Mimi Riser Your Cheatin' Heart

OUR

HEATIN

’ H

EART

…I’m so in trouble.
As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on his

side, propped up on an elbow, and obviously unclad except for a black
satin sheet pulled over his lower half. I also see we’re in a big bed in a
large, lavishly furnished room, and I’m wearing nothing but the same
sheet he is.

What I don’t see is how I’m going to survive even another five

minutes without jumping his bodacious bod and screwing him to the
mattress—or demanding that he screw me. Giving or receiving, it’s all
the same, whoever does what to whom. I’m not choosy. Just suddenly
hot and horny, painfully hard. And painfully in love. But then I have
been since the second I first laid eyes on Hunter Steele. Werewolves
have an inbred sense that tells us when we meet our life-mate. By
some unfathomable, unfunny cosmic joke, mine happens to be him.

This is why I tried to ditch Hunter outside Turnville, while we

wore fur. I’ve no defense against him when we’re naked and human.

God help me, it’s been nearly two months since we’ve physically

bonded. Two months that feel like centuries. The sight of him now
makes me salivate. Long, strong limbs, narrow hips and broad
shoulders. A solid chest dusted with downy, dark curls that taper to a
vee at the edge of the sheet, an arrow pointing to a satin-covered
mound of masculine meat—the outline of a thick, juicy cock.

My gaze slides back up his torso to a stubborn jaw…sensuous

mouth…amber eyes that promise savage, sultry sex. Irresistible. He
looks and smells like a feast.

And I’m starving…

LSO

IMI

ISER

The Adventures Of Cassie Nova, Book I: Rebel Queen

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Pirates & Other Wicked Pleasures

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Playing Pirates

Return To The Burn

Romeo’s Revenge

Samantha White And The Seven Dwarves

Saving Sally Savoy

Sherwood Charade

Tina Takes A Tumble

Wicked Comes The Beast

YOUR

CHEATIN’ HEART

MIMI RISER

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

OUR

HEATIN

’

EART

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in

writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

ISBN 978-1-60272-623-9

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To the memory of Anthony Sbragia (1962-2006),

amazing artist, amazing person, and a very dear friend. The world

is a better place for having been graced by his presence…

Tony, we love you and miss you.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

“You don’t like what you see, blame my parents,” I tell the

granite-faced deputy who’s just pulled me over for speeding on a
barren ribbon of backcountry road.

He stands close by my car while I sit behind the wheel, one eye

on him and the other on a large, lazy tumbleweed a short distance
away. Propelled by a prairie breeze, it appears to know exactly
where it’s going, but seems in no rush to get there. Wish I could
say the same for myself. Around us sprawls a rugged vista of
parched soil dotted with sagebrush and prickly pear, thorny
mesquites, and scraggly clumps of tall grass.

Classic southwestern terrain. Wild and lonely.
I know just how it feels.
Approaching autumn, crisp and earthy, scents the air, warmed

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

by a whiff of lingering summer. Overhead shines a fat full moon,
like a floodlight, bright enough to cast shadows. A great night for
hunting, were I so inclined. Which I’m not—yet. Lunar energy
thrums in my veins, an ancient siren’s call, but I learned early how
to master its magic and draw it forth at will, moon or no. My kind
don’t survive long if we can’t. There’s a time and place for
everything, y’know?

“Dear old dad wanted a son,” I explain, “whereas Mom, bless

her heart, longed for a daughter. I guess they compromised by
having me.”

Deputy Dumbstruck grunts like the pig he resembles and stares

at my driver’s license in stony suspicion. The problem is he was
aroused—all oily smirks and calling me “sugar”—until he saw my
ID. We’ve never met before, but I’ve heard about him, since I
grew up in this area, and he’s one of the legendary locals.

Lloyd Phelps, corruption in uniform. Rumor has it his brother,

Floyd, is even worse, but Lloyd is bad enough. One of his games is
stopping young babes and “allowing” them the barfo option of
providing sexual favors to escape an expensive traffic violation.
Gross, but it’s probably the only way he can get laid. He had high
hopes for this babe, I’ll betcha. Now he feels cheated, and he’s
pissed.

Me, too. But then, I have been for weeks.
Join the club, bub.
“Sylvester Starr?” His face turns beet red as he sputters my

name.

A male name. And famous, if you read the gossip rags, which

Lloyd doesn’t, apparently, since he shows no sign of recognition.
I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or slighted.

“Sylver for short,” I purr. “Sylver Starr. Catchy, huh?”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

I don’t add that Starr is also an abbreviation, short for

Starrvoski, one of the old family names of Turnville, Texas. I
changed it when I left here several years ago to seek my fortune as
a torch singer in the world’s nightclubs. I ended up doing
something else entirely, but that’s another story, and not a pretty
one. Suffice it to say I’m home again, battle scarred and not doing
much of anything except licking my wounds and pondering the
fickle foibles of fate. And, at the moment, taunting Lloyd with a
seductive grin.

Bad move. I was speeding in the first place because I’m in a

hurry, for godssake. I don’t have time for this shit. But I can’t help
myself. People like him bring out the devil in me—as opposed to
the beast, which is a whole other matter. I flutter long, mascara-
laden lashes, and he steps back a pace from my little red Toyota as
though whatever I have might be catching.

It is, but not the way he’s worried about, and only if I bite

him—gag—which I’ve no intention of doing. Asshole. You’d
think he’d never ticketed a cross-dresser before.

Well, not one like me. As a man, I’m considered merely cute—

kind of a sprightly, sparkly Jack Frost type—medium height and
slender, with hair so pale it’s almost white, and eyes that can’t
decide from one day to the next whether they’re blue, gray, or
green.

As a woman, I make hearts pound and cocks want to do the

same.

Really. In a blond wig and movie-queen makeup, with my D-

cup falsies jutting forth like nuclear warheads, straining the bodice
of my sequined gown, I drew every eye in the place when I
sashayed into Smoky Joe’s Beef & Brew Steakhouse a half hour
ago and strutted my stuff up to the bar. Admiring eyes that took me

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

at face value, never guessing how phony that face was.

The attention felt good, regardless, boosted my morale, as I’ve

been lonely and damned depressed lately. Not to mention bored
out of my gourd. One gets so few opportunities to dress up out here
in the sticks. Tonight, however, I had a legitimate excuse for it and
planned to enjoy myself, while winning some much needed cash.
Carefully, of course. Incognito. I’m gay, not stupid. And this is
rural west Texas. Nuff said.

“I heard you’re hosting a celebrity look-alike contest. Where do

I sign up to enter?” I asked the bartender, old Smoky Joe himself,
in my best Mae West impersonation.

He beamed me a big smile full of tobacco stained teeth and

good-natured lechery. “Well, I’ll be danged, if it ain’t Dolly
Parton.”

Close enough.
“You got my vote, darlin’,” he added with a wink.
How flattering.
Given the choice, I’d rather have been Mae, who was one

classy dame, plus a sympathetic and vocal supporter of gays when
few others dared to speak out. But if ol’ Joe preferred country-
western, I could oblige—for a cash prize of a hundred bucks. I’ve
been unemployed since moving back home to live with my dad’s
sister, Aunt Tashi, and any amount of money would have seemed
like manna from heaven.

Instead of the honky-tonk rendition of “Frankie and Johnnie”

I’d planned to sing for the talent part of the competition, I decided
to do “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” With my love life—or the lack
thereof—and considering why I’ve buried myself on the old family
homestead in Turnville, I could have performed both songs with
emotional authority.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

As luck would have it, I never got the chance to sing either.
The luck of the gene pool, I mean.
Blame my parents again. They were psychic—among other

things—along with all my clan, and I’m as cursed as the rest of
them. As Joe handed me a pen and the sign-up sheet for the
contest, a precognitive prickle struck, raising goose bumps on my
skin. Through a sudden rift in the dimensional veils I saw trouble
hovering over Turnville thirty miles away. An alien spacecraft,
invisible to the naked eye but not my inner vision.

Temporarily entranced, I peered closer, into the ship, and saw

grayish green and brown warriors, tall, fanged and ferocious. My
hand clenched convulsively, and a sharp crack sounded as the pen
in my grip snapped in two.

“Dang,” Joe cussed. “Strong little gal, ain’t ya?”
He had no idea.
“Sorry,” I muttered, spun about and fled out to my car. Vroom!
I estimated I could easily reach home before the alien shit hit

the fan, yet still drove like a maniac, because… Well, hell, if I was
heading into battle, I needed time to change clothes first, right?
God forbid I dirty a designer original gown—even though I’d like
to do worse to the one who gave it to me. On top of which, I
wasn’t sure what to wear instead. Something serviceable but
attractive. I always fight better when I feel pretty.

I’d just about decided on an embroidered peasant blouse paired

with black jeans and cowboy boots, and was almost in sight of
Turnville when I got pulled over. Which is where I am now, and
just about out of patience with this game.

Lloyd, unfortunately, seems to have decided to play it

straight—because I’m not—and swaggeringly slow. Big tough
lawman. I’m so impressed.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

“Do you know how fast you were goin’?” he drawls. The

gleam in his beady little eyes says my ass is grass and he’s a
lawnmower.

Hah. He should be so lucky.
“No,” I answer, tapping red lacquered fingernails on the

steering wheel. “But I’m sure you intend to tell me.”

Soon, I hope.
“Too fast.” His thick lips twist into a malicious sneer. “You

weren’t wearin’ your seat belt neither, another violation.”

Yep, sure is. My bad.
“The shoulder harness cramps my boobs,” I quip, which sours

his sneer into a snarl. Some people have no sense of humor.

With a hard yank, my car door flies open. Fingers fat as greasy

sausage links dig into the flesh of my upper arm.

