T

HUNDERBALL

…Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding

around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub—a
manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed
faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue
marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian
Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar “beach
bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast.

A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New

England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the world
white, but we’re warm and toasty in here—too warm, I’m afraid—
surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic splendor,
lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the promise of fleshy
delights.

“Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips.
My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.”
“Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman

Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.”

Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume…
He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side.
Uh-uh… No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal seductive

force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing sex—
especially Hunter’s brand—isn’t something I’m famous for, but the
headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the other ache
lower down.

Neck deep in hot water—in more ways than one—I scoot my

endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left.

“Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge…”

A

LSO

B

Y

M

IMI

R

ISER

The Adventures Of Cassie Nova, Book I: Rebel Queen

Can’t Fight The Feeling

The Cowboys And The Courtesan

Cymric’s Rose

Dungeons & Dirty Dreams

My Knightly Adventures, Books I – III

Pirates & Other Wicked Pleasures

Pirates Do It With Passion

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

THUNDERBALL

BY

MIMI RISER

A

MBER

Q

UILL

P

RESS

, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

T

HUNDERBALL

A

N

A

MBER

Q

UILL

P

RESS

B

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

All rights reserved.

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Mimi Riser

ISBN 978-1-60272-646-8

Cover Art © 2010 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To all dogs and cats everywhere and the people

who are smart enough to love them.

THUNDERBALL

1

THUNDERBALL

What’s in a name? Not much, according to Shakespeare’s

Juliet. Remember her? She’s the one who said, “That which we
call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” Poor kid
obviously knew nothing about marketing. Think about it. If roses
were called stinkweed, for instance, who’d want to find out how
they smelled?

Nope, like it or not, names are important, and mine is Sylver

Starr—something I’m trying hard to focus on, lest my unleashed
inner beast grab control of my actions. To handle what’s coming I
need wits more than brute strength.

Sylver Starr…
I stamp it on a mental marquee, emblazon it in bright lights in

my brain. It looks good in neon. Short, flashy, and gender neutral.

THUNDERBALL

2

Very me. The name’s actually an abbreviated form of Sylvester
Starrvoski, which was okay for the west Texas farm boy I started
out as, but would have sucked for the world famous nightclub
performer I left home to become.

God, I was naive back then, almost as dreamy eyed as Lady

Juliet—and dressed even prettier. An effervescent bundle of raw
nerve and theatrical high hopes, ready to conquer the world.
Armed with a sultry singing voice, moonlight pale silvery hair, and
a red-hot satin gown, I envisioned myself as the next Mae West. I
tumbled into a warped version of James Bond instead. But still
ended up famous via billionaire Hunter Steele, the love of my life
and bane of my existence.

How?
I married him.
All legal and binding, too, according to the state of

Massachusetts. Just one of those small, quiet affairs that included a
mere ten thousand of our nearest and dearest friends and almost
trashed Provincetown where it happened.

Don’t worry. Hunter sent in supplies and workmen to restore

the town afterward. He’s very civic minded.

So, okay, it turned into a worldwide media extravaganza, but it

did seem a good idea at the time. Hunter is a king—of the
corporate variety. And I am, by more than one definition of the
term, a queen (drag or drama, take your pick). Queens are
supposed to marry kings, right?

Mind you, I’ve had cause to reconsider things since.
Especially now as I crouch in the corner of a clandestine

fighting pit set up in the center of a cavernous basement, pondering
bloody death and the machinations that brought me here. One of
Hunter’s plots, of course. He’s a genuine James Bond, though few

THUNDERBALL

3

realize it.

Publicly, Hunter is the adored sovereign of a business empire

that spans the globe, the patron saint of countless charities. Also an
unabashed advocate of gay rights, animal rights, and green living,
but the masses forgive his radical views. People respect money and
looks, and he’s dripping with both.

You’d think that would be enough for him, wouldn’t you?
But, oh no, in secret the suave celebrity is the bad-ass founder

and chief of Earth Guardians, Inc., an underground organization
dedicated to defending this planet, by fair means or foul, from all
threats, inner and outer. Its top agents are those who defy modern
logic, creatures of legend who once moved about openly but now
live hidden among humans. A tough team if you can find them and
get them working together—which Hunter has, being one of them.
Recruiting from the dark fringes of society, he’s built a force more
formidable than Navy Seals.

