Night of the Lions (Lions of Manhattan 1)

“In and out.”

“Does she need medical attention?”

“I don’t think so, sir. But, just to be safe, we might want to take her to the ER for a check-up.” Danielson yanked the SUV door open. Catherine was lying on the passenger seat, her head lolled on the headrest, her eyes closed as she moaned softly.

A surge of anger rose in Gabe’s throat. How dare someone do this to her? “Did you find any injuries on her?”

“No. It appears she was drugged.”

“Sedative?”

“My best guess is roofie. Date rape drug.”

Gabe unconsciously fisted his hands. His lion growled, demanding a hunt and revenge. “Where are the perps?”

“Wyatt has them detained.” Danielson flicked his gaze at the building. “One of the men—we identified him as Alfred Hastings—is quite unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

Danielson lowered his voice. “Hastings’s a pride’s rogue.”

Gabe furrowed his eyebrows. Danielson had worked for him for years, and he knew the true nature of his employer and his brothers. There weren’t many lion shifters in the city. The major supernatural population was made up of wolves and other weres. “Alex will deal with Hastings. I’ll take Catherine with me.”

Cat woke up in a strange place.

She rubbed her eyes, then stared at the cream-painted ceiling before the realisation registered that she was in someone’s bed. She felt sluggish. A hangover feeling hovered like a thick cloud, a mixture between sleepiness and an alcohol-like buzz.

She remembered being at Chantale’s, questioning that slime ball Oliver Duval.

And that bastard had drugged her.

The thought brought instant alertness. She hauled herself into a sitting position and found she was wearing a weird dress. She shoved the blanket down. No. Not a dress. A hospital gown. Her body was wrapped in a striped, blue Johnny shirt with snap buttons on the back. Nothing underneath it.

Her mind spun.

If Oliver had sexually assaulted her, she wouldn’t be in a hospital gown, would she? She lifted her arm and noticed she was wearing a plastic bracelet that hospitals use to identify patients. Her name was on it, along with a barcode. Usually the patient’s insurance carrier was printed with the patient’s name. She didn’t have any health insurance. She’d been dropped from the policy a few months ago because she couldn’t afford to pay the premiums. Instead, the name Gabriel Larousse was on the bracelet.

Gabriel Larousse.

Her heart stirred.

What happened here? Am I in his place?

Cat slid down from the bed. Her feet touched the cool, Venetian marble floor. She scanned her surroundings. The bedroom was furnished in a modern, contemporary style. Not an ounce of femininity was evident. Whoever had designed the room had had a male client in mind. A rich male client. The walls were upholstered in a light beige, suede fabric. The furniture was all black and sleek, made from an interesting grain of wood, polished to a shine. The bed itself was huge, California king size, swathed in crisp, white bedding. Nightstands flanked each side.

She looked around. The place was as quiet as a morgue. She listened closer and heard somebody. Perhaps in the kitchen. Something sizzled in a hot pan.

Cat searched for her clothes, her shoes, or her purse. She couldn’t find any of them, and she didn’t like the hospital gown she was wearing. Her ass was exposed. She opened the closet and turned on the light. The walk-in closet was massive—every fashionista’s wet dream. Rows of shirts and jacket suits were lined up tidily. Judging from the size and highly tailored material, she was sure they didn’t belong to Oliver Duval. That piece of shit dressed like a pimp.

She took a white shirt from a hanger and exchanged it for the hospital gown. The shirt was too big for her. It hung close to her knees. Cat preferred that to the gown.

She turned on her heels towards the door, looking for the owner of the place.

She wandered out of the bedroom, to the source of the sizzling pan noise. Gabriel was in the kitchen, cooking. He was deftly chopping some shallots on the butcher block and tossing them into the pan with the grace of a professional chef. He then poured some wine into it, making the pan crackle even more. The delicious smell of caramelised shallots drifted into her nostrils. Cat’s stomach growled hungrily. The last meal she’d had was her cereal breakfast.

She glanced at the windows. The skyline was dark behind the shade. Must be the evening. She had been out for several hours.

Gabriel noticed her. He dropped what he was doing to whisk her out of the entrance of the kitchen and ushered her to sit on a dining-room chair.