Exposing His Secret, page 3
“Keeping him safe.”
“And the sword. When you find it.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“I’m an optimist.”
That made one of them.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Mike said. “A hundred grand is my base price, and that’s for guarding someone who might know who Frankenstein is.”
“Shane knows who Frankenstein is,” Luke said, deadpan. “The monster too.”
“We understand your usual fee structure,” Sørensen said, serious again. “One hundred thousand was for Shane’s benefit. His first big gig, you might say. My partner and I would like to offer you five hundred thousand dollars.”
Mike’s palms broke out in sweat. Visions of hot tubs and wine cellars danced in his mind. “Just for keeping him alive.”
“Safe,” Luke said.
“Even without a sword.”
“Even without a sword,” Sørensen confirmed.
Mike studied their faces. “Is there someone else on the trail of this thing I need to know about?”
“There is always someone on the trail of a legendary king. What do you say, Mr. DeLuca? Half a million to hike up some hills and swim in some lakes?”
He had a feeling this wouldn’t be anything so smooth as a few hikes and swims, not for the pile of cash this guy was offering.
But in the past five minutes, the acreage of Mike’s retirement haven had spread tenfold. Hell, he could probably ship in fresh lobster every week for the rest of his life on this little nest egg.
And who knew? Maybe there was a fucking sword.
There wasn’t, but he’d laugh about that over his lobster.
If he agreed.
“Give me twenty-four hours to think it over.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Shane knelt next to the snowblower, wondering if he’d totally botched his chances before he’d even started.
It figured that as soon as he had a chance to do something cool, his brain would fritz out like that one socket in the bunkhouse that always burned out light bulbs first.
And in front of Mike DeLuca.
The guy was pretty much everything Shane found attractive in a man. The stern expression, the low, grumbly voice. Dark stubbled jaw, with matching hair on his forearms that promised thick fur on his chest. Yeah, he’d been short with Shane out on the road, but he could forgive him that; blowing a tire sucked.
And he was an otter shifter, which was the greatest thing and the worst, all in one. Greatest because Shane couldn’t remember meeting any other otters at the refuge (or before, if he was being totally honest), and just the prospect of swimming with the guy… He couldn’t stop imagining it. Mike’s movements in the water would probably be just as efficient, and wow. Who knew that that would be a turn-on, huh?
Which was why it was the worst thing, too. Fate had handed him a fucking dreamboat—one who could be his bodyguard, no less—and Shane had probably scared the guy off from touching this assignment with a single claw.
Dumb brain. Dumb Swiss-cheese memory.
If Luke could hear his thoughts right now, he’d be lecturing Shane about his self-talk. Luke was always after him about detrimental effects of negativity. Of trashing his own mind. “You need to work with what you’ve got, even when it doesn’t seem to work itself. You’ve got to stay positive.” As stoic as he seemed, Luke was all about positivity. He needed to be, since he’d been holding a torch for that lady in Quebec since before Shane was born, probably. He had a son by her.
A history, Shane suspected, that drove Luke to serve the shifters he helped here. In his seven years at the refuge, Shane had witnessed a wide range of rehabs. Some folks had regained their former selves, while others had found and accepted new realities for themselves. Maybe this thing with his brain was permanent. Maybe he’d always been this way.
He was kind of glad he couldn’t remember.
That night at dinner, he couldn’t stop stealing looks at Mike. The way he handled his silverware (no nonsense), how he drank his beer (short swallows, almost careful), how his focus went between his dinner and Luke, with just two glances at Shane.
Yep, he counted them. Pathetic.
He shoved the down-talk deep and grabbed on to the positive attitude Luke would want him to keep. The boss was working hard to involve Shane in the conversation. Luckily, they were talking mostly about the wilderness in this part of the country, and Shane had been at the refuge long enough to know the area well. So did Mike, which he guessed was a product of being Luke’s friend. So they talked about the lakes and rivers nearby, and Shane made a game of asking Mike questions just to hear his voice.
