What's New, Pussycat? (Wolf Mates Book 2) Page 4

  But all in all, no worse for the wear. All of those things would have to wait for now. For now, she was only interested in settling this issue and making a deal with Derrick the Werewolf.

  Slipping Derrick’s shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves, she tied her hair into a knot on top of her head, threw on his boxer-briefs and socks, and made her way toward the living room.

  Her nap had brought with it a plan.

  One she was going to put into motion ASAP. It was bold. It was maybe even a little crass, but if the overall vibe she was picking up from Derrick was correct, he didn’t want the mate thing any more than she did.

  Derrick’s socks flopped as Martine walked, trying to hold up his boxer-briefs so they wouldn’t slide down over her hips. She found him in the kitchen, his hair gleaming under the recessed lighting, his broad back to her as he cut something on the cutting board at the kitchen’s island.

  She swung around the granite countertop, stopping in front of him. He didn’t even look up at her as he chopped a stalk of celery. She put her hand on his tan one, thwarting his motion. “I’m Martine Brooks, and I’m from Manhattan. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but I was stuck.”

  And that was all she planned to tell him. The less Derrick knew about her situation, the better. For everyone involved.

  He lifted his eyes, pinning her with his gaze. “Good to know. Hello, Martine Brooks,” he responded before his lashes swept his cheeks and he returned to the celery.

  Martine grabbed a piece of celery and popped it in her mouth, savoring the taste of real food. “So, let’s talk about this—about your curse.”

  He stopped chopping. “So you did understand everything I said?”

  “Every sex-or-die word,” she joked, forcing her eyes away from his thickly muscled chest.

  He laughed again, that deep rumble that made her toes curl and her stomach feel like butterfly wings were tickling her from the inside out. “Good. I was worried we’d have to start all over, and you have to admit, the subject is a little awkward.”

  Leaning in, she examined some carrots he had on the sideboard. “You mean the sex?”

  “Yeah, I mean the sex. How many guys do you know tell you they have to have sex with you or die?”

  Martine winked at him, tucking her chin into her shoulder, her talent for flirting alive and well. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  “Touché.”

  “So about the sex…”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m in. All systems go.”

  “What systems?”

  “Death-sex.”

  His pretty face went deliciously blank. “What?”

  “I, Martine Brooks, will have save-your-life sex with you, Derrick Adams.”

  Derrick dropped the knife then, letting it clatter to the floor.

  Chapter Five

  Martine scooped up the knife, dropping it in the sink while Derrick’s jaw hung open. She quickly grabbed another from the chopping block and said, “Just hear me out. “Here’s what I propose. A deal of sorts.”

  His eyes narrowed. “A deal…”

  Martine’s return gaze was direct. “Uh-huh. I’ll have sex with you by the light of the full moon—”

  “On the night of the full moon.”

  She waved a hand at him, using the knife to pick up where he’d left off with the celery. “Whatever, Dr. Seuss. Around, in, on top of the moon, if that’s what you need. Anyway, I’ll have sex with you to save you from dying.”

  Now his eyes went cautious. “And in return?”

  “In return, you let me stay here, no questions asked. I can come and go as I please, of course, being respectful of your space and hospitality until this is over.”

  His brow furrowed. “And then?”

  “And then I get out of your hair forever. Look, you don’t want this any more than I do, right? We’ve been thrown together by some force—”

  “Destiny.”

  “Baloney,” she spat. She didn’t believe in fate and destiny.

  “Wow. Not a fan of happily-ever-after, huh?”

  She held up a finger. “I didn’t say that. I’m a huge fan of happily-ever-everything. I just don’t necessarily believe it has to be with one person. I know that sounds callous and no, before you get all psycho-babble-y with me, it’s not because I’ve been burned or scarred in an emotionally traumatic way because of a romantic relationship. I just like variety. There’s never been a single man I’ve wanted to commit to for longer than a couple of nights. No one’s that amusing.”

