritty against the tight leather of her gloves. Another step and she dribbled it slowly onto the coffin, hearing the individual pebbles hit the solid mahogany box. She lingered a moment longer, rubbing her fingers together with a frown before stepping backward. Her heel twisted on the uneven ground, and her bodyguard Tommy reached out to steady her, one big hand cupped under her elbow discreetly.

  Cameras flashed across the way as photographers scrambled to catch the moment, preserving forever the widow’s distress—film at eleven.

  Kathryn turned away from the lenses, leaning unnecessarily on Tommy’s strength.

  Phoebe and her brother approached the grave together, grabbing up a few fingers of dirt and tossing it quickly into the hole before walking away. They had nothing to say over their father’s grave that they hadn’t already said to him in person more than once. With their departure, the rest of the mourners filed past quickly, some pausing to add to the scattering of dirt, some barely glancing below to see the quality of the coffin before moving on. A few stopped to offer their condolences to Kathryn, but no one lingered. It was cold, and they were eager to get to their cars and limousines.

  Kathryn found herself suddenly alone at the grave site. Only Tommy remained by her side. After so many years—the long illness, the endless mourning period demanded by her husband’s notoriety, the false tributes and elaborate memorial he’d arranged for
himself long before his death—after all that, it was done. At long last, she was alone.

  Her shoulders slumped slightly, and the ever-attentive Tommy steered her gently toward the waiting limousine. They walked slowly, her high heels threatening to trip her with every step in the thick grass.

  They had almost reached the limo when she heard the tearing silk sound of a bullet cutting through air. She moved without thought, hitting the ground as the deadly missile whipped through the space where her head used to be, as the crack of the sniper’s fire broke the funeral silence and Tommy was falling on top of her, covering her with his body as a second bullet followed the first.

  Hysteria. People screaming, rushing for their cars, the press pushing past the boundaries set up before the funeral, in hopes of snapping a prize-winning shot of her bloody body or catching her last earthly words before her tragic death. No doubt they’d be terribly disappointed to discover she was unhurt.

  Kathryn lay beneath Tommy’s weight, thinking about the mourners who’d already hurried away after the funeral and so, missing the excitement. She wondered how many of them would lie and say they’d been there when the shot was fired, how they’d breathlessly recount the desperate run for their lives.

  “Give me a minute, Kathryn,” Tommy said, interrupting her cynical thoughts. His voice, low and tight with stress, trembled slightly with adrenaline and maybe even fear. She heard him call out to their driver, just his name, asking a question.

  “Rigo?”

  Rigo must have given a silent go-ahead because they were up and moving, Tommy pulling her to her feet, careful with her but not wasting any time, his heavy body all but draped over hers as he hustled her the few yards to the limo and followed her inside.

  “Go!” Tommy snapped, slamming the door behind them.

  Rigo had the limo accelerating away before the door had fully closed, swerving around the other cars, bouncing over the well-tended grass. Horns honked and people swore. Kathryn barely heard them.

  “Are you hurt?” Tommy asked.

  Kathryn stared at him, blinking hard as she struggled to focus.

  “Kathryn, are you hurt?” Tommy’s voice went up a full octave with tension. He scooted quickly toward her, hands out to pat her down, or whatever it was bodyguards did to make sure their charges hadn’t been shot.

  “I’m fine,” she managed. She brushed his hands away gently. He was a good man, Tommy. “I’m fine,” she repeated more strongly. She dug a smile out and pasted it on her face. “A little rattled, that’s all.”

  She leaned back into the plush leather, noticing twin streaks of grass and dirt on the front of her coat. She stared at the stains absently. Her knees must have hit the ground when…

  “Somebody tried to kill me,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tommy said cautiously.

  She turned in time to catch a worried look pass between the two men. “I wonder why,” she said.

  Chapter Two

  Renjiro Roesner let the heavy door slam behind him, closing off the chatty bottle blonde next door who was fresh off her third divorce and already trolling for hubby number four. Not in this lifetime. He shrugged off his heavy topcoat and threw it over the back of the sofa, pausing only long enough to grab the remote and click on the television as he headed for the refrigerator and a beer. The local news anchors blared out their cheerful recitation of murder, mayhem, and corrupt politicians, as he twisted off the cap and sucked down a long draught of the dark brew.

  What the hell was he doing in this fucking city?

  He grabbed the folder of takeout menus left for him by the leasing agent and stepped out of his Ferragamo loafers, making a note to himself to wear boots tomorrow. It had already started to snow by the time the taxi dropped him off tonight. He couldn’t remember if it usually snowed this time of year around here. He’d been gone a long time.

  He wandered into the living room as the news program shifted away from its token feel-good report and returned to a rehash of the city’s latest outrage. Some widow had been shot at during her husband’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.

