When a Tigon Weds (A Lion's Pride Book 9) Read online

  “Don’t be. I research all my possible targets.” When she couldn’t forget him, she’d done some digging. Then, fascinated by what she found, she’d kept sporadic watch. Hating herself each time she went looking, and yet unable to stop herself from seeing what he was up to.

  His public persona showed a devil-may-care bachelor—the façade that had fooled her before. It seemed at odds with the serious hunter for hire, who left no paper trail behind. But she’d seen reports of his work. Now knew what he was capable of.

  A man like that wouldn’t like being double-crossed, yet he’d left her alone this entire time. Waited for her because he knew she’d be back one day.

  “Is your refusal to accept the annulment some kind of revenge? Are you really that petty?” She jabbed at him, poking at his pride.

  “Revenge? On the contrary, our being married has been a blessing. No more hopeful mamas trying to snare me for their daughters. Just lovely ladies offering to console me because of the actions of the cruel wife who abandoned me.”

  “No one seriously buys that story.”

  “You’d think that. And yet, every day, I deal with someone offering me her bosom to cry on.”

  Natasha saw what he was doing, trying to make her jealous, only she wasn’t about to fall victim to his games. “I’m glad you’ve got people to console you. It’s important to have the right person, which is why I’m glad my father introduced me to Simon.” She lay it on thick, and he bought it.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting your family push you into marrying that asshole.” The expletive spilled from his lips and showed her a chink in his armor.

  Jealousy? It pleased her enough that she smiled and poked at that angry side of him. “Who says they’re pushing? Have you seen him? Tall and handsome, quite accomplished, too. Finished top of his class in college.”

  Despite her attempt, he managed to stifle the jealous flare. “How lucky for you that your arranged marriage has turned into true love.”

  She almost blurted the truth: that she didn’t love him. Probably never would. Simon didn’t consume her thoughts. Didn’t make every part of her vibrate with awareness.

  “It’s a good match.” A solid one that would produce perfect little heirs.

  “If you say so.” His tone expressed his doubt, and she hated his astuteness. The reality was that the main reason she’d agreed to marry Simon was because she’d made a promise to her dying babushka. Funny how she could kill anyone the family told her to handle, but when her babushka told her she wished Natasha would marry that St. Petersburg heir and make some babies, she’d not argued—much. Mostly because her aunt Cecilia grabbed her in a headlock and yelled, “Promise her, you twit, she’s dying.” Which turned out to not be entirely accurate.

  Babushka had a miraculous recovery not long after Natasha agreed to marry Simon, meaning she could still lord it over the family streak, which for the non-tiger-born meant queen bitch over the striped masses.

  “Are you done with your questions regarding my upcoming nuptials?” she snapped. “I’d like to get done with our business.”

  “Say it like it is, baby. Divorce. Thing is, I don’t think I want one. Doesn’t seem right to just give up.”

  The gun ended up suddenly pointed at his face. “Either you sign the papers I’ve brought, or I shoot you. Your choice.” She really hoped he didn’t choose the latter. She didn’t have a spare set of clothes if he ended up being a bloody squirter.

  “You drive a hard bargain, baby.”

  “No bargain. It’s do or die.”

  “Let’s see those papers.”

  The gun remained trained on him while her other hand pulled the envelope tucked into the long pocket stitched down her thigh. Cargo pants were her garment of choice when she went skydiving. The papers never cleared her pocket, her gaze instead caught by a red dot. She left the envelope in her pocket and instead watched the dot as it dragged and dipped rapidly across the wall, seeking a target.

  There was a less than fifty percent chance it was for her. Didn’t matter. She yelled, “Down.”

  The man didn’t argue. He hit the floor, landing on his hands, gaze tilted to follow the red dot.

  Natasha dropped to her haunches and spun to see out the glass window she’d smashed. Which, in retrospect, did scream attention whore. She’d thought about coming in the front, knocking like a mature adult, but…her way was more fun. She’d wanted to catch her supposed husband off guard.