Come to think of it, some of them are seals, complete with

flippers and fish breath. That would be EG’s selkie division from
Scotland. There’s also a vampire division, gargoyles, dragons,
several fey squads of various and sundry sorts… The pixies are the
wickedest, by the way. They all carry knives, did you know that?
Vicious little sprites.

And then there’s me.
A five-foot-eight, slender, devilishly cute cross-dresser.
Who just happens to be descended from a clan of werewolves

as ancient as the clan that spawned Hunter. Yeah, he and I are both
hereditary shape-shifters, except I turn into a huge silver white
wolf, whereas he becomes a twelve-pound black tomcat. Canine
and feline, a match made in heaven. Not. More like a cosmic joke.
In shifter terminology, we’re each other’s divinely appointed

THUNDERBALL

4

lifemates—for better or worse. And it’s often the latter.

Someone in heaven has a lot of explaining to do.
Still, I was considered a prime candidate for Earth Guardian

status. Whether I wanted it or not, I might add. Let’s face it, if
we’re talking about the fringes of society, I’m about as fringy as
you can get. Hunter recognized my abilities instantly. Whatever
else he is, he’s not stupid. He’s ruthlessly charismatic and lethally
gorgeous—a tall, amber eyed, dark haired Adonis, sizzling with
sex appeal. Damn him. Within hours of our first meeting he’d
lured me into his covert crew. Shortly thereafter, I landed in his
bed.

Of the two places, I much prefer the latter.
::Yeah, well, you can’t have one without the other. Love me,

love my brainchild.::

Ouch. In heavy boots, and with no regard for my delicate

sensibilities, a husky mental voice stomps into my thoughts,
rattling my cranium.

::Delicate, my ass,:: it scoffs. ::You were drifting. I reeled you

back.::

Heil, Hunter.
Rigid as a rail—and not in the good way—he stands at

attention inside the fence that shields the audience from the
performers in this evil circus of high-stakes intrigue and torture.
He’s standing over me, actually, muscular legs straddling my
withers and one hand gripping the collar I wear. Bossiness comes
naturally to the great Hunter Steele, but he’s pushing it a bit
tonight, if you ask me.

::Which no one did,:: he interjects.
Jawohl, mein fuhrer.
::Sylver, eat shit.::

THUNDERBALL

5

Just ignore him. I’m in white wolf form, but he’s in ramrod

stiff military-mode for this gig, from the shiny black toes of his
cavalry boots to the frizzled top of his gray wig. Some incredibly
talented makeup artist—me, in fact—has disguised him as an
eccentric old baron decked out with vintage medals, a riding crop,
monocle, and false whiskers. A cleverly crafted dueling scar
decorates the crest of his left cheekbone. I never do anything
halfway, and neither does Hunter.

And he’s always reading my mind. Then complaining about

what he finds there. Bitch, bitch, bitch. To add insult to injury, I’m
not allowed to return the favor. I hate that he’s more adept at
shielding his thoughts than I am. Look into his head and all you see
is a smokescreen. Very inscrutable. It’s a cat thing.

I do like the boots, though. Knee high and naughty. Sinister and

sexy both, in a Marquis de Sade sort of way. Not that I’ve ever
really been into the bondage and dominance scene. But with
Hunter in those boots—and nothing else—I’d be willing to give it
a try.

::Terrific. I’ll keep that in mind for later.:: A jerk on my collar

punctuates the telepathic intrusion. ::Now, pay attention to
business!::

Or there may not be a later, he means. Hunter can be such an

alarmist at times. But in this case, he has a point, as much as I hate
to admit it. The business in question involves someone—me,
again—squaring off with a massive, enraged mastiff called Cujo.

Talk about name branding.
Cujo was led into the pit shortly after I was, and it’s taking two

burly handlers to hold him in his corner. I’m not surprised. A sea
of pond scum in fashionably faded denims and polo shirts
surrounds us. Outwardly, the sort of crowd you might see at any

THUNDERBALL

6

football game, except these guys aren’t here for the beer and
hotdogs. They’re sportsmen, but not nice ones. To my nose—and
Cujo’s, too, I’m sure—they stink of violence and brutality. A
stench that worsens with the mounting tension as we all await the
referee’s signal for the bout to begin.