“Out!” Lloyd orders. “You’re in deep shit, faggot.”
So is he. I have a short fuse and zero tolerance for jerks,

especially his sort. A speeding ticket is one thing, but he’s just
crossed a dangerous line. No guy who values his nuts manhandles
me. Well, not without amorous intent and my breathless
cooperation—and this guy is so not my type.

Pasting a frosty smile on my face, I let him haul me to my feet.

Let him, mind you. He stands a head taller and his beer gut alone
outweighs me, I’ll bet. But he’s dead meat if he pushes me too far.
He just doesn’t know it. I wonder if I should warn him…

Nah.
“Am I under arrest?” I counter. “For what? I don’t hear any

rights being read.”

Lloyd’s heavy-handed grip tightens, and he leans in, his nose

scant inches from mine. Ugh. His breath almost melts my makeup.

“Perverts like you don’t have rights,” he says. “Fuckin’ fairy.”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

Hardly. Although I’ve worked with feys, real ones, in my ill-

fated former job as an undercover agent for a secret organization
funded and run by billionaire Hunter Steele—the mere thought of
whom makes my stomach and teeth clench in unison. Hunter’s
agency, Earth Guardians, Inc., is an equal opportunity employer,
hiring everything from vampires to pixies.

For that matter, Hunter’s personal affairs are as expansive as

his professional. He has the morals of an alley cat, and the sexual
appetite to match. Understandable, considering who he is. But
impossible to deal with for someone like myself, being what I am.

And, yes, I’d love to show Lloyd what that is. Except, this

close to Turnville, I don’t dare. The residents of my town—
Turners, we call ourselves—are a private, insular breed, wary of
outsiders and more secretive even than the Earth Guardians. Life
isn’t easy for us here, but we survive by flying low under the radar,
so to speak, hiding our true nature from those who wouldn’t
understand it.

Like Lloyd.
Who seems hell-bent on a fight. I can smell the rage in him like

a tangible stink, but it stems more from fear than hatred, I suspect.
Honestly, he plummets the term homophobic to dismal new
depths.

“Was your mother, perhaps, frightened by a queer when she

was pregnant with you?” I ask. “Or is your problem simply that a
man like me threatens your own obviously shaky machismo too
much?”

His nostrils flare like an angry bull’s, and I can’t help noticing

that he doesn’t trim his nose hair—and he needs to. Ew. But I’ve
hit a nerve, I see. My suspicions were right; I’d lay money on it—
if I had any money. Poor Lloyd harbors latent homosexual desires.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

He’s just terrified to admit it to himself. Idiot.

“Man?” he growls. “Fuck, you’re just a mangy little cur.”
Wrong again. No fairy and no dog. But he’s getting closer.
So is the danger I sensed back at Smoky Joe’s.
Shit.
Suddenly, I realize the stench here is more than Lloyd’s. A

swampy fetid odor, reminiscent of rotten reptile eggs, pervades the
air—the kind of odor that if once smelled is never forgotten. And I
smelled it a lot during my time with the Earth Guardians.

“Crocodoids.” I spit out the name as though it’s poison. It is, if

you’ve ever met one. Which Lloyd might, unless I get him out of
here.

“Croca what?” His gaze narrows. “You gotta funny look in

your eye, boy. What the hell you been smokin’? You high on
somethin’?”

I wish. A little intoxication would go a long way toward

helping me accomplish this task.

“Lizard people. Crocodoids,” I repeat, speaking quickly and

telling the truth because it’s the easiest route and I know he won’t
believe it anyway. Hell, by the time I’m through with him, he
won’t even remember this conversation.

“Alien invaders from the satellite galaxy Draco Dwarf that

orbits the Milky Way,” I elaborate. “I knew they were headed for
Turnville, but didn’t expect them quite this soon. From what I’m
sensing, they’ve just beamed down and are scanning the area in
preparation for attack.”

“Uh-huh,” Lloyd says, looming over me and clenching his

fist—for an attack of his own, I assume.

I pretend not to notice.
“They look like crocodiles with shortened snouts and elongated

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

limbs, but walk upright on two legs and stink like stagnant swamp
water,” I add, sniffing the air and making a face. “Smell that?”

Lloyd grimaces, too, but not from the stench, I’m sure. As

putrid as Croc odor smells to me, an ordinary human nose can’t
detect it until the creatures are right on top of you. And by then it’s
too late.

“Croc-a-doids, crock-a-shit,” he grumbles. “All I smell is a

stinkin’ little faggot trying to save his ass by makin’ me think he’s
nuts.”

Actually, I’m trying to save his ass.
Good God, I am nuts.
There’s no avoiding this, though. When I joined the Earth

Guardians I pledged myself to protect this planet and all her
children. Even the ones I don’t like. I may have quit Hunter and his
eclectic, clandestine crew, but playing hero is a difficult habit to
break. Seriously, I oughta wear a big red S on my chest. Not for
super, but for sucker, and that’s no joke. Just ask Hunter—who’s
also a difficult habit to break, come to think of it.

Handsome, heroic Hunter, who’s why I joined EG, and why I

left it. Fearless but faithless Hunter, whose memory gives me
nightmares and wet dreams combined. Thinking of him now makes
me want to wallop something. Him, preferably.

However, Lloyd is closer and needs a wallop for his own

safety.

“I’m gonna pound your ass good,” he threatens.
Oh, what an opening.
“You do realize that could be taken in a sexual sense, don’t

you?” I shoot him a saucy wink and a grin.

“Arrgh!”
Roaring, he aims his fat fist at my face.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

Whiz—wham—splat!
I block the blow with my left forearm, land a hard right

uppercut to the jaw, and catch him as he keels over, knocked cold.
Oof. He weighs a ton, but I’ve hefted heavier. None sorrier,
though—as he will be when he wakes up.

Moving fast, I lower Lloyd onto his back in the weeds by my

Toyota, unbutton his shirt, unfasten his pants, and generally
arrange him in a state of naughty disarray. Then I grab my purse
off the car’s front seat, dig out my lipstick, repaint my lips, and try
not to gag while I pucker up and plant cherry red kisses all over
him. As a final touch, I use the lipstick to draw a huge heart on his
potbelly and write “Lloyd loves Sylver” inside it. Very artistic.

Now comes the fun part.
I pull off my wig, pop out my falsies, and hike my gown to the

waist to leave no doubt as to my gender, then straddle Lloyd’s
thighs and rouse him with a rapid series of little slaps on his face.

His eyes open, bleary and dazed at first, then horrorstruck as he

takes in me…himself…and realizes what’s happened. Or what he
thinks has happened.

“Fuck,” he curses.
“Mmm, yeah, we sure did. And you were fantastic. Rowrrr…”

I punctuate the statement with a sexy growl. “How about another
round, huh?”

I lick my lips, and he turns pea green in the stark moonlight.
The beauty of this ploy is that deep down inside he had wanted

to fuck me, I’m pretty sure. That’s where the bulk of his rage came
from. He was angry with himself more than me. Hence, he can’t be
certain now that, in the heat of temper, he didn’t surrender to his
secret desires. As Obi-Wan showed Luke in the original Star
Wars—God, I loved that movie—the Force, discreetly wielded,

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

has influential power over weak minds.

Granted, I’m no Jedi, but in this instance just being me is

enough, as the main force at work is that of simple suggestion,
coupled with Lloyd’s guilty inner angst and the fact he’s not overly
bright. Put it all together and he can only assume the worst, poor
schmuck.

I pout and look hurt as he shoves me aside, hauls upright like a

water buffalo floundering out of a mud hole, and stumbles to his
car, hitching up his pants en route.

“Lloyd honey, wait!” I scramble to my feet and race after him,

but give him time to climb inside and gun the engine before I reach
through the driver’s side open window and grab his arm.

“Let go, dang it.” He flinches at my touch and yanks free.
Good. Because I don’t want to stop him, just make sure that

when he does zoom off he won’t look back.

“Where are you going?” I wail, blinking back crocodile tears—

an ironic image, considering why he needs to run. “I’m not some
cheap little toy you can play with, then push away!”

Which is the honest truth, and something else Hunter can

vouch for. Damn him. I’m a hardcore commitment freak, in fact.
It’s in my blood. Yeah, my parents really have a lot to answer for.
So does Hunter, but we won’t go into that right now.

“I thought we had a beautiful thing started,” I complain with a

sniffle. “Didn’t you say you loved me?”

“God almighty, I hope not,” Lloyd moans, but he’s afraid he

did. I see it in his hangdog expression as he turns desperate eyes on
me. “Listen, son, what happened was a big mistake. I’ve had a bad
day and wasn’t thinkin’ too good, understand? I lost my head,
didn’t know what I was doin’. Now you forget all about it, and I
will, too. No tickets, no trouble, and not a word to anyone. Deal?”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

“Fine,” I say stiffly, the wounded lover trying to hang on to a

ragged shred of pride. An ace performance. I’m redefining the term
“drama queen.” Then again, I’ve had a lot of practice with this sort
of scene.

Screw you, Hunter.
“If that’s what you want,” I tell Lloyd.
“That’s the way it’s gotta be.” He fumbles out his wallet, pulls

out a fistful of bills and hands them to me. “Here, buy yourself
somethin’ nice,” he mumbles, looking contrite and sheepish.

Hmph, three twenties, two tens, and a fifty, more than I would

have made at Joe’s steakhouse, and Lloyd deserves to lose it. But
the offer itself chills me inside, opens old wounds. It’s the
principle of the thing.

“Thanks anyway, but I can’t accept this. I don’t work that

way.” Contrary to what some think, not everyone can be bought.