  Instead, the man, as suave as ever, acted as if he’d been expecting her.

  The dot extinguished without a shot fired, but that didn’t stop her from running in a half-crouch out the door, avoiding the shards of glass, gun held and ready to fire.

  Emerging into the night, it took a moment to orient her senses.

  His pool, lit from the lights embedded in the tile shell, illuminated the night in ripples. Shadows appeared to move, mostly because of the shifting water rippling the light. By the cabana, she noticed something out of place, a deeper pocket of black.

  She ran for the spot of darkness, only to see a flash of fur tear by, orange and black, with a ridiculously fluffy mane and a tufted tail also in orange and black. The coloring of a tiger, with the fur of a lion. Neville had shifted into his tigon, and she stumbled at the sight.

  He was ridiculous and gorgeous all at once. How had she never seen this side of him before? Their whirlwind courtship had never allowed the time for her to ever meet more than the man.

  Rawr. He pounced, and something squeaked.

  “Don’t eat them!” she yelled. Not until she knew who they were aiming at. Probably her husband. No one knew she’d be here.

  A sound at her back had her turning. Her gaze scanned the dim interior of the house before rising to the roofline. She’d knocked the sensors out on her way in, the helicopter being kind enough to let her drop a mile back. She’d coasted in using a short-term propulsion glider. It helped that the winds were in her favor tonight.

  The roof had a visitor with a gun, the red spot of it aiming past her towards the scuffling and growling bodies.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” She ran for the patio table, leaping to the top of it and then springing again, fingers reaching for the roof’s edge. She gripped the eavestrough and swung her legs to hook. In a second, she’d clambered onto the terra cotta tile and was racing after the quickly moving target.

  They reached the peak and disappeared down the other side. In seconds, she was over the top in time to see them leaping. Then, vroom, the grumble of an engine as they took off, the single red taillight of the motorbike mocking her.

  Ugh. She sat down on the edge of the roof and was just leaping down when a naked man came running from the side of the house, yelling, “Come back with my bike, asshole!”

  Now it should be noted that a naked Neville was just as sexy as a naked Dean, changing his name in her mind didn’t negate that fact. She’d never had any complaints about his body. Not even the striped fur on his chest. She knew for a fact that he dyed it on top to keep it dark. A dye that didn’t survive the shift. His bright, striped hair was ruffled as he raked a hand through it, and he sounded quite disgruntled as he said, “Why didn’t you shoot them?”

  “I only shoot those that deserve it.”

  He cast her a glare. “You keep threatening to shoot me.”

  Her lips quirked. “Proving my point.” She hopped to the ground. “Any reason why someone is trying to kill you?”

  “Until tonight, no one was.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not saying no one has ever tried. But they usually only get one shot.”

  “Arrogant.”

  “Not if it’s true.”

  “Listen, I don’t need to get involved in your problems. I just came for a divorce. Consider yourself served.” She pulled the envelope with the documents and held them out, doing her best to keep her gaze on his face and not the naked body that tempted the eye.

&nbs
p; He didn’t grab the papers. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to find some pants first. Then a drink. And after that, I’m going to question the person in my pool house.”

  She blinked at him. “You caught the shooter?”

  “Not all of us failed.” He stalked off, taut ass a thing to stare at, taking some of the sting out of his insult.

  “The person I was chasing had a head start!” she argued, following that ass.

  “And you were slow. Why didn’t you shift?”

  “Not all of us feel a need to do so in public.”

  “My yard isn’t public.”

  “Tell that to your two visitors.”

  He paused and whirled to glare at her. “Are you really going to blame me for being a victim?”

  Just because she knew it would irritate, she said, “Yes.”

  “I can see why the Tigranov streak chose you as their ambassador of evil.”

  She blinked. “My official job title is enforcer.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Sounds like you’re jealous.”

  “Can you blame me?” he retorted. “Who wouldn’t want to be a killer for hire for the most important people in our society?”