  And that was true. She’d dated plenty at almost thirty-three. She’d dated pleasantly, wisely, and she’d always left without looking back the moment she lost interest. She loved men—for a time, and then at the first sign of ownership on their part, she was out. No one owned her. No one had the right to tell her what to do. She made the rules.

  Derrick’s lips fell into a devastatingly handsome grin, leaving deep grooves on either side of his mouth. “You know, I like you more and more. But here’s something to think about. You can’t leave if you’re my life mate.”

  Dropping the knife, Martine put her hands on her hips. “Said who? You know, I gave this whole curse thing some thought today. Now, here’s what I’ve been thinking. The curse just says you have to mate with me on the full moon. It doesn’t say you have to set up housekeeping with me, does it? There’s no saying I have to cook and clean while you mow the grass and take out the garbage or even live with you day in and day out, is there?”

  Derrick’s beautiful face went blank, but his listening ears were definitely on.

  Now they were getting somewhere. She smiled as she continued. “Will you still die after we have sex if I go back to Manhattan and you stay here in Cedar Glen? Max didn’t. And if that were the case, how do you people get anything done if you’re always glued to each other’s backsides? Does the curse say wives of werewolves can’t ever take a girls’ trip? Shop for shoes? Have some personal time?”

  His eyes widened, and Martine was sure she saw a tiny bit of hope in them. “You have a point.”

  “Exactly. So I don’t mind, for all intents and purposes, wearing the title Derrick’s Mate, if you don’t mind being Mr. Martine. It’s like everyone always says, marriage is just a piece of paper, right? That’s what our mate will be. A piece of paper—an agreement. I suspect you feel the same?”

  His chin lifted, dark with stubble and almost defiant. “Definitely right.”

  “So deal?”

  Derrick picked the knife back up and pointed to the drawer. “Let me process. Mind peeling the carrots while we hash this out? Peeler’s in the drawer on your side.”

  Martine reached in and dug around until she found it. “What are we making?”

  “Not chicken noodle soup,” he joked.

  Martine laughed as she peeled. “I bet there’s a special kind of hate reserved in your family for all things soup.”

  “It’s Bolognese, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate the mate. I just don’t…” He set the knife down, moving away from the island and toward the fridge.

  “Want to mate with someone forever,” she finished for him, peeling a carrot. “I get it. You don’t have to defend that because I don’t either. I like single probably as much as the average male, maybe even more.”

  Derrick pulled out a bottle of red wine and held it up, a question in his eyes.

  She nodded with a happy sigh, feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time. “Oh, please. A glass of wine would be fantastic. It’s been a while since I’ve had one.” A long while.

  “Because?” he asked, pouring two glasses and dropping one in front of her before he resumed chopping some onions.

  “No questions, remember?” she asked, taking a long sip from her glass, letting the chilled liquid sit on her tongue for a moment, feeling the pressure of guilt for asking him to stay out of her business when her business could bring trouble. She was still at odds over whether she should tell
Derrick why she hadn’t been able to shift.

  But are you risking his pack and its members if you don’t?

  Derrick smiled, and when he did, it was more of that beautiful he had going for him. His teeth perfectly white, his lips full and delectable. “We haven’t made the deal yet, remember?”

  “Right. So the deal. You have any fine-tuning you want to do?”

  He eyed her over the rim of his glass. “Maybe just a question or two before we finalize. Nothing too personal.”

  Martine pursed her lips. “Go,” she said, setting the wine down and grabbing the peeler.

  “How did you end up at the 7-Eleven?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea. All I remember was going to bed the night before—”

  “In cat form?”

  Martine nodded, pushing the stray tendrils of hair falling from the knot on top of her head out of her face. “Yes. I went to bed and woke up when you found me in the cat carrier. I don’t know how I got there or even how someone managed to stuff me into it without waking me.”

  Come to think of it, that was rather strange. She was by no means a light sleeper, but she certainly would have awakened if someone were dumping her into a tiny plastic box.

