The Werewolf's Wife

She’d come to Minnesota at the turn of the twentieth century. It had seemed a nice, quiet place after Europe, domestic and unassuming, yet hardy. Deeply grounded in their Scandinavian heritage, the people had been welcoming and had never suspected a witch had moved into their quaint Lake Harriet neighborhood.

She’d needed that anonymity. It was easy enough to get along when your neighbors didn’t believe in all the silly nonsense mortal minds conjured when they thought the word witch. It was never accurate, and always involved the devil, black robes and dancing naked under the full moon. Ridiculous.

Well, the devil and robes part. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with dancing naked once in a while. Skyclad had been her preferred casual dress, until she’d become a mother.

And back then after her move, she’d been recruited to serve on the Witches’ Greater Midwest Council, which had a base in Minneapolis, so living here had been a no-brainer. She no longer served on that council, made up exclusively of witches, but now instead served on the Council, which oversaw all the paranormal nations, except the sidhe.

Some days she wondered how long she could stick it out here in the Midwest, home of plaid shirts, gas-guzzling SUVs and tater tot hot dishes drenched in cream of mushroom soup. The bad girl inside her would never completely be put down. And Minnesota winters were enough to send her up a wall clambering for spring sunshine and fresh lilacs.

She was in the mood for Venice, perhaps even Mumbai. Someplace warm, and center of the city, tucked within the cosmopolitan and the haut couture. A place where, at the snap of a finger, she could buy fresh seafood and decadent five-star chocolate desserts. And that wasn’t a magical finger snap. She wanted to go someplace where a man knew how to please a woman, and wouldn’t stop until he got things right.

Wasn’t easy getting dates when your tween-age inquisitive son always tagged along to the bookstores and coffee shops. She could conjure a love spell, but that was cheating. And besides, men under the influence of a spell were not true to themselves, and thus, could never be true to her, either.

Despite giving up on the need for a serious relationship over a decade ago, she did favor having a lover. No woman should be without a sexual partner for too long. And her attachment issues were improving, so really, she was ready. Bring on the sexy man with a foreign accent and a focused need to please her.

Slipping on a white cotton sweater over her pink camisole, she checked her side view in the mirror and winked. Soft pink rabbit fur rimmed the collar and sleeve hems. She loved the sensual brush of fur over her skin, though the sensory trill did remind her she was quite loverless at the moment. Guess it was time to go out and see what she could shovel up from the slim pickings. There were yet a few gems buried in the area’s waist-high snow, she felt sure.

“You still got it, Abigail. Even after four and a half centuries.”

One advantage to immortality was her never-aging appearance, and the wicked resistance to gaining weight no matter how many times she treated herself to triple chocolate cake. Go, immortality!

“Now to find a man who is strong enough to take on this witch … and her son.”

Her smile dropped and she sighed. A man like that would truly be one in a million, but she was up for the hunt. So long as he didn’t wear plaid, didn’t mind she liked to play Mozart louder than Ryan played his heavy metal, liked to eat things such as foie gras and truffles, and oh yes, could please her in every way imaginable in the bedroom—and anywhere else the mood struck them.

Out in the kitchen, with a flick of her fingers, her purse and the Smart car keys floated into her grasp. She touched the garage doorknob, when the phone rang. Glancing over a shoulder to check the caller ID—because if it was anyone on the Council, she’d let it ring to message—she noted it was a foreign number.

“Switzerland?” She’d checked in with Ryan last night to make sure he was ready. “I wonder if the flight was delayed. Hello?”

A metallic click sounded, and then a voice, obviously altered because it sounded robotic, said, “Getting ready to pick up your son, Ms. Rowan?”

“Who is this?” She stared into the receiver, as if that would produce an image of the caller, but she had no such magic. “Tell me your name, or I’m hanging up right now.”

“You hang up, your son will hate you for it.”

“You’re lying. What’s going on?”

The voice buzzed metallically and Abigail heard someone crying in the background. That sound had not been mechanically altered.

“Ryan?” Her hands began to shake, and her heartbeats stuttered against her ribs. The scent of burning electronics pierced the air. She clenched the plastic receiver. “Ryan, is that you?”

