Rome and Jules Page 3

  A tapping against a glass brought the whole crowd around to face the center of the dance floor.

  All the guests who were sitting stood and placed a hand over their heart. Rome didn’t even have to ask. He turned to find Gerard Havilland weaving drunkenly between his sister, a pale, delicate-for-a-wolf female, and some male named Alphonse who Rome had heard was Havilland’s second. Nobody spoke about Havilland’s wife, who’d apparently walked out on him years before. Rome sighed quietly and crossed his heart. Yeah, and his fingers.

  Someone started the pledge.

  “I pledge my life to the alpha, who is the conduit to the wolfgods and giver of wolfen energy. Hail the alpha, source of strength and unity. Praise the alpha, defender of the pack and wellspring of all that is good. I lay myself at the alpha’s feet without need for request, cause, or reason. The alpha rules us all.”

  As the voices died down, Rome felt all his hair standing on end. Regardless of how unworthy the alpha, the pledge rang with the truth of ages and united every were in the pack.

  Havilland waved his hand impatiently toward the crowd. Rome turned his head—felt his mouth fall open—and let his body follow the turn.

  Oh my god of wolves.

  From the side of the big room walked a young male who could only be the much-heralded son. What was his name? Who cares? The guy was tall—taller even than Rome—reed slender, with dark blond hair that likely fell to his shoulders if released from the queue gathered at his neck in a ribbon. But the face. Like someone translated poetry into a person. Large eyes, so blue Rome could see their color from where he stood, dominated his face above high cheekbones that would have been gaunt if they weren’t a soft, glowing pink. His neck was long, his hands graceful. Gods, what is he? Wolf males might be tall like Rome, but they were nearly always powerfully built. This guy looked very little like Gerard Havilland.

  Rome’s whole body vibrated with electricity and shook as if the male were a magnet and Rome was iron filings trying to organize around him. A scent like orange blossoms laced with the orange itself drifted past his nose. Man, nobody was allowed to smell that good. Casually, Rome gathered his cape a little closer. Some law of the universe said never wear tights when you’re sporting an erection the size of the Batmobile.

  Merrick stared at him anxiously, but trying to get to his friend would be more conspicuous than standing still. Guests around him took off their masks and dominos, but fortunately, those in more elaborate head coverings didn’t, so he and Merrick weren’t alone.

  Havilland swayed and his sister clung harder. She wasn’t shy; she was holding the bastard up. So maybe that meant the drunken voice Rome had heard back in the reception room was Havilland’s. That would make the soft voice….

  “Ladies, uh, ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to welcome home my son—son, Jules.”

  Right. Jules. More like sun than son. Come on, man, pull in your tongue before somebody notices.

  “Jules has been out being an arti—artist, but now he’s home for his family and pack.”

  Everyone in the room cheered, so Rome cheered too.

  “And now I want to tell you that he’s getting—” Havilland lurched forward and his son grabbed his arm, pulling him back to upright easily. Must be stronger than he looked, since Havilland carried a boatload of extra weight around his patrician belly. Havilland frowned and yanked his arm away. “He’s getting married.”

  Married? What?

  There was loud applause. Rome couldn’t join in. No way.

  “He’s marrying Ronnie.”

  Who? Rome tried to force himself not to stare at every girl around the dance floor, but his eyes moved on their own. Fortunately, a lot of the pack did the same.

  Havilland’s sister smiled, though Rome could see the lines of strain around her mouth. “We’re delighted to tell you that your alpha’s son, Jules Havilland, is betrothed to Mr. Donald Anderson.” A very preppy-looking wolf with a handsome face but narrow, shrewd eyes walked out from the crowd and took Jules’s hand.

  The reaction in the room was—eclectic. Some guests clapped politely, some gasped audibly, and a few, in a clear statement of dissent, moved toward the door. Those few must not have known who the fuck Donald Anderson was. Rome did. A self-made billionaire, Anderson had interests in technology and other less-well-documented businesses. No one knew exactly where all his wealth came from, but he definitely had the money to save the great Havilland ass.