Hear that, Hunter? The hell with you and your billions.
A smoky chuckle rumbles inside my mind, as though in

answer.

Oh shit, it can’t be…
With a suddenly tense, white-knuckled grip, I thrust the money

at Lloyd.

He waves it away and revs his car engine, slanting me a

sideways glance. “Nah, I’d rather you keep it. Please? It ain’t a
bribe. Consider it a, um”—he clears his throat—“an apology.”

Flushed and flustered, he roars off down the empty road.
Well, I’ll be damned. I believe he meant that. There may be

hope for Lloyd after all. He’s an ass, but at least he knows it.
Unlike some people I could name.

Eyes narrowed, I stalk back to my car and stuff the cash in my

purse—I’ll give it to Aunt Tashi—then stand a moment, scanning

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

the moonlit range and sniffing the air. The breath of danger
brushes my skin along with the night breezes, and I don’t mean
alien danger. Something worse than Crocs lurks nearby. Worse for
me, anyway. I feel the scorch of a hot amber gaze and need to
pinpoint the position of its owner.

So I can kill him.
::You don’t mean that,:: a sultry purr of a voice taunts deep

inside my skull. ::You love me.::

I go rigid at the mind-to-mind contact, which I find an invasion

of privacy, given who’s on the other end—hardly surprising
though. I’ve had telepathic conversations before. It goes with the
territory of who and what I am. Sigh. Mom, Dad, no offense, but
sometimes I really hate being your son.

::Bitch, bitch, bitch,:: the mental voice mocks. ::But you can’t

deny you still love me.::

Hell, I’m not trying to.
That’s why I want to kill him.
Remember the contest I almost entered tonight and my original

song selection? Sure, I could have performed a winning tear-in-
your-beer rendition of “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” instead, but
“Frankie and Johnnie” is really more my style. Frankie loved
Johnnie. Johnnie cheated. Frankie shot him. I can relate.

::Then I guess I’m lucky you’re not holding a gun.::
I don’t need one, damn it.
That smoky chuckle sounds in my head, and a small, black-

furred form pads out of a thick patch of weeds in front of me,
amber eyes glowing in the moonlight, and grinning like the cynical
Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland. Or was it Alice Through The
Looking Glass? I can never remember.

Whatever.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

It’s a cat at any rate. And cynical. It’s also my very wealthy,

very aggravating ex-boss and ex-lover. The arrogant, fickle, feline-
shifter Hunter Steele. Who’s in big trouble because I’m not
Alice—although I dress like her sometimes—and this meeting is
anything but wonderful.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.
::My job, what else? EG scanners picked up Croc activity near

Turnville. I popped in from HQ to check it out. Stopped by Tashi’s
first and talked to her, then scented your presence not too far
away. So I shifted and came looking for you.::

“Lucky me.”
I smell a rat. Popped? EG has hidden bases all over the world,

concealed under cover of Hunter’s many public business ventures.
But the crown jewel of his corporate empire, and covert
headquarters for his secret inner organization, is the magnificent
Steele Star—named for us both, during happier days—Earth’s first
and, so far, only orbiting hotel. A floating palace, filled with glitz,
ritz, and futuristic fantasy.

Specifically, it’s a luxury resort space station that caters to the

über rich and famous while keeping a clandestine and protective
eye on things down here. I’ve never visited it myself, because I get
deathly rocket-sick and can’t handle the shuttle trips back and
forth. A psychosomatic ailment, I’ve been told, triggered by fear.

Scared?
Me?
Yep, shitless. Intellectually, I know it’s safe. The scientific part

of my brain understands what holds the station in orbit. But the rest
of me is certain the instant I set foot on the damn thing it’ll fall
down and crash.

Hunter, however, spends a lot of time up there. Too much time,

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

I always thought. I can’t handle long-distance relationships either,
and the Steele Star is about as distant as it gets. Way too far to
“pop in” from.

::Not anymore. EG’s tech team made us a shiny new toy.

Transistorized. You hook it on your belt, visualize where you want
to go, and—pop—you’re there.::

“A teleportation device?”
I have a bad feeling about this.
::I can’t imagine why.:: He blinks at me. Mr. Innocent. ::It’s

still in the testing stage, but worked well enough to get me to
Turnville.::

“Terrific.” I grit my teeth into a grin. “Then it can get you out

again. Now, if you’re smart.”

::Not from here. Do you see a belt on me, dimwit? The

teleporter is at your aunt’s house with my clothes and
communicator. She likes me, by the way.::

She would. Aunt Tashi has lousy taste in men. That must be

how I ended up with the same problem. Have I mentioned I think
heredity sucks?

::Not in the last ten seconds, no. I was getting worried about it,

too. Such reticence is so unlike you.::

Hunter licks his paw and smoothes his whiskers.
Smug bastard. He’s reading my mind like an unfolded

newspaper, but giving me only the top headlines of his. I hate that
he’s more adept at shielding his thoughts than I am—as he damn
well knows. It was a constant bone of contention between us.
Whenever we argued the subject, he accused me of being overly
suspicious. While my stance was—and is—if he’s got nothing to
hide from me, why does he? Huh?

::Just feline nature, Sylver. Let’s not start that old pissing

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

match, okay? Cats are an inscrutable breed. We can’t help looking
like we know things others don’t.::

Yeah, whereas my breed only knows silly, inconsequential

things like truth, honor, respect… And loyalty.

“Meow,” Hunter says aloud.
In other words, he thinks I’m being the catty one. Hey, if I am,

I learned it from a master.

“Up yours,” I reply—and he lifts his tail and sprays the right

rear tire of my car. Talk about a pissing match. I hate cats.

::But you love me.::
Which brings us back to square one. Can I kill him now?
::With doglike devotion,:: he adds.
“Not quite.” And not funny.
::You married me, didn’t you? Tied the knot all legal and tight,

according to Massachusetts state law.::

Guilty as charged. What can I say? That it seemed a good idea

at the time? The crime occurred last year in artsy Provincetown, in
a fabulously festive affair. The most elegant, gayest wedding on
record, according to the media, which dubbed it a “fairy-tale
event.”

Yes, the puns flew thick and fast, but overall it was excellent

positive publicity for the GLBT cause, Hunter being a multi-
billionaire and patron saint of countless charities. People respect
money and looks, and he’s got both in spades. The celebrity
darling of the decade, regardless of sexual persuasion. Public Hero
Number One—complete with secret identity, Catman instead of
Batman. Though few realize that part.

Really, he’s very easy to admire.
Until you get to know him.
For the ceremony, Hunter wore a black velvet tux and looked

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like a prince. I felt like Cinderella at the ball in white satin and
lace. Then the clock struck twelve, and my life turned into a
squashed pumpkin, metaphorically speaking.

“I can divorce you, too,” I say.
::But you won’t. Because marriage, as you’ve always told me—

“And you never listened,” I interrupt.
::—is a sacred institution,:: he continues without missing a

beat, ::and you take your vows seriously.::

And he doesn’t. Which is why I left him. On our first

anniversary, which seemed ironically appropriate somehow. One
month, three weeks, five days, thirteen hours, and—I glance at my
watch—nine minutes ago. But who’s counting?

::You?:: he suggests with an insufferable feline smirk.
“Definitely not you.”
::So sure, Sylver?::
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
Hunter’s chuckle vibrates my skull.
I’m getting a bitch of a headache.
Honestly, I should divorce him, whatever it costs me. But I

think of the ongoing struggle for gay rights, how our wedding
helped the crusade, how a subsequent divorce might give it a black
eye… And I just can’t bring myself to start proceedings.

Social consciousness, yep, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking

to it. What puzzles me is why Hunter hasn’t filed. With his
resources he could sever the knot quicker than I could. I can only
assume he’s been too busy or, more likely, too indifferent to
bother.

::You assume a lot, don’t you?::
Hunter stares up at me, his eyes hypnotic amber slits, his mind

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shrouded in smoke, letting me see only the tip of his thoughts. Like
an iceberg, much more lurks hidden beneath his surface.

::An iceberg?:: He blinks like the cat who swallowed the

canary.

I smile. Not pleasantly.
Okay, wrong image. Whatever else Hunter is, he’s anything but

cold. My back hairs prickle with warning. More hair than I had a
few seconds ago; the extra has just started to sprout. I feel an
electric tingle deep inside and know my eyes are beginning to glow
as bright as his. Not that he seems to care. His mistake.

::Yours, too. It’s never occurred to you I might not want a

divorce? That maybe I’m sorry you left? Maybe I want you back?::

Which doesn’t mean he is or does. Notice how he presents the

issue as an open-ended question? A buncha bullshit. He’s just
trying to rattle me.

::And succeeding.::
Like hell. I’m not some romance novel heroine, bosom heaving

and all aquiver at the hunky hero’s seductive insinuations. At the
moment, I don’t even look like one, since my bosom is lying in the
bushes where I tossed it before sitting on Lloyd. Besides, in his
current form, Hunter is hardly my idea of a hunk.

::But you still love m—::
“Don’t push it,” I warn.
He sits, points his hind toes in the air, and washes his privates.

Feline for “kiss my ass” or “bite me.”

I choose the latter, delighted to oblige.
“Grrr…” A bestial growl rumbles out of me, and I drop to a

crouch, bursting the seams of my tight gown. Shit. I lose more
pretty clothes this way. It took me an hour to transform myself into
a blonde bombshell. In mere seconds I become something far more

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explosive. My lips curl, baring wicked, sharp fangs. Snarling, I
tense for a leap.