Cujo is a “titled” Grand Champion, which means he’s already

won at least five fights. A daunting feat in an activity where the
average life expectancy for all contenders is very, very short.

I’m the challenger, billed as Thunderball and pretending to be a

new breed of giant sized Siberian husky developed by Baron
Heinrich Von Blitzen, alias guess who. Huskies do resemble
wolves, and I am a giant in this form, two hundred and thirty
pounds of savage muscle and sinew, much larger than my human
state. But in reality there is no such new breed or baron. That’s just
our cover story—not great, but the best we could manage on short
notice.

A charity fundraiser we attended yesterday and a grand old

lady’s tragic tale spurred us to find and infiltrate this hellhole. In
short, we’re on a rush job rescue mission, seeking to free a
kidnapping victim.

My opponent.
Except now that I’ve had a chance to study him, I’m afraid

we’ve arrived too late to do much good. Which leaves us nothing
but vengeance—to strike holy terror into the bastards who took
him. Granted, that was part of the plan, anyway. Hunter wants to
put the fear of God into this crowd. Unfortunately, I’m his
designated instrument of divine wrath.

All things considered, is it any wonder I’d rather think about

sex? Hell, I’d rather think about getting a root canal job. It’s a
dangerous, uncertain charade we’re playing.

THUNDERBALL

7

::But not over yet. Don’t forget who’s waiting for us in the

juvenile ward of the Sunshine Medical Rehabilitation Center.
There are dozens of brave kids housed there, undergoing long-term
physical therapy. They miss their favorite mascot and want him
back. And what about Honey Jansen? That little girl has already
lost her parents. She shouldn’t be forced to lose the big, lovable
pup she was raised with, too.::

Thanks for the newsflash, Baron Buttinski. I know why we’re

here. The problem is the “pup” doesn’t. To him this isn’t a
charade; it’s the real deal. Weeks of constant abuse, administered
coldly and methodically to make him mean, have plunged his mind
into a black abyss.

Under better circumstances I’d be able to reach him, calm him,

as all animals are naturally telepathic. I have tried to make silent,
canine-to-canine contact with him—introduced myself as a “man-
wolf” here to help—but I can’t penetrate his pain.

He refuses my mind-call.
::Then keep trying.::
Hey, pussycat, if you think it’s so easy, you try.
::I did. He told me to go chase a mouse.::
Figures.
Sigh. Cujo’s current conditioning and racial memory conspire

against us. His guard-dog ancestors fought off wolves in ancient
times, and their battered descendant has good cause now to distrust
and hate all men, regardless of form. It breaks my heart because I
know he wasn’t always like this, ears ragged, eyes crazed, his fawn
coat riddled with half healed wounds.

::Hell,:: Hunter curses. ::Up until a few months ago, he wasn’t

even Cujo.::

Tell me about it. He used to be Sam, the pride of Dr. Margo

THUNDERBALL

8

Jansen’s therapy-dog program, the comfort and cheer of her young
patients. And her five-year-old orphaned granddaughter Honey’s
best friend.

We may save what’s left of his body, but his mind?
::We’ll retrain him. Most animals are smarter than people give

them credit for, and this one’s a friggin’ Einstein, according to
Margo.::

I don’t doubt it, but even with retraining, I can’t imagine he’ll

ever be allowed to return to the children who love him. Once she
sees him, I think even Margo will consider it too risky. I’m sure
the Sunshine Center’s legal department will. What was once a
regal, gentle giant is now a battle-scarred monster. He looks like a
killer, and he is. A smart one who’s learned that if he doesn’t kill
he’ll be punished. Badly. I can tell by his body language he intends
to kill me. His audience demands it. Most of them have big bets
riding on the coming contest.

::Among other shit. Look around. I see a lot of suspicious

packages changing hands.::

Yep, many are also here for the sideline profiteering in illegal

substances. You can’t separate one vice from the other at these
events; they all go together. Drug dealing, gambling, and the thrill
of watching two tormented creatures rip each other to shreds.

