Her Lone Wolf

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  Copyright © 2014 by Paige Tyler

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams

  Cover art by Craig White

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  A sneak peek at Her Wild Hero

  A sneak peek at Hungry Like the Wolf

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  With special thanks to my extremely patient and understanding husband. Without your help and support, I couldn’t have pursued my dream job of becoming a writer. You’re my sounding board, my idea man, my critique partner, and the absolute best research assistant any girl could ask for.

  Love you!

  Prologue

  Buffalo, New York, 2008

  Clayne Buchanan sat on the lone cot in the holding cell of the Erie County Jail, trying not to think about how completely screwed he was. But since he was probably going to be spending the rest of his life in prison, it was hard not to think about it.

  This is what you get for taking that freaking job, dipshit.

  It was supposed to be simple. All he’d had to do was play guard dog for a shipment of merchandise going across the U.S.-Canadian border. He’d done it before and it had always been a piece of cake. This time though, things hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected, and now there were three dead men to explain. Not just a little dead, but big-bloody-mess-on-the-floor dead. Sure, the pricks had deserved it, but he doubted the system would see it that way.

  The cops were out there right now trying to figure out what the hell had happened in that warehouse last night. And how three guys as big and badass as those bums had ended up looking like they’d gone twelve rounds with a pack of rabid wolves.

  Unfortunately for Clayne, the cops had found him standing over the bodies with blood on his hands, his clothes, and everywhere else. It might take a few more hours for them to piece everything together—if they could find all the pieces, much less get them to fit—and explain how three men had been slashed when they hadn’t found a knife on him. But they’d connect the dots at some point, and when they did, he’d be done.

  Shit.

  Clayne clenched his hands into fists to keep from punching something. Maybe he’d luck out and the district attorney would offer him a deal. But who the hell was he kidding? This case was a DA’s wet dream. All the evidence the DA could ask for and a bad guy who looked the part, with a rap sheet to match. It was a slam dunk. But for him, there really wasn’t a difference between ten years behind bars and life. Someone—a guard or another inmate—would piss him off at the wrong time or look at him the wrong way, and a lot of people would end up dead, including him.

  But that’d be a small price to pay for stopping those assholes he’d killed from getting their merchandise across the border. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

  The door at the far end of the hallway opened, then closed. Footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. That would be his public defender. Clayne could smell the crappy cologne from his cell. No doubt the guy had a cheap suit to match.

  But the man who came to a stop in front of his cell wasn’t wearing a cheap suit. Clayne had seen enough cheap suits—and expensive designer knockoffs—when he’d moved them on the black market a few years ago to know the difference. The one this guy wore was $800, easy.

  Okay, so the average-height, average-weight, average-everything man who studied him thoughtfully through the bars wasn’t his public defender. The district attorney, then?

  “Who the hell are you?” Clayne demanded.

  The guy regarded him silently, taking in Clayne’s six-foot-six-inch frame in the county jail jumpsuit as if he were some prized piece of livestock he was considering purchasing. “I’m the man who can change your life.”

  Clayne snorted. “You mean like my fairy godmother?”

  The man chuckled. “Your file didn’t mention you had a sense of humor. But if I’m your fairy godmother, that would make you Cinderella.”

  “Ef-you.”

  “No, not Cinderella. More like the Big Bad Wolf, I’d say.”

  Clayne swore softly. He wasn’t sure whether the man was simply playing a game of name-that-Grimm’s-fairy-tale-character for fun or if he actually knew something.

  “Yes. Definitely the Big Bad Wolf. Complete with claws, fangs, and an extremely poor choice in business associates. Not to mention a serious problem with anger management. That would just about sum you up, wouldn’t it, Mr. Buchanan?”

  Heat swirled in the pit of Clayne’s stomach the way it always did right before he was about to lose control. He hated it when people acted like they had him all figured out. Because he was damn sure this guy didn’t know him at all, regardless of all the wolf innuendo.

  Clayne doused the fire coursing through his veins before getting to his feet and approaching the bars. He stopped just short of them, afraid if he didn’t, he might reach out and choke the crap out of the guy.

  “I’m not in the mood to screw around. What do you want, Suit?”

  If the man on the other side of the bars picked up on the low growl underlying Clayne’s words, he gave no indication of it. “I don’t expect you are, Mr. Buchanan. The possibility of a lifetime in prison can do that to a person. So I’ll just say what I came here to say—I can make your problems go away. If you cooperate.”

  Clayne narrowed his eyes at the guy. Maybe he was the district attorney.

