Can't Prove Shift, page 1
part #1 of Protectors Unlimited Series
Can’t Prove Shift
The Protectors Unlimited Book One
Keira Blackwood
Copyright © 2017 by Keira Blackwood
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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places, or events is coincidental. All characters in this story are at least 18 years of age or older.
The cover utilizes stock images licensed by the author. The model(s) depicted have no connection to this work or any other work by the author.
Edited by Liza Street
PS brushes courtesy of Brusheezy.com.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Also by Keira Blackwood
About the Author
Introduction
Since the conclusion of Riverwood, I’ve thought a lot about the Blake brothers. The Protectors Unlimited series introduces new characters to the Protectors series, and gives Mason, Lincoln, and Mia their long awaited happily ever afters. Mason gets to go first.
Can’t Prove Shift is a tale of cat burglar turned mail-order bride tossed on the wrong doorstep. It’s a romance where polar opposites attract, and misfortune turns out to be fate.
Snag your free Protectors story, Revenge, exclusively available to Keira’s email list!
Chapter One
Lyn
His heated, hazel eyes devoured every one of my curves. Desire poured from him in waves. Even from my seat, forty feet away, the stink of my mark’s arousal tainted my nostrils. It was the loudest thing in the hotel lobby, even with the musician bellowing Frank Sinatra as he smoothly played the piano. The tune was flawless, just loud enough to dull the sounds of the casino in the next room—drunken chatter, clinking coins, and the never-ending electronic dinging from the slot machines.
The lounge was filled with dark, rich woods. And rich patrons. A redheaded waitress flirted with a middle-aged suit at one of the small, round tables, then mocked him when she returned to the bartender. A thin, elderly woman in a satin evening gown sat at the next table over. Her silver hair was styled like that of a movie star from the twenties, and her confidence matched. The seats beside her were filled by attractive men, young enough to be her grandsons. But with their proximity to the aging starlet, and her hands on their thighs, I assumed no relation. Whispered innuendos passed, glasses clinked, taps poured. I took it all in while I kept my body turned toward the performer at the piano. But my attention remained focused on my target.
Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo—sixty-three, five foot seven, two hundred twenty-five pounds, and most importantly—loaded. His reputation preceded him, a reputation for wealth and a love for curvy brunettes. During my research, I’d learned that Girardo was drawn to short skirts and low-cut tops. Which was exactly what had drawn him to the woman on the stool next to him. It was also exactly the reason I wore a blond wig and a modest pencil skirt. Every button on my blouse was done up to the collar and I sat as far from the lech as the Obsidian Resort’s lounge allowed.
Not only did Girardo attempt to conquer a new woman every evening, but also the hotel’s poker tables. His vices ruled his nights. Legal defense of Monaco’s sleaziest criminals ruled his days. That, and shady deals with shifter mafia—the Sanguine Syndicate.
My inner cat was ready to pounce with one look at my prey—some sort of weasel shifter a few times removed. Guys like him made easy marks. Hell, he was asking for it wearing that custom Bangaudi suit and thickly layered gold chains. Only one thing bothered me. There was a quality to him that didn’t fit the rest of the package. It was his eyes. The way that he looked at the woman beside him was lewd, sure, but at the same time predatory. It didn’t matter though. I kept my distance, so even if Girardo had a surprise ferocity held beneath the doughy surface, it wasn’t my problem.
The brunette cackled in exaggerated amusement as he leaned close and whispered in her ear. His thick, sausage fingers brushed the fair, freckled skin just above her elbow. A heavy blush tinted the tops of her ears and the center of her cheeks. He almost had her. It was nearly time.
“Hey, sugar. Next round’s on me.” A tall, dark, and overconfident distraction slid onto the stool beside me. His black hair was slicked back in a fifties-style poof that appeared to be made of plastic. The ten gallons of cologne that wafted from him threatened to drown me. And the wide, bleached-white, self-assured grin on his square face told me he was accustomed to hearing yes.
“I have a drink,” I said, sparing the man only a small glance before turning back to the pianist in the center of the room. The glass was cool against my lips, the Cabernet Sauvignon smooth on my palate.
“A fine lookin’ lady like you shouldn’t be left to drink alone,” the man said. “The name’s Chad, and I can promise you’ll be screaming it. All. Night. Long.”
He placed his clammy palm on my bare knee, still sporting that self-assured grin. Clearly he was not the type to take no for an answer. And if I could have afforded making a scene, I would have made him regret touching me. Break a finger, bloody a nose. Not tonight.
“Chad,” I said, looking him square in the eyes, “you’ll remove your greasy paw from my leg and make your way back to the casino.”
“And why—”
“If you don’t,” I said, leaning close enough that only he could hear me, “I’ll tell your wife exactly what you’re doing on this ‘business’ trip.”