  Pieces clicked in Rome’s brain. Slurred speech, bankruptcy, the deal that had to be inked tonight and—the tears. The soft sobbing of despair.

  Rome’s chest hurt so badly he wanted to bend over and scream.

  The cool voice next to his ear said, “Have you met Jules?” Yolanda. Forgot.

  Rome shook his head.

  “Probably best you’re not friends. It’s hard to witness human sacrifice up close. Well, wolf sacrifice.” He glanced toward her, but she wasn’t snarky. In fact, she looked sad.

  “Did the pack know Jules is gay?”

  “Most, yes. That doesn’t mean most like it.”

  “How does Jules know Anderson?”

  “He doesn’t. Not very well, anyway.” She stepped closer. “Jules lived in New York and worked as an artist. I hear Anderson saw him and—well, let’s say things were arranged.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes.”

  A soft giggle from his right made him turn to look at Rhonda and her troop. He slowly let out air like deflating a balloon full of laughing gas. Maybe Jules Havilland wasn’t the only wolf sacrifice in the room.

  In front of him, Anderson produced a blue velvet box from his pocket—he wore a suit, not a costume, as did Jules—and removed a ring from it. The ring sparkled like an old movie marquee. Right, an ad for The Handwolf’s Tale. With great solemnity, Anderson slid the ring on Jules’s finger, then leaned down and kissed the bejeweled hand.

  Gag me with a Tiffany’s box. Rome’s legs twitched. He wanted to run forward, grab Jules Havilland, and carry him away into the night. Save him from his fucking fate. Yes, perfect, with a thousand Havilland wolves hot on his trail. It might start a war—which the Siracusas would likely win—but by that time, Rome would be dead. Jules too, probably. To say nothing of the Siracusas being banished for starting a conflict by stealing Jules of Fucking Troy. Shit!

  Havilland waved a hand. “We will celebrate the happy occasion soon. And, as you know, wolves mate for life, so we’ll be welcoming Ronnie into the Havilland pack.” He smiled blearily. “Dance. Dance.” He took Anderson by the arm and escorted him toward the door to the huge room. Probably signing the deal he’d referred to earlier.

  Life. The Havilland son would be tied to Anderson for life. No escape unless Anderson died. Rome wanted to vomit. He looked at Yolanda. “Excuse me.”

  “Sure. Bet you’re sorry you came back.”

  He nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  She curved her lips a little. “Thanks for the dance.”

  “My pleasure.” He turned and tried not to look like he was running toward Merrick.

  Merrick met him halfway. “Man, that was a sideshow.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I’d heard Havilland had a homo wolf son, but I didn’t believe it. Marrying a guy. Holy hell.”

  Rome frowned. “Look, that female I was dancing with is Ty Montgomery’s sister.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “With a cactus, my friend. But she told me this whole thing is a forced marriage to get Anderson’s money. You weren’t close enough to hear, but I think that’s who was in the room when we were behind the tapestry. Havilland and his son. The guy was crying, man. Crying.”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, I know what it’s like to be a pawn in pack politics, and it’s no fucking fun.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A life with Rhonda couldn’t be that bad.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Fuck that. I’m leaving.” He headed toward the door, and Merrick scampered beside him.

  “I’m sorry. I was just joking around. You know me.”

  Rome hissed, “You’re not the one who’s expected to marry somebody you didn’t choose. And for fucking life.”

  Merrick held up his hands as he powered toward the door beside Rome. “I get it. I apologize for being stupid.”

  Rome gave him one curt nod, but his brain kept chewing on ways to save Jules Havilland.

  ROME skirted the outside of the high iron fence. Man, the trip down the hill to drop Merrick off, then an instant U-turn and the drive back, had all been accomplished in record time. He was not examining his motives, fuck you very much. Hell, knowing what was going on inside the Havilland mansion was reason enough, right? Okay, that was the fairy tale he’d go with.

  He gazed around and sniffed. No guards anywhere. Wow, that was too much to hope for. They probably patrol the place with mountain lions or something. Still, if the Havilland fortune was as compromised as it appeared, maybe they couldn’t afford guards or dogs. Rome stopped and sniffed the air again. Nothing.