Hunter springs upright, arches his back and hisses, his tail fat

as a bottlebrush. ::Hey, whitey, don’t try to scare me with that
cheap trick. Who do you think I am, Little Red Riding Hood?::

No, but I am a big bad wolf, one of the last of a rare, ancient

breed. Silver white, powerful, and pissed. The problem here, of
course—what’s always been the problem between Hunter and
me—is we’re two different species, genetically coded for opposite
behavior patterns. An impossible union. Wolves mate for life. And
we all know how tomcats are. Right?

::Wrong. We’re also both males—another “impossible union,”

to hear some factions tell it—but you still married me. It was on all
the news channels, remember? The whole world watched you
promise to stay with me for better or worse, richer or poorer, in
sickness and in health…till death do us part.::

He said it, I didn’t.
Really, why divorce when murder is so much simpler? And

more satisfying. Throwing back my head, I let out a long angry
howl, then lunge for his throat.

He dodges to the side, hissing and spitting, swats at my snout—

ow—then turns tail and runs. In the interest of fair play, I allow
him a head start before loping after him, yipping and snapping at
his furry little heels.

Man or cat, Hunter is strong, with agility, speed, and a

confidence that borders on sheer arrogance. But at present, he’s
only twelve pounds, whereas I weigh almost twenty times that.
Amazing, huh? In human form, I’m five-foot-eight and slender, not
a large man. Yet by a curious quirk of fate, when I turn, as my clan
calls it, I morph into a giant canine, the biggest of my magical

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breed. Go figure.

Hunter may not be scared, but he’s worried.
::The hell I am, but you better be!:: he threatens as we bound

through the brush. ::I’ll get you for this, you ungrateful son of a
bitch.::

Tough talk for a fur ball. Mind you, he could shift back to a

man. But then he’d be naked and weaponless, surrounded by rough
scrubland—and still facing a huge, irate wolf.

::Let’s leave my mother out of this, shall we?:: I respond

telepathically, since audible speech is no longer an option. Wolves
do have rather a complex vocal language, but Hunter understands
it no better than I comprehend cat-talk. Yet one more barrier
between us.

::Big fucking deal. We speak the same language when we’re

men, and can communicate mind-to-mind anytime, can’t we?::

Talk, yes. Argue? Constantly. But communicate? Forget it.

We’re at odds on too many issues.

::Not the important ones,:: he taunts, beaming steamy images

into my head.

Him.
Me.
In human form.
In bed.
Naked, hot and sweaty.
Screwing each other’s brains out…
An evil ploy. Dirty pool. But that’s Hunter for you. To make it

worse, he adds a lush vision of all the delicious outfits he gave me.

::Behave yourself, and there’s plenty more where that came

from,:: he promises, not specifying whether he means the clothes
or the sex.

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Both, probably. He thinks anyone can be bought or seduced

into compliance.

::Anyone but you, right, Sylver?::
Do I detect a note of sarcasm?
::Damn straight,:: I reply.
::We’ll see about that.::
Typical Hunter. Often wrong, but never in doubt.
I slow down a bit, because he’s starting to pant, and I don’t

want to run him into the ground too soon. Such moments should be
savored. It’s not often I get the upper hand—or paw—with Hunter.
Frankly, this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.

::You’re a sick puppy, you know that?:: he grouses. ::Save your

temper tantrums for the Crocs. Or did you forget about them?::

With their alien odor stinging my nose? Of course not. But they

haven’t attacked yet, and Turnville will be ready for them when
they do.

::Which could be any second. Don’t you think we should fight

them instead of each other?::

Getting desperate, are we?
::I see no reason why I can’t do both, pussycat.::
In fact, I’m chasing Hunter straight toward Turnville, the lights

of which shine like a beacon through a line of skeletal mesquites
that border the south edge of town and mark the end of Main
Street. The only street, actually. And I use the term “town” loosely.

Turnville is just a few dozen ramshackle buildings surrounded

by rugged open range and several small farms growing whatever
their owners can coax out of the dry soil—which doesn’t amount
to much. Most Turners make crappy farmers. But, in this region,
it’s either that or ranching, and the latter goes against our natural
instincts. We’re hunters, not herders and butchers—a tiny, tight

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knit community bound together by blood and a dark heritage none
of us can escape.

Over two centuries ago our ancestors, fleeing persecution in

Europe, immigrated to New England, and from there moved south
and west, traveling on four legs more than two. The last of an
ancient clan of Carpathian werewolves.

This was Comanche country then, but their shamans respected

my people’s powers and dubbed us “Those Who Turn.” They gave
us a wide berth, half fearful, half reverent, yet helped guard our
secret when so-called civilization invaded the area. Which makes
me wish we could have somehow helped them.

The Comanche lost their lands, while we Turners managed to

hang on to ours, living here poor but proud, eking out a meager
existence farming and hunting—though not with guns. Like most
rural west Texans we own firearms and know how to use them, but
never on game. Defense is another matter.

Pow-pow-pow!
A staccato burst of gunfire shatters the night.
Either Turnville’s alpha mayor, Boris Khazarro—or Boris

Bizarro, as I often think of him—is drunk and shooting at pink
elephants again, or the Crocodoids have just hit the town. In which
case, I’m glad for once that Boris and his sons, Ivan, Igor, and
Bubba, are on my team. Crack shots, all of ’em, plastered or sober.
Wolf fangs work great in some conflicts, but won’t repel Crocs,
who have fangs, too, and hide like…well, crocodiles. Tough, but
not enough to withstand both barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun. I
expect this to be a short fight.

::It will be once I reach Tashi’s and my communicator so I can

signal HQ.:: With a sudden, fresh surge of speed, Hunter plunges
ahead toward the line of mesquites.

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My hero. Catman to the rescue.
Dumb-ass. He figures our personal fight is on hold for the

moment. It is, I suppose. But his concern for the town? Hah.
Hunter doesn’t know Turners like I do.

::I don’t have to, whitey. I know Crocs and their bloody

appetite for all shifters.::

Which makes it sound like they want to eat us. And they do.

But only because the opposite didn’t work out the way they’d
hoped—meaning shifters chomping on them.

What they really want is a beautiful blue-green world they

already view as theirs, for reasons we don’t need to discuss now.
Suffice it to say that in their one-track minds they see themselves
on what amounts to a rescue mission. They want Earth. I suspect
they think her current caretakers aren’t doing right by her. They
may be correct about that, unfortunately. However, that doesn’t
give them carte blanche to pillage and slaughter, which they intend
to do, ruthlessly, if they gain control of the planet. Vicious,
vengeful creatures, Crocs.

Their dilemma is they don’t have the forces to take us openly,

so they’ve been searching for the means to morph into men and
conquer us from the inside. They got the idea from watching stray
TV transmissions of old sci-fi shows about alien invaders
masquerading as humans. Initially, they thought being bitten by
shifters would give them the same ability.

Duh. Shifters are people who turn into animals, not animals

who turn into people. A fine line, but an important distinction.

For instance, if a werewolf bites a man, and the man survives,

he’s then able to become a wolf. If a werewolf bites a Croc, it can
become a wolf, too. From man to wolf, or Crocodoid to wolf,
that’s as far as it goes. Except that won’t help the Crocs infiltrate

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the world’s governments. You see their problem?

Anyway, they’re now laboring under the delusion that shifter-

magic stems from a microscopic parasite embedded in a were-
beast’s flesh. Why? It was something they saw in an old horror
flick, I think. They’ve decided if they eat a bunch of shifters of all
flavors and varieties—werewolves, were-hippos, were-parakeets,
etcetera—they’ll ingest the power to transform into any shape they
wish, including human. Crocs aren’t famous for intelligence.

::No, but they’re fuckin’ ferocious fighters,:: Hunter argues.

::Too much for a handful of furry farmers to deal with. Let EG
handle this. I’ve had a battle squad on standby, waiting for my
signal to move in. With our new teleporters, they can be here in the
blink of an eye.::

Too long. The Crocs are already here. And didn’t he say earlier

that the teleporters are still in the testing stage?

Too risky. I’d have to be pretty damned desperate or drunk

before I tried one—even after full tests and the EG seal of
approval. Sci-fi gadgets look way cool on the screen. In real life,
they give me the willies—always have—like the Steele Star, the
biggest gadget of all. Weird, I know, for someone who battles
aliens. You’d think I’d be used to the techno stuff by now, but I’m
not. Magic, of course, is a different thing, my inescapable
birthright. Magic, I understand.

It’s all a moot point, in any case. Turnville doesn’t need EG’s

help, and I sure don’t want Hunter’s. He’s influenced me before by
making me feel indebted to him. It won’t happen again.

The instant we reach the mesquites at the edge of town, I leap

forward with a savage growl and snap at his haunches. Feline
instinct takes over, and he darts straight up into the thorny
branches of the tree at the end of Main Street. Right where I want

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him. He’ll have a good view of the action from there.

::Are you crazy?:: he hisses into my head.
Nope. Just keeping him out of trouble and out of my hair…er,

fur. From a canine perspective, I’m a happy camper. Above me, a
treed cat, spitting mad but not daring to descend, and in front, a ton
of excitement to watch. While Hunter blisters my brain with
telepathic obscenities, I crouch at the mesquite’s gnarled base and
stare down the street, sizing up the situation.

Not a pretty sight, but about what I expected. Blood and guts

everywhere—all of it Crocodoid, I think. The stench is enough to
flounder an ox. The din is deafening. Turner yells and alien
screeches. Ka-boom! The blast of shotgun fire.

Aiming from the cover of doorways and windows, Boris and

his three beefy boys, aided by about a dozen others, have the Crocs
trapped in the center of the street, surrounded by smoking gun
barrels. Ducks in a shooting gallery. Big ones, seven feet tall.
Looks like a full unit. Crocs fight in what they call “pods” of fifty.
I count only eleven still standing.

