Santa Claws (Wyndham Werewolf #4)

Santa Claws (Wyndham Werewolf #4) Page 1

Chapter One

Alec Kilcurt, laird of Kilcurt Holding and the most powerful werewolf inEurope , stomped through the snow and slush and wished he were anywhere, anywhere but here.

He stopped and stood obediently with the rest of the herd, waiting for the light to change. Snow was spitting down on him with malice he could almost feel. It did nothing for his mood. He disliked leaving his home for any reason, but being called toAmerica to pay homage to The Wonderful Child was a bit much.

And now he was shamed; his duty had never seemed a chore before. He admired and respected the pack leaders, Michael and Jeannie Wyndham. Michael was a good man and a fine leader; his wife was a crack shot cutie and baby Lara was adorable. Since the cooing, drooling infant was likely to be his next pack leader, Alec’s presence—the presence of every country’s werewolf head—had been required for both political and practical reasons. The pack was some 300,000 werewolves strong; unity was both a desire and a necessity.

Unfortunately, visiting the Wyndhams in their happy home just exacerbated his own loneliness. He’d been searching for a mate for years, but had...how did the humans put it? Never found the right girl. He thought it was funny that human women complained their men didn’t commit. An unattached werewolf male was likely to want to move in after the first date. What was a man, after all, without a mate, without cubs?

Nothing, that’s what. Meeting baby Lara was a great relief; pack leaders without heirs made everyone nervous. Seeing Michael’s happiness, on the other hand, was a torture.

Now his duty was done, and thank God. His plane leftBoston tonight, and nothing was keeping him from it.

Faugh! More snow! And not likely to be much better, even when he got home. Really, there was nothing to look forward to until spring. Others of his kind might enjoy romping through the slush on all fours, but here was one furry laird who hated getting his feet wet.

AndBoston ! Grey, drizzly, drearyBoston , which smelled like damp wool and exhaust. He felt like pulling his scarf over his nose to muffle the smells of

(peaches, ripe peaches)

unwashed masses and

(peaches)

He stopped suddenly, and felt a one-two punch as the couple walking behind him slammed into his back. He barely felt it. Hardly heard their complaints. He spun, pushed past them. Walked back, nostrils flaring, trying to catch that elusive

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

intoxicating

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

utterly wonderful scent.

He stiffened, not unlike a dog on point. There. The street corner. Red suit trimmed with white. White gloved hand shaking that annoying bell. Belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly. The glorious smell was coming from Santa Claus.

jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

He charged across the street without looking, ignoring the blaring horns, the shriek of airbrakes. The closer he got, the better Santa smelled.

JangleJANGLEjan—

“Jeez, there’s no rush,” Santa said in a startled contralto, pulling down her beard to squint up at him. Her eyes were the color of Godiva milk chocolate. Her cheeks were blooded, kissed by the wind. Her nose was snub. Adorable. He felt like kissing it. “I mean, the bucket and I aren’t going anywhere.”

“Nuh,” he said, or something like it.

“You really should forget that whole ‘pedestrians have the right of way’ attitude when you’re in this town...errr...everything okay?”

He had been looming over her, drinking her in. Now he jerked back. “Fine, everything’s fine. Have dinner with me.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.” She blinked up at him. A stray snowflake spiraled down, landed on her nose. Melted.

“Then lunch.”

The woman looked down at herself, as if making sure that, yes, she was dressed in the least flattering outfit a woman could wear. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked at last.

“Never better.” It was the truth. This was rapidly turning into the best day ever. He had visions of spending the rest of the day rolling around on Egyptian cotton sheets with Santa. “Lunch.”

She peered at him with adorable suspicion. “Is that a question? Is this your first day out of the institution?”

Right, right, she was human. Be polite. “Lunch. Please. Now.”

She burst out laughing, putting a hand on her large belly to keep from falling into the street. As if he’d let that happen. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “but the absurdity of this...you...and...it just hit me all at once.” She cut her gaze away from his to smile at the woman who had just tucked a dollar into her bucket. “Merry Christmas, ma’am, and thank you.”

Now that he was no longer gazing into her eyes, he felt much colder and realized his feet were wet. Faugh!

“I can’t have lunch now,” she said kindly, looking back at him. “I can’t leave my spot until noon.”

“Not even if you made lots of money before then?”

“Not even if thereal Santa came along to relieve me.”

“Noon, then.”

