Nick walked past the coffee shop for the second time, inhaling deeply. He couldn’t smell another werewolf’s scent, but he wasn’t sure he could pick out a lingering trail in the air anyway. He couldn’t drop to all fours and sniff the ground on a public street. Clay would—he didn’t give a shit who saw him. Nick gave a shit.

He pushed open the door and walked in, and the moment he did, he smelled the man who had dumped the body in his bed. His nose might not be good enough to recognize a stranger’s scent in a public place, but he’d know that god-awful cologne anywhere.

The place was exactly the sort where he’d expect to find a guy doused in overpriced "designer" cologne—a cut-rate Starbucks knockoff with scruffy baristas who looked too stoned to remember how to make a cappuccino. Nick passed the counter without stopping.

The shop was packed, loud and noisy. Not his style, but probably a good choice for a conversation he wouldn’t want overheard. He found his quarry with one sweep, his nose following the cologne.

The first thing he noticed was the man’s foot, stretched into the aisle. Black loafer, tan pants and two inches of glaring white sports sock between them. Nick shuddered and lifted his gaze. It didn’t get any better. The guy had a pinched face topped by a dead muskrat . . . or really badly cut hair tousled with a fistful of gel. And he wore a chain—a thick, gold one. Fake gold, though Nick wasn’t sure it would be less hideous if it was real.

As Nick crossed the room, the man’s gaze fell on him and he grinned, waving Nick over, more gold flashing from his rings.

"Glad you could make it," he said. "You got my package?"

"Which one?"

The man laughed, thumping the table. "That’s good."

Nick sat. "And you are?"

"It isn’t important."

Nick met the man’s gaze and tried to channel Clay’s cold menace. "I think it is."

Nick winced. He sounded as convincing as Hugh Grant auditioning for the Sopranos. He expected the man to laugh, but he jerked back, hands rising, as if Nick were about to vault over the table and grab him by the throat.

"Hey, just kidding, okay? Paul. You can call me Paul."

Nick considered holding onto the upper hand and demanding an explanation. But he knew better than to push his luck, so he settled for a quiet—quietly menacing, if he was lucky—"What do you want from me, Paul?"

"A favor."

"And if I refuse?"

Paul smiled. "Then the pictures go to the cops."

"What will you tell them? That I killed a woman who died in a hospital?"

Chagrin shattered Paul’s smile. Then a crafty gleam lit his mud-brown eyes. "No, see, I knew that wouldn’t work. So I’m not going to tell them you killed her. I won’t tell them anything—just give them pictures of you in bed with a dead woman. Imagine what they’ll think about that."

Nick preferred not to. That was one sexual transgression his reputation would never survive. He was sure the misunderstanding could be cleared up, but what mattered was the process. No werewolf could afford to have cops digging through his life. He knew what Jeremy would say: if it came to an investigation, they could handle it, but Nick should do everything in his power to avoid that.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"A favor. One particularly suited to your . . . wolfy talents."

Wolfy? So Paul knew he was a werewolf. Nick’s heart sank, taking with it all hopes that this was just a garden-variety human blackmailer targeting a rich playboy. He only had a moment to feel those pangs of disappointment and dismay before he realized what Paul had said. A favor suited to a werewolf. Shit. He wanted someone killed.

Nick swallowed, then coughed to hide it. He’d deal with this. He just needed a few minutes to prepare. He bought himself some time by asking, "So how did you find me?"

"In the Yellow Pages. Under W." Paul laughed. When Nick didn’t, he leaned forward. "W. Get it?"

Nick’s expression didn’t change.

Paul rubbed his hands. "Right. Um, well, I got your name from one of those, what do you call them? Those who aren’t part of your special group? Curs?"

Mutts. But Nick didn’t correct him, just kept the guy talking while he struggled to prepare for what was coming.

"And he just gave you my name?"

"Well, I had to pay him. I said I needed a, uh—" He glanced at the empty tables beside them, then wrapped his hands around his cup and leaned forward. "—a wolf. He’d have done it himself, but he wasn’t right for the job. I asked him who he’d recommend. He gave me your name."

Nick would be flattered if he didn’t know that the mutt just wanted to screw someone from the Pack with this. "Best for the job" just meant "easiest to blackmail."

"The guy you talked to, it was Brian McKay, wasn’t it?"

"No, Tyler Lake."

As Paul said the name, he winced and mouthed "shit," realizing Nick had been fishing, and he’d bitten. Nick filed the name away. He’d give it to Jeremy later so they could handle this little "security leak."

As Paul sipped his coffee, Nick took a deep breath. Nothing to be gained from prolonging this. It wouldn’t get any easier.

"So you want me to . . ." he said.

"Seduce my wife."

