Shadow’s Edge np-1 Read online

  But he didn’t know her, this creature of gilt and satin and feminine curves, skin like roses and cream and sunlight on water where the rest of his kind were dark, with hair as dark as the forest floor at midnight, skin tones of café au lait and buttered rum.

  He didn’t know that the force of his desire would make him sink to his knees, crouching naked in the dark with his heart in his throat and the scent of her flaming hot in his nose.

  He hadn’t expected this.

  His eyes drank her in and he wondered that she possessed the Gift of beauty all the Ikati shared. She was half human, after all, an inferior race evolved from mud, prone to violence, greed, and all manner of disease. He’d never found a single one of them attractive.

  But her father had. He’d done the unthinkable and mated with a human.

  He’d also exacted a promise from his successor that his half-Blood offspring would not be brought back to Sommerley to live a life of confinement until the time of her first Shift as the Law decreed for the circumstance. She would be allowed to grow and live as a creature free from the shackles of protection, duty, and constraint that defined life within the colony.

  And for a female, there was more constraint than some could bear.

  They’d had deserters in their history as well. Those were dealt with as swiftly and mercilessly as the colony dealt with any other threat.

  He watched her until the muscles in his thighs began to ache with inactivity, then stood and walked silently over to her bedside. In human form, he was as silent as a cat. He saw through the darkness as if it were high noon, he retained all the heightened senses of his animal side.

  Normally this was a blessing. Now...it was closer to torture.

  A book lay on her bedside table. He flipped it open with one finger, read a single paragraph.

  Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself.

  Leander’s lips curled into an amused smile. Animal Farm by George Orwell.

  Ah, the exquisite irony.

  He slanted her a look, his gaze lingering over the arc of her lips, her smooth brow, the soft planes of her cheek. Was she more than just this surfeit of sensuality so pleasing to the eye? What of her sense of humor, her intelligence, her passion? Would she fight for her freedom?

  But no, one way or another, her time of freedom was coming to an end. If she could Shift, if she was fully one of their kind, he would take her back to Sommerley. Force her, if necessary. She would join their colony, she would learn their ways, she might even one day be his...

  It came unbidden into his mind, startled him into stillness with his hand hovering over her open book.

  Mine.

  He crouched down next to her bed. A long, curling lock of golden hair hung free over the pillow. He picked it up and pressed it to his nose.

  And if she cannot Shift, if she is Giftless, he thought, staring hard at her carmine lips half-parted in sleep, it will fall to the Alpha to kill her. It will fall to me.

  “Jenna,” he whispered, an almost noiseless exhalation of sound from his lips.

  She shifted on the mattress, made a pretty, feminine sound in her throat. Her back arched beneath the sheets, a drowsy, languid movement that pressed her body taut against the fabric.

  The dip of her waist. Her flat belly. Those full, perfect breasts.

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, then settled back down against the mattress with a sigh.

  With a stab of desire so acute it made his mouth water, he realized she was dreaming.

  He felt the ground disappear beneath him, his foundation of law and order and tribe, his entire lifetime of duty and sacrifice, safety and silence. She became—with an abrupt alteration of priority that made all else fall away—the only thing and everything he wanted.

  But he was the Alpha and she was an unproven half-Blood, daughter of an outlaw, her future hanging on the scales of fate, her very existence uncertain.

  She was not his to have.

  The strand of her hair slipped between his fingers and he rose, heart pounding, and turned away.

  5

  When Jenna first interviewed for the coveted job of sommelier at Mélisse, she was twenty-two years old, had no college degree, no special training, and no relevant experience.

  What she had was raw talent.

  Her sense of smell was so keen it picked out the single note of lavender, the merest hint of graphite, the faintest rumor of black truffle hidden deep within the aromatic spice and fruit bouquet of a fine wine.

  Though Mélisse was renowned for its wine program—one which had been overseen since their inception by a quick succession of middle-aged, snobbish men and contained over six thousand bottles of the best wine produced throughout the world—they hired Jenna before the conclusion of her first interview, based on her rather remarkable demonstration of this talent.

  The owner of the restaurant, a trim, elderly gentleman named Francois Moreau, set out ten bottles of wine wrapped in plain brown paper bags on the long oak table in the glass-walled private dining room, then poured a single ounce from each into ten unlabeled crystal Riedel wine glasses.

  “Tell me,” he said in a pronounced French accent as he gestured toward the preposterous lineup, “what is the wine in each glass?”

  He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, folded his blue-veined hands over the second button of his camel pinstripe blazer, and smiled at her, serene and sharp.

  Jenna smiled back and began.

  Not only did she tell him the grape varietal each glass of wine contained, she told him whether it had been grown on hillside or riverbank, in high altitude or at ocean level, and what percentage of varietals contained within each if it was a blend.

  Mrs. Colfax, who counted Monsieur Moreau among her beaux and had arranged the interview, had been very generous in sharing her wine and her knowledge of it, and Jenna never forgot a thing. The sense memory came as easily to her as did a great many other things, like her intuition, her strength, her agility, her speed.

  Things her mother assiduously trained her to keep to herself.