Boom! Boom!
Make that nine.
Pow!
Eight…
::Holy shit,:: Hunter curses. ::I feel like I’ve fallen into a

warped remake of The Shoot-Out At The OK Corral.::

Interesting observation. I wonder if the Crocs ever caught that

movie, or any other western. If they had, they might have
rethought this attack. The thing about Turners is we’re not just
“furry farmers.” Our ancestors may have started in the forests of
the Carpathians, but from there they became Wild West pioneers,
making an independent and strong breed even stronger. Those of

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us here now are more than werewolves. We’re also born and bred
Texans. Combine the two, and the Crocs never stood a chance.

As Hunter and I watch, the last of the aliens bites the dust.
Although they instigated the battle, I suddenly feel sorry for

them.

::You and me both,:: Hunter whispers in my mind.
We don’t condone their crimes, but we understand their

motives. The Crocodoids are an incredibly old race, eons older
than man. Way back in the dinosaur era, they established colonies
here, then lost contact with them—why, I don’t know. Millions of
years passed before any of their spacecraft returned.

Meanwhile, cut off from their mother planet, stranded in

primeval surroundings, the Croc colonists regressed over time to a
pure bestial state. In essence, they de-evolved and became Earth’s
crocodiles, many species of which have been hunted to extinction,
or nearly so. Add in the ones poisoned by pollution or lost when
their habitats were destroyed, and it’s not too surprising
Crocodoids hate humans of all kinds. When I ponder things like
toxic waste, melting icecaps, or bashing baby seals for their fur,
I’m not real fond of us either.

::Ditto. Y’know, Sylver, of all the dangers that threaten Earth, I

sometimes wonder if our worst enemy isn’t ourselves.::

A blanket of silence falls over us, and I’m forced to remember

there are moments when Hunter and I do agree. Just not enough of
them. Few and far between and flimsy as soap bubbles. This one
bursts at the sound of a shout.

“Yeehaw! That was almost too easy.”
Brandishing his battered Stetson in the air, Bubba Khazarro,

bounds out of cover, followed more slowly by the rest of the
Turner team. In faded denims and scuffed boots, muttering and

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mumbling, they line the street, glancing from each other to the
carnage of Croc bodies oozing sticky brown blood.

“Easier than cleanin’ up this mess,” Boris grumbles. His

shoulders heave with a resigned sigh. “C’mon, boys, we got a long
night ahead of us. Better break out the tractors and backhoes, load
up these carcasses and bury ’em before any nosy neighbors get
wind of what’s happened.”

“Do we hafta?” Bubba slants a calculating look at the corpses,

a wolfish glint in his gaze. “I’ve heard tell alligator tails make
good eatin’. Reckon these might, too?”

Gag.
His oldest brother, Ivan, slaps him in the head. “Let’s not find

out. I ain’t that hungry.”

“Me neither.” The middle Khazarro son, Igor, wrinkles his nose

and squats down to scratch his side. With his foot. Woof. He
forgets himself so effortlessly.

“Wouldn’t seem proper no how,” he muses. “It ain’t like

they’re prey. Sylver’s fought ’em lots, right? He says they’re
almost kinda human—’cept I don’t think he meant it as a
compliment. But I figure if they got spaceships and stuff, they
must be pretty smart.”

“Which is more’n I can say for you three.” Boris gives them all

the evil eye. “Get movin’ before I plant my boot in your butts.”

He spits a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt and trudges off,

reluctantly but respectfully trailed by his sons and the others. Clan
hierarchy rules. I watch till they’re out of sight. As part of the
pack, like it or not, I should probably turn, pull on a pair of
overalls—yuck—and join them.

Boris is right, I’m afraid, even though Turnville’s nearest

neighbors are miles away and generally ignore us as much as we

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ignore them. Most ordinary humans know nothing about
Crocodoids and the plots to invade Earth. Hell, most humans don’t
know beings such as werewolves walk among them, and said
beings would like to keep it that way. The last thing we need is
word of an alien attack leaking out, and media people from all over
descending on the town, like a horde of hungry locusts.

::I can bring in EG’s fey force to help,:: Hunter offers, all

altruistic innocence. ::Magic, Sylver, not gadgets. Will that make
you feel better? A few waves of their wands, a sprinkle of pixie
dust, and they’ll have this place clean in minutes. No muss, no
fuss.::

::No, thanks.::
I know Hunter, and he never does anything for free. If nothing

else, he demands undying gratitude and devotion for his help. Hero
worship. He digs putting people in his debt—makes them easier to
manipulate. To him, love itself is a power game, all about control.
In some ways, he’s more spider than cat. I won’t let my clan fall
into his web the way I did.

::Well, if that’s what you think, forget it—and I hope you have

a fun night on your tractor, farm boy.::

Aw, I seem to have hurt his feelings. And if you believe that,

I’ve got a great bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.

::Oh hell… I’ll buy you a bridge if you’ll come home with me.

But not the Brooklyn. It’s so passé. How about the Golden Gate?::

My ears snap up, and my hackles rise.
Say what?
A furious rasping filters down from above.
Feline agitation, a cat sharpening its claws.
::You heard me. I’m asking you to come home. Now! I’m tired,

and these thorns are a pain in the ass. Literally. If you want to

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fight, let’s do it someplace comfortable, for godssake.::

Asking? That sounded like an order.
::What if it is? I’ve had a bellyful of you and your wounded-

wolf attitude. Be warned. I’m not pussyfooting around.::

Could’ve fooled me. I wonder if he’s listening to himself.
::Shove it. If you know so much, you must know it was more

than Crocs that brought me here tonight. You were my best agent,
Sylver. Besides which, you’re my spouse! I want you back in the
Earth Guardians and back in my bed! Is that so fucking hard to
believe?::

Actually… Yes.
::Why? You’re the one who walked out, remember. I didn’t

leave you.::

He didn’t try to stop me either. And in all the time I’ve been

gone, this is the first he’s bothered to contact me. Weeks without
one friggin’ word. What does that say?

::That I was trying to be patient and un-manipulative , maybe?

There’s no reasoning with you when you’re pissed. I was giving
you a chance to cool off and think things over without any
pressure—hoping you’d come home on your own.::

Bullshit. He seems to forget why I left. One extracurricular

dalliance too many. I can’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
Although, in his present form, I could throw him pretty far—and
will if I get my jaws around him. Bastard. I have to get rid of him
now, while he’s a cat, because once he’s human, I’ll be lost.

“Grrr…” Frothing at the mouth, I gather powerful hindquarters

under myself in preparation for springing upward and dragging
him off the branch he’s perched on.

“Sylver?”
A soprano-voiced summons halts me in mid-leap.

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“Thank goodness you’re home! You okay? I been worried

’bout you, sugarplum. Ain’t this a godawful mess?”

Terrific, here comes Aunt Tashi, frilly and sweet as cotton

candy in a lacy pink negligee, trotting up the street. My negligee.
She’s always snitching my clothes. But at least she doesn’t mind
me wearing them, too, which is more than I can say for most
members of my clan.

Seriously, wouldn’t you think guys who become wolves might

understand a man who not only becomes a wolf, but also a
woman? It’s just another type of shifting, the way I see it. But, oh
no. Aside from my parents, who no longer live here, Aunt Tashi is
the only Turner who accepts and appreciates me, unconditionally,
as I am. Granted, she’s a little flaky, with a mouth that runs a mile
a minute, but I love her to pieces.

Uh-oh…
Why does that thought make my fur stand on end?
“Hey, you seen Hunter?” she calls. “Mercy, he’s a bad boy, but

he sure is cute, ain’t he? I know you’re mad at him, honey, but I
been worried ’bout him, too—and, if you ask me, he’s lookin’ to
make up. He was here a while back, anyway. Popped in sudden
like and startled the starch outta me. Said trouble was comin’—like
I hadn’t already sensed it m’self—then ran out to find you, and I
ain’t seen him since. I’m scared these lizard things might’ve got
him.”

No such luck.
But in a sudden nightmare moment, one of them gets her.
One Croc, with one wheezing breath of life left in it, rears half

up and fires a ray-gun, then collapses face first again into the
blood-stained dust, dead for good this time. But a little too late.

Because Aunt Tashi could soon be dead, too.

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The beam hit her between the shoulder blades, freezing her stiff

and still as a marble statue, and blanching her almost as white as
one.

Fuck… A paralyzing ice-ray.
I’ve seen the weapon in action before. Crocs use it not only to

kill, but also to prepare victims they intend to eat. The same as
Earth’s crocodiles, their fangs are good only for biting, not
chewing, so they have to fragment flesh into pieces small enough
to swallow whole. Ice-rays simplify the process for them with a
rapid, progressive chill that starts at the skin and works its way
inside. Unless an antidote is administered—and EG has an
effective one—Aunt Tashi will be brittle as frost in a few minutes,
and shatter at a single tap into a pile of bite-size freezer-pops.

I think I’m going to be sick.
I also think I’m ready to try that goddamned teleporter.
::Oh, sure, now you’ll be happy to accept my help.::
Happy? God, no, just fucking desperate, and Hunter knows it.

To save Tashi I’d make a deal with the devil himself.

::Yeah, well, lucky for you, Sylver, you only have to deal with

me.::

Same thing.
I glance up into the mesquite and see amber eyes burning like

coals. Raw heat. It’s a wonder he doesn’t set the branches ablaze.

With a smooth dive, Hunter sails out of the tree, his body

glowing, lengthening, shifting… In the moment it takes him to
land, he’s a man again, tall, tan and muscular, a naked Adonis with
a gaze like molten gold, and satiny black hair grazing his
shoulders. My heart stutters at the sight. This is the moment I’ve
been dreading, facing him in human form. For me, naturally, he’s
far easier to resist as a cat.

