A young wolf, his arms and hands wet and covered in bubbles, stuck his head in from the other room. “You said medium rare.”
“No. I said well done. Get it right next time.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez.”
The kid disappeared back to his regular job and Van Holtz went back to his burger.
“My cousin Stein,” Van Holtz explained, like that told her why he was being such a ballbuster.
“You’re ridiculous,” Cella told him. “I heard you say medium rare.”
“Ssssh.” Van Holtz looked at that doorway. “I have a strategy, Miss Malone.”
“The ‘I’m a douche’ strategy?”
“You break them down first so you can build them back up.”
“And when does that building begin?”
“Whenever I say it does.”
Cella laughed. “You’re worse than my dad. Of his four children, I’m the only one who could handle his idea of training.”
“And look at you now.”
“The reality is I had it easier than the boys because I was daddy’s little princess.”
Van Holtz frowned. “You? Really?”
“What d’ya gotta say it like that for?” She pointed at herself. “Don’t I look like a fuckin’ princess to you?”
“In what world,” Smith’s voice said from behind Cella, “are you a princess?”
Damn Smith, sneaking up on her again. How did she do that? “In the same world that Smiths are considered upstanding and law-abiding citizens rather than backwoods crazies.”
“Sassy talker.”
“Psychopath.”
Smith walked over to Van Holtz’s side, pressing up against him. “You in here chattin’ up my man, Malone?”
“Well, it’s about time he had a woman with some curves.”
“Don’t most just call that back fat?”
“No brawling,” Van Holtz quickly warned them when Cella pulled her fist back and Smith went for that damn bowie knife she kept holstered to the back of her jeans.
Once it seemed that he’d diverted any fights in his precious kitchen, Van Holtz asked Smith, “You want something to eat?”
“Later maybe.”
“Where have you been?” Cella asked, cutting another piece of meat. “I called you earlier.”
“Yeah, sorry. I was checking in with the people MacDermot put on surveillance detail for us.”
“They get anything?”
“Nope. But I did pull some favors and get video footage from stores in a one-block radius of the taxidermist. Printed a few pics.” Smith pulled out a manila envelope and took out several photographs. “Anybody look familiar to you?”
Handing his half-eaten burger to his mate—the man never took Smith’s “I’ll eat later” seriously—Van Holtz looked through the photos, sliding each one across the table to Cella when he was done. After several moments, he retrieved one of the photos he’d passed to Cella, studying it a little more. “This man ... Do we know him?”
“I don’t.” Having finished Van Holtz’s burger, Smith was now working on his plate of fries. “But before I came here, I showed these pics to the surveillance team. They pointed him out, too. Said he met with the taxidermist, but never in his store. Always met him a block away. I told them if he comes back, to put someone on him.”
“We should touch base with MacDermot, too.” Cella pushed her empty plate away. “She’ll want in on this if it turns out to be something.”
“I called Gentry,” Smith said. “She’ll send MacDermot to meet us at the office later. Although, I do wonder why we never go to your office, Malone.”
“Do we need to get something done?” Cella demanded. “Because that won’t happen if we’re at the KZS office. It’s like twenty of me instead of just one.”
“And just one of you is terrifying enough.”
“Cella!” her mother called from somewhere in the restaurant.
“In here, Ma!”
“Is there a Malone that don’t yell?” Smith asked.
“Is there a Smith that don’t lick its ass?”
“Don’t be jealous of those who got the talent and dexterity.”
“You’d be amazed at my dexterity.”
“Malone, are you sweet on me? And here in front of my mate and everything.”
Cella’s eyes crossed and she turned in time to see her mother strut her way into the kitchen.
“I assume, Ma, from your sexy walk that all went well?”
“Why do these people question me? When it comes to weddings”—she held her hand out—“by this claw, I rule.”
“She,” Smith muttered, “is so your momma.”
Trying not to laugh, Cella said, “Ma, you remember Dee-Ann.”
“I do?”
Cella scratched her head and tried harder not to laugh. “You’ve met her four, five, maybe ten times.”
“Huh.”
“But you do remember Ric Van—”
“Of course, I do!” Because vast wealth always managed to jog her mother’s feline memory. “Good to meet you again, Mr. Van Holtz,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Ric, Mrs. Malone. Call me Ric.”
She gave her best “think of me whenever you’re shopping for a wedding planner” smile, then turned back to Cella. “Was the double wedding your idea?”
“Anything to reduce the pain potential.”
“Double wedding?” Van Holtz asked. “Blayne and Gwen together?”
Knowing exactly where this was going, Cella held up her hand and quickly rattled off, “You’d have to go to Novikov’s wedding anyway ’cause of Blayne and he’d be at Gwen and Lock’s wedding, also because of Blayne. This way the torture is all condensed to one day, so shut up and stop complaining.”
Van Holtz snarled a little, but didn’t bother to argue.
Barb kissed Cella’s cheek. “Just like your ma. Now,” she went on, “can we head home together?”
“Can’t. Gotta work tonight.”
“You’ll be careful?”
“I’m always careful. I can’t risk this pretty face, can I?”
Smith snorted while Barb dug into her bag and pulled out one of her cards, handing it to Van Holtz. “In case you’re ever ready to settle down with a nice, respectable She-wolf of your own.” Then she gave Smith another once-over before leaving without another word.
“Charmin’,” Smith said, both she and Cella laughing.
“I can’t even be mad at her,” Cella admitted. “She’s just so ridiculous sometimes.”
“Other than beatin’ the shit out of you on a regular basis—”
“You wish!”
“—I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to her.”
“That doesn’t matter. Apparently, there’s a Smith-Malone history that no one will talk about in my family.”
“Really? Need to ask my daddy about that.”
“Does your father actually speak, Smith? Words, I mean. Not just barks and howls at the moon.”
Smith shrugged. “When he’s of a mind ...”
Whatever the hell that meant.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Michael Patrick Callahan tried to shift again, but whatever they’d shot him up with wouldn’t let him shift back to human. It kept him lion. Kept him prey.
Panting, he stood behind a tree, watching and listening for the hunters. Their problem was that Mikey had overheard them. He knew that whatever they’d forced into his system would wear off and he’d be able to shift back to human again. But they didn’t want that. Having a dead human body on their land was probably a bigger pain in the ass to manage than having a dead lion. And once Mikey knew that, once he knew the effect of this drug wouldn’t last for several days or weeks, his goal became clear.
Avoidance.
The mistake a lot of people made was to believe true predators ran around challenging everyone, going claw-to-claw with anyone or anything that crossed their path. They didn’t. From the proudest lion male to the lowliest, pain-in-the-ass hyena, a long-living predator always knew when to run and when to stand his or her ground.