  “And why couldn’t you shift?”

  “I wasn’t being difficult, honestly. I guess it’s like you said, nerves? Anxiety?” That sounded as good as any explanation.

  “Fair enough. Anyone you want to call to let them know you’re okay? Family?”

  She bristled at his intrusion then caught herself. Derrick was clearly close to his family. It was only natural he’d think she had family she needed to inform of her whereabouts. But she didn’t. None she wanted to call anyway. No one who would answer that call, and definitely no one who could help her…

  There was no one. Well, maybe her landlord—because she was six months overdue on her rent, and then she thought better of it. “Nope. I’m golden.”

  “Okay, so the deal is, you stick around for another three weeks until the next full moon, we…”

  Martine watched him falter, struggle with the words. More adorable. More melty-knee syndrome. “Make the business. Do the do. Copulate.”

  “You’re not shy, are you?”

  “I just told you I’d have sex with you so you won’t die, and you don’t even have to buy the cow. Does that say bashful?”

  He laughed, the corners of his mouth tilting upward as he did, the deep rumble of the sound pleasant. “Also fair. So why would you do this? You don’t even know me. What difference does it make to you if I end up dead?”

  Because she knew the paranormal. She knew the kind of fruitcakes running around in their world. She knew what it was to be frustratingly held captive with no control and the clock ticking away as your only bedfellow. Because Derrick didn’t seem like the kind of guy who should die for something he had nothing to do with.

  Also, because she needed a place to stay, a safe harbor, and she wasn’t above doing what she had to do in order to hang on to it for as long as she could until she was able to figure out what to do next.

  Doesn’t that make you loose? She’d given that niggle of her conscience a good dressing down the first time it reared its ugly head. Did it make her loose if she was saving a life? One that was likely good and honorable, if her nose and senses were still in proper working order?

  Would it make her loose if circumstances had been different and she’d met Derrick at a bar? Or maybe at the reception of one of the weddings she planned? He was beautiful to look at.

  There was nothing wrong with two people making love for nothing more than the sheer delight in connecting on a physical level. If she’d have met him any other way, likely she would have made her intentions quite clear from the start.

  “You’re right. I don’t know you. But I believe you. I know curses, and this one’s a doozie. Curses are just one of many things I despise about being paranormal. Consider it a favor from one supernatural survivalist to another. There are plenty of people who deserve to end up dead. You just don’t seem like one of them. And you’re not exactly ugly,” she tacked on. Hopefully, that explanation was enough.

  Derrick paused, his expression said he had more he wanted to ask, but if he did, he kept it to himself. “Okay, so you stay here until the full moon. Come and go as you please. You save my ass on the full moon, and we call it over. You go home to Manhattan. I go back to my life. No harm, no foul.”

  “Protection. We also use protection. No catdogs running around.”

  He barked another one of those laughs. “Catdogs?”

  “Me being half cat and you being half werewolf sorta equals half cat, half dog. I don’t know how our cycles would mesh, and I don’t want to know.”

  He nodded. “Aha. Okay, so protection—the best there is.”

  Martine held out her hand with a smile. “Deal?”

  “You’re on.” Derrick took her outstretched hand, closing his long fingers over hers and squeezing.

  And when he did, something happened. Something peculiar and new. Something that felt far too right. Far too good.

  Far too much like that one thing she’d been told through movies and books to look for all her life but could never quite nail down.

  And that was complete bullshit.

  * * *

  Derrick watched Martine eat her spaghetti Bolognese with relish from across the table as if it were her last meal, and wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  Well, Derrick, a gorgeous woman with a body right out of a painting by Rubens has just agreed to have sex with you so you won’t die.

  Yay! Cheers from the crowd.

  As if that weren’t enough, this beautiful, savvy, amazing carrot peeler also agreed to go away forever and never ask anything of you when all’s said and done—ever.