“That was your son. A little jet lag, I’m sure, is the reason for the emotions. Now listen. I’ll only say this once.”

She nodded, her fingers growing white about the phone.

“Your son did get on the plane from Switzerland to Detroit this morning. We managed to get him an earlier flight, and notified his school and they were very cooperative getting him to the airport on time. One of my associates has picked him up at the Detroit airport, much to the little kicker’s protests.”

Ryan had struggled against his kidnappers? Abigail gasped and a mournful moan escaped. “Where is he?”

“He is in our custody in an undisclosed location somewhere in the United States. We are keeping him in protective custody, for his sake and yours.”

“Protective? You’ve kidnapped him! Who are you?”

Her fingers clenched and she felt the heat burgeon in her palms until her fingertips turned red. The electrical outlet next to the oven began to glow.

“I can alleviate your concerns by telling you we are allied with the Light.”

The Light was what the witches called themselves, though a few did practice dark magic. Witches had taken her son?

“I don’t understand this. What do you want? Who are you? I can give you money.”

“We don’t want money, Ms. Rowan. And we don’t want you running to the Council to tattle on us.”

They knew about the Council? That confirmed the caller must be from the paranormal nations. But it didn’t confirm they were actually of the Light.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll decide myself if it’s something I should keep from the Council. You know I do sit on the Council, so in essence, they already know.”

“You won’t bring this to them if you want to see your son alive.”

Abigail caught a gasp in her throat. She could barely hear over her pounding heart. Tears leaked from her eyes. She caught her hip against the kitchen counter and leaned against it for support. Sparks flashed from the outlet. She tucked her fingers under an arm to keep accidental magic from shooting out.

Her voice trembled when she said, “Go on.”

“Listen carefully. Write down the name I am about to give you. If you don’t find this vampire within forty-eight hours … well, then, we won’t be able to protect your son.”

“A vampire? What do witches want with a vampire?”

The pause on the line made her regret the outburst. Hell, she wanted answers. No one told her what to do. She told others what to do. But this was different. She had to do as they said, or at least make it appear as if she were playing along. Her son’s life was on the line.

“What do witches usually do with vampires?” finally came the reply.

Once every century witches needed to consume a live, beating vampire heart to maintain their immortality. It was an odd request, since most witches had no problem obtaining a source, as the vampires were called.

“Can’t you get your own source? My son is an innocent. There’s no need to involve him—”

“As I’ve said, we are protecting him from forces beyond your control.”

“Beyond my— You’re speaking nonsense. I’ve protected him all his life.”

“And look how easily we were able to apprehend him. Tut, tut, Ms. Rowan. Perhaps you need to review your protection procedures. Now, write down this address. We’ll meet exactly forty-eight hours from now.”

She scribbled down the address and the vampire’s name on the notepad stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. She recognized the location as north of the Twin Cities. “Let me speak to Ryan.”

Click.

The drone of the disconnected receiver sliced through her heart. Abigail dropped it to the floor and followed by plunging to her knees and bowing her head into her hands.

Above her head, the electrical outlet exploded and the plastic cover shot across the room. Sparks showered the glass stove top but did not take to flame.

The only flames in the room were those inside Abigail’s heart. Someone had taken her son. The bad witch she had once been raged to the surface and punched the cabinet, cracking the wood door in two.

Ridge rapped on the door to a Victorian house in the elite Lake Harriet neighborhood off Upton Avenue. A person had to be rich to live in one of these cozy and finely preserved houses a short walk from the lake where sailboats and personal watercraft dotted the water in the summer. He’d seen a kite-sailer skimming the frozen lake after he’d parked the pickup and got out. Crazy kids.

Despite the cottage look of the house and the quiet neighborhood, the area was too upscale for him. And the houses were packed together tighter than sardines in a tin. Made his skin prickle, and not in the good prickly way he was accustomed to. He preferred the country, with room to breathe in the fresh air and trees, lots and lots of trees.

The bright red front door swung open. A gorgeous blue-eyed witch dressed in sexy, body-hugging white took one look at him, chirped as if she’d seen a ghost, and slammed the door in his face.

