Garnet Boudreaux is going home. Not back to her nice little apartment in
, but to her childhood home in the bayou. She doesn’t want to go, and isn’t certain what will be waiting for her when she arrives. But standing there in the voodoo shop on New York City Bourbon Street, in the middle of one helluva party, she’s told by Madame Madeleine Dupuis that she has no choice. She presses two pouches into Garnet’s hands, wraps a red cape around her, and tells her she must go—and go now—to see to her grandmother.
Max LeBlanc spies the lovely red-head across the street and knows in a heartbeat she is the one. A rougarou always knows when he’s met his mate. Some may call him a lycanthrope, a werewolf if you will, but in Cajun bayou lands he’s known simply as The Rougarou. He’d waited several hundred years for this moment, and for her. There is nothing left for him to do, but mark her and claim her as his mate. Soon.
The French Quarter,
, 10:39 p.m. New Orleans
“Come closer, Red,” he rasped. “I want that burning-hot body next to mine.” The wiry stranger threaded his hot fingers through her hair at the nape, and his steamy breath snaked around her neck.
A carnival spun in Garnet Boudreaux’s head, and for once, she did not want to get off the ride. Was she drunk? Yes, somewhat. But it was okay, she was with her girlfriends, and they watched out for each other.
Were they watching his hands glide over her ass, too?
Eyes the color of dark honey with flecks of gold pierced hers and held as he pressed closer. His lips scraped over her cheek, sending a shudder of want from the curls on her auburn head straight down to her scarlet toenails. Neon swirled as he led her out the door of the Cat’s Meow, spilling into
“My friends…” she breathed, wincing as he nipped her neck, his teeth clipping at the tender skin beneath her ear lobe.
“Back in the bar,” he growled.
Oh Damn.She shouldn’t leave Tiana and Kathleen behind. They needed her. Didn’t they?
Or did she need them?
Like a cat lapping at milk, his tongue laved her neck to cheek. “Give me your tongue,” he commanded. His hands rested under her armpits, cradling the sides of her breasts, thumbing her nipples through the red satin dressed she’d borrowed for this decadent Mardi Gras-type party on Bourbon her company insisted they attend.
Her mask. Had she lost it?
She glanced behind her. He caught her chin between his fingers and forcefully turned her face back toward his.
“Me. I’m the one you are with. Forget the others.”
Her brain said no. The tingles racing up her spine and the heat gathering in her panties cried yes.
His hips gyrated against hers and his dance swept her into a spiral of lights and hands and lips and skin on skin. He dipped his tongue deep into her cleavage and she resisted the urge to clasp his head against her chest and keep him there. He was hard against her abdomen.
Had he growled?