He pulled on his clothes as the wolf watched him. “Just let me have a little time to sort this out. To adjust. I’ll be back. Don’t leave.” Shoving his feet into loafers, he grabbed his jacket and his keys and headed out, his brain spinning like a carnival ride.
And he’d thought she was crazy. That would have been easier to take. In the elevator, he braced his hands against his knees as if he’d run a marathon. He started to punch the button for the garage, changed his mind, and chose the first floor instead. Driving in his condition—total freak-out mode—was not a good idea.
Ducking out the service door, he started walking, unsure of his destination. He didn’t know what time it was, but probably late. The Moon was closed down for the night.
That’s where he’d go. He could sit alone in the bar, which still belonged to him. He could pour himself a stiff Scotch, which he really could use right now. And he could think what the hell he was going to do next.
Having a key to the bar in his possession had been a matter of pride. He’d learned the code to the alarm system for the same reason. This property was his, and he’d liked knowing he could go inside whenever he wanted. Like now.
Moments later, he was rummaging behind the bar for the best bottle of Scotch in the house. After he located that, he grabbed a glass and walked over to a table. He deliberately didn’t choose the one where he’d so recently sat with Giselle. That little gathering seemed like it had happened years ago.
A werewolf. She’d warned him that her secret would be life changing. No shit. After pouring himself a glass of Scotch, he took a hefty gulp. He didn’t plan to get drunk, but he wouldn’t mind a little Dutch courage.
He’d need it when he went back to the penthouse, which he would do, and soon. She might be a werewolf, but he loved her. If you loved someone, you accepted them, warts and all. Except this was a little more significant than a wart.
The clock behind the bar registered two thirty in the morning. His life had changed forever about twenty minutes ago. For some reason he thought he should remember the time and date that his entire worldview changed.
Now that the initial shock was past, he had a million questions. All he knew about werewolves came from Hollywood, and they usually got that stuff wrong. He hoped they got it wrong. Otherwise, he might need a lot more Scotch.
He’d nearly finished his first glass and was debating whether to pour a second when he heard a noise. No, not just a noise. Voices. They came from the hallway that led to the restrooms and the kitchen. Good God, was he about to start hearing voices now? Or seeing ghosts?
More likely, he was lucky enough to be here when somebody was breaking into the place. That would cap his evening off nicely. Screwing the top on the bottle of Scotch, he took it with him as a potential weapon and started down the hall.
Yeah, this was weird. The sound of male voices came closer, but not from either of the bathrooms or the kitchen, which would be logical if someone was messing around in here. The voices came from behind the wall at the end of the hallway.
Although the conversation was muffled, Luke thought there were at least two guys, maybe three. Standing there waiting to see what happened might not be the wisest course of action since he was outnumbered. But after watching Giselle turn into a wolf and then downing a glass of Scotch, Luke was in a what-the-hell mood.
If ghosts walked through that wall and came toward him—and at this point anything was possible—he would hightail it out of there. Even if he threw the bottle of Scotch, it wouldn’t stop a ghost.
Whoever was behind that wall, they were about to run smack into it if they were real people. Then he heard a familiar accent. A familiar British accent. Mr. Thatcher?
He thought the night couldn’t get any weirder until the wall started moving. While he stared, no doubt with his eyes bugging out of his head like a cartoon character, the wall swiveled, allowing three men to walk through the opening.
“Yikes!” Bryce stopped short, and the two behind him, Mr. Thatcher and Benedict Cartwright, plowed into Bryce.
For a moment, the hallway was silent except for the sound of everyone gulping for air.
Luke found his voice first. “What in damnation is going on?”
The three men looked at one another as if each hoped that one of the others would come up with a good story.
Luke tried again. “Where did you come from? What’s behind that wall?”
Bryce swallowed. “Well, it’s complicated.”
Luke studied Bryce, whose coloring was very close to Giselle’s. Same basic genetics, which meant . . . He mentally slapped his forehead. She’d said that Bryce would support her story of being a werewolf.
“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Mr. Thatcher said.
“Not yet.” Luke focused on Bryce and decided to try some fishing. “I know about your sister, Landry.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who told you?”
“She did.”
“When?”
“About thirty minutes ago. And I figure, since you two are related . . .”
“Where is she?”
“Right here.”
Luke turned to find Giselle standing behind him—the Giselle he’d first met, a long-legged, gorgeous redhead in jeans, boots, a sweater, and a leather jacket.
“You didn’t lock the front door,” she said. “I had a hunch you might be in here.” She glanced at the bottle of Scotch. “Drowning your sorrows?”
“No. Celebrating the fact that I finally know what’s going on with you.” He gestured at the three men standing at the end of the hall. “And I’ll take a wild guess that you’re all the same species.” He fixed his gaze on Mr. Thatcher. “Including my butler.”
Giselle glanced at Bryce. “You suggested that I tell him, so I did. I even put on a demonstration, after which he ran out of the suite as if his tail was on fire.”
“I did not.” Luke frowned. “It was a shock. I had to be alone for a little while.”
Giselle held his gaze. “Alone except for a bottle of Scotch. That doesn’t reassure me as to your state of mind about all this.”
He saw bravado in her green eyes, but it was hiding a layer of hurt. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed.”
“Cut the guy some slack, Sis.” Bryce walked forward and hooked an arm around Luke’s shoulders. “Give him some time to get used to the idea. It’s not every day that a man finds out he’s in love with a werewolf.”
A gasp of surprise made them all freeze.
With a soft oath, Giselle whirled around as Cynthia walked toward them. “Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you!”
“I was back in the corner, listening. I went up to the penthouse to tell Luke that Bryce was gone, and I took the fire stairs like I always do. I saw Luke charge into the elevator. He looked upset, so I followed him. When he came in here, I slipped in behind him. I was ready to say something, but then he grabbed the Scotch, which told me he wanted to be alone. I tucked myself into a corner, not sure what to do.” She paused for breath. “A werewolf, Giselle? Really?”
Luke groaned. “It’s a joke.”
“I seriously doubt that, big brother.” Cynthia crossed her arms. “And I’m not leaving, so you might as well fill me in.”
“Nobody’s leaving.” Benedict Cartwright stepped forward for the first time. “We obviously have a major security breach.” He pulled out his phone. “I can have a Cartwright security team here in five minutes, or . . .” He paused to glance around the group. “We can all sit down, have a drink, and figure this out among ourselves.”