At least she hadn’t wielded the finger of pain at him. He counted himself lucky so far.

Ridge rapped again. “Abigail, we need to talk. And you know what about.”

The glimpse of long dark hair curling over her shoulders, and those bright eyes, stirred an innate desire he’d thought he’d never feel for her again. She hadn’t changed much, though she’d been a blonde when he’d seen her earlier this summer following the Creed wedding, and in Vegas, but women were always dying their hair for reasons beyond his comprehension. No matter, she looked … clearer than he recalled. And he knew why. He’d been sober since that crazy night in Vegas.

The door opened again and she stuck her head out. He caught the scent of coconuts and was instantly transported to that cheesy motel room amidst giggles and haphazard sex. “I don’t have time for this, Ridge. I’ve an emergency.”

The door slammed again, obliterating all images of that crazy night. For the better.

This time he leaned against the door, but as he thought to twist the fancy glass knob and walk right in, his manners—and his sense of self-preservation—reminded him he’d probably be safer on this side of the door. With a wince, he pondered how well the thin slab of wood would protect him against magic.

There wasn’t much he feared. Vampires gave him no challenge. Faeries were amiable toward him. Demons just plain creeped him out. But a smart wolf never returned to a place—or person—of danger.

“Just a few minutes, please, Abigail?”

It was cold today, and no matter how many layers he wore, he still felt the wind tickle down his neck and ice over his shoulders. But he had to be here. Jason had said an actual signature was required. Email wouldn’t cut it for a divorce.

“No, we don’t need to talk,” she called, opening the door a crack and gifting him with a flash of heat from inside. “It never happened. I’ve moved on. You’ve moved on. We’re all good. Life goes on. Goodbye.”

Ridge blocked the door with a fist. He pressed against the weight of the tiny witch trying her best to defeat his strength. “I happen to have a piece of paper that says it did happen.”

“You what?”

“Signed by Elvis, even. It’s a little wrinkled, but it’s legal. Elvis was his middle name. The guy who married us was an actual ordained minister, can you believe that?”

“Well, tear it up!”

That would be the obvious action. But Jason had checked online and their nuptials had been recorded in the Clark County Marriage Bureau of Las Vegas. The receptionist, appropriately named Priscilla LisaMarie Jones, had signed as a witness. Richard Addison’s marriage to Abigail Rowan was legal, whether or not he had the paper to prove it.

“Maybe I don’t want to tear it up,” he said, trying a new angle. It wouldn’t serve his purpose to barge in and demand. And he didn’t want to walk away with another scar. Kindness never hurt a man’s position. “I did save your life.”

“And I am very thankful for that,” she said through the slightly opened door. He couldn’t see her, but could feel her determination; she was putting all her weight against the door. Did she hate him so much she couldn’t give him a few minutes? “Really, I am thankful for the rescue. I don’t think I ever said it to you while sober.”

“I don’t need your thanks.”

“But you need to keep me your wife? What’s that about?”

“That is not what I want from you.”

“Then tear the damn thing up and leave me alone.”

“What if I want to convince you I’m worth a shot?” He winced. It was a means to get him inside, to talk rationally with her. He wasn’t seriously considering keeping her as his wife. But he had to play the witch carefully.

And protect his balls against sudden blasts of magic.

“Please, Ridge, we don’t even know one another. You know nothing about me.”

“I know you like vodka.”

“Used to like vodka. I haven’t gone near a drop of that devil’s brew since that night.”

“That bad of a memory, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“I had no idea I was responsible for such a horrible memory.” Then again, wolfing out on an unsuspecting woman was enough to scare anyone for life.

“It wasn’t you, Ridge. Well, it was, but there was also the part where I was strapped to a stake and flames were whipping about my ankles. I’d say that was the worst memory.”

“Thank God for that. I mean, that it was your worst memory. I’d hate it to be me that was your worst.” Because memories never went away, and their haunting ability could fell a grown man to his knees. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t scared, I was … startled. I’m sorry, Ridge. This is not a good time to talk.”

He maintained his position, keeping her from closing the door. “You scarred me, Abigail. To my core. And that scar has kept you in my mind.”

