She lifted what may have been her tenth—or thirteenth—vodka to salute, and Ridge swept his arm to clink his glass against hers, but missed, his arm swinging around and splashing the trio of strippers sitting in the next booth.
Half an hour later, Elvis pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Addison happily married. To the tune of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding,” the groom lifted his smoke-smudged bride into his arms and walked down the short red-carpeted aisle and right into the red-and-black-striped wall behind the electric organ.
As the couple tumbled about in a tangle of limbs and fits of giggles, Elvis—the rhinestone-spangled leisure suit version—bent over them and pointed out the cheap stained-glass window to the hotel across the street. “Because I’d hate to see either of you behind the wheel right now.”
They saluted the King of Rock and staggered across the street. It took three tries to actually make it to the other side without ending up back at the Viva Las Vegas chapel.
Room 12 had probably seen some crazy things during the motel’s sixty-year run, but this night it would see the weirdest.
Clothing was torn away. Laughter accompanied sensual moans and sudden giggles. They didn’t kiss much. Too difficult to get the aim right with their blurry brains.
Ridge, while in his cups, couldn’t stop touching his sexy new wife everywhere. Her skin felt softer than anything he’d known. Thank heavens, she hadn’t been burned. Her hair, tangled and dirty, and smelling like a burnt coconut, appealed as no woman’s ever had.
Despite his inebriation, something deep inside him growled in a knowing way. Mine. Meant for me.
He ignored the growl—to his detriment—and managed to find his way between her slender, smooth legs. Remarkably, his cock was hard, which only proved how much she turned him on, even two sheets to the wind. Her fingers grasping greedily at his thick, muscled arms, she let out a long, delicious moan as he fit himself inside her.
For one perfect moment, he grew sober and fell into the heavenly sanctuary of her body.
This is where you belong.
“Oh, Ridge,” she moaned. He’d told her his name after Elvis had prompted him. What was hers? Something like Gail or Abby. “Yes!” Her body bucked beneath his, and he chased the climax that was so close to exploding in his loins.
That inner growl he had ignored? Well, now it turned into a real growl. He let out a low and wanting howl that vibrated in his bones. Even drunk, he knew this was Not A Good Thing.
Or rather, Just Plain Bad Timing.
Thrusting quickly, Ridge ignored the shift in his bones and the stretch of skin that prickled with fur. He was almost there. Just a few more thrusts …
Climax shuddered through his body—which was now halfway between man and beast.
He lost hold on the woman’s narrow shoulders and his talons cut into the mattress. His shoulders stretched and the bones reshaped. Fur pushed through his pores. His torso lengthened. Paws slipped off the bed.
Bloodshot blue eyes flashed open and his pretty new wife gaped. That look was one hundred percent sober. Without pause, she scrambled onto her elbows, hauled up her leg and kicked Ridge’s furred chest. He stumbled backward and off the creaky old bed, his paws slapping the wall.
He growled, revealing a maw of meat-tearing teeth.
“What the hell?” His wife huffed and gasped, clasping a hand to her bare and oh-so-gorgeous breasts. Then she angled those wicked blue eyes on him and pointed a finger. “Ignis!”
The rusted tin lamp on the nightstand flickered out. The electrical outlet, which was missing an outlet plate, sparked and smoked. The television shot out sparks from behind the tube, and the LED clock on the nightstand exploded in a stunning shower of white sparks.
Ridge’s werewolf yowled as some kind of weird electricity hit him in the gut, burrowing deep through his skin and burning his very organs. All he could think was magic. He’d been struck by magic. The woman was a witch! Which went a long way in explaining why she’d been tied to a stake and surrounded by fire—the only way to kill a witch. She and the bastard flinging fire from his fingers were both witches. What had he interrupted?
The burn in his gut flared a sizzling path to his loins. The magic still cut through him. Ridge gripped his penis protectively. His muscles clenched and he let out a desperate howl that was abruptly cut off.
As his werewolf collapsed, his wolf-shaped head landing on the end of the bed, Ridge had one thought: werewolves should never mess with witches.
Chapter 2
Present, in Minneapolis
Abigail dusted the soccer ball on the floor next to the Powder Pro snowshoes, which sat next to the football and a tennis racket. This boy’s room was classic, but it hadn’t felt the thud of a basketball on its walls or heard loud rock music vibrate the artist’s pens in the drawers for months.
Ryan was due back from Switzerland this evening. She wanted to put the finishing touches to the cleaning before leaving for the airport to pick him up. He’d been less than thrilled when she’d mentioned the Swiss prep school last spring, but since he’d arrived in the summer for admissions, she rarely got a phone call from him because he’d made so many friends, and “Mom, the skiing!”
A total boy, Ryan liked anything sporty, dirty and rough. Winter sports, especially. His hair had grown shaggy and he was wearing his jeans loose to reveal the waistband of his boxer shorts—a style she abhorred but “Mom, all the guys do it!” He’d yet to discover the mystical, wondrous attraction to girls, but she felt sure that was just around the corner, and actually looked forward to her son going girl crazy. Of course, no girl would be deserving of her boy.
