Primal Heat Read online

  “The poor woman,” Britney said. “Wait. She’s talking to someone by her car.”

  “One of them?” Andrew reached for a weapon.

  “Who can tell these days?” Michele took the binoculars back and studied the man by the car. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, but not with the demonic beauty Michele associated with them. “Maybe yes, maybe not. It’s hard to get an immediate reading since they started taking the daylight drugs.”

  “We could rescue her,” Andrew declared eagerly. “She might need our help to escape the monster.”

  “She just invited him into her car,” Michele said. “And now they’re driving away.” She put down the binoculars and rubbed her tired eyes.

  “Should we follow them?” Andrew asked.

  Michele started the van’s engine. “No,” she said. She yawned. “Let’s call it a night. We’ll get back to vampire hunting tomorrow.”

  Chapter Five

  H e was in big trouble. Matt knew it, but he was helpless to stop himself. Having Philippa so close to him was—torture.

  Magic.

  The gaudy lights of the city were distracting. So were the muted thoughts and emotions of the crowds that came to him from the hotels and casinos they drove past. He closed his eyes and focused on her.

  Even without him touching her, the warmth of her skin heated his. The slow burn of arousal glowed near the surface of her emotions. Overlaying it was a complicated mix of feelings. Some made him dizzy with desire. Others worried him. He scrupulously kept from crossing her natural mental barriers to find out what exactly was going on with her. He didn’t have the right—but that didn’t stop him from wanting to.

  To distract them both, he chuckled.

  She took the bait. “What?”

  He let himself look at her. Perky, he thought, with her short blond hair, large eyes, stubborn chin, and short nose. Why am I so attracted to someone who looks so—cute?

  “What’s so funny, Bridger?”

  There was a tough-as-nails quality in her voice that belied the fresh-faced American Girl looks.

  “You called me arrogant,” he answered. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  She snorted.

  “That’s not a very ladylike sound.”

  “I’m no lady. And I’m not impressed by arrogance.”

  “But there are few as arrogant as I.”

  She made that sound again. “My dad and brothers are all hotshot pilots, so I had a head start even before I became a cop. The male of the species—”

  “Which species is that?” he interrupted.

  This amused her, but there was a dose of suspicion underlying it, which he thought healthy. She was a smart mortal, something else he found attractive.

  “You know, Homo sapiens?”

  “Homo sapiens sapiens,” he corrected.

  “Which branch of the family tree are you from? Homo habilis? Homo erectus?”

  “Did you just say something about an erection?” he teased.

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “You should have seen that coming.”

  She laughed. “You’re absolutely right.”

  She’d been relaxing, but there was a wariness in her, and a weariness. He wondered if it was related to him at all.

  “Here we are,” she said, and turned into the hotel’s wide driveway.

  If he had any sense, he would bid her good night and leave her in the lobby. If he had any sense, he wouldn’t have taken Marc’s hint about hitching a ride with her. He’d known three years ago that this woman was dangerous. Correction: he’d known three years ago that he was dangerous to her.

  “Marc told me you were shot in the line of duty recently,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She brought the car to a halt underneath the ornate entrance portico and gave him a hard look as her suspicion level soared. “What else did Marc tell you?”

  He gathered she wasn’t happy with her brother-in-law’s intrusion. He certainly didn’t blame her for that. “Nothing,” he replied. He put a hand out to touch her, and she shied away. “Should he have?”

  “I’m fine.” God, I am so sick of telling people I’m that!

  The thought was so strong, he couldn’t help but catch it. “I know what you mean,” he answered.

  “What?” She sounded taken aback, and angry.

  “I’ve been injured badly enough to be fussed over by loving friends and relatives until I was ready to kill them. That’s how you’re feeling, isn’t it?”

  “I’m dealing with it,” she said, the anger going out of her. “I’m better now.”

  She wasn’t being completely truthful with him, but Bridger let it go. He opened the car door. “Thanks for the lift.”

  He got out, then turned to look at her. The urge to kiss her burned in him; the longing for her grew stronger than ever before. Need stretched between them.

  Then the driver behind her honked impatiently, and Phillipa drove off toward the parking ramp. After her car disappeared around a curve, Matt finally entered the hotel.

  The ceiling over the lobby was painted to look like blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds, with the lighting simulating soft daylight. It was never night indoors in Las Vegas. The carpet underfoot was thick and plush, in an eighteenth-century blue-and-gold pattern. Huge arrangements of fresh flowers on polished marble stands dotted the place. Though there were a lot of people around, the gigantic space didn’t feel in the least bit crowded. As Matt approached the front desk, the bright, tinkling sounds of the casino came from his left; a band playing jazz reached him from a bar on the right.

  As he checked in, he noticed something else—a presence so familiar that, at first, the mental energy hadn’t registered as anything but more background noise. He pocketed the keycard for his room and headed toward the bar.

  Mike Bleythin stared at the tumbler of amber liquid on the table as though it were a living thing that could reach out and strike him at any moment.

  The small table’s black surface was so polished, he could have seen his reflection in it. But since he wouldn’t like what he saw—a man with dead eyes and hard features—he didn’t bother looking. Instead, he concentrated on the whisky with all his finely tuned senses. All but taste. For now.