He’d gone back into Luke’s office that morning after Mike emerged. He’d asked all the questions he could think of then, too, sticking to the geology aspect of the mission so that he might sound like he had something to offer. Sten had emphasized the need to explore the deep lakes of the region, which Shane was better suited to exploring than a wolf shifter was.
They’d gotten on well, he thought, and he’d been ready to agree to the mission. But Luke must’ve seen his eagerness because he broke in just as Shane was about to say it. Apparently, Mike had asked for twenty-four hours to think it over. It’d been disappointing to hear, even if it was the smart thing to do. With both wolves watching him, though, he laid on a smile and said he’d appreciate the same.
Positive attitude? Check.
Besides, it gave him time to observe Mike. The guy didn’t give much away, even with all the questions. If Shane had to guess, Mike DeLuca was probably looking forward to a quiet evening by himself after dinner. Quiet spots could be tough to find at the refuge, but there were a few.
Then, an idea struck him: what was quieter than a private swim?
He waited until they had finished eating and Mike drank the last of his beer. When he set his glass down with a final-sounding “Right,” Shane leaned forward.
“Bet you’d like to have a shift. I can show you a nice, quiet place for a swim.”
“Oh,” Mike said, then looked at Shane and seemed to lose track of his thoughts.
Luke glanced from Mike to Shane and back.
“I had a shift this afternoon,” Mike said. “But thanks.”
Shane pasted on the smile again. “Course you did. It’s cold out, anyway. Another beer?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“How about a whisky by the fire?” Luke said. “I got a new bottle recently that needs sharing.”
Mike rubbed a finger along his napkin, back and forth, before nodding. “Yeah, all right.”
Which was Shane’s cue. He stood and started to collect the dishes.
“I’ll get those later,” Luke said, standing. “Let’s go see about that fire.”
“Me too?”
“You too.”
Oh.
Cool, cool, cool.
Mike waited for Shane to leave the dining room, then turned on Luke. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Offering a guest a fine whisky?”
“Throwing me and the kid together.”
“It’s a mission for otters, DeLuca. You’re the only two I have on hand. And Shane’s not a kid.”
“Yeah? How old is he?”
“Thirty.” Luke rounded the table. “Ish.”
“Ish less than or ish more than?”
“Does it matter? It’s not like I’m actually playing matchmaker.”
Mike stared him down. Like hell Luke wasn’t dangling the kid in front of him like bait. Cute, funny, disarming bait, the kind a guy didn’t realize he was chasing until the hook sank into his cheek. “Bullshit.”
Luke chuckled, setting a heavy hand on Mike’s shoulder and steering him toward the door. “Come on, Michael. Let’s go warm our toes.”
“I always hated when you called me that.”
Luke squeezed his shoulder, his hand like a vice grip, and chuckled. “I know.”
Shane was in the living room when they got there, crouching before the hearth, adding logs to the fire. The light from the flames turned his curly hair into a halo. Mike tore his gaze away and made for his favorite chair to the right of the fireplace. Luke delivered tumblers all around, then settled into a chair that wasn’t his usual, back a ways from the fire. When Shane rose and turned, he stared at the empty recliner across from Mike.
“All yours,” Luke said.
The chair looked huge around the kid, like he’d sneaked into a giant’s den and was testing out his throne. Shane pulled the lever to raise his feet, then rubbed his hands up and down the armrests. He had nice hands—blunt, clean nails, wide palms. Nice knuckles.
Nice knuckles? Jesus effin’ Christ. Mike glared at the fire.
In his peripheral vision, Luke stretched his legs and took a sip of whisky. He let out a big sigh. “Good fire, Shane.”
“Thanks, boss.”
It was a good fire, crackling merrily and warming the room. Mike kinda wanted to take his shoes off, let the heat soak up through the soles of his feet. Instead, he swirled the whisky in his tumbler, watching the amber liquid cling to the glass in pretty arcs. A sip brought a maple flavor to his tongue, a pleasant warmth to his throat. “Damn.”