  She started the next night. Jenna loved her job more than anything else in her life, in spite of the inevitable discrimination she endured as a woman in what was considered—by the vast majority of their well-heeled clientele—a man’s job.

  This particular evening, she had arrived at work nine hours earlier, far ahead of the evening rush, and was now standing on the opposite side of the long, curving bar from Becky, the feisty, ginger-haired bartender recently hired away from a competitor.

  It was late, almost closing time, and her feet hurt.

  She’d had three difficult customers tonight. They were all older men who eyed her as if wondering how much she’d fetch at auction, then grilled her with questions about the wine list, proper food pairings, and minute differences from one vintage to the next, each finally allowing she might actually know what she was talking about and wasn’t just the hat-check girl standing in for the real sommelier—the male sommelier.

  She was in a foul mood.

  When she felt that singular current of crackling electricity spike through her body, she should have known things were about to get worse.

  “Ooh, la, la,” Becky murmured, low so only Jenna heard. Her hand paused in midair over the wine glass she was about to lift into its place on the hanging rack above her head.

  Jenna raised her eyes to Becky’s freckled, sun-kissed face and took in the admiring stare aimed over her left shoulder at someone who had just come through the front door. She moved her gaze to the mirror that hung on the wall behind Becky, which provided an unobstructed view of the entire restaurant within its colossal, oak-framed border.

  A man—tall and dark-haired—sto
od looking around the restaurant, letting his gaze rove over the graceful interior as if he were looking for someone. He handed over his coat without glancing at the eager hostess who appeared before him to take it.

  His suit alone was worth admiring. Precisely cut to showcase broad shoulders, trim waist, long, well-muscled legs, it was a fitted charcoal-gray pinstripe and had the look of absurdly expensive bespoke. He wore beneath a snowy white button-down shirt, open at the collar to reveal a hint of tawny skin at his throat.

  But it wasn’t his elegant suit that made the chic and sophisticated patrons of Mélisse sit up and take notice of this gorgeous new arrival. It was the unstudied air of confidence and privilege and raw magnetism that surrounded him that drew the eye, the way he simply took the room by standing within it.

  The maître d’, a haughty man named Geoffrey with stooped shoulders and hairy wrists that showed below the starched white cuffs of his shirt, appeared at his side and exchanged a few words with the man. He gave him a curious, low bow.

  Jenna lifted an eyebrow at this and watched in curiosity as Geoffrey led his elegant charge to a reserved table at the back—the best table—a graceful curved banquette of dove-gray leather ensconced against walls painted smoky plum.

  He seated himself with the lithe movements of a dancer and accepted the menu and wine list from the waiter who materialized at his table. He spoke a few words to Geoffrey, who then scurried away like a terrified rodent, shooing the waiter along before him as he fled.

  Then, with slow deliberation and the barest hint of a smile lifting his cheek, the man raised his head and met Jenna’s gaze in the mirror.

  Under lashes long and black as soot, his eyes were sharp and very green. She saw their phosphorescence through the dim, candlelit air and froze on a breath.

  His smile deepened, a slow, slow burn. He did not blink.

  “Oh, God.” Jenna dropped her gaze and felt heat creep up her neck and flood her cheeks. Her heart began to pound.

  The ghosted memory of the vivid dream flitted back to tease her. The hands and lips and tongue.

  “It’s him.”

  “Him who?”

  “I know that man. I’ve seen him before,” she murmured to Becky, trying to speak without moving her lips. She had the uncanny feeling he would be able to read them.

  “In the restaurant?” Becky replied, surprised. “I don’t remember him.” She ran a hand over her unruly red hair, then smoothed it down the curve of her waist, flattening the wrinkled black apron. “I’d definitely remember him.”

  “Shhh!” Jenna scowled down at the granite bar top. “He’ll hear you!”

  Becky finally lifted the wineglass above her head and slid it into the hanging wire rack. “Please. He’s all the way across the restaurant, Jenna. He’s not going to hear me.”

  Jenna shifted her weight from left foot to right and began shredding a paper cocktail napkin to pieces. She became acutely aware of her body, her bare legs, the warm air on her skin. In spite of the simple black cocktail dress she wore, she suddenly felt very naked.

  Her pulse had doubled in the space of thirty seconds.

  “How do you know him?” Becky asked. She turned to mix a martini for one of the waiters.

  Jenna didn’t dare lift her eyes to the mirror. The heat that flooded her cheeks had begun to pulse throughout her body. The same throbbing burn she had felt in the grocery store.

  This was not good. What the hell was the matter with her?

  She inhaled a long, steadying breath, squeezing her hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake, and counted to ten before answering.

  “I saw him before, I was at the store—”

  “Uh-oh,” Becky interrupted, her voice turning sour. “Batten down the hatches, here comes Napoleon.”

  Before Jenna could ask, a voice hissed into her right ear.

  “Earl McLoughlin is requesting the sommelier’s assistance with his wine selection—let’s not keep him waiting!” The reek of garlic and dried sweat stung her nose.

  Jenna ground her teeth together and exchanged glances with Becky. “I thought we weren’t using the first names of the clientele, Geoffrey? Because you think it’s ‘très gauche’?”