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“Don’t worry, you’re safe…for the present. Come on!” He hits

the ground running, sprints forward and scoops up Tashi—but
carefully, as though she’s the most fragile of china dolls, which is
pretty close to the truth—then hastens down the street to her house.
“We have two minutes at best to get her to the Steele Star.”

I know. Still in wolf garb, moving fast on four legs, I beat him

to the door and hurl my weight against it. Solid wood crashes
inward, broken off its hinges.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Hunter says, hurrying in on

my heels.

Hell, I’m thinking only speed. Where the fuck are his clothes?

Aunt Tashi, being a neat freak, probably folded and put them away
somewhere. Not that there’s time for him to dress—or me, either,
so I’m disinclined to ditch my fur just yet—but we need the
teleporter.

“It’s on my utility belt,” he reminds me.
Right.
Several seconds of hyper-canine chaos ensue while I bound

about, sniffing, finally locate his gear in the back bedroom, and
fetch his belt in my teeth.

“Good boy.” Supporting Tashi, deathly pale in a frozen coma,

against his side with one arm, he pats my head with his free hand.
“Man’s best friend.”

I’m not amused.
Grrr… Can we go now?
“We?” Hunter slings the belt, bandolier style, over his

shoulder. I assume the shiny rectangle clipped to it is the—gulp—
teleporter.

His brows arch up. “You mean you’re actually coming to the

dreaded Steele Star with me?”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

Sarcasm is unnecessary.
Panting with anxiety, I glare at him.
He meets my stare with razor-edged calm. Saving lives, after

all, is just part of an average day’s work for Catman. It used to be
for me, too—but none of those lives were ever an adored aunt, a
woman who’s like a second mother to me.

His look softens for a split second. Or is that my imagination?

As soon as I see what might be a glimmer of compassion, it’s
gone, replaced by something inscrutable. Something dangerous.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
I’m sure I don’t have a choice.
“I don’t need help carrying her,” he persists. “You can wait

here.”

Not a chance. Tashi has never before been farther than fifty

miles from Turnville. She’ll be frightened, panicked, and need a
family member near when she wakes up in a strange place.

Really strange.
Whimper…
She will wake up. I have to believe that.
“She’ll be fine. Probably,” Hunter answers the thought.
He’s such a comfort.
“The question is, will you?” His eyes narrow into smoky slits.

“Just remember, you’re the one who said I never do anything for
free. If you join me now, I’ll expect you to stay with me. For good.
Once Tashi is awake, calm and comfortable, I want you in my bed.
Naked. Human. And hot. Understand?”

Too well. A low growl rumbles deep in my chest, sudden

outrage held on a short leash because saving my aunt is more
important than maiming Hunter. I’ll get him later.

“Not if you want to come with me, you won’t. You’ll agree to

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

my terms or I’ll leave you here. And I’m leaving now—with or
without you.”

He knows I will agree. I have to, for Tashi’s sake.
Emotional blackmail, that’s what this is!
“No. Just proving that everyone has a price, Sylver.” The

shadow of a grin touches his lips. “And also helping you keep your
mind off scary teleporters and space stations by giving you
something worse to worry about.”

How kind.
Grrr…
“Oh, yeah, one other thing…” His hand buries in the thick fur

at the scruff of my neck. “The teleporters were developed
primarily for individual travel. I think this will work as long as we
stay close and maintain physical contact—but I’ve never tried
transporting three with one device before.”

Shit, now he tells me.
“Too late to back out.” Hunter tightens his grip and hauls me

snug against his hip. “Beam us up, Scotty.”

Very funny.
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut—only for a second,

it seems. When I open them again, I’m…

Blind?
Ominous, dense black presses in on me. Monster black, heavy

and oozy thick. Horrifying.

“Aagghhh!”
I hear a bloodcurdling scream.
Mine, I think.
“Fuck,” a husky voice curses.
That’s not me.
“No, it’s me, loudmouth. And you’re not blind, but I’ve been

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

deafened.”

Good. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. I recognize

Hunter’s sexy scent along with his tone.

Very sexy. I hate my nose.
Help…
A bright light clicks on—some big, fat help—and I blink in the

glare, blinded in a different way now, gasping for air like a
beached tuna. Damp with sweat. Lying on my back.

Human?
When did I turn?
My heart’s battering my ribs like a berserk jackhammer.
Where the hell am I? What happened? Where’s Aunt Tashi?
“The Steele Star, where else? You fainted during teleportation.

A nervous reaction to stress, the doctors decided. They gave you a
light sedative and said to just let you sleep it off. Feel better?”

No, but he’s explained why I’m human. My wolf form can be

called forth only during consciousness. The moment I pass out or
fall asleep, my body reverts to Man, what might be termed its
“default state.”

“And Tashi is having a blast. A couple of EG agents are giving

her a tour of the station,” Hunter adds. “The antidote worked like a
charm, and she recovered quickly. Wasn’t a bit frightened, either,
when she came to. Fascinated, is more like it. Said she’s always
wanted to see more of the world—and she can see a lot of it from
up here. Quite a spectacular sight. Look for yourself. There’s a
view-screen in the ceiling. I can activate it for you.”

Please, don’t do me any favors. I’m sure it’s awesome, but as

long as I don’t see the Earth I can pretend I’m still on it. Hunter,
unfortunately, is another matter. He’s awesome looking, too, and
impossible to ignore. There’s no pretending he’s not here. I’m very

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

relieved Tashi’s safe. But me?

I’m so in trouble.
As my vision adjusts to the light, I see him lying next to me, on

his side, propped up on an elbow, and obviously unclad except for
a black satin sheet pulled over his lower half. I also see we’re in a
big bed in a large, lavishly furnished room, and I’m wearing
nothing but the same sheet he is.

What I don’t see is how I’m going to survive even another five

minutes without jumping his bodacious bod and screwing him to
the mattress—or demanding that he screw me. Giving or receiving,
it’s all the same, whoever does what to whom. I’m not choosy. Just
suddenly hot and horny, painfully hard. And painfully in love. But
then I have been since the second I first laid eyes on Hunter Steele.
Werewolves have an inbred sense that tells us when we meet our
life-mate. By some unfathomable, unfunny cosmic joke, mine
happens to be him.

This is why I tried to ditch Hunter outside Turnville, while we

wore fur. I’ve no defense against him when we’re naked and
human.

God help me, it’s been nearly two months since we’ve

physically bonded. Two months that feel like centuries. The sight
of him now makes me salivate. Long, strong limbs, narrow hips
and broad shoulders. A solid chest dusted with downy, dark curls
that taper to a vee at the edge of the sheet, an arrow pointing to a
satin-covered mound of masculine meat—the outline of a thick,
juicy cock.

My gaze slides back up his torso to a stubborn jaw…sensuous

mouth…amber eyes that promise savage, sultry sex. Irresistible.
He looks and smells like a feast.

And I’m starving.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

He knows it.
While I watch, a predatory grin curls his lips. A soft velvet

rumble, feral and feline, rasps my ears—nonverbal but saying
much. Catman without mercy. His scent fills me like a drug, a
tantalizing musk. All spicy warmth. All male. The mere sound of
him, the husky purr of his voice, speeds my pulse, boils my blood.
His handsome face is burned into my brain, always with me
wherever I go, even when I try to escape him.

Yeah, I’ve got it bad.
“I keep telling you that you love me.” The grin waxes wicked,

and he sidles closer under the sheet, not quite close enough to
touch, but enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Anticipation shivers up and down my spine.
Hunter stretches out a hand. Fingertips, feathery as moth wings,

blistering as branding irons, trace over my biceps and pectorals—
seduction that seems subtle and is anything but. I’m dry tinder, and
he’s a torch. The pad of his thumb grazes my nipples, and I blaze
into flames.

For the record, I’m still angry, fuming mad at him for always

winning—and myself for letting him. Yet passion and rage are
both fiery emotions. Sometimes only a hairline’s difference
separates the two.

I’m pathetic, is what I am—hopeless, doomed—tied body,

mind, and soul to a man who doesn’t have it in him to love me the
way I love him.

At the moment, I don’t fucking care. I just want to fuck. This is

how it always goes with Hunter and me. We fight like cats and
dogs. Big surprise. But toss us in bed, and we hump like rabbits.

“Right. So let’s get hopping,” he taunts. “You can hate yourself

in the morning.”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

“I hate you now,” I snarl, fist a hand in his hair, and drag his

head down to mine.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he growls as our mouths collide in an

explosive kiss that dynamites my brain and shoots sizzling
shrapnel into my groin.

Firebombed!
Electricity crackles, frying my circuits. The air clouds with

smoke. My balls tighten, and my cock swells big as a bazooka.

Hunter’s seems more like a cannon. He rolls over me, like a

tank, heavy and hard, grinding me into the mattress, rubbing our
rods together. Both well primed and fully loaded. Ready, aim—

“Fire too soon, and I’ll slap you from here to next Sunday.” He

pushes up slightly, eyes blazing. “Why do you always think in
battle imagery when we fuck? Haven’t you heard of ‘make love,
not war’?”

“With you, what’s the difference?” I zap back.
Which brings to mind another classic adage: War is hell.
“So is dealing with you,” he bitches.
Damn, I was going to tell him that.
“I know. That’s why I said it first.”
“Sit on it and spin, pussycat.”
“Good idea. After you, whitey.”
Me and my big mouth.
“Even better. I’ll start there.”
Evil intent in his gaze, Hunter crawls up my body and cages

my head and shoulders between his hands and knees, presenting
his cannon for close inspection. The tip of it touches my nose, and
I go cross-eyed studying it, mesmerized by its size, intoxicated by
his musky aroma. My mouth waters, and I swallow—hard. No
matter how many times I see his equipment, I’m always impressed.

