Beast Behaving Badly (2 page)

So, after several years of that constant bullshit, he'd been on his own. He liked it that way and had had every intention of keeping that his status quo until the day he died. Then he'd done that thing he did every couple of years when he got an itch that could only be scratched in one way. He'd called his agent, Bernie Lawman, of the Lawman Clan—say what you will about hyenas eating their young, they made
phenomenal
agents—and said what he always said to the man during these calls over the years, “I'm bored.” In less than three days, Bernie came back to Bo with offers from nearly every major hockey team in the American league, Russian league, and Asian league. The only team that pointedly refused to make an offer was the Alaskan Bears and that was because they didn't have to offer anyone anything. The entire team was made up of bears with two foxes as their centers. Just surviving a game against them was considered a win. But for Bo that was a little too easy. An entire team of bears was not exactly a challenge unless he was playing against them. And Bo needed challenges because when he got bored, he moved on.

Every offer involved a several-million-dollar signing bonus and perks that full-human sports stars could only dream of. His own seal farm was still his favorite, and he'd debated long and hard on that one. The deals were all fabulous, and he'd narrowed it down to the Hawaiian team—complete with his own untouched territory in the Antarctic during his off season, so he wouldn't have to sit around melting in the Hawaiian weather—and the Utah team—seal farm! While he debated, his agent had called.

“Didn't you say you wanted to go to New York to stop at that used bookstore?”

“Yeah. Figured I'd go next week sometime. Why?”

“Wanna go for free?”

Sure. Why not? Plus Bernie got to go and see his New York family on someone else's dime. That someone else turning out to be Ulrich Van Holtz. Round-trip flights on a private jet—although nothing beat the entertainment value of watching the horror of a full-human flight staff when they saw Bo heading their way with a suitcase—and one dinner meeting with Van Holtz at one of his family-owned and -managed restaurants.

Bo had played against the Carnivores before. They were . . . okay. They definitely weren't the worst, but they weren't exactly taking anyone by storm. Van Holtz, who had a financial stake in the team, was also the goalie. And the offer was, again, okay, but when Van Holtz excused himself to check on the meal, Bernie had crossed his eyes and ordered more bread from a passing waitress. The fact he wasn't even discussing what they'd already heard with Bo meant Bernie wasn't taking the offer even a little seriously. To be honest, neither was Bo. But the surf and turf—moose and walrus blubber in a delightful peppercorn sauce—was killer and Ulrich Van Holtz more interesting than Bo would have thought.

As the dinner wound down, Bo excused himself for the bathroom and cut through the restaurant. The place was big and extremely busy. When he found a waiting line at one bathroom, he went off in search of another. He found it, used it, and was heading back up the stairs when he heard someone singing . . . badly.

Curious—he was half bear after all—Bo peeked around a corner. That's when he saw her and recognized her as the wolfdog who'd run away. She was sitting at a table covered with papers, notepads, and a laptop. She wore little white earplugs attached to a cheap MP3 player, and she was still singing. Still badly. He remembered her hitting a note that made his eyes water a little, but he liked how she sang with such abandon. Such honest enjoyment. He found himself attracted to the same thing he'd been attracted to all those years ago—besides those ridiculously long legs. Her energy. There was just something about it that pulled him in. He couldn't explain it and didn't feel the need to. Instead, he'd gone back to the dining room, sat down at the table, and said to Van Holtz, “We have a deal.” It was, other than the obligatory “Hello. Nice to meet you,” all that Bo had said for the entire meal. Of course Bernie's wails of despair were a little disturbing, but Bo knew the hyena would get over it.

Besides, he'd only signed with the Carnivores for a year. A year to find “Legs”—his nickname for her since none of the Philly Furors would tell him what the wolfdog's real name was or where to find her—and then . . . well, he really didn't know. Sex, of course, was a definite “must have.” Again it was those legs. He had to see what those legs looked like on his shoulders. Whether anything else happened from there, he didn't know. But life was always full of surprises. It was a surprise just seeing her in the VIP seats, looking decidedly un-VIP-like in stained cargo pants, work boots, and an abused sweatshirt that said B&G PLUMBING.

Bo scratched the back of his neck again, not bothering to take his glove off this time. His mane was irritating him. He'd stopped trying to cut more of it off because it kept growing back in less than twenty-four hours. Yet it was so thick and heavy that it made him want to shave his head. He had no idea how lion males lived like this.

Readjusting his helmet, Bo finally realized he had the attention of the team's goalie and captain, Van Holtz.

“What?” Bo asked, when the wolf kept staring at him.