  He stared up at the height of the section of fence, then at the width between the bars. Both had obviously been designed to keep out a wolf, and so had the long segments of tall stone wall. Man form it is. Besides, he’d scare the hell out of Jules Havilland if he suddenly appeared as a huge black wolf. Assuming he could even track down Jules Havilland. Big assumption.

  He slipped through bushes and around trees until he found the back way to the spot where the iron door guarded the underground passage. It was damned late, but a few pack members were still leaving via the front door. He sniffed. His own scent and that of Merrick perfumed the air, but no one else seemed to have been there. Good.

  After glancing around to be sure nothing signaled danger, he lifted the heavy door, slid into the opening, and let it clang closed as he dropped down the hole. It was a lot easier not having to pretend to be ordinary for Merrick. He loved his friend, but alpha lore was never shared until a wolf showed the signs. Besides, if he decided to leave the pack, he didn’t want them after him because they’d lost an alpha. Fortunately, even the most powerful alpha couldn’t smell alpha advantage on another wolf. That was what made it so dangerous. You never knew if your opponent had the skills until they revealed them—usually in battle.

  He scurried down the narrow passage, not even lighting the flashlight app on his phone or pausing to admire the ancient gay porn. When he got to the end door, he listened, but even he couldn’t hear effectively through iron. Slowly he cracked the door open. Silence and darkness.

  After he slid through the opening, he pressed against the wall and scooted to the end of the tapestry, looked out into the quiet room, and then tiptoed across to the door. A loud voice cursed, maybe at a servant; then a door slammed and everything stilled except for the distant murmur of voices coming from the direction of the kitchen.

  He barely cracked the door. If he’d been caught dressed as Batman, he could have given a logical excuse, but in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with his olive Siracusa complexion, inky hair, and tats showing below his shirtsleeves, he’d likely be thrown into some dungeon.

  Okay, plan. A plan would be good. He leaned back against the wall. The orange scent. Yes. So distinctive. I’ll track that. Hopefully his nose would find Jules before some other fucking Havilland, like Ty, found Rome. Funny. That morning he might have welcomed running into Ty, just on the chance that the sexy looks he gave Rome actually meant what Rome thought. Now? Not so much.

  With a deep breath, he opened the door and slipped out into the hall. Soft light came from back toward the big reception room, but where he stood, it was dark. If I was the son of an alpha—which I am—where would I sleep? Not on the first floor. Damn. That would be too easy. He crouched and ran the length of the hall. He’d seen a grand staircase outside the huge reception room, and right now it was less likely to be occupied than the servants’ stairs.

  The overhead lights were off in the reception room leaving a few soft night lights, so they must have finished cleaning up in there. Good thing or he’d have been waiting a long time. He rushed around the corner, crouched, and powered up the stairs in the shadowed corner of the banisters. When he got to the second floor, he paused. The staircase continued upward another flight, but the carpet had a mustier smell, suggesting most living quarters were on this floor.

  Muffled voices came from the long hall to the right, raised like an argument. The left-hand hall stretched long and still with only small lights stuck in two outlets near the floor. Following instinct and probability, Rome slithered into the left.

  Yes!

  The smell of orange blossoms filled his head as he crept down the worn Oriental carpet runner. There. The scent centered on a doorway close to the end of the hall. Rome sniffed the door handle and almost staggered from the heady pungency of the smell. All right. Second plan required. If he barged in there like Crazy Stalker Werewolf, Jules might scream and raise the alarm before Rome could explain he was really a rescuer.

  Rome flopped his head against the wall. Truthfully, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d accomplish the rescue thing either. Shit, Jules was literally the jewels of the Havilland pack. Without him, no Anderson money. Gerard Havilland would never let that happen. The Havillands might be short on resources, but they had Ty Montgomery, and Ty, despite being yummy, was one of the naturally meanest and most vindictive wolves on the planet. Considering Ty was the son of Gerard’s late sister, there was even a chance he had alpha advantage. Bad news for anyone who took him on. If Rome showed up anywhere near Jules Havilland, there was little doubt Rome would be the one Ty took on.