“Right?” Luke said. “Got it last time I was up north. I accompanied an elk shifter back home, into Saskatchewan. He gave me a bottle as thanks. Strapped it to my chest so I could still run.”
Shane laughed at that, and Mike momentarily lost himself in the gleam of the guy’s teeth. Lines around his eyes and mouth said he probably laughed a lot. He was expressive in general. Trying a sip of the whisky, he squinted a bit and sucked on his teeth, then held the tumbler gingerly in his lap. So he wasn’t normally a whisky drinker, but he didn’t want to offend Luke. If Mike knew people, and he did, Shane would try to deflect Luke’s attention soon.
“So I did some research this afternoon,” Shane said, turning to Luke.
Bingo.
“Yeah? On Wales or Arthur?”
“Both. The connections there go way back. But the area Mr. Sørensen’s talking about… Snowdonia? Looks really interesting. The mountains are sedimentary and igneous in origin, and over five-hundred million years old. Glacial result everywhere. Lots of ore, too, or used to be. Folks mined copper and gold, among other things.” He turned to Mike. “Have you ever been there?”
He shook his head. “I was in St. David’s once. Farther south and on the west coast. Pretty place. High cliffs.” The mark he’d been following was a fucking daredevil who’d rappelled off the edge of one of those cliffs. Mike had taken the longer way down, a narrow trail that hugged the rock face, but he’d reached the base without dying. Bonus, since the whole idea of taking these jobs was to survive to cash the check.
“So you’ve probably traveled a lot, huh?”
“A bit.”
“Of all the places you’ve been, where’s your favorite?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Come on.” Shane leaned toward him, that fucking grin of his edged with firelight. “One of them must have been marginally nicer than the rest.”
Luke chuckled, a low rumble. He knew what this was doing to Mike. He knew.
“I liked the Tatras.”
“In Poland?”
He knew Polish mountain ranges but not King Arthur? Mike felt a moment of sympathy before he reined it in. The kid was a geologist. He probably knew the name of every range on the planet. And Arthurian legend wasn’t universal, he guessed. “Yeah.”
“What did you like about them?”
The high evergreens and thick bracken underneath. The crystal-clear streams. How clean the breeze had felt. Any of those things would make a benign answer. But he went with, “I hiked for three days and didn’t hear another soul.”
Shane’s grin slipped. He considered Mike for a moment, then lowered his footrest. Rising, he handed his tumbler to Luke. “I’m gonna turn in. Thanks for the whisky. I’ll finish the snowblower tomorrow morning.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
Shane gave Mike a subdued smile. “Goodnight, Mike.”
Mike raised his glass, then felt like an asshole and lowered it. “You too.”
The kid disappeared into the dark of the hallway, and Luke reclaimed his recliner with a quiet groan. The big man tipped Shane’s amber into his own tumbler and took a sip. Holding it in his mouth, he stared at Mike.
Oh yeah, Mike was about ten seconds from getting chewed out, which he probably deserved. Didn’t mean he was in the mood for it. He downed the rest of his whisky, breathing past the burn in his throat, and stood. “I’m gonna hit the sack, too. Long day.”
Luke looked up at him, then raised his glass.
Yep, definitely an asshole move.
He deserved that too.
Mumbling a goodnight, he escaped down the hall to the guest room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike lay in bed, wide awake. His teeth were brushed and his bladder empty, and he’d pulled the curtains shut against the moon, so he should’ve been drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep. Instead, he was staring up into the dark, replaying the day in his mind.
Only, not the whole day. Just the parts featuring Shane.
He needed to, he told himself. He couldn’t take on a job or a charge without considering every angle. Unfortunately, every goddamn angle of Shane Richmond was tickling Mike’s balls.