That’s entertainment.
From “hobbyist” encounters in rural barns, to street gang

competitions in urban basements, to the big organized crime
operations like this one, dog fighting in America has reached
epidemic proportions, despite being outlawed in all fifty states and
a hardcore felony in forty-eight. And contrary to what some of its
advocates—who liken it to boxing—claim, there’s nothing noble
or heroic about it. Boxers enter the ring by choice. The dogs don’t.

THUNDERBALL

9

Some are doomed from the start, having been bred for the

blood sport by their trainers. Some are bought. Some are adopted
from animal shelters, under false pretenses. Worst of all, many—
like “Cujo” here, little Honey’s poor Sam—were once cherished
companions who were stolen from their original homes. Small
dogs and cats are stolen, too, for use as bait during savage training
sessions.

All suffer, and most die young, often at the hands of their

keepers. A popular motto in dog fighting circles is “Breed the best
and bury the rest.”

Seriously.
I found that on the Internet yesterday while researching the

subject—after we met Margo at the med center’s fundraiser, heard
about Sam’s theft and guessed the motive for it. My search, in fact,
led me to an online bulletin board and a ballsy notice seeking
opponents for a mighty mastiff. Which “Baron Von Blitzen”
answered. Which brought us here.

You might think we got lucky finding Sam so fast, but really it

was easy. Okay, so Hunter’s hacking skills helped a bit, too. There
are a noxious number of sites staunchly devoted to dog fighting.
Print publications also. Its aficionados seem quite proud of
themselves, advertise their champion stock, and love to share tips
and tricks of the trade.

Want to know more?
::Hell, no,:: Hunter gripes. ::You’re preaching to the choir,

whitey.::

Tough shit, pussycat.
I’m not preaching to him or anyone else, merely mulling over

the issue—and I’m not finished yet. Let’s consider the name
question again. The simple fact these contests fall under the

THUNDERBALL

10

specific heading of blood sport pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?

Dog fighting is bloody.
Cruel.
Sick.
A violent crime. A social disease.
But difficult to police and prosecute, due to a number of

convoluted factors, including lack of awareness, an incomplete
understanding of the problem and how it damages society as a
whole. It would help, I think, if more people realized animal abuse
has been proven to be directly related to human abuse.

::You think too damned much. It would help if you’d get your

ass into gear,:: Hunter suggests. Not pleasantly.

I mentioned he was bossy, right?
With a rough jerk, he lets go of my collar and dives into a

phony German accent. “Achtung, Thunderball! Attack!”

So soon?
The order coincides with a sudden commotion at the opposite

end of the pit. Snarls and sharp shouts pierce my sensitive ears.

Fuck, the Hound of the Baskervilles has broken free from his

handlers—and without the referee’s signal. According to the
infamous Cajun Rules of dog fighting, isn’t that a foul?

::Who cares? We never play by the rules, anyway. Move it!::
Oh, we’re back to telepathy, are we? I wish he’d make up his

damn mind. Hunter knows it jars me when he jumps from audible
to silent speech.

::Bullshit. Now this is jarring.::
The sole of a sexy black boot, applied with Steele force to my

rump, propels me forward to meet Sam’s charge. Ow. Baron
Blitzkrieg is cruisin’ for a real bruisin’.

Too bad I probably won’t live long enough to give him one.

THUNDERBALL

11

Sam isn’t playing by the rules either. Instead of attacking head-on,
as I expect, he lunges to the side, then spins around and leaps on
my back, body slamming me to the floor, like a wrestler. Except
we’re not on a mat. My skull connects—hard—with cold concrete.

Crack!
It knocks the wind out of me, almost knocks me senseless. The

floor seems to pitch and roll like the deck of a typhoon tossed ship.
Whoa… I’m getting seasick. Everything blurs, and a wave of
dizziness swamps me.

Great. Besides struggling with Sam, I now have an inner battle

just to hang on to consciousness. If I pass out, my body will
automatically revert to human form—which weighs eighty pounds
less than my wolf form, which is already twenty pounds less than
Sam’s bulk. Two hundred and fifty pounds of fanged fury squashes
me flat.

Oh sure, I’ve got fangs, too, as long as I stay cognizant. But

under the circumstances—under Sam—I’m also in deep shit. Oof. I
think I just heard a rib snap. Mine.

Werewolves aren’t invincible, you know. We’re difficult to

kill, but it’s not impossible. Basically, anything that annihilates our
bodies will do the trick. Being blown to bits or burned to a cinder,
for instance. Biting us into small portions always works well.

