Eggie would make sure of it.

CHAPTER 1

Twenty-five years later ...

Ulrich Van Holtz turned over and snuggled closer to the denim-clad thigh resting by his head.

Then he remembered that he’d gone to bed alone last night.

Forcing one eye open, he gazed at the face grinning down at him.

“Mornin’, supermodel.”

He hated when she called him that. The dismissive tone of it grated on his nerves. Especially his sensitive morning nerves. She might as well say, “Mornin’, you who serve no purpose.”

“Dee-Ann.” He glanced around, trying to figure out what was going on. “What time is it?”

“Dawn-ish.”

“Dawn- ish?”

“Not quite dawn, no longer night.”

“And is there a reason you’re in my bed at dawn-ish . . . fully clothed? Because I’m pretty sure you’d be much more comfortable naked.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Look at you, Van Holtz. Trying to sweet talk me.”

“If it’ll get you naked . . .”

“You’re my boss.”

“I’m your supervisor.”

“If you can fire me, you’re my boss. Didn’t they teach you that in your fancy college?”

“My fancy college was a culinary school and I spent most of my classes trying to understand my French instructors. So if they mentioned that boss-supervisor distinction, I probably missed it.”

“You’re still holding my thigh, boss.”

“You’re still in my bed. And you’re still not naked.”

“Me naked is like me dressed. Still covered in scars and willing to kill.”

“Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” Ric yawned, reluctantly unwrapping his arms from Dee’s scrumptious thigh and using the move to get a good look at her.

She’d let her dark brown hair grow out a bit in recent months so that the heavy, wavy strands rested below her ears, framing a square jaw that sported a five-inch scar from her military days and a more recent bruise he was guessing had happened last night. She had a typical Smith nose—a bit long and rather wide at the tip—and the proud, high forehead. But it was those eyes that disturbed most of the populace because they were the one part of her that never shifted. They stayed the same color and shape no matter what form she was in. Many people called the color “dog yellow,” but Ric thought of it as a canine gold. And Ric didn’t find those eyes off-putting. No, he found them entrancing. Just like the woman.

Ric had only known the She-wolf about seven months, but since the first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been madly, deeply in lust. Then, over time, he’d gotten to know her, and he’d come to fall madly, deeply in love. Therewas just one problem with their becoming mates and living happily ever after—and that problem’s name was Dee-Ann Smith.

“So is there a reason you’re here, in my bed, not naked, around dawn- ish that doesn’t involve us forgetting the idiotic limits of business protocol so that you can ravish my more-than-willing body?”

“Yep.”

When she said nothing else, Ric sat up and offered, “Let me guess. The tellin’ will be easier if it’s around some waffles and bacon.”

“Those words are true, but faking that accent ain’t endearing you to my Confederate heart.”

“I bet adding blueberries to those waffles will.”

“Canned or fresh?”

Mouth open, Ric glared at her over his shoulder.

“It’s a fair question.”

“Out.” He pointed at his bedroom door. “If you’re going to question whether I’d use canned anything in my food while sitting on my bed not naked, then you can just get the hell out of my bedroom

. . . and sit in my kitchen, quietly, until I arrive.”

“Will you be in a better mood?”

“Will you be naked?”

“Like a wolf with a bone,” she muttered, and then told him, “Not likely.”

“Then I guess you have your answer.”

“Oh, come on. Can I at least sit here and watch you strut into the bathroom bare-ass naked?”

“No, you may not.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed. “However, you may look over your shoulder longingly while I, in a very manly way, walk purposely into the bathroom bare-ass naked.

Because I’m not here for your entertainment, Ms. Smith.”

“It’s Miss. Nice Southern girls use Miss.”

“Then I guess that still makes you a Ms.”

Dee-Ann Smith sat at Van Holtz’s kitchen table, her fingers tracing the lines in the marble. His kitchen table was real marble, too, the legs made of the finest wood. Not like her parents’ Formica table that still had the crack in it from when Rory Reed’s big head drunkenly slammed into it after they’d had too many beers the night of their junior-year homecoming game.

Then again, everything about Van Holtz’s apartment spoke of money and the finest of everything. Yet his place somehow managed to be comfortable, not like some spots in this city where everything was so fancy Dee didn’t know who’d want to visit or sit on a damn thing. Of course, Van Holtz didn’t come off like some spoiled rich kid that she’d want to slap around when he got mouthy. She’d thought he’d be that way, but since meeting him a few months back, he’d proven that he wasn’t like that at all.