  “Why would you want to make my problems go away?” Clayne demanded.

  “Because I know you’re a shifter.”

  Clayne had been called a lot of things in his life, but that wasn’t one of them. “What the hell is a shifter?”

  “Someone who’s part human, part animal.”

  Clayne stared. Even if he’d been capable of speech at the moment, he wouldn’t have known what to say.

  On the other side of the bars, the man in the suit smiled smugly. “I see that I have your attention now.”

  Damn right he had Clayne’s attention.

  “I know exactly what you are. In fact, I probably k
now more about your wolf side than you do.”

  “How do you know so much about me?” Clayne practically growled.

  “Because I work with other shifters like you.”

  Clayne’s head spun. How could this guy possibly know what he was? He’d spent most of his life on the move, never letting anyone get too close to him, never allowing anyone to learn his secret. The only people on the planet who knew what he could do had died in that warehouse last night.

  Yet this guy said he knew all about him. And if he was telling the truth, there were others like him out there. That struck a nerve Clayne hadn’t even known existed. He wasn’t the only freak like this?

  The man put one hand on the bars, casually leaning against them. “I have a simple deal for you. The organization I work for would like to offer you a job. If you take it, the charges against you go away.”

  Clayne wasn’t so off-balance that his bullshit meter didn’t spike at that. Who the hell did this guy work for that he had that kind of power? “How can you possibly cover up three dead bodies?”

  The man sighed. He actually sounded bored. “Look, I’m not going to give you the full recruiting pitch. You don’t have a lot of options. You can take my offer, or you can rot in prison for the rest of your life. Because that’s what’s going to happen. Trust me, I’ve seen the evidence they have on you.”

  Clayne was this close to telling the suit to go screw himself just because he didn’t like it when people gave him ultimatums. But the guy went on before he could say anything.

  “I will tell you this—if you take the job, you’ll be working for a very particular branch of the U.S. government.”

  What the hell was he being roped into? “Which branch?”

  “The branch no one’s ever heard of.” The suit eyed him coolly. “So, are you in?”

  “Depends.” Clayne might have his back to the wall, but that didn’t mean he was going to roll over easily. “What kind of work will I be doing?”

  “Don’t worry about what you’ll be doing. The work will suit you. But if it will help you make up your mind, rest assured you’ll be making the world a better place.”

  Clayne hesitated. “You really have the power to get me out of here?”

  “I just said I did.”

  Not good enough. “How do I know you won’t turn me over to the cops when you’re done with me? It’s not like there’s a statute of limitations on murder.”

  The guy muttered a curse. “You don’t know. But what other choice do you have? It’s not like you have a lot of options.”

  Clayne pinned him with a hard look. “I just don’t want to go from the frying pan into the fire.”

  “You’ll find this out if you come to work for us, but I’ll give you the distilled version now—if we want something done, it happens. You accept the offer and the murder charges go away, along with all the evidence, forever. In return, I’ll expect you to bust your ass for us. You get a job, a paycheck, your freedom, and the chance to do something for someone other than yourself. Does that just about answer all your questions?”

  Clayne had a whole lot more, but he was already pushing his luck. There was one more thing that was eating at him, though.

  “You said there are others like me. If that’s the case, why recruit me after knowing what I did? Why the hell would you want someone like me working for the U.S. government?”

  When the suit didn’t say anything, Clayne figured maybe that was one question he wasn’t going to get an answer to.

  “Because I have plans that require a certain kind of shifter, and I’ve decided that shifter is you. That’s all you need to know.” The man pointedly checked his watch. “Now, what’s it going to be? You in or not?”

  Instinct told Clayne there was something going on here he didn’t fully comprehend. His gut said the man in front of him was a total sleazebag who couldn’t be trusted. But he’d heard it said that a drowning man will grab on to an anvil if you throw it to him. And right now, he was in over his head and barely treading water.

  Clayne reached his hand through the bars, offering it to the other man. “I’m in.”

  The suit stared at his outstretched hand for so long Clayne thought he wasn’t going to take it, but then he grasped it and gave it a shake. “Dick Coleman. Welcome to the DCO, Mr. Buchanan.”

  Chapter 1

  Five Years Later, Somewhere Near Sacramento, California

  Danica Beckett didn’t have to hear what the two Sacramento police officers were muttering about as they followed her and her partner, Tony Moretti, into the warehouse to know they were pissed off. Local cops didn’t like it much when the FBI swooped in with their federal jurisdiction and took over their cases. And that was what had happened last night. After four deaths in the area—three of which had erroneously been ruled animal attacks—the governor had called someone high up, who’d called someone else higher up, and just like that, a whole lot of hides had been rubbed the wrong way. It wasn’t her fault, or her partner’s, but that was the way these things worked. Big shots at the top made the decisions, and the field agents had to deal with the mess on the ground.

