Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Susan Krinard
“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”
—Amanda Quick
“Darkly intense, intricately plotted and chilling, this sexy tale skilfully interweaves several time periods, revealing key past elements with perfect timing but keeping the reader firmly in the novel’s ‘present’ social scene.”
—Library Journal on Lord of Sin
“Krinard’s imagination knows no bounds as she steps into the mystical realm of the unicorn and takes readers along for the ride of their fairy-tale lives.”
—RT BOOK Reviews on Lord of Legends, 4½ stars
“A master of atmosphere and description.”
—Library Journal
“Magical, mystical and moving … fans will be delighted.”
—Booklist on The Forest Lord
“A darkly magical story of love, betrayal and redemption. Krinard is a bestselling, highly regarded writer who is deservedly carving out a niche in the romance arena.”
—Library Journal on The Forest Lord
“A poignant tale of redemption.”
—Booklist on To Tame a Wolf
“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters, Ms Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.”
—RT BOOK Reviews on Secrets of the Wolf
Luck of the Wolf
Susan Krinard
Also available from Susan Krinard
and Mills & Boon® Nocturne™:
BRIDE OF THE WOLF
COME THE NIGHT
DARK OF THE MOON
CHASING MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
San Francisco, May 1882
CORT RENIER GLANCED one last time at the girl on the stage and spread his cards with a flourish.
“Royal Flush,” he drawled with a lazy smile. “It seems the luck is with me tonight, gentlemen.”
They weren’t happy. The game had been grueling, even for Cort. The players were the best, all specially—and secretly—invited to the tournament, all hoping to win prizes no legitimate game could offer.
Prizes like the girl, who stared across the room with a blank gaze, lost to whatever concoction her captors had given her. She was most definitely beautiful. Her figure was slender, her face, even beneath the absurd white makeup, as classically lovely as that of a Greek nymph, her golden hair begging for a man’s caress.
She couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
Cort’s smile tightened. It was her youth, as well as her beauty and apparent virginity, that made wealthy, hard-hearted men fight to win her.
Many girls could be bought in the grim back alleys and sordid dives of San Francisco’s Barbary Coast. But not girls like this one, who so clearly was no child of San Francisco’s underworld. Who was of European descent, not one of the unfortunate Chinese immigrants who routinely fell victim to unscrupulous traffickers in human flesh. Someone had taken a risk in offering her as a prize, if only the secondary one. The organizers of this contest were no doubt confident that she would simply disappear, hidden away by the winner until anyone who might look for her had given her up for dead.
Cort’s gaze came to rest on the man whose hand had lost to his. Ernest Cochrane wasn’t accustomed to losing. His lust for the girl had been manifest from the moment they’d sat down at the table. He had a bad reputation, even for the Coast, even if he deceived the high and mighty with whom he associated in his “normal” life. If he’d won her, she would have suffered a life of perpetual degradation as a sexual plaything for one of the most powerful men in California.
Until he tired of her, of course. Then she might, if she were lucky, have been sold to another man, less discriminating in his desires.
Or she might have ended up in the Bay. Cochrane wouldn’t want to risk any chance that his wife and children and fellow entrepreneurs might learn what a villain he truly was.
The others were no better. Even those Cort didn’t know stank of corruption and dissipation. They were dangerous men, and every one of his instincts had rebelled against becoming involved. He wasn’t some gallant bent on protecting womankind from a fate worse than death, however well he played the role of gentleman. If she hadn’t been so young, he might have ignored the girl’s plight. Yuri had urged him not to be a fool.
But it was done now, and Cochrane was glaring at him with bitter hatred in his eyes.
“Luck,” Cochrane said in his smooth, too-cultured voice, “has a way of turning, Renier.” He nodded to one of the liveried attendants. “We’ll have another deck.”
Cort rose from his chair. “I do thank you, Mr. Cochrane, gentleman, but I am finished for the evening, and I believe this game has been won in accordance with the rules of the tournament.” He tipped his hat. “Perhaps another time.”
“Another time won’t do, Mr. Renier. And I have doubts that this game was played honestly.”
“If I were a less reasonable man, Cochrane, I might choose to take offense at your insinuation.” Cort inclined his head. “Bonsoir, messieurs.”
He knew it wouldn’t end so easily, of course. He heard Cochrane’s hatchet man come up behind him before the hooligan had gone a foot beyond his hiding place behind the curtains on the left side of the stage. Cort casually hooked his thumb in the waistband of his trousers. The man behind him breathed sharply and shifted his weight.
“Now, now, Monsieur Cochrane,” Cort said. “We wouldn’t wish this diverting interlude to end on an unpleasant note, would we?”
“Another game,” Cochrane said, less smoothly than before.
“I think not.”
The hatchet man lunged. Cort turned lightly, caught the man’s wrist before his fist could descend and twisted. The man yelped and fell to his knees, cradling his broken limb to his chest.
Cort sighed and shook his head, flipping his coat away from his waist. “As you see, gentleman, I carry no weapons. However, I find it quite unmannerly to attack a