Hunter, God love him (because at the moment, I don’t), has

booted me straight into the jaws of hell. Trust me, this wasn’t the
plan. I was supposed to engage in one brief tumble with Sam, then
break loose, leap the fence, and wreak wolfish havoc among the
audience.

Scare the fuckin’ shit out of them.
In the ensuing chaos, Hunter was going to zap Sam with a

miniaturized short-range tranquilizer-ray, developed by EG’s

THUNDERBALL

12

diabolical tech team—mad scientists, all of them, in my wary
opinion—then spirit him away. Now, however, he’ll be lucky if he
can gather up enough pieces of me to enable a decent burial.

Damn.
I was kinda looking forward to the havoc part, too, dangerous

though it was. Hunter always researches his targets, so we know
this particular “sports club” is comprised of gang leaders and mob
bosses, the head honchos of illicit industry. Not just drugs but
weapons smuggling, child pornography, slavery… You name it,
they’re in it up to their eyeballs. Most of the surrounding crowd is
packing heat, as they say in the gangster flicks. But bullets are one
of the things that can’t hurt me—much—unless they’re silver.

Yes, that myth really is true. But, no, the cartridges don’t need

to be inscribed with a cross first. Whose idiot idea was that,
anyway?

::Not mine. But men do many foolish things I cannot

understand. Many evil things.::

Say what?
That wasn’t Hunter.
And the message didn’t come through in words, per se, but

pure thought-images and projected emotion, the way animals
communicate mind-to-mind. I literally feel another’s distress, an
empathic blast of pain that wrenches my heart and gut until I want
to whimper. So sad, so angry…

So hopeless.
Sam?
I suddenly realize that, in human terms, he’s pulling his

punches, biting me hard enough to bruise, maybe, but not draw
blood—not nearly as hard as he could. A mock mauling? Why?

::Because it is not your death I want, man-wolf. But the evil

THUNDERBALL

13

ones who watch us must not be allowed to suspect that, true?::

Hell, even I didn’t suspect it till now.
::No, but you should have.:: True to arrogant form, Hunter’s

consciousness elbows its way into the fray. ::I said he’s a smart
dog, didn’t I?::

And I never said he wasn’t, but animal intelligence is different

from the human variety—more straightforward. What Sam’s doing
implies a level of deviousness that’s usually the province of
mankind. I likened him to a wrestler before, and like a pro
wrestler, indeed, he’s putting on a show.

I’m amazed.
::I’m not,:: Hunter declares.
Liar. He didn’t see this twist coming any more than I did. But

don’t hold your breath waiting for him to admit it.

::I do not intend to,:: Sam says. Dogs are so literal minded.

::But I shall soon stop the breath of the evil ones.::

Shit. In a lightning flash of stormy thoughts I read in his mind

what he’s planning.

::Yeah, but he read you first,:: Hunter thunders in my skull.

::He just refused to communicate until he found proof he could
trust us.::

Which was?
::Margo and Honey, dimwit. His people. Friends. Sam saw

their images in your head.::

Which marked us as friendly, too, of course. I knew that. I was

just testing to see if Hunter did.

::Yeah, I’ll bet. The problem is Sam also saw your doom and

gloom doubts. Now he believes there’s no hope for him. I told you
that you think too damn much.::

Oh sure, blame it on me. None of this cloak-and-dagger plot

THUNDERBALL

14

was my idea. And I never thought Sam was doomed—provided we
could rescue him—just that where he’ll be living afterward
is…uncertain.

::Which amounts to the same thing in his black and white

reasoning. Animals rarely think in gray tones. Sam’s devoted to
Margo and loves her granddaughter as much as Honey loves him.
Probe his mind and you’ll discover what’s kept him alive these
past weeks.::

Survival instinct?
::No, the blind faith he’d somehow return to the Jansens. Now

he thinks that even if we free him, he’ll never see his human family
again.::

So he’s decided to chuck it all by taking over my job here

tonight.

::Right. And since he pulled the idea from your brain,

Dunderballs, you get to convince him otherwise.::

Me? I’m the “dimwit,” remember? You’re the one with the

tranquilizer-ray, Baron Blowhard. Just stun him, for godssake.

