“Coffee’s in the pot,” she said.
Some men, they simply couldn’t function without their morning coffee, and that was Van Holtz.
“Thank you,” he sighed, grabbing the mug she’d taken out for him and filling it up. If he minded that she’d become quite familiar with his kitchen and his apartment in general, after months of coming and going as she pleased, he never showed it.
Dee waited until he’d had a few sips and finally turned to her with a smile.
“Good morning.”
She returned that smile, something she normally didn’t bother with with most, and replied, “Morning.”
“I promised you waffles with fresh blueberries.” He sniffed in disgust. “Canned. As if I’d ever.”
“I know. I know. Sacrilege.”
“Exactly!”
Dee-Ann sat patiently at the kitchen table while Van Holtz whipped up a full breakfast for her the way most people whipped up a couple of pieces of toast.
“So, Dee”—Van Holtz placed perfectly made waffles and bacon in front of her with warmed syrup in a bowl and a small dish of butter right behind it—“what brings you here?”
He sat down on the chair across from her with his own plate of food.
“Cats irritate me.”
Van Holtz nodded, chewing on a bite of food. “And yet you work so well with them on a day-to-day basis.”
“Not when they get in my way.”
“Is there a possibility you can be more specific on what your complaint is?”
“But it’s fun to watch you look so confused.”
“Only one cup of coffee, Dee-Ann. Only one cup.”
She laughed a little, always amused when Van Holtz got a bit cranky.
“We went to raid a hybrid fight last night—not only was there no fight, but there were felines already there.”
“Which felines?”
“KZS.”
“Oh.” He took another bite of bacon. “Those felines. Well, maybe they’re trying to—”
“Those felines ain’t gonna help mutts, Van Holtz, you know that.”
“Can’t you just call me Ric? You know, like everyone else.” And since the man had more cousins than should legally be allowed, all with the last name Van Holtz, perhaps that would be a bit easier for all concerned.
“Fine. They’re not going to help, Ric.”
“And yet it seems as if they are—or at least trying.”
“They’re doing something—and I don’t like it. I don’t like when anyone gets in my way.” Especially particular felines who had wicked right crosses that Dee’s jaw was still feeling several hours later.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yep. Just like that. Orange juice?” She nodded and he poured freshly squeezed orange juice into her glass.
“You don’t want to talk to the team first?”
“I talked to you. What’s the team going to tell me that you haven’t? Except they’ll probably use more syllables and keep the anti-feline sentiment out of it.”
She nodded and watched him eat. Pretty. The man was just . . . pretty. Not girly—although she was sure her daddy and uncles would think so—but pretty. Handsome and gorgeous might be the more acceptable terms when talking about men, but those words did not fit him.
“Is something wrong with your food?” he asked, noticing that she hadn’t started eating.
She glanced down at the expertly prepared waffle, big fresh blueberries throughout, powdered sugar sprinkled over it. In bowls he’d also put out more fresh blueberries, along with strawberries and peaches. He’d given her a linen napkin to use and heavy, expensive-looking flatware to eat with. And he’d set all this up in about thirty minutes.
The whole meal was, in a word, perfection, which was why Dee replied, “It’s all right . . . I guess.”
A dark eyebrow peaked. “You guess?”
“Haven’t tried it yet, now have I? Can’t tell you if I like it if I haven’t tried it.”
“Only one cup of coffee, Dee. Only one.”
“Maybe it’s time you had another.”
“Eat and tell me my food is amazing or I’m going to get cranky again.”
“If you’re going to be pushy . . .” She took a bite, letting the flavors burst against her taste buds. Damn, but the man could cook. Didn’t seem right, did it? Pretty and a good cook.
“Well?”
“Do I really need to tell you how good it is?”
“Yes. Although I’m enjoying your orgasm face.”
She smirked. “Darlin’, you don’t know my orgasm face.”
“Yet. I’m ever hopeful.”
“Keepin’ that dream alive.”
“Someone has to.” He winked at her and went back to his food. “I’ll see what I can find out about what’s going on with KZS and get back to you.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Dee-Ann. I’ve got your back.”
She knew that. She knew he would come through as promised. As hard as it was to believe, she was learning to trust the one breed of wolf her daddy told her never to trust.
Then again . . . her daddy had never tasted the man’s blueberry waffles.
“But do me a favor, Dee,” he said. “Until I get this straightened out, don’t get into it with the cats.”
Dee stared at him and asked with all honesty, “What makes you think I would?”
CHAPTER 2
The first punch to her face sent Dee-Ann stumbling. But that wasn’t surprising. They didn’t call the tigress Marcella Malone “Bare Knuckles” for nothing. And Dee’s big mistake had been turning her back on her. She knew better than to turn her back on the treacherous feline and former Marine originally from Mineola, Long Island, New York. Or, as Dee used to put it when they trained together—“that Long Island whore.”
It had been a lot of years since they’d seen each other, since they’d started together in the Marines Corps’ shifter-only Unit until their commanding officer had placed them on separate teams because, as the polar bear had explained, “Some dogs and cats will just never get along.”
“I’m sorry, Dee-Ann,” the feline told her without any remorse whatsoever. “My fist slipped.”
“It happens,” Dee replied seconds before she swung her own fist, connecting with Malone’s face.
The She-tiger snarled, her head coming up, blood streaming from the cut on her cheek, eyes turning bright gold and angry. Seemed fair, though, since Dee had the same amount of blood coming from her nose.
The pair sized each other up. Dee quickly remembered all the strengths and weaknesses the She-tiger had. About Dee’s age, thirty-five or so, Malone had come into her full adult power with strong arms and thighs. She’d be fast, but her stamina would be nothing like Dee’s. At six feet, Malone weighed a bit more and had more curves in her human form. She still kept her black hair with white and red streaks long, and Dee had no qualms about using all that hair to her advantage if she had to.
Their teams spread out around them in a circle and Dee knew on some deeper, more humane level that this was wrong. They were here on a hot, late-June night in this Brooklyn warehouse for bigger issues than a bitch-fight between former Marines. But Malone had always brought out the worst in Dee. The absolute worst.
So ignoring the bigger issues—like what had happened to the fight ring that was supposed to be having an event tonight at this location—the two She-predators removed their jackets and brought up their fists.
Malone was and always would be a brawler. It ran in her tiger bloodline. She was the daughter of one of the greatest early shifter hockey players, “Nice Guy” Malone. And, like her father, she’d gone from the Marines to playing right defenseman for the Nevada Slammers. She was pretty good, too, but spent a lot of her time in the penalty box because she simply couldn’t stop from beating the hell out of people when they irritated her.