He hadn’t shown signs of developing magic yet, so she was thankful for that in ways she wasn’t willing to admit to herself.
It wasn’t common for male children of witches to be born with innate magic unless both his parents had mastered the same magics. With the combined genetic capabilities, then the possibility of gaining magic increased greatly, but as with most witches, they didn’t come into their magic until puberty. Judging from her last phone conversation, as she’d kept a chuckle to herself to hear her son’s voice crack and bellow, Ryan was toeing that change right now.
On the other hand, there was another warning sign she hoped would not rear up in her son’s body. She actually prayed to a god she had never before worshipped that sign would never come to fruition.
And then sometimes she did wish it would show up. It would make Ryan’s life more difficult, but it would appease her aching heart in ways she could never completely explain to her son.
Smoothing out the blue-and-black-striped bedspread, she eyed the box wrapped in sparkly red-and-green Christmas paper on the stand by the bed. They hadn’t been able to share Christmas together, which they did celebrate, even though witches did not tend to observe the Christian holidays.
Ryan had never been bothered when other kids received gifts at the end of the year. He thought it materialistic, yet he didn’t protest when she gave him one because any excuse to give a gift was always fun. He was going to flip when he opened the Nintendo game system. He’d wanted one for over a year, and though his birthday was in the spring, he deserved it for his straight-A report card.
Flipping off the lights in his room, Abigail strolled through the living room, patting Swell Cat on his big black head as she passed the pink velvet couch. He meowed a feline approval and stretched along the back of the couch, his tail curling tightly before it tucked along his plump body.
Life was about as perfect as a contented cat, she mused. Her reputation as one of the baddest witches in the States had taken a nosedive, but that was for the best considering she now had a son. Despite her fears over the years, nothing had come to harm her little family, thanks to the protection measures she had instituted. And she would remain vigilant on that front.
Wandering into her bedroom, she sorted through the dresses and tops in the walk-in closet without touching them. She stood in the center and with a flick of her finger, magically slid the hangers side to side. Citrus and clove tickled the air, wafting from the fresh orange balls she kept tucked here and there throughout the house. She stuck cloves into the orange peel and they lasted weeks, dispersing their fresh scent. It was a brutal eleven degrees below zero this fine January day, so she aimed for a sweater.
She’d come to Minnesota at the turn of the twentieth century. It had seemed a nice, quiet place after Europe, domestic and unassuming, yet hardy. Deeply grounded in their Scandinavian heritage, the people had been welcoming and had never suspected a witch had moved into their quaint Lake Harriet neighborhood.
She’d needed that anonymity. It was easy enough to get along when your neighbors didn’t believe in all the silly nonsense mortal minds conjured when they thought the word witch. It was never accurate, and always involved the devil, black robes and dancing naked under the full moon. Ridiculous.
Well, the devil and robes part. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with dancing naked once in a while. Skyclad had been her preferred casual dress, until she’d become a mother.
And back then after her move, she’d been recruited to serve on the Witches’ Greater Midwest Council, which had a base in Minneapolis, so living here had been a no-brainer. She no longer served on that council, made up exclusively of witches, but now instead served on the Council, which oversaw all the paranormal nations, except the sidhe.
Some days she wondered how long she could stick it out here in the Midwest, home of plaid shirts, gas-guzzling SUVs and tater tot hot dishes drenched in cream of mushroom soup. The bad girl inside her would never completely be put down. And Minnesota winters were enough to send her up a wall clambering for spring sunshine and fresh lilacs.
She was in the mood for Venice, perhaps even Mumbai. Someplace warm, and center of the city, tucked within the cosmopolitan and the haut couture. A place where, at the snap of a finger, she could buy fresh seafood and decadent five-star chocolate desserts. And that wasn’t a magical finger snap. She wanted to go someplace where a man knew how to please a woman, and wouldn’t stop until he got things right.
Wasn’t easy getting dates when your tween-age inquisitive son always tagged along to the bookstores and coffee shops. She could conjure a love spell, but that was cheating. And besides, men under the influence of a spell were not true to themselves, and thus, could never be true to her, either.
Despite giving up on the need for a serious relationship over a decade ago, she did favor having a lover. No woman should be without a sexual partner for too long. And her attachment issues were improving, so really, she was ready. Bring on the sexy man with a foreign accent and a focused need to please her.
Slipping on a white cotton sweater over her pink camisole, she checked her side view in the mirror and winked. Soft pink rabbit fur rimmed the collar and sleeve hems. She loved the sensual brush of fur over her skin, though the sensory trill did remind her she was quite loverless at the moment. Guess it was time to go out and see what she could shovel up from the slim pickings. There were yet a few gems buried in the area’s waist-high snow, she felt sure.
“You still got it, Abigail. Even after four and a half centuries.”
One advantage to immortality was her never-aging appearance, and the wicked resistance to gaining weight no matter how many times she treated herself to triple chocolate cake. Go, immortality!
“Now to find a man who is strong enough to take on this witch … and her son.”