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

And ravenous for a long, luscious taste.

“Not too long,” he warns. “Just enough to make it nice and

slick. Then I’m going to shove it up your cute little ass and fuck
you till you howl.”

Not if I fuck him first.
When Hunter talks rough, I take it as a challenge, even if I

want what he’s threatening. And I do. A lot. Inner muscles clench
with torrid, tingling lust at the prospect. But my pride’s on the line.
Taller and heavier muscled, Hunter certainly looks the stronger of
us—and is—but not by much. He seems to forget that inside this
“cute little” form lurks the force of a two-hundred and thirty pound
wolf—with an attitude. It’s just the neat packaging that fools you.

I think he needs a reminder.
Quick as a lick—which I’ll get to in a moment—I grab his hips

and heave him off me onto his back, then jump on top. Before he
can retaliate, I’ve got him by the balls, literally and figuratively,
one hand cupping his nuts, the other fisted around his dick, ready
to milk it dry. I’ll use the cream to grease his crack before I skewer
and roast him.

“Sylver…” The name rasps out on a hoarse breath, something

between a growl and a groan. “Why do you have to turn everything
into a contest of wills?”

“Like you don’t? It takes two to argue.”
And we’re both basically alphas. At least half our disputes can

be chalked up to male ego. It often surprises people to discover I
have one of those. They assume a man who dresses like a woman
must want to be one. Some do, but the issue isn’t so simple.
Probably there are as many motives for cross-dressing as there are
individuals who practice it. My own personal reasons aren’t
entirely clear even to me, yet I know none of them involve a need

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

to feel feminine.

More like a need to feel attractive, maybe—admired,

appreciated. Loved? Growing up gay in Turnville, I didn’t get
much of that. I’ve always been a bit outside the pack, a lone wolf
in more ways than one. The smallest human male of my clan and
the largest canine. Also the only white one. An enigma.

Some in my position might have become an introvert. Me, I

went the opposite direction. A shrinking violet, I’m not. If you got
it, flaunt it. I like spotlights and glitter and look good in both. To
me, cross-dressing is something of a performance art. I do it partly
because I can. Let’s face it, with my features and build I make a far
prettier gal than a guy.

“And both of you worry way too much about looks,” Hunter

mutters, sounding throaty and strained—probably because I’ve just
started sucking him. I give great head, all modesty aside (if I had
any modesty, I mean). It’s all in the tongue action. Long, wet licks
mixed with tiny, sharp nips. While he writhes, I encase him in my
mouth and swallow him whole.

“Uhhh…” he grunts. “Beauty isn’t everything.”
Easy for him to say. Abundance breeds casual disregard.

Hunter is, without a doubt, the handsomest man alive. And it’s not
merely me who thinks so. Everyone falls for him. Everything he
touches turns to gold. Mr. Purr-fect, who began at the top and
climbs ever higher. The favored son of a regal, rich family—which
most cat clans are. Feline-shifters possess an incorrigible knack for
success. Unlike Turners who’ve always sweated for each dime.
Cats were worshiped as gods in ancient Egypt. If you ask me, none
of them have forgotten it.

“That’s why I need you,” he pants out. “To keep me humble.”
Caught with the head of his cock bumping my tonsils, I almost

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

choke. He’s lucky I didn’t just bite him off at the root. Gasping and
sputtering, I lift up to glare.

“When”—cough—“have I ever humbled you?”
“Never. But I love the way you keep trying. You’re one of the

few who dares tell me straight to my face exactly what you think.”
A quick grin flashes. “And the only one who openly threatens
murder.”

His gaze narrows, and amber intensity gleams.
Sudden gravity slams me in the gut. Oh, God, he’s going

poignant—Hunter at his most lethal. I can argue with him in any
other circumstances, even while we make love. But not when he
declares it. With nothing but a heated stare he holds me
motionless.

“I do love you, Sylver.”
I know he does, at least as much as any feline is capable of,

which falls depressingly short of a wolf’s lifelong devotion. Still,
it’s the best he can manage, and at times like this I give him credit
for that.

I’ve just never understood why he loves me even a little. I’m

not insecure; I have a healthy self-image—too healthy, some might
say—but I know myself and my limits, whereas Hunter has none.
Limits, that is. Famously handsome, popular, and rolling in riches,
he’s king of his own majestic empire. Beside him I’m nobody, just
a poor country queen who wields a mean lipstick and mascara
brush.

Beautiful people flock to him in droves, throw themselves at

his feet, beg for his favor. He could have anyone he wants—and
does, more’s the pity. Yet, out of them all, I’m the one he always
comes back to. I’m the one he married.

Why?

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

“I just told you, dimwit. Love. And lots more than ‘a little.’

Why, God only knows. You sure don’t make it easy. But I love
you in spite of your temper, mine, and all our differences. That’s
the way it is, and that’s how it’ll stay. So fucking get used to it!
You ever leave me again, I’ll drag you back by your tail and whip
it off you.”

Promises, promises. He’s so romantic.
“Sylver, shut up and suck.”
Excuse me? I’m not talking. I’m thinking.
“Too much!”
Hunter’s hands flatten on each side of my skull, and he hauls

me up over his stomach and chest to meet him nose to nose.
Smoking hot, his gaze sizzles into mine. His nostrils flare, and he
snorts steam.

“Reading your mind is like riding a high speed merry-go-

round. You’re making me dizzy.”

“Then stay out of my head,” I tell him with an evil smile.
He returns it with interest. “Whatever you say. I’d rather be in

your ass, anyway.”

In a lightning series of moves, he grabs, twists, rolls, and pins

me belly down beneath him in a tangle of sheets. I’m trapped
between black satin and steel drive—or Steele drive, which
amounts to the same thing—no choice but to hang on for a wild,
wicked thrill ride. If I’m a merry-go-round, he’s a jet-powered
roller coaster.

Rock solid thighs pry mine apart, and a gravely rumble vibrates

against my spine. Half growl, half chuckle. All sexy. With the
sound, a battering ram breaks through my backdoor and fills me to
near bursting. No preliminaries, just power and passion—hard,
fast, and hotter than hell—an almost painful entry. But I like it that

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way, and so does Hunter.

Animals, in general, aren’t passive lovers, and neither are

shifters. We relish the rough stuff. Our bodies are built to take it,
and our cellular structure makes us immune to the diseases that
menace the rest of humanity. Sex with us is rarely what you’d call
safe, but it’s never fatal.

“There’s always a first time,” Hunter gasps.
He may have a point. Breathless and breathtaking both, with

fire and fury, blistering force, he starts pounding me into a
brainless, boneless pile of smoldering pulp.

Holy steam drill, Catman…
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s trying to fuck me to

death. Granted, it would be a great way to go.

“No shit,” he groans. “The feel of you is killing me. God…”
An earthquake tremor shudders through him, rocking the bed

and us. With a roar, he rams in deep one final time and explodes
inside me. Then collapses.

Panting…
Sweating…
Heavy and spent. A lead weight on my back.
And the sound of masculine mortification in my ears.
“Shit,” he groans again, and rolls off me. “Sylver, I’m sorry.

That was way too fast.”

An apology?
I shove up on an elbow to narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, bub,

who are you and what have you done with Hunter Steele?”

He makes a strangling noise in his throat, lassos my neck with

an out-flung arm, and yanks me down against his side. “I’m trying
to be serious, damn it.”

“You’re worrying about nothing is what you’re doing.” I lay

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

my head on his shoulder and rest a hand on his abdomen. “So you
popped your cork a little soon. So what? It happens to everyone
occasionally.”

Except me, of course. I have the stamina of an ox.
“And the stubbornness to match,” Hunter grumbles. “Ow,” he

adds when I dig nails into the taut, warm flesh of his belly.

“I thought you weren’t going to read my mind.”
“I can’t avoid it. You think too loud.”
In that case, for his benefit, I think about what I’m doing—and

plan to do. He owes me an orgasm. X-rated movies play in my
brain, showing ways to collect. All sorts of imaginative methods in
succulent, dripping detail. My favorite is the one where I bend him
over the bed and nail him in place with my tongue in his sweet ass.
Then my cock…

He moans.
My fingers drift lower in an exploratory tease, and the moan

mellows into a purr. Feline reflex action. Sultry. Soft. So is he, yet
not for much longer. Hunter may be fresh out of gas, but give me a
few minutes and I’ll have him refueled. His breath hitches as I
squeeze his stick shift.

“You’re getting bigger,” I murmur into his neck, tasting and

inhaling him, feeling the throb of his pulse on my lips. An open
mouthed nuzzle. I’m in attack mode, capturing him north and
south, stroking, kissing, lapping up salty beads of sweat.

I firm my grip, pump him once, twice, three times, and—

bam—he goes off in my hand.

Whoa… Too much pressure on the accelerator?
“No. Just not enough you for too long. I’m a little…over-

fueled,” Hunter says, a wry tint to his tone. “I haven’t been with
anyone since you left.”

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

Two months without sex? Him?
He’s joking.
“Do you hear me laughing? It’s no joke, damn it. Oh, I

considered searching for relief a few times. But then I thought of
you, and everyone else seemed so…boring. Hardly worth the
effort.”

Good God, he sounds serious.
My heart skips a beat. I think I believe him.
“You’d better. Trust me, Sylver, it wasn’t the least bit fun or

funny.”

I can imagine. For my breed, abstinence is unpleasant. For his,

it’s excruciating.