  Chapter Four

  NOISE came from near the door of the orange blossom room. Shit! Rome scooted back and grabbed for the first door handle he could reach, sniffed, decided it might be empty, opened the door, and popped inside just as Jules’s door opened. Rome peeked from the darkness as Jules walked by, wearing black silk pajama pants and a floppy top. Sweet wolfgod, that hair hung on his shoulders like a curtain of sun with a touch of shadow, and Rome’s hand twitched to reach out and touch it.

  As the sound of the footsteps softened, Rome looked out and saw Jules disappearing down the stairs. With no thought he raced after him, pausing at the top of the staircase to be sure Jules wouldn’t look back and see him. After padding softly down the stairs, he poked his head around the corner fast and pulled back. Jules seemed to be heading for the kitchen. Damn, if there were still people working in there, Rome could lose his chance to talk to him. Every second he stayed in this house upped his chances of discovery—and some very uncomfortable outcomes.

  Way at the end of the hall, Jules turned left. Yes, definitely kitchen. Rome looked both ways and ran with silent feet all the way to the turn in the hallway. There he stopped and listened.

  No sound.

  He made the turn and crouched under the old-fashioned porthole-type window in the kitchen swinging door, then popped up and peeked. Inside, Jules pulled some food from the refrigerator and uncovered it. Cheese. He chopped off a piece with a knife from the counter, then got some crackers from a box in the pantry, put it all on a paper napkin, and sat at the old wooden kitchen table. He sighed so loudly Rome heard it through the door and then began to eat slowly, staring into space.

  Moment of truth. Rome glanced down the hall. Can I get to the salon where the tunnel is really fast? Maybe not. Fuck it, here goes.

  He pushed the door to the kitchen open slowly so as not to startle Jules too much. When Rome stepped inside, Jules was staring at the door with a piece of cheese suspended a couple of inches from his mouth. Rome smiled. Jules didn’t. His wide-eyed expression—probably expecting his father—changed to surprise, then suspicion.

  Best defense and all that. “Hi. I’m Rome. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was at the party tonight and saw you get engaged.”

  The suspicion morphed to angry sadness and then back to scowling suspicion so fast a camera never could have captured it.

  “I just wanted to say, uh, I’m really sorry this is happening to you, and if you want to talk or something, I’d like to at least be there for you. I mean, I keep trying to think of ways to get you out of this, but so far all my plans seem to end up in death for both of us, which is great in Shakespeare, but not so much fun in real life, and I—”

  Jules slammed the cheese on the napkin. “Who the fuck are you and why are you wandering around my house at two in the fucking morning?”

  Rome smiled. Jules saying fucking was just so cute. “Uh, I sneaked in.”

  “You what?” He jumped out of his chair.

  “I couldn’t exactly come to the door and knock.”

  Jules crossed his arms, showing off a bit more musculature than Rome would have expected. “Why not?”

  Well, shit, am I going to do this? Slowly, he slid his T-shirt sleeve up his right arm, more clearly revealing the intricate patterns of the Siracusa tattoos.

  Jules slapped a hand over his mouth.

  Rome gazed at him. “Obviously you haven’t been gone so long you don’t know what these mean.”

  “Siracusa.”

  “Yes.”

  “A fucking Siracusa?”

  Rome chuckled. “You do love that word, you little potty mouth.”

  Fair brows took a dive over his slender nose. “I’m not little, and I’ll say any fucking thing I want.”

  Rome held up his hands. “Fine by me.”

  “What are you really doing here, Siracusa boy? All I have to do is yell and I suspect you’ll be in far worse shape by morning.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why the fuck are you here?”

  “I really thought you could use a friend.”

  His large eyes looked sad and lost. “I don’t have any friends, and certainly not a Siracusa.”

  Rome propped his hip on the opposite end of the table from Jules. “See, there you’re wrong. None of your pack can really be a friend to you, since they all have such a vested interest in you being your father’s human—I mean, wolf—sacrifice. Me? I’ve got no desire to see you turned into some kind of payment for fucking services rendered, to quote your favorite word.”