“Blyss!”
Her assistant, Lorcan Price, was bedecked in a pink bespoke suit and bright purple bow tie. He adjusted his thick black-rimmed glasses and crossed the room, weaving between patrons and wielding champagne flutes in each hand. He gained her side and pressed a cool champagne glass into her hand.
The man seemed to possess a sixth sense about how to please her. Bon mots uttered at the precise moment she was beginning to doubt herself, a compliment about her designer shoes, even a conspiratorially catty wink from across the room during such events as tonight.
Blyss tilted back a few sips of bubbly, eyeing the crowd over the crystal rim as she did so. Most men had a woman draped on their arm this evening and looked oh-so-bored. If they were wise, they’d pay attention to those things that attracted their partners’ eyes, such as all things sparkly. Blyss’s usual type, an older man who wore an expensive suit, tended his nails and hair, and who reeked money, were spread throughout the gallery. Some had even come alone. Such fortune.
But tonight she required someone different.
“The show is going well,” Lorcan said in his quiet yet enthusiastic voice. “The duchess Konstantinov has suggested to me she may loan the gallery her grandmother’s sapphire collection. She’s from old Russian money. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve a Fabergé egg stashed away, as well. Isn’t that spectacular?”
“Exquisite,” Blyss agreed. Yet the intrigue of whether or not the duchess did own a Fabergé egg didn’t pique her curiosity. Her heart wasn’t in the moment. Too much to think about. The plan must go off or she faced a horrible future.
“Is all well with the, erm...big surprise?” he whispered conspiratorially.
“Oui, bien sur.” At least, not if anyone cared to study Le Diabolique too closely. “Soon, Lorcan. But I don’t know about announcing it tonight.”
“I will leave it to you, then. You do have the only key to the storage room.”
Always trying to gain that access, Blyss thought. Maybe someday she would trust him to tend the acquisitions. But not yet.
“Keep working the room, Lorcan. And do be sure to introduce yourself to Madame Horchard. She’s filthy.” As in rich. A shorthand the two of them shared. Because if there was one thing that had drawn Blyss to Lorcan, it was his desire to climb the social ladder by means of attaching himself to money. “I must make another round through the gallery.”
They bussed each other’s cheeks. Lorcan knew well that Blyss abhorred getting her lipstick or her hair mussed.
Clutching the goblet, she strode slowly through the crowd, nodding in acknowledgment to those she knew. Normally she noted the flash of bling on ears, at necks, and wrists and fingers. So she had managed ten carats from her lover? Lucky girl. But tonight her mind was a scatter. Nerves made her tense.
Her heartbeats thundered. She inhaled and then exhaled deeply, vying for calm. She hated this feeling of desperation that had settled into her being the past few days. She’d thought to have perfected her life and that smooth sailing was all her future held.
Until her father, Colin Sauveterre, had shown up at her door a month ago, slobbering drunk and crying. His gambling debts had caught up to him. He’d needed her help. But by helping him, she had placed herself on a precipice that loomed over a dangerous fall.
Would she ever again feel safe and sure? As if her life was exactly as she had designed it? All she desired was to drop her shoulders and relax, knowing all was well. And that she fit in.
Exhaling heavily, she drew in a breath of courage. She could do this. She had to do this.
She managed a fake smile to a dignitary whose name she could not recall, and drifted away from the velvet-and-glass displays that featured dazzling diamonds and colored stones in gorgeous settings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Rubbing a hand along her lace dress, Blyss cursed the fact her palm was moist. Nerves were not her thing. She could work a room peopled with hundreds and never let them see her sweat. But tonight was different. And she hadn’t found the right man yet.
But she remained hopeful.
Trading her empty flute of champagne for a fresh one from a waiter’s silver tray, she glided through the room and out into the large gallery that housed marble sculptures and where many had gone to chatter louder and more gregariously than the smaller room allowed.
The men were of all varieties. Old, young, middle-aged. Handsome, ugly, oddly alluring. Black ties and designer labels, mostly. Some lesser suits, of which she did not recognize the designer. The women were all dressed to dazzle and reveal.
The couture made her wish she had a credit card that wasn’t maxed out. Alexander McQueen? Oh, yes, please.
