come when with him.
“Blyss? Are you...?”
A frightening truth assaulted Blyss like a blow to the gut. The only way Stryke could possibly guess such a thing about her was if he was also a wolf.
She had just slept with a werewolf.
Oh, mercy, what terrible thing had she done?
“It’s okay.” He moved to the edge of the bed, his hands up to placate. His eyes softened, as did his voice. “I didn’t realize you were my breed. I’m werewolf,” he offered, obviously sensing her distress. “I didn’t realize what you were last night in your office. Usually I can scent another of my kind. Maybe your perfume overwhelmed my senses.”
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
The innate instinct to flee when cornered moved Blyss’s limbs. She excused herself to go to the bathroom and rushed across the hardwood floor. With the door closed behind her, and the cool bathroom tiles beneath her bare feet, she turned on the faucet and splashed her face with tepid water. Her reflection could not overlook that twitch at the corner of her heart that manifested in a frown. Her hair was tousled, her lipstick worn away. Her eye shadow still looked perfect, but...
Nothing was perfect. He knew.
And while she should have laughed off his guess and made a grand and confident exit as stunning as her entrance, she couldn’t simply leave. She had come here for a reason. Her very life depended on securing the black diamond she had planted in Stryke’s suit pocket.
Merde. Stryke Saint-Pierre was a werewolf.
Her heartbeats dropped to her stomach. Blyss pressed her palms to the cool vanity sink, bowing her head. He hadn’t scented her because the pills she took to suppress her werewolf made her virtually human.
“How did he know?” she begged her reflection.
It had to have been the sex. When she had climaxed and her body had released...something had clued him to her heritage. Pheromones or something like that. No man had noticed before because she’d never had sex with a werewolf.
What luck—the one man she had picked out from the crowd to help her should be the very man she needed to stay away from. Wanted to stay away from. But now could not.
Not until she found what she’d come for.
She straightened and nodded firmly at the mirror. She would go out there, dress, and she had to check the closet for the suit he’d worn last night. How to do that without raising suspicion? And how to avoid the werewolf questions?
She wanted to run away from it all. As she had so many years ago when her fellow classmates had stared at her with horror.
“You can do this. You have to do this.” She winced. Could Stryke possibly help her? No. She had a plan. She would stick to it. “He must never know what kind of trouble I’m in.”
With a few adjustments to her hair and a pat of a towel to dry her face, Blyss wandered back into the bedroom. Her lover stood by the window, naked, with an erection. The sun beamed across his face and shadowed his body, silhouetting that proud jut of manhood before the glass. Gorgeous. Something she would miss. She already missed him. The whole man. His kisses. His firm yet loving touch. His sexy smile...
Hell, what was she thinking? Get your head on course.
Blyss sat on the end of the bed. She picked up the red velvet dress from the floor. Where was her purse? Must have left it in the kitchen when she’d entered. “Your water is nice and hot here.”
“Is that a good thing? I mean, isn’t it all over the city?” He strode over to her and stroked his fingers over her hair. A shiver trickled down her neck and tightened her nipples. He smelled like fire and strength and sex. It was annoyingly distracting.
“Usually takes mine five minutes to warm nicely in the winter,” she provided in an attempt to stick to the plan. “I may live off the Champs-Élysées, but the plumbing doesn’t care that it is the ritzy section of town.”
“Is that the street with all the fancy shops on it? The one that leads up to Napoleon’s statue?”
Blyss smiled and stood to face him. She trailed a finger down his chest that was dusted with brown hair. His muscles gleamed in the sunlight.
“It’s not a statue. It’s a monument. The Arc de Triomphe was erected by Napoleon to commemorate his military victories.” She kissed his jaw. Avoided touching his hard-on. Not an easy task. “Wish I had a toothbrush.”
“I might have seen an extra in the drawer. Give me a few minutes to brush my teeth. Then I’ll set one out for you. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
He kissed her on the mouth and she pushed away from him. “I just said—”
“Are we going to discuss the werewolf thing?”
Heartbeats rammed against her rib cage. “I don’t want to. I... No. Please let it go, Stryke.”
He sighed and nodded. But for a few seconds he studied her. Trying to look inside her? Figure how he had missed that she was a werewolf?
If only she had known the same about him.
Finally, Stryke strolled toward the bathroom.
Tearing her gaze from his sexy backside, Blyss sighed. The life she led was a difficult achievement. And she did strive for it. But it was to be her undoing.
When the bathroom door closed, she slipped the dress over her head as she made a beeline for the closet door. Inside, the walk-in closet was vast and empty. Only the first rack held a few items. Two pairs of men’s shoes sat on the floor beside a large empty suitcase.
She touched the hung items. A few T-shirts. Some jeans and a pair of dressier slacks. One white dress shirt. Nothing designer. And one black tie that wasn’t silk but rather something like polyester.
Blyss shuddered. The man’s wardrobe was hideous. Not a natural fiber in the lot, and yet the suit last night had been Zegna, if she was not mistaken. And she rarely misjudged couture. Though it had been poorly tailored to fit him, it had been expensive. She was sure of it.
Where was the suit?
“Hey.”
Blyss startled. She hadn’t heard Stryke’s return and now he stood in the doorway, filling the space with an easy confidence, shoulders set back and head tilted. He’d put on a pair of jeans that hung low, revealing the hard cuts of muscle that veered toward his groin like some kind of traffic alert that screamed “Go this way!”
“What are you doing?” He held a boxed toothbrush in his hand.
“Uh, just...looking.” She spread her palm down the front of one of the T-shirts. Shit. What to say? “I’m a bit of a snoop.” Weren’t all women? “A girl can learn a lot about a man by standing in his closet.”
Oh, bad save, Blyss. Very bad save.
“Is that so? Tell me what you’ve
