The Billionaire Werewolf's Princess. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
available.”
“Uh-huh. But even if you do find a woman to have sex with the day before and after the full moon, there’s still the night of the full one, mon cher. Don’t you need to wolf out no matter what?”
“That I do.”
“Maybe FaeryTown can go one night without you.”
“If I miss one night of patrol, then a baby could be stolen from his or her crib, never to be seen again. Do you think that’s fair for me to put my needs before one so innocent?”
“But you’ll wolf out during the full moon. In Paris.”
“That’s something I’m going to have to deal with. I don’t see any other option, Kristine. Text me the appointment after you’ve talked with Severo. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
He left the office in the wake of an unenthusiastic “sure” from his secretary. He knew she was right. She knew she was right. A werewolf shouldn’t risk staying in a populated city on the night he was called by the moon to shift to his half-man/half-wolf shape. And while he wasn’t a wild and crazy beast intent on destroying or maiming humans in that shape, he didn’t need to be seen loping about the Parisian streets with tail wagging and tongue lolling. That was inviting trouble for him and every other werewolf who needed to remain a myth to all humans.
Yet if he went to his private property in the countryside, as he did every night of the full moon, then FaeryTown would be left unguarded for the collectors to come through.
As he strode down the sidewalk and angled for his parked Alfa Romeo, Ry wished the choice was easier. But then, nothing good ever came easily.
* * *
Indi slept until three o’clock the next afternoon. She decided to mark it off as the worst night of her life. Getting dumped, being chased by a creature and then being sort-of kidnapped by a man she didn’t know.
But it was the memory of that mystery man that compelled her this afternoon. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, then dousing it with creamer, she curled up on the couch, wrapped a light summer blanket about her bare shoulders and pulled the laptop up to browse online.
“Ryland James,” she said as she typed in his name.
Not expecting to find anything more than a Facebook page, she was surprised when the first page of Google spilled down a whole list of hits. And the image bar featured some paparazzi shots of the man wearing either a tux or a well-tailored business suit, and in all of them he was either facing away from the camera or had his hand up to block his face.
She clicked on the first entry posted by a dishy entertainment channel. A photo showing Ryland James leaving what looked like a nightclub with a hand blocking his face was captioned Parisian Billionaire Camera-Shy.
“Billionaire?” she whispered. “What have you stumbled onto, Indi?”
She scanned the article and it mentioned that Ryland James was a philanthropist who gave away billions but was noted as media-shy, and while he was occasionally seen with a date, no woman could ever be pinned to him as a long-term relationship. He was always the talk of the party when he arrived, and socialites listed him as their BILF—B standing for billionaire—on their social media pages.
“I was rescued by a billionaire?” She couldn’t help the incredulous tone. But at the same time... “Why have I never heard of him before?”
She was a socialite. She participated in all social media and liked to know who was who and what they were doing with whom and for how long. Of course, she’d never followed the philanthropy hashtag before. As a trust-fund baby, she’d grown up, admittedly, with a silver spoon in her mouth. But now that she was on her own, she was perfectly happy to create her own riches. And was doing a great job at it.
And yet.
“Why would a billionaire be out in the middle of the night wielding a sword and chasing weird monsters?”
Because that was what she’d witnessed. Much as she didn’t want anyone to hear her say it out loud, she had seen exactly that. Monsters. Big, black, sparkly monsters that had sort of faded out in a long wispy tail of darkness. And a tall, muscled, handsome man who had swung a sword like a Viking marauder.
“And I woke up under his coffee table. If only I had known he was rich, I would have stayed for breakfast. Ha!”
No, she wasn’t the gold-digging type. Generally, a man’s checkbook did not influence his attractiveness. And hadn’t she given up on rich, self-involved men because of the extremely humiliating dumpage from Todd?
“For sure. No more rich businessmen.”
Scanning through a few articles on him, she didn’t learn much more, other than that he had been wooed by major modeling agencies and had refused contracts from all of them. Was known for driving a black Alfa Romeo down the Champs-Élysées at top speed. And could be rude to reporters when they pushed him for information. A rumor that he’d once dated Lady Gaga could not be confirmed. However, according to a tabloid, they had been in the same New York concert hall on the same night and both had left in the same limo.
Teasing her tongue along her upper lip, Indi double-clicked on the one photo that showed his face. The man was so freaking gorgeous. He wore his long dark brown hair loose, yet in other pictures it was pulled back behind his head. Always, the shirts he wore strained across strapping biceps and pecs. And the mustache and trimmed beard framed some seriously kissable lips.
“Billionaire or not, I most certainly need to thank him. And ask him the burning questions. Today. I do remember where he lives.”
Now to figure out what to wear when thanking a man for saving her life, while also wanting to enhance her assets without looking desperate. But she had just been dumped. She really should go into mourning for a bit.
“He’s not worth it,” she muttered, dismissing Todd with the breezy apathy she should have had the other night. But if she hadn’t been so distraught she would never have had a few too many drinks and wandered the streets, and she would never have run into Monsieur Sexy Billionaire.
“Not chasing after another rich man,” she said, confirming her drunken decision to forgo them. “But I do need some answers.”
Grabbing her half-empty coffee mug and heading down the hall to her bedroom, Indi tore off her robe and entered her closet to stand naked, perusing the possibilities. She owned a lot of clothes, and she wouldn’t apologize for the extravagance. Shopping was in her blood. Her closet had always been bigger than her bedroom since she could remember, even from when she was a toddler. Dressing up made her happy, just as wearing cat ears gave her confidence. Besides, her job required she seek out vintage, and off-season, designer clothing. If she happened on the perfect item of clothing for herself, she would never deny that want.
She touched the red dress. “Too aggressive.” And it was the one Todd had always asked her to wear. “Never going to wear that dress again.” It was Betsey Johnson. She’d gotten it off the rack during a discards sale. “I’ll make a few adjustments to it, then sell it on the site.” She pulled out the pink lace number. “Too summer-wedding.” A white pantsuit with navy pinstripes was what she called her power suit. “Too businessy.”
The blue sundress with a fitted bodice and full skirt would look great with some rhinestone heels.
“Or some stop-him-dead-in-his-tracks gladiator sandals.”
Decided, Indi went about getting on her A-game.
An hour later, she stood before the door to Ryland James’s apartment. At least, she hoped it was his place. When she’d fled the other morning, she was pretty sure she’d walked down four flights of stairs. This was the only apartment on the fourth floor.
She knocked and someone called out from the other side of the door to “hold on.”
Primping, she quickly pushed up the girls. A lather of her pistachio-almond