Blyss revealed as much as the other women. The black lace dress was cut low in the back to expose almost everything, and the front featured a deep V that clung to her breasts yet revealed their inner curves. A thigh-high slit on the floor-length skirt showed off her red-soled Louboutins. Diamonds at her neck and ears were prizes earned on the quest for the rich and bored who hunted for a sparkling trophy to hang on his arm. But never commitment. No, she chose her men for their expiration dates—and the wanderlust in their eyes. And if they suggested something longer than a fling or a few weekends in Madrid? She quickly extricated herself.
It wasn’t easy maintaining the lifestyle she enjoyed, but every kiss, every extravagant meal, every late night hookup in a lavish hotel room was worth it. Blyss adored luxury.
Most of all, she adored being adored.
Hmm, now there stood a possibility. The man chatting with the waiter over by the Rodin. She hadn’t seen him at any of the gallery’s previous functions. He was tall, nicely tanned—perhaps from yachting?—and wore his hair in a close shave against his head. Bright white teeth flashed beneath his blade nose. An easy stance advertised a certain laissez-faire. He didn’t care what others thought about him.
Blyss could not relate to lacking concern. As well, something about him didn’t quite fit him among the elite crowd. Was it the fabric that stretched at his broad shoulders? The suit had been poorly tailored. Or his seeming awestruck gaze as he took in the festivities? He was...big. Almost awkward. Like a boulder tossed into a flower garden.
Well, he wouldn’t be here without an invite. And Blyss tendered her invites carefully. He was worth checking out—if not, using.
* * *
Stryke wandered through the marble-walled gallery, taking in the sculptures by artists he’d only read about in books. Yeah, so he was probably the only one of his brothers who claimed to read. Much unlike his brothers, who hadn’t the patience or interest in fine arts, he enjoyed learning new things and bulking up his cultural-knowledge quotient.
He took in the elite crowd who sipped champagne and nibbled caviar-coated crackers. He assessed every step, every gesture, every cut of fabric and deviously delivered bon mot. Diamonds glinted at ears, necks and cuff links. He was pretty sure the clothing cost a small fortune, and didn’t even want to guess at how long he’d have to work to afford the diamond choker around that old lady’s neck.
He wasn’t currently working for a paycheck. After a short stint as a volunteer fireman—the fire station had been closed due to budget problems—he was looking for something to fulfill his need for action and danger. It didn’t need to provide a paycheck; he was set for life. But as well, if it involved helping his own breed then he would be even more attracted to taking on the job.
These people were not his breed. They were human. Not his crowd. On the other hand, he was accustomed to existing among humans because that was simply life as he knew it. Wasn’t as if a private werewolf haven existed on an island in the Pacific.
He wouldn’t be interested if it did exist. He liked humans. They were just like him, but without the propensity to grow fur and flick out the claws when the mood struck. Poor humans.
Tonight’s biggest surprise? His brother Blade had come along with him. The last of the Saint-Pierre brothers he would have guessed had an interest in art. Reclusive almost to the extreme, Blade had nodded and muttered something about “getting away from the crazy chicks and their wedding talk.”
And yet, Blade had left fifteen minutes ago with his arms wrapped around sexy blonde twins wearing matching red miniskirts. So Blade’s idea of art was a little different than most.
Stryke had flown to Paris with his family. His parents, Malakai and Rissa Saint-Pierre, and their children, Trouble, Blade, Kelyn and Daisy Blu. Stryke’s aunt Kambriel was marrying Johnny Santiago in a few days. The Santiagos were the Hawkes side of the family, and they were vampires.
Fine by him. As with humans, he had nothing against vamps. His grandfather Creed Saint-Pierre was a vamp, and Blade was actually half faery—as well as vampire. It was all good so long as there were werewolves in the mix at the wedding.
Stryke had heard Europe’s werewolf population was booming and the females were in abundance, much the opposite of his native hometown. He hoped that was true. It would increase his chances of meeting a female werewolf, falling in love and getting married.
If only reality proved as simple as the fantasy.
Stryke likely wouldn’t hook up so easily as Blade had tonight. He was no slouch when it came to dating, but he did tend toward a specific type. Pretty, yet slightly tomboyish, able to embrace fun and a lover of all things outdoors, including snuggling by a midnight bonfire and long walks through the woods.
Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.
And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.
Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.
He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.
A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non,merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.
Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?
A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.