“Do you know Blayne?”

“Who?”

“The female you were just staring at?”

Oh. Her name was Blayne. That was a nice name. It fit her. “I know lots of people,” Bo told the nosey prick.

“That did not answer my question.” Van Holtz sure did like those complete, grammatically correct sentences. It was like talking to Bo's tenth-grade English teacher Miss Marsh.

“That's true. It didn't answer your question.”

A shoulder slam from his right side had Bo sparing a glance at the grizzly next to him. Van Holtz's best buddy Lachlan MacRyrie wasn't a half-bad defenseman and usually kept out of Bo's way. He appreciated that in a player. But MacRyrie was big on protecting the runt, even if it meant going up against Bo.

“Answer the man,” the grizzly told him.

“I don't feel like it.”

The two males stared at each other, MacRyrie trying his grizzly intimidation move on Bo. It probably worked on most bears, but the grizzly forgot the mane. The Mongolian Lion's mane pretty much ensured that no matter how logical it may be for Bo Novikov to walk away from any fight he wasn't positive he could win, like most rational predators, Bo wouldn't walk away. Not now, not ever.

So when the two “dropped gloves”—hockey code for fistfight—and hit the ice in the middle of the game, fists flying and claws imbedding into important facial tissue . . . Bo, as always, blamed the mane.

Blayne cringed, wondering what had happened that had Lock MacRyrie—the nicest of all bears—to get into a fistfight with his own teammate.

“Lock's fighting,” Blayne told Gwen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gwen said, waving off the fight that had the entire Carnivore team off the bench trying to stop it. “Whatever. Let's get back to this. Why do you think he's here?”

“I don't know.” Blayne pointed at the ice. “Lock might get hurt, ya know.”

“He can take care of himself. He could be back because of you, sweetie.”

“What are you? High?”

“Did you see the way he looked at you?”

“I did. I'll have nightmares about that look until I'm old and gray . . . if he lets me live that long or decides to add me to the body count under his basement floor.”

“There's no evidence he's ever critically injured anyone—outside the rink.”

“I find so little comfort from that.”

“I think you should go for it,” Gwen pushed.

“And I think you should own up to the fact that you still hate Tracey. And the only reason you're pushing that psychopath over to me is because of her.”

“What's the big deal if you go out with him just to
spite
her? You know, if it makes me happy.”

Blayne's eyes crossed. The cats, they really never forgot a grudge, did they? “Surprisingly, Gwendolyn, I have more important things to do with my time, like put bamboo shoots under my nails or drill holes in all my teeth.
And how can you ignore this?
”

Snarling a little, Gwen faced forward and briefly watched the melee in front of her. “Yeah, yeah. Fascinating.” She turned in her seat again and demanded, “But seriously, you should totally go out with him.”

CHAPTER 2

N
ot in the mood to stand in line to use the bathroom and needing a few minutes on her own before she headed into that locker room, Blayne made her way down a few floors to one of the main training levels and the wonderful and rarely used bathroom near the locker rooms that the derby team used. Blayne was happy because the Carnivores had won against another top-tier team. They were finally hitting their stride and making their way to the playoffs for the first time in years, and Blayne was ecstatic for all the guys.

She was even ecstatic for Bo Novikov. A man who didn't look happy at all about the win or anything else. Did he even know how to smile? Was he physically capable? He'd been the one to make the winning goal, yet he had the same expression on his face after the win as he'd had on his face when the second string Carnivore goalie let the puck get by him. And man, had she felt bad for that kid. He looked ready to pee his pants when Novikov skated up to him, glaring down at the poor jackal like he was moments from eating the kid's face off before devouring his young.

And, as she'd heard about his on-ice attitude, Novikov had let the kid have it with a verbal assault that even Marine drill sergeants would think was harsh.
No wonder every team he's been on hates him.

She'd feel bad for Novikov if she wasn't convinced he was a serial killer. Or, at the very least, extremely rude. Blayne hated rude. It was her one major pet peeve. Her father didn't call her Miss Black Etiquette of the East Coast for nothing.

Washing her hands in the sink, Blayne wondered what was it about her that attracted the sociopaths. The charming ne'er-do-wells who eventually proved they'd kill their mothers for their life insurance or their best friends if they thought it would make them laugh. It had gotten to the point where she'd stopped bringing men home for her father to meet because he'd start the conversation off with, “And what personality disorder do you have and that I'll eventually have to kill you for?” That often led into one of their father-daughter fights, the two of them going at it until Blayne realized the guy had left, never to be heard from again.

