Lisa Childs - Taming The Shifter

“You’re not weak at all,” Warrick assured her. “You’ve overpowered me.”

“Because you let me.”

He nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You did,” Kate said.

“Not anymore,” he said, lifting his head to close the distance between his mouth and hers. His lips skimmed across hers. “Now I just want you …”

And she wanted him, her skin heating and tingling everywhere they touched. The sheet had slipped down, so that her breasts were bare against his chest. His hair, that covered his impressive pecs, tickled and teased her nipples, bringing them to tight, sensitive points.

“And I want—” Kate struggled free of his loose grasp and grabbed up the sheet again, holding it between them like a shield “—to arrest you.”

LISA CHILDSwrites paranormal and contemporary romance for Mills & Boon. She lives on thirty acres in Michigan with her two daughters, a talkative Siamese and a long-haired Chihuahua who thinks she’s a Rottweiler. Lisa loves hearing from readers, who can contact her through her website, www.lisachilds.com, or snail-mail address, PO Box 139, Marne, MI 49435, USA.

Taming the Shifter

Lisa Childs

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Cover

Introduction “You’re not weak at all,” Warrick assured her. “You’ve overpowered me.” “Because you let me.” He nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You did,” Kate said. “Not anymore,” he said, lifting his head to close the distance between his mouth and hers. His lips skimmed across hers. “Now I just want you …” And she wanted him, her skin heating and tingling everywhere they touched. The sheet had slipped down, so that her breasts were bare against his chest. His hair, that covered his impressive pecs, tickled and teased her nipples, bringing them to tight, sensitive points. “And I want—” Kate struggled free of his loose grasp and grabbed up the sheet again, holding it between them like a shield “—to arrest you.”

About the Author LISA CHILDS writes paranormal and contemporary romance for Mills & Boon. She lives on thirty acres in Michigan with her two daughters, a talkative Siamese and a long-haired Chihuahua who thinks she’s a Rottweiler. Lisa loves hearing from readers, who can contact her through her website, www.lisachilds.com , or snail-mail address, PO Box 139, Marne, MI 49435, USA.

Title Page Taming the Shifter Lisa Childs www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The sweet, metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, and chimes rang out from the clock tower in the town square. Warrick James didn’t need to know what time it was. He was already too late. He was always too late.

He pushed open the door and stepped into his father’s den. He had known what he would find; he’d been warned. But still the scene struck him like a body blow.

His father lay back in his chair, blood gushed from a hole blown in his chest. Even with the bullet—that special bullet—in it, his heart continued to pump.

And his father’s eyes stared—not up at the man who had taken his life. But at the man who had failed to save him. Warrick was used to the disappointment in his father’s pale brown gaze. For thirty years, he had seen it every time the man had looked at him.

The chimes continued to ring out. Was that the eighth or the ninth? Just a few more chimes before midnight arrived...

Warrick reeled; his heart feeling as if a shot had been fired into it, as well. Maybe a bullet would pierce it next. Reagan—the man he’d known he would find standing over the body—held the gun yet, his finger against the trigger. And the barrel of that gun was pointed at Warrick.

“What kind of monster are you?” Warrick asked even as he felt his own body beginning to turn from man to beast. “How could you do this?”

“You don’t understand,” Reagan replied. “Let me explain...”

Warrick shook his head. He was beyond listening. He didn’t even care that that gun—loaded with those special bullets—was pointed directly at his heart. Just as the clock chimed for the twelfth time, he launched himself at his father’s killer.

* * *

Detective Kate Wever intimately knew the city she protected. Before being promoted to the major case squad, she had patrolled these streets. She knew the metropolis of Zantrax, Michigan, as well as she knew herself. As she knew her friends...

Or so she’d once believed. Now she wasn’t certain what, or who, to believe. Except for Bernie...

She knew not to believe the vagrant. Yet she followed him into the dead-end alley between some of the tallest buildings in the city. The sun hadn’t set, but it was dark in the alley. The air hung still and putrid above the asphalt.

Kate, following too close to Bernie, held her breath—unwilling to breathe for fear of gagging. The man should have gone to the shelter instead of the police station. He could have used a shower. And probably a meal. Or at least some coffee. She held out a cup to him and pulled a sandwich from her pocket. “Here,” she said. “You need to eat.”

He needed to sober up. The stench wasn’t just because he hadn’t showered for weeks—maybe months. He also smelled strongly of alcohol. Or of strong alcohol...

She hadn’t brought enough coffee. He reached for it, his hand shaking. The cover came off and the hot liquid spilled over the rim and splashed onto the front of his long trench coat. “Bernie, are you all right?”

His gray-haired head jerked up and down in quick, nervous nods. His dark eyes were wild. With fear or drunkenness?

“It’s this place,” he said with a shudder of revulsion.

“We didn’t have to come here.” She wasn’t sure why he had insisted on her following him from the station to the alley. With no sun between the buildings, the air wasn’t just still—it was cold.

She shivered. But not just from the cold.

One of those buildings had a bar in its basement—Club Underground. A bar where strange things happened...like Bernie had claimed happened here. Too bad her friend owned the place...

“This was my home first,” he said, gesturing toward a Dumpster shoved against one of the buildings. “Then all of them started coming around—making trouble.”

“All of them?” she asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“What,” he corrected her, the word sharp. “They’re not human. They can fly.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. And exactly how much had he had to drink?

“Those things,” he said. “I’ve seen ’em fly out of the alley—straight up in the night sky like big, human-looking bats.”

He had definitely gotten into some strong alcohol, but his words weren’t slurred. So maybe he’d just been drinking so long that the alcohol had damaged his brain. Over her years on the streets, she had seen a lot of vagrants develop alcohol dementia. She wouldn’t be able to reason with him; he was probably beyond that.