“But not impossible.” He grabs my upper arms, pushes, and

reverses our positions, pinning me under him again. “Canines
don’t have a monopoly on devotion. You’re just generally more
upfront about it. You have to be. You’re pack animals. With
certain exceptions, like lion prides, felines aren’t. For your breed,
emotional bonding is almost mandatory. For mine, it’s
more…optional. But no less sincere. When cats offer love, it’s not
from some inbred need to please, but because we want to.”

Leave it to Hunter to ruin what had been shaping up to be a

beautiful moment. I cup his face in my hands and glare into his
eyes. “What’s your point? You think the only reason I love you is a
congenital need to please?”

“Hell, no.” A devil of a grin twitches his lips. “I think you love

me because I’m cute and loaded with charm. The point is I happen
to think the same about you. You’re one of a kind, Sylver. I don’t
know what I’d do if I lost you, and I don’t want to find out.”

My lungs stall as he presses down until our noses touch. His

muscular bulk traps me flat. I feel his heart thumping into mine,

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

feel the scorch of his skin, the pulse of sexual power. Warm breath
brushes me with his words.

“And right now I’m the one who needs to please,” he whispers.

“I owe you an orgasm, do I? How do you want it?”

“Medium rare with coleslaw and fries.”
Sorry, that was the first answer that popped into my head. I’m

not exactly firing on all mental cylinders at the moment. Hunter in
hardcore seduction mode is distracting enough. Add love to the
mix and he melts minds. Not to mention bodies.

“Well, at least it’s more appetizing than your battle images.”

He chuckles. The sound of sin, husky and low. “In fact, I’m
suddenly very hungry.”

And I feel like the Saturday night special at Smoky Joe’s.

Texas barbequed beef smothered in chili peppers and Joe’s deadly
delicious “Mad Mustang” hot sauce. It comes with spurs and a fire
extinguisher. I don’t.

“Yippie-ki-yay,” Hunter says, and kisses his way down my

front, wreaking oral havoc with teeth and tongue. His mouth closes
around my cock, which goes rigid as a fence post, and I’m sucked
into a wild, wet whirl of fevered bliss.

“Ride ’em, cowboy,” I rasp out.
“I intend to.”
A sensual snarl on his lips, he shoves up to kneel over me,

straddling my pelvis, his hands braced on my chest and raw desire
in his gaze. The air quivers with suspense. So do I. My eyes lock
on his, and for an emotionally charged moment neither of us move.
Then with a sudden drop, Hunter impales himself on me.

“Giddy-up,” he urges on a harsh exhale.
And I push upward to meet him. One sharp gasp, an extra

thrust, and I’m buried deep in his tight ass. Inner muscles clench

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

me in a vise.

Satin heat…
Bonfire burn.
Electric sizzle, like a lightning strike, courses through me and

coils in my groin. My vision blurs, and I see Hunter through a
steamy red haze, his face a mask of savage ecstasy as he begins
rising and falling…rising and falling…goading me into a gallop,
riding me like a rodeo bronc.

Hi-yo, Sylver!
I clutch his hips and buck beneath him, plunge in and out while

he spurs me faster, both of us vying for command of the reins—a
hot harmony of action laced with a titillating note of devilish
discord. Wrestling match lovemaking. You might think we were
having a contest to see who can make the other pop first.

“We are.” A merciless gleam in his eye, Hunter hardens his

hold on me and raises his right hand to his lips. Wanton and
wicked, he sucks his forefinger.

Oh shit, I know what’s coming.
“Yeah. You.” He grins—Satan’s spawn—curves his left hand

around the back of my neck, and leans in. His other hand digs
under me, searching. And finding. In almost the same instant, he
pulls my head toward his, spears his tongue into my mouth and his
slick finger into my ass. Both move in evil mimic of what my cock
is doing to him, pumping and probing me, sabotaging my control.
A torrid, two-pronged sensory assault.

Between his action and mine, I’m toast.
Skyrockets burst in my brain. Farther down, a swollen ache

escalates to the jagged edge of agony. Seismic pressure builds.
Smoky clouds envelope me. I feel the fiery sting of volcanic ash.
Something’s about to erupt…

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

Hunter’s finger finds a particularly responsive spot—the spot—

and I shatter. Orgasm with a capital O, immense and intense,
smashes into me with tidal wave force. I’m swamped, limp and
gasping, bobbing about like a drunken cork in a scalding sea of
sensation.

Glub, glub.
As the water recedes and the smoke clears, I see a smug smile

hovering a few inches above my nose. Amber eyes glitter with
feline satisfaction. A raspy purr tickles my ears. Looking
incorrigibly pleased with himself, Hunter climbs off me and falls
onto his back, causing the bed to bounce beneath us.

“I win,” he says.
I blink. “Won what?”
“The contest.”
Oh, that. He’s so competitive.
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
I resist the urge to smack him.
“I made you come,” he adds.
Duh. Rolling my eyes, I twist around to face him.
“Only one out of three, pussycat. If we’re keeping score, I’m

still one ahead of you.” I smirk. “Besides, I don’t see any coleslaw
and fries.”

My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’m not really joking.

More like starving. I never did get any dinner tonight. I’d planned
to eat at Joe’s, but we all know how that went.

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” Hunter sits up and reaches

for a cell on the bedside table.

I throw him a dagger stare. “I didn’t think I needed to. You’re

always reading my mind.”

“Yeah, well”—a tiny grin tugs at his lips as he flips open the

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

phone—“I thought you were just hungry for me.”

Unable to stop myself, I return the grin. “That, too.”
Our gazes lock, and for several silent seconds we’re in perfect

tune. One of those warm magic moments, tender and soft as a
butterfly’s sigh, but no less beautiful for being so fragile, so rare.
Hunter’s eyes look like golden glass backed by sunlight, suddenly
transparent, letting me peer straight through to his soul. Most of
the world sees only the corporate king and the celebrity playboy.
Earth Guardians see the bad-ass hero, too. But me, I see the man.
Hunter does have a few vulnerable spots.

“No, Sylver. Only one. You.” A hint of uncertainty sharpens

his gaze, a glimmer of almost-fear, anxious hope. “You are back,
aren’t you? To stay? I can’t promise I’ll always behave…but I’ve
proved I can try…haven’t I?”

Amazingly, yes, and I know it wasn’t easy for him. That he

made the effort, period, speaks volumes—none of which guarantee
he’ll continue making it. A tomcat is a tomcat, after all. And a wolf
is a wolf. Even if he strays, I can’t help but forgive him.

Eventually.
I’m bound by my own breeding, my own promises… My own

heart, which I may as well dub “Hunter,” since he’s what keeps
that organ beating. If I married him, he married me, defying
ancient bloodlines, polar-opposite economic status, and social
prejudice against same-sex unions. How we uphold our vows may
differ, but together we made them.

“To love and cherish,” Hunter whispers. “For richer or poorer.

In sickness and in health…”

“And for better or worse,” I finish. That’s the sticky one, of

course, because with Hunter it’s often the latter.

“Well, I’m rich and healthy, at least. Two out of three isn’t

YOUR CHEATIN’ HEART

bad.” With a dry chuckle, he punches a button on the cell.
“Kitchen? Steele here. Send me up a couple of thick steaks with
slaw and fries. Oh, yeah, and a big dish of whipped cream.” He
slants me a glance. “That’s to top our dessert.”

Uh-huh. Gauging by the glint in his eyes as he closes the phone

and lays it aside, I can guess what he’s thinking, but ask anyway.
“And what is dessert?”

The glint increases. “Us. If you’re one up on me, I demand a

rematch.”

Or two, or three, or…
Since neither of us are the sort to surrender easily, and we both

hate losing, I suspect we’re in for a long night.

“Long and hard,” Hunter says.
Rowrrr…
He’s so bad. I suppose I am, too. It occurs to me we bring out

the worst in each other. But maybe also the best.

IMI

ISER

Mimi Riser has been an actress, model, clown, belly-dancer,
jewelry designer, editor and publisher, but her first and
foremost love is writing. She specializes in offbeat tales where
laughter reigns and good always triumphs—but she makes her
characters really work for their happy endings. Her books have
been said to read like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering
size and speed as it goes. But if you think her stories are crazy,
you should see her life. Once devout city people, she and her
husband exchanged the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia a
lifetime or two ago for the natural, rugged splendor of the rural
southwest. They were looking for a simpler way of life. They
got it. It ended up being so “natural and rugged,” they spent
their first six and a half years there in a hand-built house with
dirt floors, no electricity and no plumbing. This has proved
helpful for her historicals as she can now write about the
“olden days” from personal experience. They have since
rejoined the 21st century and enjoy life on the open range with
a house full of eccentric cats and a large, wacky dog who
thinks she’s a cat, too. Mimi has had five novels published to
date along with numerous articles and short stories. Her
historical romance, I Do, was a “Top Ten Finisher” in the
mammoth Preditors & Editors Readers Poll of 2003, and her
contemporary comedy, Every Jack Needs His Jil, won the poll
the following year for the “Best Mainstream Novel of 2004.”
Samantha White and The Seven Dwarves is her first erotic-

romance and was one of the winners in Amber Quill’s 2007
Heat Wave contest.

To learn more about Mimi and her writing, please visit her
website:

http://www.mimiriser.com

MBER

UILL

RESS

, LLC

OLD

TANDARD IN

UBLISHING

UALITY

OOKS

OTH

RINT AND

LECTRONIC

ORMATS

CTION

DVENTURE

USPENSE

HRILLER

CIENCE

ICTION

ARK

ANTASY

AINSTREAM

OMANCE

ORROR

ROTICA

ANTASY

GLBT

ESTERN

YSTERY

ARANORMAL

ISTORICAL

IRECT

AVE

www.AmberQuill.com

www.AmberHeat.com

www.AmberAllure.com

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