  Finding a serial killer was hard enough. The local PD could have run down the anonymous call that had come in this morning about another possible victim, but Roger Carhart, the new senior agent in charge who’d recently transferred from the New York office, wanted the FBI following up on every tip. He’d said he wanted someone on the scene who knew the difference between a murder and a bear attack, but what he meant was he wanted the FBI preserving the evidence before the locals messed everything up. That was going to get old quick, and definitely wouldn’t help to smooth any ruffled feathers.

  Even though the warehouse looked deserted, Danica took out her weapon and held it down at her side, finger near the trigger but not on it. Beside her, Tony did the same. One of the cops snorted. She ignored him. It was standard Bureau procedure. If the locals didn’t like it, tough. No wonder the governor had called in reinforcements.

  The smell of fresh blood assaulted her the moment she stepped through the open door, and she and Tony simultaneously lifted their guns to the ready position. That got the attention of the two cops with them. They pulled their own sidearms and immediately started checking the darkened building.

  Danica did a quick survey of the room as she and Tony cautiously made their way across the big, open space to the body lying on the floor. It was a white male, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, though he could have been younger. He was naked from the waist up and there were dozens of jagged wounds crisscrossing his chest. On their own, they might not have been enough to kill him, but whoever had attacked him had ripped out his throat.

  Shock gripped Danica, making her feel light-headed. It wasn’t the blood and carnage that bothered her. It was the fact that she knew exactly what type of person had done this. She’d seen this kind of kill before.

  “Looks like our serial killer’s MO,” Tony said, jerking Danica back to the present. “These tears and lacerations look exactly like the ones in the photos of the previous victims.”

  Behind them, one of the cops made a gagging sound. She looked over her shoulder to see him covering his mouth with his free hand, like he was trying not to throw up.

  Tony swore under his breath. “Get him out of here before he fouls up the crime scene,” he ordered the second cop.

  That guy didn’t look much better than his partner. He stared at Tony for a few seconds before the words sunk in. As the two men left, Danica turned back to survey the body again, hoping against hope she was wrong about who’d done this. She’d almost convinced herself when she heard a noise above her. She raised her Glock, aiming it in the direction of the sound. A metal catwalk ran from one end of the warehouse to the other, and her gaze darted over it just as a man up there hauled ass in the other direction.

  “We’ve got a runner!” Danica shouted. “Cover the outside exits.”

  She didn’t wait to see if Tony obeyed as she r
an for the other end of the building. God, she hoped there was a stairwell that would get her up to the catwalk.

  Behind her, Tony ordered the cops to get on the outside escape routes. Knowing her partner would be coming to back her up, Danica ran as fast as she could and slammed into the set of double doors at the far side of the warehouse.

  As she’d hoped, it was a stairwell. Somewhere above her, a door banged against a wall, followed by pounding footsteps. She kept both her eyes and her weapon trained on the next landing as she hurried up the steps, fully expecting someone to come racing down the stairs.

  But she got all the way to the top of the fourth floor without catching sight of anyone. The door that led out to the roof had just swung closed, so the guy couldn’t be far ahead of her.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs below her. Tony. Danica knew she should wait for him, but she’d never been the type to hang around for backup. Instead, she kicked open the door to the roof and darted her head out for a quick look. When no one took a shot at her, she stepped outside and did a slow sweep of the gravel-covered roof before moving around the stairwell, ready to take down the first threatening target she identified. She didn’t know for sure that the man she was chasing had murdered anyone—he might be some poor homeless guy for all she knew—but she’d assume the worst until she knew better. It had saved her butt more than once.

  She saw him running away from her across the roof as she rounded the corner of the stairwell. He was bigger than she’d first thought—at least six two—and could run as fast as an Olympic sprinter.

  “FBI!” she shouted as she took off after him.

  Danica didn’t have a chance of catching up to him. Until he ran out of roof, at least. Unless there happened to be a fire escape. As the man picked up speed, she had a sinking feeling. She ignored it and ran faster.

  She was at least fifty feet behind him, so far away that she could do little more than confirm he was in fact male, dressed head to foot in black, and that he had shaggy, sandy blond hair. But all of that became irrelevant when the man got to the edge of the roof and jumped.