  The color was sparkling shades of gold, like concentrated captured sunlight, a promise of fire in the throat. The scent was of wood and smoke. The glass was thick and heavy, the crystal rim singing a sharp note almost below even his hearing when he ran a finger around the rim.

  Mike Bleythin had come to Las Vegas to kill someone. He just didn’t know who, yet.

  “What are you doing here, Tracker?”

  He’d known there was a vampire in the bar; for some reason the town was full of them at the moment. If he’d been paying attention, he would have recognized the scent of his old friend and sometime partner right away.

  “Acting like a fool,” he answered as Matt Bridger sat across from him.

  “Me too,” Bridger said, and picked up the glass.

  “Hey!” Mike complained. But the vampire gulped down the whisky anyway. “That’s mine.”

  Bridger gave his characteristic shrug. “You weren’t going to drink it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No use wasting twelve-year-old single malt just so you can prove that point.”

  “If I’m going to have an unrequited romance, it’s going to be with the good stuff.”

  “I relate to that more than you can know.”

  As far as Mike knew, Bridger didn’t have any addictions. Bridger glanced at a waitress, and within a minute a fresh glass of scotch was placed in front of Mike. Mike envied vampires some of their abilities. Not that his kind weren’t psychically gifted, they just couldn’t use telepathy with the casual ease of Bridger’s kind.

  “Continue torturing yourself, by all means,” Bridger invited.

  “It’s a test of character.”

  “Call it what you like, it’s a waste—”

>   “Of good whisky. I know.”

  “It’s your life.”

  Bridger’s edgy mood finally registered on Mike. “What’s wrong, Matt?”

  Bridger glanced toward the entrance and the hotel lobby beyond. Mike got the impression there was somewhere else he needed to be, but he was fighting the urge tooth and claw. Mike understood compulsion very well. He also knew what it usually meant for vampires.

  “Who’s wrong?” he amended his question.

  “My dear friend and cousin,” Bridger took a sip of the whisky.

  “Why drink when liquor doesn’t affect you?”

  “I like the flavor.”

  “I prefer the oblivion. What about your cousin?”

  Bridger took another sip. “He found his bondmate. Now he thinks everyone—specifically me—should do the same.”

  “Your cousin’s trying to hook you up with someone.”

  “His bonded’s sister.”

  “Who is…not your type?” Mike guessed.

  “Who is absolutely perfect. She is—” Bridger shook his head. “Everything I’ve been hoping I’d never find.”

  Mike thought he understood. “It’s hard work, staying a lone wolf.”

  “It wasn’t, until she came along.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t fight the urge. Aren’t you a little long in the fang for one of your kind, to be without a mate?”

  Bridger glanced around the bar—not that there was anyone close enough to hear their conversation, considering how low they could speak and still hear each other. “I’ll thank you not to make any public references to my most attractive appendages, Bleythin.”

  “I won’t show you mine, if you won’t show me yours,” Mike said. “And who am I to give advice about relationships?” Especially to another species.

  “Just so,” Bridger agreed. “What are you doing in town, Tracker?” he asked suspiciously. “Not looking for me, I hope? Because I’m here on Family business, and—”

  “Is that why there’s so many of you in town?” Mike tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve been feeling like I’ve got a psychic sinus attack ever since I arrived.”

  “My happy and interfering cousin had a kid. The Family has gathered to pledge protection. It’s a lot of old-fashioned, sentimental tripe, if you ask me.”

  “You’re going to be his godfather, huh?”

  “Guardian is the proper term.” Bridger lifted his head proudly. “And yes, I am.”

  “Mazel tov.” Mike picked up the drink, caught himself, and handed it to Bridger. “Have one on me.”

  Bridger finished off the glass, thrust it in front of Mike’s face before putting it down, then asked, “What’s got you playing the old ‘will I or won’t I get drunk’ game, friend?”

  “The usual,” Mike answered gruffly. “Nothing you can help with.”

  Bridger sat back in his chair. He looked weary. Mike knew the feeling. They’d both been on the job too long.

  “I wasn’t going to offer,” he said. He gave a quick look around. “Unless—”

  “The situation doesn’t involve your people.”

  Sometimes when vampires went bad, they took werewolves with them. When they worked together, Matt Bridger took care of the fang boys, Mike took care of the shape-shifters.

  Vampires didn’t always kill their renegades; they had a formal justice system and a secret prison somewhere. Werefolk weren’t that complicated or civilized. Mike’s job was to track down the bad ones and terminate them with extreme prejudice. He loved the hunting, and the need to kill was part of his nature. But killing his own kind wasn’t. Besides, what if someday he was wrong, and he took out an innocent? Being a werewolf cop was enough to drive a man to drink.

  “LVPD has been tracking a serial killer for nearly a year,” he explained. “I was called in when one of our friends got a look at the case file. I haven’t had a chance to look over the evidence myself yet, but from what I’ve heard, this has all the earmarks of classic lycanthropy. Hopefully it’s a bit and not a born, ’cause with the bit I’m doing them a favor.”

  “Except then you’ll have two to track down.”