From his first friendly smile out on the road to his pleased surprise when he recognized Mike in the driveway. From the scent that had enveloped Mike as they talked to Sørensen—a malt-sweet thing that had Mike’s mouth watering even now—to the glimpses he’d caught of the guy during the day, working on this project or that around the refuge. The way he’d eaten his dinner, taken his single sip of whisky, asked Mike eager questions. Every image had Mike’s skin feeling too hot, too tight.
Then the moaning started.
Mike lay rigid, in every way, listening to the sound coming through the wall next to him. There were only three bedrooms down this hall. The farthest was Luke’s, and Mike was the unlucky occupant of this one nearest the living room. Because sandwiched between was Shane, who seemed to have cut his evening short to go enjoy some private time. Unfortunately, the interior walls weren’t as well insulated as the exterior ones.
Mike had some words for Luke about that, but they were jammed in his throat as the low, insistent noises pushed through the wall and right under his skin. He skimmed a hand down his chest, down his belly, and slipped it into his boxers. Shane’s voice rose briefly, then fell again, as if on a wave, and Mike took hold of his own dick. Staring at the dark ceiling, he imagined the scene in the next bedroom.
In his mind, the kid had on a T-shirt and briefs. He’d rucked up the shirt, exposing the hair on his flat belly, the arrow of it pointing into his underwear. Those briefs were snug and made all the tighter by the hand the kid had inside them, pulling on his dick. His legs would be kicking at the covers, his head thrown back so that the straining curve of his neck echoed the lean muscles working in his biceps and the hard arc of his cock. He began to moan again.
It started low, like the others, but gradually grew louder, and holy shit, Mike had to hand it to the kid. He either had no fear of being heard or he was getting Mike back. Either way, more power to him because it was working. Pleasure was a molten thing in Mike’s core, and he was fucking his dick into his fist hard enough to make the bed creak. Stilling every other part of him but his hand, he jerked hard and fast until his breath felt choked. Shane’s voice rose to a crescendo that was just fucking magnificent, and Mike exploded, shooting all over his belly and chest.
Then Shane’s moan became a shout, one that morphed into a terrified “No-no-nooo!” and Mike snatched his hand from himself. It hovered above his body, his fingers sticky and incriminating, and a few seconds later another voice sounded beyond the wall. Luke’s low rumble, firm but kind.
The kid had been having a nightmare.
And Mike had gotten off on it.
He rose and felt around for the towel Luke had given him. He swiped it meanly over his skin. Next door, Shane was awake, and it didn’t take much imagination to turn the muted sound of his voice into apologies. Because he was a nice guy. A decent kid who would feel bad for waking others up.
Mike sank onto the edge of the bed. With a disgusted sigh, he tossed the towel away. When had he turned into this asshole?
Probably when you started accepting money to hurt people.
Yeah. Probably then.
Maybe it was time that money went toward protecting people instead.
The next morning, he found Luke in his office, sifting through invoices. The big wolf looked up from one as Mike closed the door behind him.
“Morning. Sleep okay?”
“I think you can guess I didn’t. Neither did Shane. That a regular thing?”
Luke set the paper down and sat back in his chair. “Sometimes.”
“What’s sometimes? Twice a year? Once a month? Every night?”
“Couple times a month, maybe. They sound worse than they are. That’s why he isn’t in the bunkhouse. He says they’re no big deal, though, and I take him at his word.”
Fair. The guy was an adult. He could survive a nightmare, Mike guessed. “So I’ve been thinking about your offer.”
“No shit. Grab a seat.”
Mike sank into a chair. “What’s this Sørensen like?”
“You tell me, you met him.”
“I saw him on a video call. He seemed motivated. Big, too. You guys related?”
Luke shrugged one shoulder. “He’s a wolf shifter, and we share a name, sort of. So probably, yeah. Distantly.”
“He a loose cannon?”
“Define loose.”
Mike sat up straight. Luke had his fingers laced in front of him, as if he set people up on treasure missions every other day. But Mike had stayed at the refuge long enough to see the tension in his face, like he was holding his expression just so. “Sørensen wants otter shifters for the terrain, but I can’t be the only one you know besides Shane.”