  More cheers from the crowd. Maybe even some swaying and a lone Bic lighter held up in your honor.

  I don’t know what you’d call it, Derrick, but for someone like you, who didn’t want a life mate, the rest of us would call this a big win. A coup. Score. Jackpot. Don’t question it, just roll with it.

  When he’d come around the corner of his bedroom door to find Martine stretching on his bed, her limbs long, her hips full, parts of him that had no business having such a vigorous reaction had sprung to action. Her creamy skin in the setting sun, her amazing hair falling to the middle of her back in thick black layers, her eyes fringed with thick dark lashes—all of it made his groin tighten painfully.

  Under normal circumstances, that wasn’t like him. It usually took a little more than just a quick glance of a naked woman to fire him up.

  He hadn’t stopped much to think about what her human form would look like, being so caught up bemoaning the fact that he had a life mate, but well, wow.

  As life mates went, Martine was undoubtedly a jackpot.

  And she wanted the same thing he did. Out.

  So throughout watching her eat two full plates of spaghetti, a half loaf of garlic bread, and sharing almost two bottles of wine with him while Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, he patted himself on his back at his good luck.

  Martine Brooks was gorgeous, intelligent, and she didn’t want anything from him.

  “You have a good appetite. It’s nice to see,” he commented, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  She grinned at him, her pretty pink lips full and lush, tipping upward, leaving dimples on either side of her mouth. “I love to eat. So count yourself lucky you’re not dating me—because I’m not one of those girls who picks at a salad and declares she’s full up to her eyeballs after a leaf of lettuce. I love food. That was delicious, by the way.”

  While they’d cooked, he’d stolen glimpses of her as they’d moved in sync in the kitchen. While she’d diced, peeled, sautéed, he’d stolen some more.

  Damn she was good-looking, and well versed in the kitchen. He also found himself wondering more than their bargain allowed. Like, why did she want to stay
here until the mate was done? Why wouldn’t she just go home to Manhattan and return on the full moon?

  But he’d promised not to ask questions, and he wouldn’t. If he didn’t ask, he couldn’t get involved; if he didn’t get involved, he didn’t have to deal with all the emotions involvement brought.

  “So what does Derrick do for a living?” she asked, taking another gulp of her wine and leaning back in the chair, leaving the front of his shirt to gape open, allowing just a hint of cleavage to show.

  “Derrick owns the local bar in town. He slings booze and breaks up fights.”

  “A bartender? Huh.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Is it your passion?”

  “Owning a bar?”

  “Yeah. Do you like owning your own business, serving drinks?” she asked, crossing her long legs at the ankles, his socks drooping from her feet.

  “I do. Some say it isn’t very ambitious, especially in Cedar Glen, but I do pretty well, considering.”

  Tipping more wine into her beautiful mouth, she capped off another glass, licking her lips and smiling. “Considering what?”

  “A good portion of Cedar Glen is vampire and they don’t drink anything.”

  Her green eyes went wide. “Vampires? Aren’t they a violent bunch? I haven’t had much exposure to them, so I don’t want to judge, but I’ve heard things that aren’t exactly without some gore.”

  He shook his head and smiled, liking the way her eyes met his. There was nothing coy about Martine. Her direct nature was incredibly hot. No games. No innuendo. Hot.

  “No one in Cedar Glen is violent. A little left field? Definitely. Many of the folks in town have one affliction or another that separates them from their race. It’s what Cedar Glen was founded on. Differences.”

  “So sort of like a land for misfit toys?”

  He smiled. He hated the kooky labels they’d been given, but he was damn proud of his grandparents for giving the outcasts a place to go—even with a curse on his head. “Yeah. Just like that, in fact.”

  Martine leaned forward on the table, the shirt gaping open again, forcing him to drag his eyes to her face and ignore the creamy swell of breasts. “I was thinking about what you told me back at your brother’s, about how your grandparents saved all those werewolves. How courageous to thumb their noses at your elders. What an amazing testament to your kind.”