“David?”

“Like Michelangelo’s David? But instead my piece will be called Jean-Louis Parker’s Novikov, and it will be the greatest art anyone has ever seen. And you . . . you, Mr. Novikov, will be my muse.”

The hybrid blinked and then finally asked exactly what Ricky was thinking. “How old are you?”

“Eleven. But I don’t allow my age to hold me back from my future. Only those weak of mind do that.”

Novikov sighed and handed the signed shirt back to the boy. “I wish I could say you disgust me, but I understand you more than you’ll ever realize, kid. So go forth and kick ass.”

“I will. Thank you!”

He nodded at the boy, then the jackal. “Ma’am,” he said before he started back toward the rink.

But that’s when the kid threw out, “And is there a chance I can sketch you naked?”

Novikov stopped walking, his entire body jerking a bit. The She-jackal’s eyes popped open wide at the child’s question, her hand slapping across his mouth and yanking him against her body as Novikov faced them.

“He’s just kidding,” she quickly said before Novikov could ask. “He’s just kidding.”

The boy struggled against the jackal, his muffled words sounding like, “No, I’m not!” But the jackal didn’t release her grip, merely smiled. “And thanks for the autograph.”

Novikov nodded, grunted, and walked back to the rink, the big doors slamming behind him.

That’s when she released the boy, and using the hand not still holding the youngest brother, spun Kyle around so he faced her.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“It was just a question. He should feel privileged. The greatest artist ever known found his physique worthy of my precious attention. He should be bowing at my feet for such an honor.”

The She-jackal stared at him for several seconds before announcing, “You’re an idiot. And if you ever do that again, or I find out from someone else that you did it again, I’m going to kick your ass from here all the way back to Washington.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you understand me?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t—”

She grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and yanked him up with one hand. He dangled a good four feet off the ground, his gaze locked with the She-jackal’s. “Do you understand, Kyle?” she asked again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She released him and shoved the signed shirt back into his hands once he landed on firm ground.

The teenager sighed. “Can we just go already?”

“We have to see Ric first. Here. Take Dennis.”

The jackal handed off the youngest boy before turning to stare at Ricky. He gazed back. Smiled.

After a few moments of that, she asked, “Are you going to giveher back to me?”

That’s when Ricky realized he still held the little pup he’d pulled out of the way of Novikov’s rage.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Ricky handed the pup over. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, her fist shoved in her mouth. She whined a little as the transfer was made, but settled back to sleep once the jackal had her.

“Thank you,” the She-jackal said, and gave him a small smile.

It was the smile that did it, more than the politeness.

“You know,” Ricky began, “if you’re not busy tonight—”

Pointing at Ricky with her cell phone, the teen asked, “Are you our daddy?”

Disgusted, Ricky stated to the jackal, “Woman, there has to be an easier way for you to get rid of a man.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve found that there’s nothing quicker. “She winked at him, then gestured behind him with her chin. “And you may want to check on your brother—he’s still bleeding.”

“Yeah. I think Novikov nicked an artery . . . again.”

She stopped, glanced back at him. But with a little snort-laugh, she walked off without another word.

CHAPTER TWO

Antonella “Toni” Jean-Louis Parker shoved her eleven-year-old brother inside the office by using her foot. It wasn’t really a kick, though. It was more a shove.

Holding her three-year-old sister, Zia, on her hip, she followed Kyle inside while her fifteen-year-old sister Oriana pulled their five-year-old brother, Dennis, in and laughed hysterically at the same time.

“Stop condoning Kyle’s inappropriate behavior,” Toni ordered her sister. The pair stared at each other, then began laughing together.

“You are such a freak!” Oriana told Kyle. “I can’t believe we’re related.”

“I don’t see what the big deal was,” Kyle complained, dropping into one of the office chairs. “It was just a request to sketch him naked.”

“A request that should never come from an eleven-year-old anything. And it better not come from you again.”

Kyle sighed dramatically, as he liked to do, and reminded Toni, yet again, that, “I’m an artist, Antonella.” And what always annoyed Toni about these conversations with Kyle was his tone. Since he’d been four, he always sounded like a fifty-year-old snob explaining the difference between the rich and the poor to a struggling street vendor. A lot of people wondered how such a young boy could sound so mature and intelligently rude. They often assumed he was just mimicking his parents. But the truth was . . . he’d developed that tone all on his own. Like his skills as a sculptor, his rude, condescending attitude seemed to be God-given. “I don’t have time for these ridiculous rules that average people like you have about what you can and cannot ask.”