Moonlight and Diamonds. Michele Hauf

man chatting with the waiter over by the Rodin. She hadn’t seen him at any of the gallery’s previous functions. He was tall, nicely tanned—perhaps from yachting?—and wore his hair in a close shave against his head. Bright white teeth flashed beneath his blade nose. An easy stance advertised a certain laissez-faire. He didn’t care what others thought about him.

      Blyss could not relate to lacking concern. As well, something about him didn’t quite fit him among the elite crowd. Was it the fabric that stretched at his broad shoulders? The suit had been poorly tailored. Or his seeming awestruck gaze as he took in the festivities? He was...big. Almost awkward. Like a boulder tossed into a flower garden.

      Well, he wouldn’t be here without an invite. And Blyss tendered her invites carefully. He was worth checking out—if not, using.

      * * *

      Stryke wandered through the marble-walled gallery, taking in the sculptures by artists he’d only read about in books. Yeah, so he was probably the only one of his brothers who claimed to read. Much unlike his brothers, who hadn’t the patience or interest in fine arts, he enjoyed learning new things and bulking up his cultural-knowledge quotient.

      He took in the elite crowd who sipped champagne and nibbled caviar-coated crackers. He assessed every step, every gesture, every cut of fabric and deviously delivered bon mot. Diamonds glinted at ears, necks and cuff links. He was pretty sure the clothing cost a small fortune, and didn’t even want to guess at how long he’d have to work to afford the diamond choker around that old lady’s neck.

      He wasn’t currently working for a paycheck. After a short stint as a volunteer fireman—the fire station had been closed due to budget problems—he was looking for something to fulfill his need for action and danger. It didn’t need to provide a paycheck; he was set for life. But as well, if it involved helping his own breed then he would be even more attracted to taking on the job.

      These people were not his breed. They were human. Not his crowd. On the other hand, he was accustomed to existing among humans because that was simply life as he knew it. Wasn’t as if a private werewolf haven existed on an island in the Pacific.

      He wouldn’t be interested if it did exist. He liked humans. They were just like him, but without the propensity to grow fur and flick out the claws when the mood struck. Poor humans.

      Tonight’s biggest surprise? His brother Blade had come along with him. The last of the Saint-Pierre brothers he would have guessed had an interest in art. Reclusive almost to the extreme, Blade had nodded and muttered something about “getting away from the crazy chicks and their wedding talk.”

      And yet, Blade had left fifteen minutes ago with his arms wrapped around sexy blonde twins wearing matching red miniskirts. So Blade’s idea of art was a little different than most.

      Stryke had flown to Paris with his family. His parents, Malakai and Rissa Saint-Pierre, and their children, Trouble, Blade, Kelyn and Daisy Blu. Stryke’s aunt Kambriel was marrying Johnny Santiago in a few days. The Santiagos were the Hawkes side of the family, and they were vampires.

      Fine by him. As with humans, he had nothing against vamps. His grandfather Creed Saint-Pierre was a vamp, and Blade was actually half faery—as well as vampire. It was all good so long as there were werewolves in the mix at the wedding.

      Stryke had heard Europe’s werewolf population was booming and the females were in abundance, much the opposite of his native hometown. He hoped that was true. It would increase his chances of meeting a female werewolf, falling in love and getting married.

      If only reality proved as simple as the fantasy.

      Stryke likely wouldn’t hook up so easily as Blade had tonight. He was no slouch when it came to dating, but he did tend toward a specific type. Pretty, yet slightly tomboyish, able to embrace fun and a lover of all things outdoors, including snuggling by a midnight bonfire and long walks through the woods.

      Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.

      And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.

      Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.

      He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.

      A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non, merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.

      Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?

      A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.

      “But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.

      Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.

      Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.

      After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.

       Think rednecks and beer.

      Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.

      And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.

      So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.

      Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.

      As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.

      His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh,