Shelly Laurenston - Big Bad Beast

“Here,” Ric said, when the waiter stopped at one of the rooms.

That seemed like a lot of food for the pair of them, but maybe he was hungrier than she realized.

Once at the door, Ric reached around her with his free hand and pushed it open. The waiter went in and Dee followed, but she froze at the doorway and snarled, glaring back at Van Holtz.

“What?” he asked, trying to look innocent.

“I really should have killed you when I had the chance, supermodel.”

“And where would the fun be in that?” He pushed her into the room before she could make a break for it, and that’s when she was noticed.

“Deeeeeeee-Annnnnnnnnnnnnnn!” she heard seconds before a crazed wolfdog female wrapped herself around Dee and held on, hugging her tight.

“You’ve been missed,” Van Holtz whispered in her ear before he walked into the room, grinning at the table filled with a small group of people she tolerated but didn’t necessarily want to spend much time with.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” the wolfdog said, arms tightening so that Dee’s air was almost cut off.

“Get off me, Blayne.”

“You’re staying, aren’t you?”

“Get off me, Blayne.”

“You have to stay so we can eat and talk. It’s been ages!” She rested her head against Dee’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much.”

That’s when Dee reached for her bowie knife, but Ric caught her hand before she could clear the sheath and held it behind her back.

“Why don’t we all sit down and eat before the food gets cold?” he offered.

“Okay!” The wolfdog released her death grip on Dee’s neck and skated back to the table—why she was wearing roller skates in the middle of a restaurant, Dee didn’t want to even hazard a guess—unaware as always how close to death she came every time she insisted on the touching.

“Put it away,” Van Holtz whispered in Dee’s ear, “or I’m taking the whole hand.”

With a grunt, Dee shoved the knife back. “There, supermodel. Happy?”

“Thrilled.” He released her, but not before she felt his fingers slide across her forearm. “You have the smoothest skin,” he murmured, looking down at her arm.

“Yeah. It’s the scar tissue from all those knife fights. After a few years, it heals up real soft.”

Ric got Dee-Ann seated at one end of the table and Blayne Thorpe at the other—not easy when Blayne kept insisting on wanting to hug Dee again. It was like she had a death wish. Then he and one of his runners went about taking care of the rest of his guests.

Lachlan “Lock” MacRyrie, Ric’s best friend since they were both ten years old, was still laughing when Dee sat down kitty-corner from him. Whether he was laughing at Blayne’s attempt to show Dee affection, Dee’s reaction to that affection, or Ric’s constant attempts to keep Dee from wiping Blayne from the face of the earth, Ric didn’t know. It was hard sometimes to believe that this nearly seven-foot-tall grizzly taking up a lot of space in the good-sized private dining room had once been the same medium-sized kid who’d run face first into Ric’s locker on a dare. A dare that had been issued by Ric. He’d felt bad about it, too, when Lock had knocked himself out cold.

Ric placed a full-sized platter in front of the grizzly. “Salmon and my perfect honey glaze for you.”

Lock stared at the fresh, ten-pound wild salmon in front of him. “Did you put in enough honey this time?”

Snarling, Ric pulled the plastic honey bear out of his pocket and chucked it at his friend’s big grizzly bear head. “Philistine,” he snarled.

Turning away before he could watch the brute desecrate his perfectly prepared food with all that honey, Ric leaned in and kissed Lock’s mate and Blayne’s best friend, Gwen, on the cheek before placing a plate of food in front of her. “Wild boar stew for you.”

“Yum. Smells fantastic.”

Next came the simple New York steak with sautéed green beans for Blayne since she could be a little finicky about her food.

“To drink?” he asked the table.

“Wine?” Gwen asked.

“Excellent choice.” He’d introduced the Philly feline to the higher-end wines in the last few months and it had turned out she had a wonderful palate.

Her grizzly bear mate, however . . .

“Mil—” the bear began but Ric held his hand up, cutting his friend off.

“Can’t you at least try some wine?” Ric nearly begged. “I have a splendid nineteen thirty-two—”

“I want milk. Cold. A vat please.”

Shaking his head, disgusted, Ric turned his attention to Blayne. “And you, Miss Thorpe?”

“Nothing with caffeine or sugar!” she crowed. “Or I’ll never get to sleep tonight! Woo-hoo!” When they only stared at her, Blayne’s shoulders slumped and she calmly stated, “Diet Coke please.”

Ric turned to Dee-Ann, who seemed to still be seething. “Dee?”

“Water.”

“Sparkling or flat?”

The confused expression on her face was priceless when she snapped, “Tap.”

“Flat it is.” As if he’d ever give her regular, everyday tap water. He nearly shuddered at the thought.

Ric gave the runner their drink orders and suggested he bring more bread now rather than later because Lock was gnawing his hand off in hunger. He caught hold of the door and opened it, the runner shooting out and leaving Bo “The Marauder” Novikov standing there. Novikov was a godsend to Ric’s hockey team and Blayne’s mate, but he was such an irritating asshole that Ric couldn’t help slamming the door in the polar bear–lion’s face.

A roar shook the door and walls, and Blayne jumped out of her seat and across the room to snatch the door open. “Do not”—she ordered—“rip those hinges off!” She took Novikov’s hand. “Just come in and be nice .” She glared at Ric. “You too, Ulrich.”

“Me?” Ric placed his hand against his chest. “What did I do?”

Fresh from his daily—and brutal—training, Novikov tossed the bag with his hockey equipment to the floor. He glanced around and asked, “Is there food for me?”

“Are you paying this time?” Ric asked, which got him a slap on the arm from Blayne. “Ow!”

The runner returned with their drinks and Ric had Novikov give him his order since Ric didn’t deem him worthy of his brilliant expertise in guessing—always correctly—what his friends were in need of at the moment.

The seven-foot-one hybrid dropped his nearly four-hundred-pound weight into one of the restaurant’s best chairs with no regard for the furniture and looked around the table, his blue eyes stopping on Dee-Ann. “What’s she doing here?” he asked Blayne.

“I invited her,” Ric told him, sitting in the seat across from Lock and kitty-corner from Dee. “Although I don’t remember seeing your name on the e-mail I sent out.”

“Both of you stop it,” Blayne snapped. “And Dee’s here because I want her to be here,” she told Novikov.

“She tagged you like a wildebeest.”

“Would you let that go already?”

“Here.” Lock reached over to the sideboard, grabbed one of the big baskets of bread, and slammed it in front of Novikov. “Shove this in your hole and keep quiet.”

Snarling a little, the rude bastard continued to glare at Dee-Ann, and Ric was ready to climb across the table and tear the hybrid’s face off with his teeth. But Blayne had a good handle on her mate, pulling a notepad out of his back pocket and proceeding to write on it.

“What are you doing to my list?” he demanded as if she’d stolen his wallet.

“Just making a few . . . changes.” She held up the list. “I drew hearts and flowers on it!”

“Give me that!” Novikov yanked it back from her and so began another lecture on the proper use of lists.