Taffeta & Hotspur

He had been alone and apart from all, but at peace in his solitary existence. He was alone by his own will, alone because society and the humans no longer held a lure, alone after the murder of his dear mother …

He hadn’t even bothered going into the village for more than a few errands: mail, supplies … now and then a piece of ass. And today that particular craving made him feel heady. He needed a woman, and the need was pushing him in that direction, if only for a night, perhaps this night? There was Anna—a willing and alluring playmate, ever ready and willing and nearly (though not quite) able to satisfy his unrelenting lust.

He was a hybrid, able to change at will because he was born that way centuries ago. Going wolf always cleared his head and heart, but feeding—that was quite another thing; he hadn’t fed in the wild for so long, because contrary to the wolf in him, the human detested killing.

He was immune to the weather’s biting cold against his skin. He could feel it, for it stayed cold in the Highlands until late spring, but it didn’t chill the human in him as he stood patiently awaiting the right moment, his heart pumping exuberantly with the thrill of the hunt.

He didn’t have to hunt, as he had a fully stocked cellar at my home, but the need … drove him at times like this.

He crunched for his lethal jump as he heard the old stag in the distance approach. He chose this particular buck because the twelve-pointer was aged and showing signs of decline. He would honor him by bringing his life full circle, and he’d make his death quick.

The stag had not picked up his scent and slowly wandered into range. The man transformed once more into wolf and waited with infinite patience. He wanted a clean kill, one that would be as painless as he could achieve.

All at once and with precision, he was on the stag, bringing him down. A wolf could overpower even something ten times his size. A hybrid had the strength of many wolves.

He made a quick, clean kill, tearing at the stag’s throat to accomplish the kill in the instant.

He needed the fresh blood for the vampire so much a part of who he was, and he wanted the fresh raw meat for the wolf. The human honored the old stag with an ancient Indian prayer.

The human … Chase MacAdams was a hybrid extraordinaire, billionaire, and recluse, and he thought himself a pitiful being, alone and disillusioned with his lot in life. With all the power he held, with all the power his father held, they had not seen that his beautiful mother had a stalker and had been in mortal danger that fateful afternoon. They had arrived on the scene too late to save her, but they had taken on the ancient vampire—Dracula—but had lost him even as they worked to annihilate him.

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She had whispered in her last moment that she had not given up her dear friend’s secret. She had not told Dracula what he wanted to know …

And then she had closed her eyes, and his mother, who was a hybrid, and whom he had always thought invincible, died.

Dracula had the only weapon that could kill an immortal hybrid … had it still, and Dracula, although he and his father had tried to trace him, was off the grid.

Chase’s father had gone off to grieve, but he had stayed on at MacAdams in seclusion and self-pity, plotting what he would do if ever he found the ancient immortal!

Chase MacAdams was powerful beyond measure and equipped with skills that made him nearly invincible, and yet, he was a dissatisfied man and an alpha wolf in desperate need of something he could not, would not name … a mate.

He had not in all his three hundred years imprinted on a female—he had never really fallen in love.

He raised his head, and his dark gold wolf eyes surveyed the craggy hillside as he released a long soulful howl, one that was picked up by a nearby pack of wolves and returned with encouragement. Wolves have a deep and caring social order, and he had been accepted by the local pack a very long time ago.

The Cairngorms had always been his home, but he had never before retreated into such severe seclusion until last year, when he needed to get away from the misery of his disillusionment, the grief of his loss, and the guilt he felt when he was unable to avenge his mother’s murder at Dracula’s hands.

He fed now, fulfilling his physical needs, and left the remains for the stray wildlife that would surely visit when he was gone. Then he was moving again with grace and speed, a wolf reveling in the success of his hunt and the beauty of his forest.

In the distance he could see the ruins of Strathmore Castle, a local tourist haunt. Just below and not yet visible, stood his home, a mansion of stone and logs …

He was so tired of living this existence, for it was no more than that. He wanted more, but he believed there never would be more for him. He could not allow himself to love, for no doubt she would be human and live a human life, and when she discovered what he was, she would be repulsed.

Or just when he thought life had everything to offer with a mate in his arms, he would lose her as his father had lost his mate to some unexpected horror …

So Chase ran to escape his loneliness, but it was always there waiting for him, around the bend, in the mirror … in the family home that he loved …

And then he saw it—a strange car in the bluestone gravel courtyard of his mansion. Why was it there, and who was the beautiful, black-haired young woman knocking at his big oak front door …?

~ Prologue ~

HER LONG, SILKY black hair was a gift from her mother. In her stocking feet she stood at five-five, but with her heeled boots she was a good deal taller. She rubbed her cold hands against her jeans. She shouldn’t feel the cold … she wasn’t supposed to feel the cold, but somehow she did; perhaps it was because she had turned her back on what she was, suppressed everything into non-existence.

Her eyes were often described by the young men attempting to seduce her as exotic, but it was more than a line. It was the truth. Her eyes were almond shaped but large and green like a deep, dark lake, also from her mother, but if you looked closely and deep you would see the glitter of gold—and that she got from her mysterious Scottish father. At the moment her eyes held a wary expression and her body was tense with the anticipation of the unknown. She was about to do something she had never done before, seduce with a lie.

Her dark gray rental car was parked in the gravel courtyard, and although she had been knocking for a few moments, it seemed as though no one was home. There was a separate garage made in the same lovely design of stone and logs, and she walked over to it, her heels twisting a bit in the gravel. Peering inside with her hand over her forehead she saw three cars inside the spacious building. One was a silver Jag, the other a jeep, and the other a truck … and she smiled because it was a Ford 250—American made, here in the Highlands.