Nick’s fingers bit into his thighs, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral as he waited for the rest. Seduce my wife . . . and kill her. He couldn’t do that. No matter how much trouble he was in. He just couldn’t.

But an investigation could also threaten his father and his Pack. It was his duty to protect them. Everyone in the Pack had killed to protect their secrets. Everyone except him. So now, when it was his turn, could he just say "sorry, guys, you know I can’t kill an innocent human" . . . and let them do it for him? Because that’s what would happen. If the threat was too much, someone else would have to do it. Someone else would have to deal with the guilt.

It took a moment for him to realize Paul hadn’t said anything more.

Nick wet his lips, then prompted, "Seduce your wife . . ."

"Well, my ex-wife. Or soon-to-be ex. The divorce hasn’t gone through so we’re just separated."

"You want me to seduce her and . . ."

"Take pictures, of course."

Nick’s heartrate glided back to normal as it all became clear. "Pictures you’ll use in the divorce."

Paul frowned, as if this thought hadn’t occurred to him. A glimmer of "hey, there’s an idea" flashed through his eyes, then he shook his head. "Since we’re already separated, it wouldn’t matter if she was fooling around. Besides, she’s not asking for alimony or anything."

"So you want photos to . . ."

"Give to my buddy, Darren."

Nick tapped his fingers against his thigh, not wanting to look dense by failing to make some obvious connection, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t obvious.

"Your buddy . . ."

"Ex-buddy, which is how I got the ex-wife."

Ah-ha. So Paul’s wife had dumped him for his friend, and now he wanted to show his buddy what it felt like. If it were Nick, he’d wash his hands of them both. Not that he would ever need to worry about that. All three of his current girlfriends could strip in front of Clay and promise him a night of mind-blowing sex, and Clay would just stalk out, find Nick and tell him it was time to get new girlfriends.

Nick wasn’t keen to get involved in this sordid soap opera, and he really didn’t relish the idea of poaching on another guy’s territory, but compared to killing an innocent stranger, this was a cakewalk.

Unless . . .

He looked at Paul, taking in the fake gold chain, the god-awful hair cut, and imagined what kind of woman would marry him. Nick wasn’t too concerned with looks, but every guy has his limit, and if Mrs. Paul was some skanky biker chick . . . Nick was all for exploring new territory, but that was pushing it.

"She works in the city," Paul said. "I’ll get her schedule for you. For now, here’s a photo."

Nick steeled himself, looked at the photo and blinked. The woman smiling back looked more schoolteacher than biker. She wore a green turtleneck that kept her green eyes from fading behind stylish glasses. Skin so creamy perfect she could make a living selling facial cream. Dark hair pulled back tight—too tight, making her soft features severe. A little prim for his tastes, but he could already envision getting those glasses off, letting that hair down, touching that perfect skin . . .

This might not be such a bad deal after all.

Wait a second. Hadn’t Paul said a werewolf was "particularly suited" for this job? What did that have to do with seducing his wife? No sense beating around the bush. Nick asked the question pointblank.

"She has a thing for . . . you guys," Paul replied.

"Thing? You mean she’s had lovers who were . . ."

"No, no. Never even met one. But she reads a lot of those werewolf romances."

"Werewolf romances?" Nick said, certain he’d heard wrong.

"Sure. Haven’t you heard about those? Human women with werewolf guys? Really popular."

Nick waited for the punchline.

"Anyway, Rita goes through these phases. First, it was bad boys, so she hooked up with me. Then she starts reading these paranormal romances and decides a—" A look around, but no one was near now. "—Druid isn’t sexy enough, so she screws off with Darren. He’s half-demon, like her. Now I hear she’s into these werewolf romances. She makes Darren growl in bed and bought this fake wolf-skin rug to screw on."

"She . . . told you this?"

"No, Grannus did. My Druidic deity."

Nick had no idea what that meant, but nodded as if he did.

"So do we have a deal? An exchange of photos, yours for mine. I’ll give you the negatives, too, and that’ll be the last you ever hear from me."

Nick considered it. Or, at least, tried to look as if he was considering it. Truth was, he didn’t see that he had much choice. The thought of seducing a woman and taking pictures made his skin crawl, but there was no question of not doing it, and letting Paul send those photos to the police.

As for the photos themselves, getting the negatives didn’t necessarily mean Nick would have all the evidence. What was to stop Paul from making copies? Or having taken more shots with his cell phone? Did he think Nick was too stupid to consider that possibility? Or was Paul too stupid to think of it?

Nick wasn’t about to dismiss the last possibility, which meant he wasn’t about to mention it and give Paul the idea. But he’d have to cover his ass—get something on Paul that he could use for counter-blackmail, if the guy tried to get more mileage out of those photos. As for how to do that, he had no idea. He’d need time to think about that . . . after he said what needed to be said.

"You’ve got a deal."