I have no doubt he’ll find me soon, and I’m not feeling kindly toward him at the moment. But how to punish him for this incredible infringement on my privacy, my space?
Garrett’s text yesterday said his contact in Paris could be found at a paranormal bar called The Dungeon. I don’t care about meeting up with the contact, but a paranormal bar would be just the kind of place to get under Carlos’ skin.
Normally, it wouldn’t be a location I’d frequent alone. I’ve been warned my whole life about staying away from places like that. As a shifter, I’m fairly safe in a normal bar-no human man could mess with me unless he drugged me first. But a paranormal bar is full of trouble, and dangerous for a single female. Or maybe that’s just the bullshit lie I’ve been fed all my life.
Either way, I have a feeling Carlos will lose his ever-loving shit at seeing me there, and that serves him right for stalking me like a creep-o.
I look up the location on my phone and, as luck would have it, find it’s just six blocks from the boutique hotel where I’m staying. I grab a cab to go back to the hotel, certain Carlos will show up there when he realizes he’s lost my trail.
Feeling almost cheerful for the first time since I arrived in Paris, I shower and put on the dress I packed. A red dress. With a short flippy skirt. I blow dry my hair and apply some mascara and lip gloss. It must be the pregnancy, because despite my low mood over the last week, I look radiant.
Carlos, eat your heart out.
I don a pair of black knee-high boots and march out of the building with a flick of my umbrella and a toss of my hair. Now that I’m watching for it, I notice when the door opens behind me, sense the black wolf’s presence behind me.
Did you just want to make me chase you?
Yeah, I guess I do. Because my wolf loves this game. I have a bounce in my step as I walk down the narrow, cobblestone streets in search of The Dungeon. I walk past it a few times before I locate an unmarked door at the bottom of a short set of steps. Well, of course the Dungeon is located below ground level. Guess that should’ve been obvious.
I stretch out a hand to the door knob, listening first to make sure I’m not trying to walk into someone’s home or something. No, I hear music. I push the door open.
It’s like the cliché in every movie, when the needle scratches off and the place goes quiet, everyone turns to look at me.
One of these things is not like the other. At least I hope not. Because the crowd inside is seedy. With a capital S. And I stand out like a bright, juicy grape in a pile of raisins.
Scents assault my nose-shifters of all kinds are here, along with vampires and whatever else is freaky in Paris. They look like they live in this bar, faces flushed red and pickled with alcohol use.
I’m one of three females in the place, and the other two are old shifters of some kind and not attractive. I pick my way toward the bar. Dirt coats the floors, the tables haven’t been scrubbed down to the wood in ages, if ever.
Behind the bar, a short, disheveled man dries a glass with a dirty rag, openly staring at me like everyone else.
I swallow and swagger to the bar, nudging my way between two leering males who don’t have the decency to move their limbs and feet out of the way for me. “I’ll take a ginger ale,” I say.
The bartender doesn’t move, just keeps polishing the glass like I didn’t say anything.
Maybe he doesn’t speak English. I sigh and try again. “Café au lait?”
This time the bartender’s lip curls and he shakes his head.
Well, peachy.
Even if I hadn’t sensed Carlos come in, I wouldn’t let this asshole’s lack of hospitality chase me away. I plunk both elbows on the bar, like I’m going to stay awhile. “Well, what do you have?”
He pours a clear liquid from an unmarked bottle into a small glass and pushes it over to me.
It smells like rubbing alcohol. For all I know, it’s a home brew. Maybe laced with the date rape drug for good measure. Probably what they reserve for every stupid female who finds her way in here.
I don’t touch it.
A shifter with broad shoulders and a tight black t-shirt comes over and leans his elbow down next to mine, a broad smile on his face. I don’t recognize his scent until I see the dragon tail tattoo curling around the side of his neck.
No. Way. I’ve never met one before.
Before Carlos I might have been impressed. The guy is big, good-looking and oozes male dominance. But all I can think is how much better-defined Carlos’ muscles are, how much kinder his dark-lashed brown eyes appear.
And suddenly, I’m not so sure about my plan to strut in here and get under Carlos’ skin. I don’t actually want to make him jealous-not in the real sense of the word, and this guy might do that.
I try to take a step back, but I’m pinned by another guy to my left. Also dragon. They’re hunting together.
The dragon murmurs something in French and I shake my head, twisting and looking around the bar with a forced nonchalance. Where did Carlos go?
The dragon frowns and picks up my drink, lifting it to my lips.
I turn my face away and some of it spills down the front of me, cold droplets trickling between my breasts. The dragon’s eyes light on the droplets and he leans forward like he’s going to lick them off. I shove at his head, trying to get his tongue away from my skin. His friend grabs me from the back, chuckling as he pins my arms behind me. I scream.