Enemy Lover. Bonnie VanakЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You’re pack now, Jamie. Mine. I always protect my own.”
Damian ran a thumb across her cheek. “Next time we’ll take it at your pace. I won’t push you.” She ran her hands up his arms, feeling the tense muscles, the power. Suddenly having this big, bad wolf watch over her made her feel erotic and wanting. Jamie tugged out his shirt and slid her hands up his flat abdomen, feeling him quiver beneath her touch.
“Push all you want,” she told him.
His eyes darkened. Damian took her mouth in another drugging kiss. His hips pushed against hers.
“Mine,” he said roughly. “No other male will dare touch you and you will not want them. You’re mine.”
Dear Reader,
What do you do when the woman who tried to kill you turns out to be your destined mate?
If you’re Damian Marcel, alpha-werewolf pack leader and ruthless hunter, you pursue her to New Orleans to make her your own.
Jamie Walsh is on the run from Damian, for she thinks he’s the Draicon werewolf who murdered her brother. Damian is determined to get her to trust him and surrender to the bond they share. When they discover Jamie is infected with a spell that’s turning her to stone, they work together to find a missing book of magick. Only the book has a cure for the stone spell, and if the evil Morphs find it first, they will use it to destroy all Draicon.
As they race against time to find the book while warding off attacks from the Morphs, Damian and Jamie progress from enemies to lovers. When Jamie discovers a profound power lies within her, she must turn to Damian for help in harnessing the magick she’s longed for all her life.
I’d like to think Damian and Jamie’s story reflects the determination and grit of New Orleans. Like the city’s residents, they are survivors who struggle to heal from past tragedies and begin anew. And, like New Orleans, their magick endures even through the darkest times.
I hope you enjoy Damian and Jamie’s story of courage, strength and how two strong-willed individuals learn to set aside the past to forge new beginnings formed from love and understanding.
Happy reading!
Bonnie Vanak
Enemy Lover
Bonnie Vanak
About the Author
BONNIE VANAK fell in love with romance novels during childhood. While cleaning a hall closet, she discovered her mother’s cache of paperbacks and began reading. Thus began a passion for romance and a lifelong dislike of housework. After years of newspaper reporting, Bonnie became a writer for a major international charity, which has taken her to countries such as Haiti and Guatemala to write about famine, disease and other issues affecting the poor. When the emotional strain of her job demanded a diversion, she turned to writing romance novels. Bonnie lives in Florida with her husband and two dogs, and happily writes books amid an ever-growing population of dust bunnies. She loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at www.bonnievanak.com, or e-mail her at [email protected].
For the uber guild “NOOBS GONE WILD.”
Thanks, guys, for all your help with computer
games and for being so riotously funny.
Adam “Billdacat” Persac,
Michael “Pachomius” Bailey,
Drew “Furiousmage” Richardson,
Carlos “Malandro” Plata and
Jerry “Demonslayr” Stetler.
Chapter 1
Once the prey, now he was the predator, Damian Marcel thought as he hunted through New Orleans for the woman who’d tried to kill him. His destined mate, the only female he could impregnate. Jamie Walsh. His draicara.
The scent of fresh river water hit like a hard slap. Damian lifted his nose to the wind, and drank in the smell of the Mississippi. His Draicon senses tasted the water, licked it with a slow, lingering caress. At last, home again.
Twin feelings of joy and deep sorrow pierced him. Home no longer. This place wasn’t home. Not anymore. It was a damn tomb, sucking him under, making him scream as he tried to claw his way out.
Damian tried to concentrate on the physical terrain, opening himself up to everything, resisting the instinct to shape-shift into his more powerful wolf form. New Orleans was known for the supernatural, but a werewolf prowling through the bustling French Quarter might scare a few tourists. He gave a mirthless smile.
Another, sharper scent pricked. Honeysuckle and warm woman. His nostrils flared, trying to catch the elusive fragrance. His fingers reached up, traced the air as if stroking a female’s soft skin.
“Jamie,” he murmured. “Jamie, chère. You can run, but you can’t hide. I will find you.”
He cursed in French as her scent faded. Somewhere in this thicket of narrow alleys, colorful shops and hard-grained nightclubs, she hid from him.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he ignored the chattering tourists snapping pictures. Across from Jackson Square beneath a shady tree, a thin-shouldered painter dabbled color on a canvas, shifting his weight on a lopsided folding chair. On a park bench, a man in a white shirt and faded khaki shorts played mournful notes on a banjo, accompanied by a saxophone player. The music reflected Damian’s pensive mood.
New Orleans still struggled to recover after Hurricane Katrina, but the Quarter crawled on, pumping music, booze and flavor into the city. And magick, which had been bred into his blood and bones. Good magick, Draicon magick.
Black magick. Morph magick.
Damian grimaced. Morphs, former Draicon who turned evil by murdering a relative, could shape-shift into any animal. They killed ruthlessly and absorbed the terrified victim’s dying energy. Jamie had joined with the Morphs to gain magick, but Damian stripped her of power by casting a binding spell. He’d let her escape him in New Mexico, knowing she needed time alone and he could easily track her down. Little danger existed after he’d killed Kane, the Morph leader, a week ago. Anguish had filled Jamie’s voice.
“I’ll break your spell, Damian. You’ll never have me,” she’d vowed.
His chest felt hollow with sharp regret even as his desire for her made him restless. Petite Jamie with her pixieish, heart-shaped face, delicate, translucent skin and huge, expressive gray eyes. Her soft, warm lips pliant beneath the hard press of his own.
The air’s mild chill braced him. He strode along the sidewalk, his sharp gaze roving over the crowd. Sunshine beat down on the red-necked tourists, glinted off the faded brass of the player’s sax. As he passed the painter, the artist regarded him with a mournful gaze. His words stopped Damian short.
“Have you heard the call of the wolf?”
Startled, Damian whirled. He studied the touch of gray at the man’s temples and the faded, almost ragged clothes splattered with splashes of gray and black paint. The hollowed cheeks and the thin blade of a nose looked pale and wan in the brilliant sunlight. Not a very successful artist, for the man looked thin as a ghost.
“A wolf, sir?” Damian asked.
The man turned, his large dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. “The loup garou will never fais do-do in the bayou, mon frère. Have a look. Interesting, non?”
The werewolf will never sleep in the bayou, my brother. Instantly on guard, Damian glanced at