  Next to Jenna’s elbow, Geoffrey practically vibrated with smothered apoplexy.

  “Earl is not his name, you twit, it’s his title!” he spat. “The concierge from the Four Seasons called in the reservation! He’s an aristocrat, for God’s sake!”

  Before she could catch herself, Jenna’s gaze flew up to the mirror. Across the restaurant, the earl was studying the wine list—brows stern, face neutral—but she sensed the stifled laughter yearning to break free from his full lips, which were pressed together with firm intent.

  “You may refer to him as Your Grace or Your Majesty, but either way, be professional, be smiling, and be gone!”

  He flapped his hands at her and made shooing noises, as if she were a pigeon begging for crumbs on a park bench.

  Jenna didn’t budge.

  “One does not refer to an earl as Your Grace, Geoffrey, nor does one call him Your Majesty. Those titles are reserved for a duke and a king, respectively,” she said coolly, looking down on his balding head.

  Geoffrey’s mouth formed a startled, moist O, but he didn’t reply. He did begin to blink quite rapidly, however. Becky coughed into her hand to hide her laugh and turned away.

  In addition to the enjoyment of fine wine, Mrs. Colfax had taught Jenna a few other things about high society.

  “I will call him Lord McLoughlin or sir, as is proper etiquette, unless he asks me to call him by his first name, whatever that may be, as it would be ‘très gauche’ to continue on with the ridiculous business of titles after that.”

  Jenna enjoyed the mottled shade of crimson that stained Geoffrey’s cheeks. She turned on her heel and walked without hurry across the restaurant and over to the table that housed Lord McLoughlin, trying all the while to force the blood back out of her own cheeks and keep her breathing even.

  The earl didn’t look up from the wine list as she paused at the edge of the table. For one swift moment she allowed her gaze to linger on the long, tapered fingers that held the leather-bound book. They were tanned, strong, and elegant, like the rest of him.

  A fine, humming current took up residence in her abdomen.

  “Lord McLoughlin,” she said, raising her eyes to his handsome face. “Welcome to Mélisse. How may I be of service?”

  With a smooth motion of his arm, he lowered the wine list to the table, then met her gaze. He smiled—a true smile, admiring—and the din of the restaurant seemed to recede abruptly into a bank of muffled fog, leaving the two of them alone together.

  “Please, call me Leander.”

  That voice like velvet, sending a wash of honeyed warmth throughout her body. The glossy fringe of his hair was longer than she remembered, almost brushing the tops of his shoulders, thick and shining jet. The barest hint of stubble glinted copper along his jaw.

  Tell me you want me...

  “Leander,” Jenna repeated, liking the way his name felt on her tongue.

  Impossible, she thought. Too far away. But still...

  She tilted her head and gave him a sidelong look from under her lashes. “Not Your Grace? Your Highness?” she said lightly, testing him.

  His answering smile was proof enough, but his words were total confirmation.

  “Why bother with the ridiculous business of titles? It’s all so...” He snapped his fingers, searching for a word. “Gauche. Très gauche, in fact...wouldn’t you agree?”

  He leaned forward over the table, steepled his fingertips under his chin, and held her gaze. For one brief moment she imagined he heard her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Quite,” she replied, her mind working furiously.

  How did he hear the conversation with Geoffrey? How was that possible? They had been a hundred feet away...at least. And whispering.

  Her stomach turned over with a twinge of
intuition she promptly ignored. There was no one else who could do what she did; no one she’d ever met had those kinds of sensory gifts. He was just another man.

  And her mother’s cryptic warnings...well, her mother used to drink a lot.

  She pushed a stray tendril of hair away from her cheek with the back of her hand and motioned toward the wine list. “May I assist you with a wine selection, Leander?” she said smoothly. “Do you see anything you like?”

  Why had he been staring at her at the store? Had he been staring at her? What was he doing here? Was she just crazy—was the whole thing her imagination?

  His smile deepened, dimpling his cheeks. “Why, yes, Miss...?” he lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

  “Jenna,” she replied.

  “Jenna,” he repeated slowly. His intense gaze flickered over her figure, once. It came back to rest on her face and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yes, I do believe there is something I like.”

  Under the proper English accent, Jenna detected a slight cadence to his voice, something lilting and familiar, a nuance she couldn’t place. The way he was looking at her made her stomach do something strange.

  “Wonderful.” She cursed her voice for cracking. “What may I bring you this evening?”

  Coincidence? Her imagination? Who were the other two? And what was that heavenly smell coming off his skin?

  “The ’61 Latour.”

  And then she stopped thinking and just blinked at him, trying not to let her mouth hang open. The waiter came and set a silver tray of flatbread and warm rosemary sourdough rolls ensconced in ivory linen upon the table.

  “Sparkling or still water for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

  Leander’s eyes did not move away from Jenna’s face. “Rien, merci,” he said, his voice silky smooth.

  The waiter glanced over at Jenna, then inclined his head and retreated.

  “The ’61 Latour,” Jenna repeated stiffly, her lips puckering. “A fine choice.”

  At seven thousand nine hundred eighty dollars, it was by far the most expensive bottle on their thirty-nine-page wine list.