Of course, all those guys were . . . what was the right word besides charming? Sweet? Loving? Yes. They were all those things. Superficially so. Once she got past that initial layer, she usually didn't find much of anything else. Novikov, however, seemed to be nothing more than a hulking mass of murdering hybrid from the first time she'd met him. Except for that mane of his and his clear need to win at all costs, he didn't have any of the natural male lion charm that Gwen's brothers Mitch O'Neill Shaw and Brendon Shaw possessed. Nor did he have the sweet disposition and adorable bear geekness that Lock MacRyrie and his dad, Brody MacRyrie, had.

Like all hybrids, Novikov's DNA had borrowed from both parents and created something entirely different.

Well, whatever. It was not her problem, nor her business. Novikov meant nothing to her, and now she was going up to the team's locker room and congratulate all her friends and ignore the glaring hybrid across the room. He'd probably have his own swarm of females anyway, so Blayne would not allow herself to feel guilty for not being nice.

She dried her hands with paper towels and headed to the door. Pulling it open, she walked out in the hallway, saw Bo Novikov and his perpetual scowl leaning against the wall across from the bathroom, turned right around, and went back inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

There was a lengthy pause from the other side and then, “You have to come out of there eventually.”

Good God, he said that matter-of-factly! She could imagine him using the same inflection with, “You know I'll have to cut out your liver eventually.”

“No, I don't,” she told him through the door. “I've done the research. A person could survive on just water for a good sixty days. Plus I have a toilet. In theory, I have what I need.”

“Blayne—”

Blayne gasped, cutting him off. “How do you know my name? How long have you been hunting me? Well, you can take your cellar of death where you keep all the bodies of the women you've slaughtered over the years and go to hell. Because this target, which you probably refer to as ‘it' in your head to keep me as merely an object, is
not
going down without a fight!”

Proud of her speech, Blayne waited for Novikov to walk away. Instead she heard a brief sigh, then silence, but no footsteps. Where were the damn walking-away footsteps?

Blayne waited a bit longer, and having absolutely no patience to speak of, slowly crept closer to the door. She was only a few inches away when the door was ripped off its hinges and placed aside by the brute who'd done it.

Blayne squealed and stumbled back as Novikov stepped into the bathroom. Glaring down at her, he said, “Now we can talk.”

 

 

She was staring at him that way again. The way she'd stared at him when he first met her and when he'd looked at her through the bloody glass. Her brown eyes wide, her mouth open a little. One good growl, and he was pretty sure she'd either make a desperate run around him or go for his jugular. Of course, if she thought he had a “cellar of death” he wasn't really surprised by the way she stared at him.

Blayne finally did speak, though, but it wasn't exactly what he expected to hear. “I am
so
not paying for that door.”

“I wasn't planning on charging you.”

She wanted out of the bathroom. He could tell by the way her gaze kept searching for a way past him, but he made sure that he stood right in the doorway so she couldn't get past him.

After another minute, she screamed, “You'll never take me alive! I'll never let you get me to a secondary location!”

Bo shrugged. “Okay.”

With a horrified gasp, she stepped back. “You're gonna kill me here?”

Should he be entertained by this? Why was he entertained? “I actually wasn't planning on killing you at all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're not going to kill me, skin me, and wear my head as a hat?”

Yep. He was entertained. And, no. It wasn't normal. Instead of answering her question, he asked his own. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because according to my father, many teachers, and quite a few anger-management counselors, I seem to lack that little internal device that stops things that are best left unsaid from being said.”

“I see.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She took a step forward. “Are you or are you not a serial killer?”

“Not.”

“You've never murdered anyone?”

“On or off the ice?” Her eyes grew wide again and he argued, “It's a valid question.” When she continued to gawk up at him, her mouth open, he admitted that “I've never murdered or killed anyone, on or off the ice, male or female, shifter or full-human.” She went up on her toes, staring up at him. After a moment, she said, “Closer.” He leaned in and she gazed into his eyes. He held her stare for a full minute before she said, “You're not lying.”

“I know.”

“Cool.”

“Seals and walruses don't count, though, right?”

She shook her head. “I will not judge,” she muttered to herself. “I will not judge.” Then, “For this particular situation non-thumb-possessing prey does not count.”

“Then we're fine.”

“Cool,” she said again.

He probably should be insulted she thought he was some kind of deranged serial killer, but that sounded like work he wasn't in the mood to indulge in.

“So,” she went on, “since we've come to the conclusion that you're not looking for a new hat or to add me to a collection in your dungeon of pain and suffering—”

“Thought it was a cellar.”

