Take that, you growling son of a bitch!
Her heartbeat accelerated as she stepped into a night of crackling energy. The one-way street was hissing with traffic, punctuated by the occasional blare of a horn. She headed directly to the curb to hail a cab. Her plan: carry her own light source everywhere, make it home safely, preferably with yummy takeout (she was starving), turn on every light in her studio apartment, all three of them, and sleep in the very brightest patch. She wasn’t about to let any real or imagined wolf take this chance away from her. Tomorrow she would debut as Giselle.
And then everything would go back to normal.
A cab drew alongside her. So far so good. She threw her bag along the backseat before sliding in herself, flashlight in her lap, choking for a second on a breath of strong Far Eastern incense.
Just as the driver pulled away from the curb, the opposite passenger door opened with a blast of thick exhaust. The cab jerked to a halt and Annabella startled, flicking a fat beam in the intruder’s direction.
“Cab’s taken,” she said when she recognized that it was a man—or at least, the lower half of one.
The man pushed her bag to the floor, got in anyway, and slammed the door. “West Thirty-sixth and Fifth,” he said. His low voice was rough with authority.
Jerk. “Hey, I was here first—”
The man turned his head and she swallowed her words.
Him.
In the partial illumination of the cab, his hair and skin washed to monochromatic shades of gold. His eyes were fair, direct, and tense, and he was slightly out of breath. A current of dark trouble ran along his barely controlled surface as he looked at her. Or rather, looked her over. His gaze settled on her flashlight and his brow furrowed in thought before one side of his mouth tugged up.
Heat flooded her body and burned her face.
“Lady?” the cabdriver asked over his shoulder.
No way. She got here first. And besides, she had to go straight home, have a nice dinner, relax, and get some rest for the gala tomorrow. Not to mention something was very wrong about this guy. His face might have been gorgeous, but his clothes were too small, clearly not his own. He’d rolled up the sleeves, but his shirt still didn’t fit across his broad shoulders. His pants were a joke, short by inches and straining across his thighs. One grand plié and the seams would rip.
Only one thing could make her change her mind, and she didn’t care if she sounded stupid. “You see a wolf lately?”
The man gave a short nod. “In the middle of your dance, onstage.”
Crap. She’d kinda been hoping she was crazy. She gnawed on her bottom lip. The least she could do for the man who put his body between her and a charging wolf was share a cab. Maybe he could even tell her what was going on.
She eased her grip on the flashlight and met the driver’s gaze. “It’s okay.”
The driver turned his attention to the road with a shrug and the cab pulled away from the curb.
The stranger didn’t relax, didn’t settle into his seat. His interest was focused on her—the weight of it had her clutching her flashlight again. The light might not hurt him, but she could brain him with the casing if she had to.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his words short and clipped.
“Annabella,” she answered, wary. “Yours?”
“Custo.” He darted a glance out the rear window, then came back to her. “You’re a dancer? A ballerina?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help adding, “A principal with the Classical Ballet Theater. And you are…?”
“…taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere we can talk.” He winged his arm along the backrest.
Not likely. He could share her cab, but nothing else. No need to tell him that, though. He was keyed up enough already.
“What day is it?” he asked.
“Friday.”
“The date,” he clarified, his forehead tensing.
“October twenty-second.” October twenty-third was the gala performance, the start to the season. Her big day.
He frowned as if that still wasn’t the answer he wanted, but didn’t press. “Do you have a mobile phone?”
“Um…no, I don’t.” A white lie—she just hated loaning it out. Besides, that was her lifeline number two. Not that she’d call her mom again and take another ten years off the poor woman’s life. No, if she had to call anyone, she’d call the cops herself. Maybe for this guy.
Custo grabbed her bag off the floor, unzipping it before she had a chance to object. She snatched at the strap—where did he get off searching her stuff? He pushed through some of her sweaty dance clothes, warm-ups, shoes. Oh, shit, her backup tampons. She yanked the bag away from him. And anyway, the phone was in her sweatshirt pocket. “What the hell are you doing? It’s not in there.”