“Then why didn’t you come to me sooner? It’s been thirteen years, and all of a sudden you want to start things with me again?”

“I didn’t suggest that—”

“Does this have something to do with you taking over as principal of the Northern pack? Don’t tell me you need a wifey to—”

“You already are my wife, Abigail. And it’s not because of the pack.”

He stopped, not wanting to lie to her. Of course it was for the pack. His life revolved around trying to rescue the pitiful remnants of a pack he held in his charge.

“Could we please talk face-to-face? It’s below zero out here.”

“I understand wolves handle the cold well.”

They did, but that didn’t mean he didn’t prefer a warm living room. Did the woman not have a compassionate bone in her body?

“Did you bring along divorce papers?”

He tapped his coat pocket. “If I came at a bad time—”

Silence crackled like the ice lining the rain gutters overhead, crisp and foreboding.

“Doesn’t take more than a minute to sign some silly papers, does it?” She swung the door open. “Hurry. Get inside.”

Sensing an odd urgency about her, Ridge crossed the threshold and stomped his boots on the rug to shake off the snow from the treads, but he kept his senses dialed on high alert. The house was indeed cozy and warm.

The black cat sitting on the back of a blatantly pink sofa took one look at him, hissed and darted out of the room.

“Didn’t much care for you, either,” he commented, and followed Abigail through to the kitchen, where she grabbed a black leather purse to mine for a pen. “That your familiar?”

“What? Swell Cat? I don’t do familiars, nor do I summon demons. He’s just a regular, un-shifting mutt of a cat—who doesn’t like dogs.”

At the unsavory remark, his jaw tightened. Wolves did not like to be called dogs, or even hear finely veiled references. But he’d shackle his anger because he respected Abigail’s power and knew it took but a gesture from her to put out some kind of magic he didn’t know how to fight.

He scented a metallic, smoky flavor on the air and his eyes went straight to a blackened outlet that had soot streaks crawling out in all directions along the wall.

“Electrical problem?”

“Yes.”

She wasn’t in the mood to talk, rooting around in her purse to keep her eyes off him. Fine. He knew this wasn’t easy for either of them.

She was as gorgeous as he remembered her. But behind the alluringly cool beauty and sexy figure lurked a wicked maelstrom of magic.

He remained by the wall, not about to step too close to the witch, who paced back and forth before the counter as if she were looking for something, or had forgotten to pack something. Electrical problem? Yeah, right. There was something about Abigail and electricity—but he wasn’t sure how it worked.

“What is it?” he asked, sure her nervousness wasn’t simply from him being here. “You look like the devil Himself is arriving for a visit.”

“Don’t invoke that bastard.”

“Sorry.” Say the devil’s name three times, and—look out. “Something’s wrong, Abigail, and I’m getting the feeling it has nothing to do with your long-forgotten husband showing up on your doorstep.”

She flashed him a gaze that told him she would have never put such a label to him. Nor would he. Why had he said that? He shouldn’t claim a title he’d never earned.

Something about standing in her presence was loosening his resolve to get the divorce papers signed and get out of Dodge. Something that he saw reflected as sadness in her gorgeous eyes. He’d forgotten her beauty. Her compelling presence. Those sexy bow lips. He was a real pushover for women in distress, and had the scars to prove it.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Something is wrong.” She pushed shaky fingers through the thick spill of hair that beamed blue within the black as the cruel winter sun shone through it. He’d not remembered its brilliance or that it looked so liquid, as if he could swim in it. “The worst wrong of all wrongs, that’s all.”

“Then this can wait.” He tapped his coat where he’d tucked the divorce papers.

“No, I …” She stopped before him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes unwilling to meet his. Everything about her was tense and wrapped up and not the normal Abigail that he barely knew.

Every instinctual alert inside him screamed that the woman was in trouble.

Then suddenly she locked onto his gaze. Her eyes twinkled, and an eyebrow lifted, as if a devious plot had just hatched. “You’re about the most honorable werewolf in the area. You’re strong and smart.”

“That remains to be seen. My pack is dwindling faster than you can howl at the moon. I wouldn’t say that makes me the smartest pack leader around.”

