Night's Pleasure (Children of The Night 4)

Rane felt a sharp stab of guilt. His mother was alive—he could visit her any time he wished—but he hadn’t seen her, or anyone else in his family, in decades.

Pushing the thought aside, he followed Savanah outside, waited while she locked the front door, then walked her to his car. He held the door open for her, then went around to the driver’s side. Sliding behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life.

The car reminded Savanah of the man—sleek and sexy and way out of her league.

“Does it hurt?” she asked abruptly.

Rane glanced at her, one brow lifted. “Does what hurt?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

“When you shift into the wolf. Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Where does your clothing go?”

He looked at her a moment, and then he laughed. “Beats the heck out of me.” It was a good question. Werewolves had to disrobe before they changed or risk shredding their shoes and clothing. He had never before wondered what happened to his own attire when he shifted.

“Why do you change names so often?”

He shrugged. “Boredom?”

“And how do you just…” She lifted one hand and let it fall. “Just disappear?”

“Ah, now, that’s a secret,” he said with a wink.

“Does it have to do with shape-shifting?”

“Hey, we’re on a date,” he reminded her. “No more questions unless they’re of a personal nature.”

“Personal, huh? Like, do you wear plain old white cotton boxers or sexy briefs?” Savanah clapped her hand over her mouth, unable to believe she had uttered the words out loud.

Rane waggled his eyebrows at her. “Or maybe nothing at all,” he said with a wicked grin.

“I didn’t mean…Just forget I said that!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Rane said, chuckling.

He pulled into the parking lot a few moments later, sparing her the necessity of coming up with a retort.

Rane bought their tickets and they went into the theater. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of buttered popcorn, nachos, and hot dogs.

Being a gentleman, he asked Savanah if she wanted anything to eat or drink, relieved when all she asked for was a small Coke.

There were only a dozen or so people in the theater when they took their seats.

“Hardly seems worth running the film,” Savanah remarked, looking around.

Rane grunted softly. “I hope the small crowd is due to the late hour and not because the movie stinks.”

“Well, I heard it was good,” Savanah said, and then shrugged. “Of course, you never know about critics.”

“Yeah, I rarely agree with the reviews.”

“I know what you mean,” Savanah said, then sat back as the lights dimmed and the previews started.

Rane tried to concentrate on the trailers but it was difficult. He was all too aware of the people in the theater, and particularly aware of the woman beside him. Her scent filled his nostrils. Her nearness stirred his desire and his hunger. He could hear the steady beat of her heart, as well as the heartbeats of other people sitting nearby. It took a great deal of effort to shut out the siren call of all those beating hearts, to close his mind to the scent of prey. It was easier when he was performing on stage. His mind wasn’t on the hunt then, but now…he had an almost overpowering urge to unleash the beast within him. It would be so easy. He could take them all before they realized what was happening….

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at Savanah. Her scent wrapped around him—the fragrance of her skin, the soap she had bathed with, a hint of perfume. And overall, the heady, musky scent of the woman herself. Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she appeared lost in the love story unfolding on the screen. His gaze moved over her face, admiring the delicate curve of her cheek, the fine line of her jaw, the way her nose tilted up at the end just a tiny bit. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a sheen of pale silk.

Muttering an oath, he glanced at the screen, and swore again as the hero swept the heroine into his arms and carried her up a long, winding staircase. At the top of the stairs, he kicked open the first door he came to. Striding inside, he dropped the heroine on an enormous bed. Ignoring her outraged cry and her struggles, he sank down on the mattress beside her. With his hands holding hers captive over her head, he covered her body with his and kissed her, a long, passionate kiss that put an end to the heroine’s struggles and soon had her purring like a kitten.

The rapid beat of Savanah’s pulse and the quickening of her breath reached his ears. Was she imagining, as he was, that he was the hero and she was the heroine?

She looked at him and smiled when the movie ended and the lights went on. “Well, the critics were wrong that time,” she declared. “I loved it! What did you think?”

“Chick flick,” he said with a grin.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Chauvinist.”

“Who, me?”

“I don’t see anybody else sitting there.”

“Okay, okay, I give up,” Rane said as they left the theater. “Where do you want to go now? That is, if you don’t mind being seen with a chauvinist pig.”

“I don’t mind, but I should probably go home. It’s late, and I have an early interview in the morning.”

With a nod, Rane took her hand and they walked toward the parking lot.

“So,” he asked, “who are you interviewing, or can’t you talk about it?”

“I have an appointment at the morgue.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to be late for that,” Rane said dryly.

“Very funny.”

They were passing an alley when Rane’s senses went on alert. Before he had time to react, someone shoved a gun against his spine.

“Don’t turn around,” the assailant warned, his voice gruff. “Don’t even blink. Just give me your money. You, too, lady.”

Murmuring, “This can’t be real,” Savanah pulled her wallet from her handbag. She wouldn’t miss the money, but she hated to lose her driver’s license. The thought of waiting in line at the DMV was almost more frightening than being robbed at gunpoint.

Not daring to so much as look at Rane, who stood a little behind her, she thrust her hand behind her back, her wallet extended, and prayed the robber would be content to take their money and spare their lives.

A muffled thump, like a body hitting the pavement, sent her heart leaping into her throat. Had the robber killed Rane? Wouldn’t she have heard a gunshot? Unless, oh, Lord, unless the robber had a knife, too.