  Was there no decency left in the world?

  He shrugged.

  What the humans did to one another wasn’t his problem. His problem was trying to find out why his Alpha had suddenly called him back to the U.S. from Europe after so many years. Not that he’d wasted his time over there. The European wolves had been in disarray since the last war, and there’d been plenty of opportunities for an enterprising dominant like Renjiro to make a name for himself. But despite his long absence, he was still nominally a member of the North American clan—he’d never changed his allegiance—and when his Alpha called, he had to come.

  He sighed and turned his attention back to the menus, trying to decide what to order for dinner. The Italian was out of the question. There was no way it could measure up to what he was used to. And his Japanese mother would never forgive him if he ordered takeout sashimi.

  On-screen, the news program had switched to a live feed from outside police headquarters where a reporter was breathlessly informing the audience that several days after the funeral shooting, the police remained stymied. Ren glanced up as footage of the incident itself began to roll. A windy hillside cemetery, great view of the harbor—what was the point of planting the dead with a great view, anyway? Who was supposed to enjoy it?

  The video rolled on showing the usual assortment of black-clothed mourners.

  Must be some money in that crowd, he thought. Lots of designer duds.

  The picture jumped to the money shot, the silver-haired widow being escorted away from the graveside by a big gorilla of a bodyguard, when, suddenly, everyone was hitting the deck and screaming. More screaming than hitting the deck, he noticed, except for the widow and her gorilla, who were sensibly on the ground.

  He frowned, playing the scene back in his head. Something about it wasn’t quite right, although he couldn’t put his finger on what. The footage was still playing as the apparently unharmed widow, barely visible behind the bulk of the bodyguard, was hustled off the ground into the safety of the limo. Ren tilted his head back to drain the last of his beer as he watched.

  The cameraman got lucky at the last minute and caught a clear shot of the widow’s face.

  Ren suddenly forgot to swallow. Beer rolled down his throat, nearly choking him as the bottle fell to the thick carpet. He scrambled for the remote, trying to remember where he’d thrown the damn thing on his way to the kitchen. He finally found it against the back of the couch and slammed his shin into the table diving for it. He swore viciously as his fingers found the control and hit rewind. Images blurred backward, and he silently blessed the redhead at the electronics store who’d convinced him to get TiVo along with his satellite package. He’d thought it a waste of money. He didn’t plan to be around that much. But she’d been a pretty, little thing, and he’d been thinking of the empty nights in this damn city.

  He froze the playback on that single, clear frame of the widow.

  Kathryn. He stared hungrily at the elegant lines of her face, the graceful curve of her jaw, the upper lip slightly too full for perfection. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of huge, dark glasses, but he knew they’d be storm gray with emotion, just as he knew they sparkled with lightning when she was angry or when she laughed. Her silver hair was cut brutally short. It had been long when he’d seen her last, thick and full and hanging down her back in a glistening waterfall.

  He stared, forgetting to breathe. Damn. How long had it been? Ten years? It felt more like ten lifetimes. She looked the same, but then she would. Ten years was nothing to their kind.

  He sat down heavily and played the footage again, listening to the details, the announcer’s voice-over suitably somber but with a trill of excitement he couldn’t hide.

  The dead man was Preston Avinger, Kathryn’s husband—billionaire investor, patron of the arts, friend to politicians, all the usual accoutre
ments of wealth, and eighty-two years old at the time of his death. Kathryn was twenty-eight, and she’d been Avinger’s wife for ten years. Almost as long as Ren had been gone. Exiled.

  A memory struck him suddenly, so bright and sharp, it was a blade slipping through his ribs to slice his heart. Kathryn, eighteen years old and beautiful. Her silver fur gleaming in the light of the full moon, her form a vision of sheer, elegant grace as she ran through the forests of Clanhome.

  Her father, Dominick Bartek, Alpha to the wolves of North America, had promised her to Ren and then sent him away so he could give her to the wealthy human instead. Ren’s beautiful Kathryn, shackled to a human more than fifty years her senior. It was the reason Ren hadn’t fought Dom about staying in Europe. There’d been nothing left for him here but memories. That, and an anger so deep he couldn’t be in the same room with his Alpha without wanting to kill him.

  Ren rolled the report back to the beginning once again, turning off the irritating announcer’s voice and watching the scene unfold in silence. So Kathryn’s husband was dead. Suddenly, it all made sense, and Ren knew why he had been called back to this fucking city.

  * * * *

  His phone rang ten minutes later while he was still staring at Kathryn’s face like a lovesick schoolboy. He’d played the few minutes of the attack over and over, cursing the television station for their clumsy editing and wishing he’d been in town long enough to have a single decent contact with a news organization or even the cops.

  He picked up the phone.