Chad recoiled, stupid grin sliding right from his smooth face. “How could you… I’m not…”
“The indent from your wedding band remains on your finger,” I said. “Besides, I can see the outline of your ring in your pocket.”
He looked down, sliding his hand over the offending wrinkles in the black fabric. It was enough of a diversion.
“And I’m guessing this is the lucky woman who snatched up such a prize.” I held his cell phone out for him to see. On the screen was the picture of the jerk holding a smiling blonde. Both wore matching gold bands.
“How’d you—” The cheater reached for the phone, which I gladly allowed him to take.
“And now it’s time to return to the casino,” I said with a small, sarcastic smile.
He did exactly that, without another word, and with his head turned back to watch me while he walked away.
Plastic Hair shoulder-checked an undeserving bellhop just before leaving my line of sight. I sighed in relief and turned my attention back to my task.
Panic welled in my chest when I found Girardo’s stool empty. His scent of aftershave and lust still lingered. I scanned the room.
There. By the elevator. His fat fingers teased the hem of her barely-there skirt as he held the woman against the wall. His back was turned to me. Her face was buried in his chest.
I set my glass down on the counter with enough cash to cover the tip. Then I stalked forward. Silent steps came naturally, even in six-inch heels, even on the buffed marble floor. It didn’t matter. The couple was so engrossed in their pre-coital connection, I could have shifted into an elephant and trumpeted and they wouldn’t have noticed.
Stealth was my thing, so I stuck to it. A flick of the wrist, and I slid the keycard from Girardo’s pocket without missing a stride. Before the elevator doors opened, I was halfway up the stairwell.
A stark contrast to the noisy luxury of the lobby, the stairwell was cold, concrete, and quiet. Thick stone walls buffered the noise from below. The floors above were quieter, filled with lavish, empty rooms belonging to the rich gamblers who threw their money away in the first-floor casino. Girardo’s room was six fifty-three. High enough to make escape from the window difficult. Also far enough from the security that swarmed in the casino that if I happened to be caught, it would take time for them to arrive.
At the entry to the sixth floor, I stopped and listened through the thick, metal door. Heavy footsteps accompanied the dragging sound of rubber wheels on carpet, and the gentle clink of glass on metal. A food cart. Metal jingled, keys fumbled on an overfilled ring. The ding of the elevator. A gentle moan, a rustle of fabric. They were here.
“Come.” The voice was deep, his accent heavy. The woman giggled, wobbly footsteps following just behind his heavy, steady set.
As the minutes passed, I waited silently behind the door.
“Where is it?” Girardo growled.
“Let’s go in,” the woman said. “I’m ready. I want you now—”
“My keycard,” he said. “It’s fucking missing.”
“Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go to my room.”
“I’ll have to go to the desk—”
“Please,” she begged. “I’ve waited too long already.
Again the rustle of fabric. The slobbery smacking of lips. The wheels of the cart and footfalls of the bellhop sped past.
“Yeah,” Girardo said, voice rough as gravel.
Moments later, the elevator dinged once again. And they were gone.
I moved. My window of opportunity was limited. Salvatore Girardo was likely a ten minute ride at best. As soon as he was done, he’d be back.
I glided through the hall as if I belonged there, past the cleaning lady. Six fifty-three. I used the keycard and stepped inside. The suite was covered in shades of cream, from honey-hued hardwood to the white chaise lounge. Even the bricks around the fireplace were marbled white and sand. There was an ivory grand piano and dozens of white roses. The only vibrant color to be seen was beyond the hotel walls, though through the dark, night sky, the beauty was diminished. Dark waves rippled just beyond the open glass doors to the balcony. The same view in daylight was cerulean and azure. The decor was what I had expected. As was the location of the safe—just behind the ornate mirror next to the bed.
One of the benefits of being a shifter was the enhanced hearing. I’d never met another thief who could hear the subtle clicks of the combination lock as it turned without using a tool kit. For me it was easy. I was born for this. The lock clicked in place, popping the safe door open. Inside was a stack of cash, and more importantly, the Vandervelt brooch I’d hoped for. That one little piece would not only feed me at the finest restaurants for the next five years, but afford my entire lifestyle and whims. The rumors were true. It was here, cold and heavy in my palm.
The thrill of success clouded my brain. But not enough to overpower their scent. Wolves. Shit. They were close. Why did it have to be wolves?
Before I could react, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced the back of my neck. I turned, ready to fight, ready to run. But the world spun. The room swirled in a foggy… unfocused…
Shoes, black dress shoes. Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo stood over me. The woman beside him looked terrified, her lip bloody, her wrists tied. Suit-wearing goons filed in around Girardo. Blackness shrunk my field of vision. Twinkling away. Something else, a feeling to replace everything else. Dread. Nothingness.
Chapter Two
Lyn
As soon as it began, I knew it was a dream. It was the same nightmare that had tormented me countless times before. But knowing didn’t make it stop.