“You defended the vampires by taking out your own pack principal.”

He looked down and aside, his eyes tracking the water puddles from his boots. He didn’t need to be reminded of what he’d done to win his position, but no wolf in the area would let him forget it. Opinions on his honor and smartness varied wildly, from doing the right thing, to being a traitor to his breed.

He’d only done what was necessary.

“You’re like some kind of chivalrous knight or something,” she continued with the weird praise. “I’ve seen warriors like you in the sixteenth century. You ooze nobility and valor, Ridge. And damn, you are looking fine lately. You work out?”

The comments felt so wrong coming from a known sneaky witch who had taken joy in the painful act of shackling the magic of a vampire tribe leader not months ago. “What are you getting at?”

She pressed her fingers over his jacket. The papers beneath crinkled. Her pale pink lips parted. Sexy, thick lips that glinted with gloss. Had those delicious lips ever kissed him? His memory was a little fuzzy on all the details from Vegas.

Ridge hoped she couldn’t hear the pound of his heart over the crinkling of the paper, because right now it beat a thunderous pace at her closeness. He was two parts fearful of her power and two parts ready to shove her against the wall and kiss her in a way he’d never gotten to kiss her in Vegas.

Why were the details so lacking?

“You want me to sign the divorce papers?” she asked with a forced tone of sweetness. Ridge’s red alert prickled the hairs at the base of his neck. What was she playing at?

“That was my objective in setting foot on your property and risking further damage to my delicates.”

“Your delicates?”

“You put a damned spell on me that night in Vegas, Abigail. Because of it, I am now unable to have kids.”

She cast a wondering gaze over his face, not meeting his eyes. He wanted that connection, to look into her and read her sincerity, if it existed.

“I did no such thing. Not on purpose.” She looked aside, then as if an afterthought added, “Hell, I’m sorry. But you deserved it for freaking me like that.”

“I deserved emasculation?”

“I did no such thing!”

“Close. So freaking close. I always knew you were a bad bit of witch, but that was just mean, Abigail.”

“You think I’m bad?”

He rubbed his abdomen and nodded. “Yes.”

A tiny smirk of satisfaction curled her kissable lips. She was pleased with his assessment of her, obviously.

Creased pink slacks sat low on her hips and her short sweater revealed a slice of taut belly. The slender rim of fur at her wrists taunted him with a tease of softness, promising passion-laden kisses and all the naughty things he’d imagined doing with her over the years.

Yes, he’d had a few dreams.

Ridge averted his gaze. He did not find the witch attractive. Though he felt sure the sex had been great, it was only a hopeful memory. He was a fool to believe it had been anything more than a stupid night of drunken folly. Damn that vodka!

He tugged out the papers from his coat and waved them before her.

“Okay, okay!” She paced before the counter, twirling a finger about the end of a luscious twist of black hair. “You want something from me? First you have to give something to me.”

He had not expected this visit to be easy.

“What’s your price, witch?”

Pressing her hands to the counter and tensing her jaw, she seemed to struggle for a moment with what she would next say, and then, “Your help. I need the help of a noble warrior.”

He shook his head, chuckling at the ridiculous request. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“I rarely watch television. I don’t need to. I’ve seen the real thing. And you are the real thing, Ridge. I don’t have time to explain, because the clock is ticking and forty-eight hours is now closer to forty-seven.”

“Abigail, you’re beginning to sound a little crazy.”

“Am I?” Her vibrant blue eyes finally met his, and he noticed they were bloodshot, as if she’d been crying. That wasn’t the truth he’d been hoping to see there.

“What’s wrong, Abigail? Talk to me.”

“I am talking to you. I’ll sign the papers as soon as you help me locate a vampire who has been kidnapped for blood sport by a local pack.”

He whistled and stepped back a few paces. Mention of the blood sport always brought up his defenses. “You are not serious.”

“Deadly.”

“That’s right, you’re the grand high poobah on the Council for werewolf and vampire relations. Since when does the Council take an active role in rescuing vampires from the blood sport? They normally observe and suggest. I can’t imagine they’d step in to personally act on the behalf of one missing vampire.”