“—why do you have me trapped in a bathroom?”

“Thought maybe you'd want to go out for coffee or something.”

She blinked. “You want to go—” Her eyes narrowed. “Gwen put you up to this, right?”

“Who?”

“What is her obsession with that girl? I mean, seriously—get over it already! Trying to set me up with you just to get even with Tracey Lembowski is so extreme. Don't ya think?”

“Well—”

For the first time, her face softened and she no longer looked terrified out of her mind. It was a lovely change. “But it was really sweet of you to play along. I heard you weren't sweet at all.”

“I'm sweet. I'm very sweet.”

“Hey, Novikov,” a hyena cut in from behind him, “think I can get an auto—”

Bo bellowed in to the sniveling male's face,
“I am talking here!”
He hated when these idiots cut into his conversations without acknowledging the fact it was impolite.
“Can you not see that?”

Giggling in panic, the hyena ran off, meeting up with his clan at the end of the hall, which led to more hyena giggling. Annoying.

“So where were we?” he asked, turning back to the suddenly wide-eyed wolfdog.

“Uh . . .” She gave a little laugh and muttered under her breath, “I will not judge.” Then asked, “Do you have the time?”

Bo checked. “Eleven thirty-two and fourteen seconds.”

“That was very precise.”

“I like precise.” He motioned to her left arm. “You have a watch.”

“Yeah I do.” She smiled at it. “Of course, it says it's three o'clock. Maybe it's on Bangkok time or something.”

“Do you need a good jeweler to fix it? I know a bear who can—”

She waved away his offer. “Nah. It hasn't worked in weeks. Besides, it's a piece of junk, so there's no use fixing it. I got it for forty bucks in the Village.”

Appalled, Bo asked, “If it doesn't work, why are you wearing it?”

“It's pretty!” She stepped in closer and lifted her arm so he could see it better. “It's a Pra-Dah.” She laughed. “Not a Prada watch. A Pra-
Dah
watch. Classy, huh?”

True, Bo could see the humor in that but still . . . “But it doesn't work. Shouldn't you have a watch that works?”

“There's always someone around with a watch on. Like you. Or Ric. Or Gwen. And it's New York. Depending on where you are at any given time, you can usually find a clock somewhere on one of the buildings or on a billboard.”

How could anyone live like that? It was so . . . all over the place! To be honest, Bo considered it a form of hell.

“That's not a very good way to tell time.”

“Why sweat the little things?”

“Time is not a little thing.”

“No, but it's close enough.” A little tinkling sound went off, and Blayne turned in a circle, trying to find where the sound came from.

“Your pants,” Bo told her.

“Oh!” She dug into one of the many pockets of her cargo pants and pulled out a small cell phone. “See?” she said, pointing at the front of it. “This has a clock, too.” She gaped at the phone for a moment and then shook her head. “I'm such an idiot. I had this on me the whole time, and I could have totally called the cops if you'd turned out to be a serial killer. Except that I forgot I had the damn thing. In theory, I could totally be dead right now.”

“Are you going to answer that call or keep making really,
really
disturbing proclamations?”

“Oh, right.”

She answered the phone and said, “Uh-huh,” and disconnected. “Gotta go. Gwen, Ric, and Lock are waiting for me outside.”

She walked toward him and he automatically backed up. He couldn't explain it, but he felt like if he didn't move, she'd find a way to walk right through him.

“Well, see ya,” she said, heading down the hallway.

“Wait,” he finally called out to her when he'd finally recovered from her complete disregard for the importance of accurate timekeeping.

She faced him but kept walking backward.

“What about getting some coffee?”

She snorted. “God, no.” With that, she turned back around and headed off.

God, no? Did she just say “God, no” to me?
Normally he'd assume the worst with a statement like that, but with her he really couldn't be sure.

But it wasn't until the wolfdog suddenly stopped in the middle of the hallway and spun around to face him one more time that Bo realized he could never assume that the words coming out of Blayne's mouth and what she actually meant were one and the same when she suddenly admitted, “Because I hate coffee!” She laughed. “I realized I hadn't actually finished my thought. I do that sometimes. Sorry. Anyway, hate the taste of coffee and caffeine is so not this wolfdog's friend.” She gave him a smile so bright that it nearly seared his eyes in his sockets, winked, and headed off.

Leaving Bo completely confused, kind of insulted, kind of not, and weirdly turned on because she looked shockingly cute in those oversized cargo pants.

But he blamed the mane for the turned-on thing. He totally blamed the mane!