Standing on the steps of Hell’s gates, I stared up at the horrific black-brick façade. Behind every window was darkness, a black hole that devoured life as much as light. It was the kind of residence only a monster could stand. The building stretched toward the sky, though it somehow seemed to lean forward as we approached the door, as if the house itself willed not only to crush my spirit, but my bones as well. Horrific gargoyles slipped down the stonework, claws and teeth marked for my flesh. But that wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t. It was just a house, of gray stone. Still, my eyes deceived me. And the fear was real.
“Maybe thirteen’s the charm,” the social worker said, with a quick glance down at me. An attempt at kindness, maybe. That, or a cruel joke. Thirteen foster homes in my thirteen years, and I hadn’t started until I was four.
The social worker’s bun was as tight as her lips, her glasses as sharp as her shoulders. She kept her distance from me, as if I were diseased.
A quick pound of her closed fist on the door, and she stared straight ahead, a statue with hands clasped to the file that held my past, my present, and my fate.
I bit my lip, clenched my sweaty palms, and shifted my weight between the balls of my feet. I prayed for kindness, acceptance. I prayed for real parents. In the pit of my stomach, I knew my prayers would never be answered.
An eternity passed before the black door creaked open. Tendrils of ebony smog slithered out from Hell’s depths. A familiar aroma carried out from the woman inside—her scent was shifter. Until that moment, I’d found the presence of another shifter a comfort, a remembrance of home and family. All of that changed with her. Thick fingers crushed my upper arm and ripped me from the world that was.
A creature of the night, shrouded in darkness, dragged me to the small prison I’d have to fight to escape. Struggling was no use. This was my reality. Hell was the locked closet.
It hadn’t happened like that. Not really. I knew it didn’t. There was no monster. But the closet—the closet was real.
My heart thundered in my chest and my eyes shot open. Everything was dark. The world was dark—just like always. Instinct told me to run. Hit the sadistic woman as soon as she opened the door. Run and never look back.
As my eyes adjusted, reality sunk in. This was not the closet. That was then. This was now. Still, my pulse thrummed, adrenaline pumping. I was in a wooden cage, maybe even a cheap casket. Great. One minute I had a priceless relic in my palms, the next I was headed for a pyre. Fitting for my luck? Maybe.
No. Unfortunately confined—that was all that I was. No amount of security could keep me out. No restraints could keep me in. I was stronger than this.
With a deep breath, I told myself to be calm and take control. I would not accept a death sentence. I would not allow another to control my fate.
Willing my arms forward, I attempted to shove the wooden wall before me. My arms didn’t move. Instead, they hung limp—not a good sign. What was happening to me?
I seemed to have control of my eyes, the opening and shutting, the ability to look from side to side, but nothing more. My arms and legs felt heavy. Not even my finger moved when I wanted it to. My stomach twisted and my pulse thrummed in my head. I’d been drugged.
The wooden crate was casket-sized, just long and wide enough to fit a semi-conscious woman and some sort of gaudy white dress. Had I not woken to find myself encased in tulle and topped with shoulder pads, I’d have thought everything that had happened at the hotel was part of my nightmare. Too bad it wasn’t. If I had to guess, I’d say I’d been dressed like bride Barbie from the eighties.
As the truth of my situation settled, images clouded my head. How exactly had I gotten in here? Who touched me long enough to put this hideous thing on? I pictured Girardo’s greasy palms and sausage fingers working the zipper of my skirt—and the urge to vomit overwhelmed me.
I had to focus on anything but that. The dress screamed bride. That meant sold. Bastard probably traded me like a piece of meat, as some black market mail-order bride. That, or he was planning something worse. Sold was better than Salvatore Girardo. Sold was better than dead. And wherever he sent me, I’d find my way out. Escape had always been my specialty. Well, until I got caught.
Details. My ears worked. My nose worked. My eyes worked. Attention to the details of my situation would give me power. Knowledge was always power.
The gentle rocking motion of the floor told me that we were in transit. Scents beyond the box suggested metal and salt water. I had to be on a large boat. There were creaking mechanical sounds, but beyond that I heard nothing. My ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Glimmers of fluorescent light slipped through the splintered slats of my box, suggesting I was in a cabin and that someone had to be out there. It wasn’t like they’d leave the light on for me.
Two options were available—scream and hope the boat worker was sympathetic, or wait it out until we arrived wherever the hell they were taking me. With any luck it was a tropical island, though I wasn’t sure I had any luck left.
Screaming required actual control over the muscles in my mouth, which I was unsure I could manage. Plus, it seemed unlikely Girardo would be dumb enough to put me in a box surrounded by honest people who would be willing to help. Without the ability to walk, it wasn’t like I could run or swim for freedom. That was, if I could convince someone to open the crate. Too many ifs. Chances were, I wasn’t the first to be shipped out to some pervert who bought women. And chances were, the Sanguine Syndicate was smart enough to hire dirtbags who practiced discretion.
