again. Taking her with me to the wedding.”
“I’ll sniff her out,” Trouble offered. “See what’s up.”
“Keep your nose away from my woman,” Stryke said with a less-than-gentle nudge to his brother’s ribs. “I’ll figure it out. She’s...complicated.”
“Ah, hell, complicated women are not for me.” Trouble wandered ahead again at sight of a gaggle of tourist girls who couldn’t be a day over the age of sixteen.
“This way,” Kelyn called, and they veered to the right to distract their brother’s wandering attention. “Let’s get something to eat at that gyro place we ate at last night.”
“I’m going to head across the river,” Stryke said. “I want to walk through the Tuileries and check it out.”
“The what?” Trouble asked.
“It used to be the royal gardens a few centuries ago.”
“Dude, I don’t care about flowers.”
“I know. That’s why I’ll head there by myself.” And he didn’t need the harassment of his brothers should he manage to find Blyss’s place while pretending to be interested in some stupid flowers. “I’ll see you two later.”
The brothers exchanged fist bumps, and Stryke headed across a bridge laden with padlocks and toward the garden. He’d eaten a sandwich after Blyss left and wasn’t hungry yet, so he didn’t miss the food break. Trouble could eat all the time. And Kelyn, well... That kid rarely ate. So he was odd. Stryke worried about him at times. This world was not the place for Kelyn, but he wasn’t sure Faery would welcome him either.
The Tuileries was a disappointment. Where were the flowers? It was mostly espaliered trees and trimmed shrubs and some marble statues. The French had strange ideas about gardens, that was for sure.
Crossing a wildly busy roundabout intersection, Stryke then wandered down the Champs-Élysées, taking in the elegant storefronts and dodging tourists who wielded armloads of shopping bags. He pulled out his phone and clicked on Blyss’s address. The GPS located her immediately. About two blocks from where he stood.
Spying a stand selling flowers, he detoured.
“Can’t show up uninvited and empty-handed.”
He purchased some flowers then wandered deeper down the narrow streets that hugged three-and four-story buildings that he guessed must be centuries old. He knew Paris had been drastically redesigned sometime in the nineteenth century by Haussmann, and Napoleon had also torn down many structures, but the ancient history remained. Everything was elaborate, the building fronts featuring carved stone edifices and mascarons and even gilding on some of the stone and ironwork. Locked gates and digital entry systems clued him he had entered a ritzy neighborhood.
Stryke suddenly felt very underdressed in his Boundary Waters T-shirt and jeans with the worn hems dusting his scuffed Doc Martens. Maybe this was a bad idea? Showing up at a socialite’s pied-à-terre looking like a tourist? He wasn’t even sure what pied-à-terre meant, but it sounded cool.
He paused on a street corner paved in cobblestones. A red Vespa scooted by, and an elderly woman with gray hair bound behind her head and a pair of leather chaps nodded at him. The image made Stryke smile and he decided to go for it.
But as he stepped off the curb he heard the click of high heels.
“Are you stalking me, Monsieur Saint-Pierre?”
He turned to find Blyss looking like some kind of magazine model in a tailored pink dress and matching high heels. One hand clutched a slim purse and in the other dangled a dainty bag sporting the store name Pierre Hermé. She’d changed since seeing him only a few hours earlier.
“Uh, I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d see if I could find your place.” He held out the red roses, bound with twine. “These made me think of your lips.”
She strolled slowly across the street, her eyes never leaving his, and the sexy tilt of her head pretty much went straight for his loins. She traced a delicate fingernail along a rose petal. Stryke could smell her perfume and the sweetness inside the bag she carried. Must be pastries. Yet he couldn’t scent her wolf now.
“So you’ve found me.” She walked across the street, away from him.
That was it? She hadn’t taken the roses. “Uh, maybe you want to invite me up?”
She paused before a steel door, her fingers perched upon the digital entry pad. Did she have to think about it? Yep, he should have tried more for suave instead of tourist with his look today.
She punched in the code, pushed the door open and strode inside. She didn’t close the door, so Stryke took that as an invite to follow. The woman had a way with leading him places. And he liked what happened once he arrived.
Closing the door behind him, he saw she walked through a small open courtyard lined with militantly trimmed green shrubs and simple flowers. It was amazing how Paris had all these hidden gems of greenery tucked in private courtyards. Reminded him of being home in the country.
Well, not really, but he’d use his imagination. It was necessity when surrounded by tarmac, buildings, and nothing but humans for miles and miles.
Blyss veered right and disappeared into the cool shadows.
He hastened his steps to keep up with her. Normally, Stryke could follow another werewolf by scent alone. Why was it that he had only sensed her innate wolf when they were having sex? It was as if the adrenaline had to be rushing through her system to stir whatever pheromones his wolf could react to.
And he understood the subject of their breed was off-limits. It shouldn’t bother him, but he couldn’t help being curious. How often did Blyss happen upon another werewolf? Was it so common to her that she’d grown bored of the discussion? Couldn’t be.
He’d lucked out. And as little as he knew about her, he did like her. Could something come of this? He daren’t hope, but at the same time, his inner wolf howled with joy.
* * *
Blyss opened her front door. Stryke looked so innocently hungry staring at her with that adoring expression and underlined by the gorgeous bouquet of roses. The wedding wasn’t until tomorrow but she believed his excuse that he had been walking in the area.
She never invited men into her home. It wasn’t wise. Once invited in, it was often difficult to make them leave after she tired of them. And they sometimes returned. It was a sticky business to have to deal with.
And this particular man was more than man. He was werewolf. The last creature in this world with whom she wished to be intimate.
Alas, she had ignored any intuition that would have kept her safe from that emotional danger. And even as she vacillated with grabbing the roses and slamming the door in his face, the compulsion to pull him in by that awful T-shirt and let him have his way with her was even stronger.
She couldn’t resist his wild allure. It was an accidental allure, she felt sure. The man wasn’t a master seducer. Though he was an amazing lover. And he wasn’t suave or polished, as she preferred her men. He was a rough and awkward man from the United States, of all places, who
