Regan had barely managed to wipe off the dampness and pull on her bra and panties when he returned, his brows pulled into a frown as he held out the bags of her new clothing.

“I took half the store and there isn’t one decent shirt in there.”

Well, so much for the considerate lover who had bathed her with such tender care, she wryly acknowledged.

Yanking the bags from his hands, Regan pulled on a pair of hip hugging jeans, then dug through the mound of shirts to pull out a pretty yellow knit top with a scooped neckline and lace about the hem that barely reached her belly button.

Pulling it over her head, she smoothed it down and regarded him with a challenging smile.

“What’s wrong with my shirts?”

He scowled as his gaze studied the tiny top that clung to her curves.

“They’ve all been chopped off at the waist and cut so low you might as well not even bother with them.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the dark ages of keeping women covered from head to toe are long over, chief.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

He folded his arms over his chest, appearing big and dangerous and…Christ, so heartstoppingly beautiful it made her mouth water.

Damn vampire.

“I…” His words came to an abrupt halt at the same moment that Regan froze—an unmistakable scent floating through the air. “Were,” he growled, turning with impossible grace to flow into the outer cave.

“Salvatore,” Regan clarified, her hackles rising as she followed with less grace and a great deal more stomping.

Stepping into the large cave, Regan ignored Jagr’s attempt to keep her hidden behind his massive form, instead moving so she could have an uninterrupted view as Salvatore Giuliani boldly stepped through the entrance.

As always, the King of Weres was elegantly attired in a designer suit, this one in a slate gray with a matching silk tie and pale ivory shirt. His thick black hair was pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck, and his sensuous Latin features were a polished bronze. It was his golden eyes, however, that caught and held attention. They were eyes that held a ruthless intelligence and lethal willingness to do whatever necessary to achieve his goal.

Including tossing her aside like a piece of non-recyclable trash.

Strolling arrogantly into the cave, Salvatore deliberately sniffed the air, the wicked glint in his eyes revealing his awareness of their earlier passion.

“Am I intruding?” he mocked, his voice accented with a hint of Italian. His lips twitched as Jagr regarded him in a frigid silence, his gaze shifting to Regan. “Ah, Regan. As exquisite as ever.”

Regan didn’t hesitate.

“You son of a bitch,” she rasped, launching herself across the cave with a speed that caught both men off guard. Slamming into the startled Were, she knocked him flat on his back and perched on top of his chest, glaring into the too handsome face. “You let Culligan get away.”

The golden eyes glowed, but it was pure male arousal rather than anger that stirred his inner wolf.

“Cristo, you are magnificent. Such a pity you can’t bear me an heir. You would have been a worthy mate.” His smile was slow, seductive. “Of course, that doesn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other’s company. You haven’t lived until you’ve been bedded by a pureblood…”

Her eyes narrowed in disgust. “Even think about it and I’ll castrate you.”

His husky laugh echoed through the cave as he gave a mighty shove and rolled Regan beneath him. Now on top, he smiled into her startled eyes.

“Oh, I’m thinking about it.”

He didn’t think about it long.

The cold blast of fury was the only warning before Jagr had Salvatore by the throat, and was shoving him against the wall of the cave.

“Touch her again, dog, and they’ll be finding your body parts from here to New Orleans,” he informed Salvatore in artic tones.

The golden eyes blazed. “Release me, vampire, or you’ll have a war on your hands Styx does not want.”

Indifferent to the threat, Jagr leaned forward, whispering something too low for Regan to catch before abruptly stepping back and releasing his death-hold on the Were.

Salvatore growled low in his throat, but oddly didn’t attack. Instead, he smoothed his hands down his Gucci suit and ensured his tie was still immaculate.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate vampires?” he purred with sweet venom.

Regan rose to her feet, wondering what the hell Jagr had whispered in Salvatore’s ear.

“Why are you here?” Jagr demanded. “I called you to Hannibal to take care of your rabid curs, not to socialize.”

Salvatore met the ancient vampire’s glare without flinching. “I’m here because there’s no proof there are any curs in the area, despite the fact my men have searched for hours. A suspicious Were might begin to conjecture that this is a trap.”

“I don’t need a trap to kill a Were, king or not.”

Regan shivered, feeling as if she were standing in the middle of a brewing thunderstorm.

Not surprising.

Salvatore was throwing off the natural heat of a furious pureblood, while Jagr’s power was a frigid blast.

Just like a hot- and cold-weather front clashing together.

“Christ, I’m choking on the testosterone in here,” she muttered, shifting to stand between the two men. About as smart as stepping between a rabid wolf and feral tiger, but nothing would get done while the two played “who has the biggest balls” game. She regarded Salvatore with an annoyed glare. “You didn’t find the curs because they’re being concealed by a witch’s spell.”

“Have you actually seen any of them?” the Were demanded, his gaze tracking Jagr as the vamp pressed his large body against Regan’s back and wrapped a possessive arm about her waist.

Regan swallowed a sigh. It always looked so sexy in the movies to have two men snarling and snapping over a woman. Now she just wanted to punch them both in the nose.

“One attacked us last night,” she said.

Salvatore stiffened in surprise. “A moment.”

Turning toward the entrance of the cave, the Were gave a low whistle. Immediately, two curs entered the cave. One a huge, hulking cur with a shaved head and pit bull face. The other smaller, leaner with short blond hair and a startling intelligent expression.

In tandem they fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the hard ground.

“Yes, your majesty?” The bald-headed cur spoke for the groveling pair. “How may we serve?”

Regan gagged as she turned toward Salvatore. “Oh, you’ve got to be freaking kidding me. I thought Culligan was full of himself.”

A smile curved the Were’s lips. Smug bastard.

“Hess has lived among the hunting grounds north of here. It’s possible he will recognize your attacker if you can describe him.”

“I can do better than that if you have a pencil and paper,” she said.

Salvatore snapped his fingers. “Max, go back down to the Humvee and find what the lady needs.”

“Yes, sire.”

Jumping to his feet, the young man charged out of the cave at full speed. Regan shook her head.

“You really get off on the whole royalty thing, don’t you?”

“It’s good to be King.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

His smile softened to a wicked invitation. “But not as good as it is to be the King’s…”

Jagr tightened his arm around Regan’s waist, his power making the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end.

“Careful, dog,” he hissed.

“Feeling a little territorial, vamp?” Salvatore mocked.

“Regicidal.”

Chapter 9

A tense silence descended as the two predators huffed and puffed and did all the stupid things males did when they weren’t allowed to kill one another.

Regan rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering at the painful prickles that brushed over her skin. Holy crap. Things could go nuclear in a hurry, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

At last the gathering storm was broken by the return of Max, who had barely broken a sweat despite his swift run up and down the high bluff.

“Thank God,” Regan muttered, struggling free of Jagr’s arm to snatch the notebook and pencil from the cur.

Vividly aware of the tension sizzling between the males, Regan moved to perch on a flat rock. Christ, the air in the cave was so thick she could barely breathe. And it didn’t help that the two curs had moved to flank Salvatore as if preparing for a battle. Why didn’t they just wave a red flag in front of the ancient, lethal vampire?

Morons.

Clearing her mind, Regan forced herself to concentrate on the memory of the cur that had attacked them. What was the point in fretting over Jagr and Salvatore? If they wanted to rip each other apart, then so be it.

She wasn’t about to play Super Nanny.

Sliding the pencil across the paper, Regan lost herself in her sketch. She was no Picasso (well, who was?), but over the years she’d discovered the trick of capturing an image with the minimum of strokes.