  “A normal person.”

  He bared his teeth when he smiled and said, “Who says I’m normal?”

  “How is it I never noticed this sarcastic side to you when we met before?” she asked with a frown.

  “Because I liked you.”

  The meaning being clear: I don’t like you now.

  It shouldn’t have made her sad.

  As they rounded the house, the cabana now in view, she said, “You’re one to talk about my job given you’re not actually a chef but a killer for the Pride Group.”

  “Hunter,” he corrected. “And I’m flattered you took the time to find out about me.”

  “I didn’t…That is…” She stammered as she realized she’d admitted to having him researched. “Were you ever going to tell me?” was what she ended up blurting.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Given your timid nature, I was making sure you could handle my violent side before divulging it. At worst, my cover as a chef would have worked.”

  “What if I’d truly been that innocent little girl, and I’d run when I discovered the truth?”

  No mistaking the feral nature of his grin when he said, “I would have chased.”

  The question being, what would he have done when he caught her?

  The delicious shiver that went through her body had some fine ideas that had everything to do with pleasuring flesh and not torturing pain.

  “You use your job as a cover,” she stated.

  “Being a renowned connoisseur of food, who likes his ingredients fresh, does come in handy for the tasks that take me away from my base city.”

  “It’s a good cover,” was her grudging reply.

  As they traversed the pool deck, he cursed. “Shit.” The cabana door gaped wide open.

  “Apparently, you’re a better chef than hunter. Looks like your catch is gone.”

  “Impossible! I had them tucked tighter than a boar for Christmas dinner on a spit over a coal fire.”

  For a moment, she could almost taste the crackling fat, and her mouth watered. “That’s rather specific.”

  “Just mentioning the impossibility of the shooter getting loose.”

  “Maybe the wind blew the door open.”

  He entered the cabana and emerged shaking his head and holding on to a robe. “They’re gone. Dammit.” He shrugged on the robe and belted it. Shame. He had nothing to hide.

  “For a big-time hunter, your security sucks.” she taunted.

  “Maybe I should hire a pro to fix it.”

  She arched her brow. “Don’t look at me. I’m not available for work on account that I’m getting married in a week.”

  “That soon, huh?” He turned away from her, and her attention got caught by a solid red light peeking out of the flowerpot by the cabana door.

  Had there always been a light? “Um, is that a camera by that hibiscus plant?”

  He turned to follow her pointing finger, crouched, and parted the leaves. “Shit. Bomb. Take cover.” He’d just thrown himself in her direction when the explosion hit.

  Chapter Four

  The impact of the bomb tossed him off his feet, and Dean flew right off the edge of the pool deck and into the water, which was better than over the cliff. Luckily, he hit the liquid in his human shape. His cat, being a bit of a pussy, was of the mind that if it didn’t have bubbles and a ducky, then it was a waste of time.

  He hit the water feet first and sank to the bottom, which gave him some protection against bullets and other projectiles that might harm his fleshy parts. Dean kept his eyes open and watched as best he could through the agitation as things plopped into the pool with him. Lawn chair, part of a table, chunks of siding from the cabana, an unconscious wife...

  What a mess. He’d need a crew to come in and drain the pool, then clean it, not to mention rebuild his cabana, mundane tasks that he shoved to the back of his mind for more pressing matters.

  Who the hell had sent snipers to his house armed with a bomb?

  Were they after him or something else? And…

  If he didn’t do something to save Natasha, he’d end up a widower.

  Oddly enough, despite her attitude, he found himself not keen on that idea. He began to kick across the pool, aiming for her plummeting body, only to stroke faster as her momentum slowed, and utterly relaxed, she began to float upward. This close, he could see her eyes shut and limbs hanging limply. He didn’t spot any blood; however, he knew for a fact that sometimes the worst injuries didn’t present any signs at all.

  In more positive news, the exploding chunks ceased hitting the pool’s surface, and it began to calm, making them targets. The latter being not so positive.