  “Yeah. The bit and the one who bit him.” You had to be born a vampire, but with werefolk it could go either way. “I’ll worry about the details later,” he told Bridger.

  “You do that,” Matt said, but Mike saw that he’d lost the vampire’s attention.

  Matt stood and walked away without a word.

  True love calling? Mike wondered as he watched his friend leave the bar. “Or at least true lust.”

  Chapter Six

  H i, Marc. Sorry to disturb you. It’s Phillipa.”

  “I know who it is. How are you and Matt getting along? Ow! Talk to your sister—who just swatted me on the back of the head.”

  “He’s matchmaking, isn’t he?” Phillipa asked as soon as Jo took the phone.

  “Yes. We were just discussing that when you called. How are you?” Jo’s voice took on sudden urgency. “He hasn’t done anything—odd—has he?”

  “You don’t mind when I’m—odd,” came Marc’s deep voice from the background.

  “She’s my sister, and she’s—”

  “Excuse me,” Philippa interrupted.

  “—not well,” Jo finished.

  “Talk to me,” Philippa said. “When you said that Bridger’s dangerous, what did you really mean?”

  Jo’s words had been nagging at Phillipa since she’d left the party—her cop’s sixth sense at work. She had the impression that there was some secret meaning her sister was forbidden to impart yet wanted to share. She wondered what Jo would have to say if Marc wasn’t there.

  She knew she was being paranoid, but it also frightened her to think that her cop sense might be as screwed up as the rest of her. She’d grown so anxious about what she sensed that she hadn’t even waited to reach her room before calling Jo. She was leaning against a white marble pillar near the elevators, holding her cell phone to her ear.

  “Dangerous as in—” Jo began.

  “Tell her he was in the military,” Marc’s voice cut across Jo’s. “In the SAS. He’s very patriotic. And he loves his mother.”

  Phillipa sighed. This was not going anywhere. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said, and ended the call. She started to turn off the phone, but it rang before she could. “Hello? Hi, Pete. How are you? How’s your investigation coming along?”

  A wave of relief went through her as she listened to the answers from Peter Martin, her friend on the local police force. Pete was nice. Pete was normal. They had a lot in common. Common ground and normalcy were far more important than the exotic allure of the mysterious Matthias Bridger.

  “Did I hear my name taken in vain?”

  “Gotta go,” Phillipa said, and switched the phone off as she stepped away from the column to face Bridger. “Are you in the SAS?”

  “Who dares, wins,” he answered. “That’s our motto.”

  “Cool.” She sounded like a star-struck kid, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help it if she had a thing for the military; the tougher the service, the better. It was hard to get tougher than Britain’s Special Air Service. “Unofficial motto, Train hard, fight easy.”

  “And Speed, Aggression, Surprise,” he added, with a knowing grin. “Do you want to see my tattoo?”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she blurted out.

  And realized that one of his hands was possessively cradling the back of her head, and that she was leaning back, enjoying his touch. His other hand clasped hers. His thumb was slowly stroking across the back of her wrist, sending sparks and shivers all through her.

  Oh, God, here they went again! She should stop this right now! Then she looked into his eyes, and all there was in the world was heat.

  The next thing she knew, they were in the elevator, their hands on each other. “Isn’t this where we started?” she asked.

  “Can’t be helped,” he answered. “You belong to me
.”

  If she’d been the least bit rational, this statement would have made her furious. Instead, a thrill swept through her.

  When the elevator stopped, she barely noticed that it wasn’t on her floor. She stopped thinking altogether when he picked her up and carried her down the hallway. She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of him, and just let it happen.

  Goddess, she smelled so good!

  The weight of her was perfect in his arms, though she was more slender than he remembered. Three years of fighting the hunger had been too long; he couldn’t wait another moment. Her arms were around his neck, and he turned his head and bit into the soft flesh of her wrist. Even though they were in a public hotel hallway, he couldn’t stop himself from tasting her.

  Sweet. Though not so sweet as he remembered. Still just as hot.

  Her sigh of pleasure brushed across his cheek, warm and enticing. The orgasm that rushed through her echoed through him. It gave him pleasure to give her pleasure, and increased his need. The rich taste of her blood tantalized, but only having her body, essence, and spirit could completely satisfy his primal need.

  Primal, he heard her think. Prime. Where have I heard that before?

  He was barely able to stop the impulse to kick open the door when they reached his room. He put Phillipa down but held her close while he unlocked the door.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said when they were inside his bedroom.

  “You don’t have an SAS winged dagger tattoo,” she responded.

  “It actually represents Excalibur.” He kissed her throat, then her chin. “You remember me naked from last time?” he whispered in her ear.

  She ran her hands up his back and shoulders, and his jacket slipped to the floor. Then she began working on his shirt button. The woman had a talent for undressing him.

  “No,” she said. “But you wouldn’t have acknowledged being SAS if you weren’t out of the game.”

  “That game,” he admitted.

  “Wearing ink would call attention. The SAS never calls attention to itself, unless you’re shooting at someone.”

  “Even then, the encounters are generally brief and not remembered by the ones encountered. You’re a military groupie, aren’t you?” he asked.