“MacBride’s a common enough name in Scotland and Ireland,” she’d informed him with a coy look, before asking, “What happened to her?”

“Who?” He’d looked the soul of innocence, the bastard.

“Sure and you know, your last girl pal. I’d hate to think she might come back to claim you.” Tamara had held her breath then, torn between not wanting to hear whatever lie he came up with and being desperate for information.

He’d shrugged. “Hard to say quite what happened. Guess she dumped me.” He’d made a sour face then and muttered something disparaging about women under his breath. That had been two months ago. In the intervening time, she’d inveigled her way into his life. Because she was attractive, pleasant, and never made any demands—easy enough since she couldn’t bear the sight, or stench, of him—he’d allowed her into his inner circle.

She closed her teeth over her lower lip. The only thing she hadn’t done was kill him. It would be easy enough. He slept like a dead thing because of his drug habit. She could do the deed and be out of their bedroom, and on her way, hours before anyone discovered his body. She’d never formally registered as a hotel guest. Jaret had had his reasons for wanting her invisible. Apparently he’d never guessed she might have her own.

So, why haven’t I finished this?

The answer bubbled up and it sickened her. Nothing in her chosen profession as a freelance photojournalist had prepared her for wholesale slaughter. She was a coward, plain and simple. Killing in her mountain lion form was one thing. It felt…natural. Not that she’d ever killed anything except game to eat, even shifted. To take a life, in a cold-blooded, carefully thought out manner, repelled her. She’d dreamed of shoving her knife into Jaret’s carotid, even circled him while he slept, blade in hand, but in the end she hadn’t been able to force herself to strike.

Her hands ached because she’d balled them into fists. Once she uncrimped her fingers, blood welled where her nails had sliced into her palms. Either I do this thing, or I need to leave. An unpleasant thought surfaced. She was in so deep, he’d never just let her walk away. Maybe that had been Moira’s undoing. Sick to death of playing third fiddle behind Jaret’s addictions, maybe her proud sister had issued an ultimatum and ended up with enough heroin in her bloodstream to kill a moose.

The more she considered it, the more certain Tamara was she’d hit within spitting distance of the truth. She gazed at her lap and pulled the gaping front of her dress closer together. There wasn’t any choice. Not really. He’d never let her go, so she had to latch onto enough moxie to finish him off.

“Another drink, mademoiselle?” The waiter was back; he stared at her half-exposed breasts, a lascivious grin not far from the surface.

She nodded. “Scotch. Single malt. Twenty years old, or more.”

“Very good, mademoiselle. Anything to go with it?”

What could she order that wouldn’t blow her upset stomach story? “Um, crackers, with some brie.”

The waiter walked away. She stared after him. In a very distant way, he looked like the Teutonic god who’d been eyeing them from across the baccarat table earlier. The tall, blond man had been broad-shouldered and slim-hipped. His eyes were a cool, icy gray, and his facial bones damn near perfect, with a square jaw and pronounced cheekbones. He hadn’t smiled, but she imagined his teeth would be very straight.

Why can’t I have someone like that in my life?

Because I’m a shifter, goddammit. It’s a big secret to keep.

Yeah, and to keep on keeping it made her weary. She’d given up on a normal life when the first change had come on her shortly after she hit puberty. There were laws to ensure shifters didn’t get out of hand. It was easier to hide what she was than to embrace it. Her parents, both shifters themselves, had hammered that point until she was sick of hearing it.

The waiter had just stopped by with her drink and crackers with cheese when Jaret joined her. “Feeling better, I see.” He pried the glass from her hand, swallowed half its contents, and raised his eyebrows. “Expensive.”

“I can pay for it. I still have a little money.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no. Wouldn’t dream of that. You’re my woman, aren’t you?” At her pleasant nod, he went on, “I take care of my women. Good care of them. Come on.” He tugged her to her feet.

“Wait. My shoes.” She bent and fished them from beneath her chair. Hanging onto him, she balanced first on one foot, then the other, while she slid her feet into the pumps. “Okay.” She grinned broadly. “All ready.”

“Do you want to bring the crackers along?”

“Sure. Why not?” She gripped the plate in one hand and curved the other around his arm. He finished her drink and steered them out of the casino toward the stairs that led to the Hotel de Paris.

Tonight, she told herself. Before tonight’s over, he’ll be dead. Moira can rest in peace, and I’ll be out of here.

Chapter Two

Shock ran through Lars as he stood in the open doorway of his room; he clacked his jaw shut. Someone had planted a bomb with a timer. Running on instinct, he yanked the door to his suite closed seconds before an explosion rocked the floor. He’d just jammed his gun out of sight when two hard-eyed men dressed in the casino’s signature black shirts, blazoned with a red fleur-de-lis, raced into the hall. It figured the hotel would use the casino’s security squad since the Place de Casino was right next door and managed by the same corporation.

“Monsieur. What happened?” The red haired guard loped to his side and stared at Lars with penetrating green eyes. Around fifty, he looked like he’d seen a lot. Lars knew better than to try to feed him a line of bullshit.

He ginned up a rattled expression. “Damn if I know. I had just opened the door to my suite when I realized I had forgotten my jacket in the casino. I pulled the door shut and turned to leave.” He tossed his hands skyward. “The whole building shook.” Lars jerked a thumb toward his room. “It sounded like something exploded in there. Is that even possible? My things…”

The other guard pulled out a small electronic device, traced the sides, top, and bottom of Lars’ door, and muttered, “No fire. No poison gas.”

“Maybe we should get the dog,” the first guard said.

“Dog?” Lars infused anger into his tone. “If your implication is I have something illegal in my room, I resent the hell out of it.”

The second guard, a balding thirty-something with brown hair and mud-colored eyes shrugged. “Resent all you wish, monsieur. We see a lot here. The Mediterranean is a prime entry point for drugs from Africa and the Middle East.”

Lars drew himself up. “May I go back into my room? See what has been damaged? I had a very expensive laptop, my clothes, the keys to my airplane.”

“You own an airplane?” Guard number one exchanged glances with his cohort.

“Yes.” Lars reached for his back pocket and found himself staring down the barrels of two .45 caliber semiautomatic pistols. He held his hands up. “Whoa, easy there, boys. I was just going to show you my passport and my ID. We are on the same side here.”

“We’ll get them for you.” Guard number two moved behind Lars and extracted his wallet and passport case. He flipped open the passport and handed Lars his wallet.

Lars pulled out a business card with The Company’s logo and handed it to the guard who wasn’t examining his passport. A radio crackled. The red-haired guard spoke into it in French, telling the man on the other end everything was under control.

“Now that you know who I am, may we at least open the door to my suite to assess the damage?” Lars asked, taking his passport. He returned it to his back pocket, along with his wallet.