“Well. All right.” She smiled up at him with timid liking. “You’ll be sorry. Wait until you see me out of this Santa outfit.” The spasm of lust nearly toppled him into the gutter. “I’m not at all cute,” she finished with charming idiocy.

“Noon,” he said again, then pulled his roll from his coat pocket. He plucked the money clip off the wad, and dropped the eight thousand dollars or so into her bucket. “I’ll be back.”

“If that was Monopoly money,” she hollered after him, “lunch isoff !”

Chapter Two

Giselle Smith watched the visitor from the planet Hunk stride away. When he’d rushed up to her, she had nearly dropped her bell. There she was, jangling for charity, and then Hunk Man wasright there . She couldn’t believe the speed at which he’d moved.

His hair was a deep, true auburn. His eyes were a funny kind of brown, so light they were nearly gold. His nose was a blade and his mouth—oooh, his mouth! A girl could stare at it and think...oh, all sorts of things. He was tall, too; she had to crane her neck to look at him. Over six feet, for sure. Shoulders like a swimmer. Knee-length black wool coat, probably worth a grand at least. Black gloves covering big hands; the guy looked like he could palm a basketball, no problem.

He had come charging across the street to, of all things, ask her to lunch. And to give her thousands—thousands!—of dollars.

Her, Giselle Smith. Boring brown hair, dirt-colored eyes. Too short, and definitely too heavy. The most interesting thing about her was her name. Which people always got wrong anyway.

Obviously a serial killer, she thought sadly. Well, we’ll have lunch in a public place where I can scream my head off if he starts sharpening his knives.

It was too bad. He was really something. What the hell could a guy like that want from a nobody like her?

Alec watched the woman (he was still angry at himself for not getting her name...or giving his, for that matter) from halfway down the block. His spot was excellent: he could see her perfectly and, better, he was downwind.

He thought about their conversation and cursed himself again. He’d babbled like a moron, ordered her to lunch, stared at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood. Yes, like Little Red...hmmmmm.

He wrenched his mind from that delectable mental image

(the better to eat you with, my dear. eat you all...up!)

and concentrated on thinking about what an idiot he had been. It was a miracle the woman had said yes. It was a miracle she hadn’t hit him over the head with her bell. He had to be very careful at lunch; it was imperative she not spook. He thanked God he was weeks away from his Change; if he’d caught her scent any closer to the full moon, he’d have scared the pants off her. Literally.

God, she was soadorable , look at her, shaking her little bell for all she was worth. Many people stopped (pulled in, no doubt, by her allure) and threw money in her bucket. As they should! They should give her gold bullion, they should lay roses at her feet, they—

He pushed away from the wall, appalled; someone hadn’t put money in! An expensively dressed man in his late thirties had used the bucket to make change, and went on his merry way.

Alec got moving. In no time he had closed the distance and flanked the man, had snaked out a hand and pulled him into a handy alley.

“Wha-aaaggh!”

“This is cashmere,” Alec said, his hand fisting in the man’s coat.

“Let go of me,” the man squeaked, reeking of stale piss—the smell of fear. “Or I’ll yell rape!”

“Your shoes,” Alec continued, undaunted, “are from Gerbard inLondon , and didna cost you less than eight hundred pounds.” Only Samuel Gerbard used that kind of supple leather when making his footwear; the smell was distinctive. “And that’s a Coach briefcase.”

“Gggglllkkkk!”

Perhaps he was holding the man a little too firmly. Alec released his grip. “The point is, you c’n stand to share a little this holiday season.”

“Wha?”

“Go back,” he growled, “and put money. In. The bucket.”

He let go. The man fled. In the right direction—toward his Santa sweetie.

A minute later, Alec was back at his post. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time in the last half hour. Ninety minutes to go. An eternity.

An eternity later, at 11:57, he realized the skulking teenagers were ready to make their move. The three of them had been casing the block for the last fifteen minutes, had been watching his lunch date much too closely. It was the bucket, of course; they wanted lunch money...or the eight grand he’d dropped in. It would be laughable, except one of them smelled like gun oil, which meant he had to take some care.

Their path took them right past him; he reached out and slammed the one with the gun into the side of the building. The boy—a child in his late teens—flopped bonelessly to the sidewalk.

His friends were a little slow to catch on; they finally turned when they nearly tripped over their unconscious leader. And saw Alec, standing over the unconscious punk, smiling. Well, showing them all his teeth, anyway. “Take somebody else’s bucket,” he said. Oh, wait, that was the wrong message entirely. “Don’t take anybody’s bucket,” he called after them, but it was too late, they were running away.