  With a wary gaze for bullets trying to streak past the water barrier, he kicked and strained until he could reach out and grab Natasha, his fingers closing around her slender yet muscled arm. Months ago, he’d actually fallen for her story that the firm tone she kept her body in came from hot yoga.

  Now, he knew better.

  Holding tightly to her, Dean shoved to the surface, dragging her face into the evening air. His gaze bounced around, looking for movement, listening for signs of the enemy. But they’d already fled. Or so his instincts claimed.

  He didn’t relax, though, not until he heard Natasha take a breath. He kept hold as he stroked for the shallow end of the pool. Away from the shooting flames.

  His cabana burned, and in the distance, he heard sirens. Nosy neighbors. There might be a few hundred yards between the properties, but as soon as he lit the barbecue—with a can of lighter fluid and enough charcoal to roast dozens of steaks—the firemen came tromping onto his property. Commending him on having not one but two fire extinguishers nearby, and then leaving with apologies—and bellies full of steak—not all that sorry for bothering him. Each time, his neighbor Frank woke to something having peed inside his house.

  Might be time to get a new neighbor because it was inconvenient having human officials showing up so soon. They’d ask questions that he’d have a hard time answering—because the truth wasn’t an option.

  Exiting via the pool’s shallow end stairs, Natasha’s limp body in his arms, he strode straight into the house, moving as quickly as he dared with his wet feet on marble and hardwood. He didn’t have time to do much, but he set a quick stage before the first of the firetrucks and policemen arrived on the scene.

  By the time they ran into the backyard, trampling his gardens on their way, Dean was spraying at the flames with a garden hose, a cigar in his mouth, his wet shirt stinking of booze, his grin that of a partially drunk rich boy.

  “Hallo there, officers.” He saluted them with the hand holding the watering hose. The cops yelled as he sprayed them—not so accidentally. He held in a smirk as they jumped back.

  “What’s going on here?�
� barked the dark-skinned female officer with steel threading her black, curly hair. She wore a navy blue uniform and had her hand on the butt of her weapon. The name on her jacket read: Beaumont. Her gaze flicked between him and the flames at his back.

  “Just having a late-night drink and a smoke.” He winked and waved the cigar and the hose at the same time. This time, he didn’t antagonize and spray anyone. While she remained by his side, the fire crew in yellow suspenders ran past, yanking a thick hose that made him wince. His poor lawn.

  “We received reports of an explosion.”

  “Damned right, you did!” Dean exclaimed. He pointed with the water towards the back of the firemen battling the now diminished blaze. “That there bonfire is costing me a fortune. Who knew that old whiskey was so flammable?”

  “You set this fire, sir?”

  He smiled as he lied. “I did. But not on purpose. Do me a favor?” He lowered his voice and shot Officer Beaumont a conspiratorial look. “Don’t tell my wife.”

  “Too late, you idiot!” Natasha strode out of the house, hair wrapped in a towel, wearing his robe, which while knee-length on him, reached to her ankles. “What have you done now?”

  “Nothing,” he said, ducking his head and tucking his hands behind his back, which led to more spraying water.

  “Sir!” the female cop exclaimed.

  “Oops.” He shrugged as he let go of the hose nozzle handle, shutting off the stream.

  “You were smoking and drinking again?” Natasha exclaimed, jabbing a finger at him. “I thought we talked about this! You’re in rehab.”

  “It was just one cigar.”

  She tapped a foot and arched her brow.

  “And maybe a glass or two of whiskey.”

  “My mother was right. I never should have married you!” she exclaimed.

  “But, baby, I love you.”

  “If you loved me, you’d stay clean. But, no, you sneak out while I’m having a bath and this…”—she waved her hand—“this is what happens. I’ve had it.” She stalked into the house, leaving him with a smirking police officer.

  “I don’t suppose you could go in there and claim it’s arson?” he asked hopefully.