::I can’t without hitting you, too.::
Sounds good. I could use a little tranquility right now. Go for

it, ace.

::Enough. You two make my head hurt,:: Sam complains. ::I

must take your place, man-wolf, for you sought only to frighten the
wicked ones. That is too little. Fear will not end their evil. They
must be destroyed!::

And before either Hunter or I can argue the point, a growling

freight load of mastiff-on-a-mission hurtles off me and charges the
fence. I’d planned to jump its wooden slats. Sam crashes through it
like the Cannonball Express, sending a shower of broken boards
and splinters over the tough guys in the ringside seats. None of

THUNDERBALL

15

whom look very tough as they fall over each other in a mad
scramble to escape snapping jaws.

Can we spell surprised?
How about pandemonium?
Jerks.
They’ll be more surprised in a second. I refuse to be upstaged

by a self-appointed vigilante in fur. I get enough of that from
Hunter.

Springing upright, I throw back my head and let fly the call of

the wild—a loud, bloodcurdling howl.

The pandemonium slams to a halt. Even Sam stops to listen.

Ta-da! For a gratifying instant all eyes are on me; I’m in the
spotlight. My element.

Then Sam bites a nearby butt, its owner squawks, and chaos

reigns anew.

Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. Making a spectacle of

myself is one of my specialties. I do it better in sequins and high
heels, actually, but the howl netted me some attention, at least.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” one of Sam’s beefy handlers screams.

“That ain’t no husky. It’s a goddamn wolf!”

Bright boy. I’ve been wondering when someone would figure

that out.

Yelling useless commands—to no one in particular, it seems,

and no one heeds him either—the other handler whips out his
piece. No, not the dinky one between his legs, the automatic from
his shoulder holster. I bare fangs and snarl, and he starts backing
toward the pit’s exit. Coward.

C’mon, punk, make my day.
Bullets sting like the dickens, but don’t slow me. If he shoots,

he’ll regret it. There’s nothing like taking a chest full of lead, then

THUNDERBALL

16

attacking, to scare the piss out of the opposition. Real horror movie
stuff. Freaks ’em out every time.

“Forget the cheap party tricks. I’ll deal with Beefhead and

Bozo here if they want a fight, but I can’t use the T-ray on Sam
from this range,” Hunter bellows aloud—sans accent, since
everyone is too busy with their own shouting to hear his. Except
me, which is ironic because I don’t want to hear him. I know what
he’s going to say.

“Then hop to it. What are you waiting for, an engraved

invitation? Go after Sam before he gets himself creamed!”

Yep, me again. It’s always me who ends up with the tricky

jobs. Hunter cooks up these crazy plots, and I get stuck with the
dirty dishes.

Enough, already.
Sam is doing fine on his own. I’ve been watching him out the

corner of my eye, and he’s a cagey fighter, hitting one target after
another, but too fast for anyone to hit back. It’s the creeps he’s
chasing who are in trouble, but I’ll be damned if I’ll rush to rescue
any of them. This is what you get when you train an animal to kill.
What goes around comes around—and right now Sam is what’s
coming around. Looks like he’s enjoying himself, too.

I’m not.
I hate being a secret agent, and I hate being married to one.

Hunter and I are always fighting and facing death, damn it. It’s
ruining my nerves. I hate living on the edge, never being able to let
my guard down—and I really, really hate being ordered around all
the time.

“Bullshit. You’re a natural for this work. You love excitement

and disguises and playing hero.”

Or heroine? I bat my eyes at him and curl wolf lips in a saucy

THUNDERBALL

17

snarl of a sneer. Yes, I’m in a bitchy mood.

“Whatever.” He glowers. “And to top it all off, you’re making

a friggin’ mint.”

Not that I need the money, being married to a multi-billionaire.
“Who runs the company that pays your exorbitant salary,”

Hunter grits out through clenched teeth. “I was your employer
before we became lovers, remember? Marriage didn’t change that.
You knew from the start what you were getting into.”

In other words, business is business.
“Damn straight. As long as you’re on my payroll, you do what

I say. Got it?”

No, but he will, once this mission is over. I’ve just decided

something, but I can’t think about it or Hunter will read it in my
mind and try to manipulate me out of it.

He’d probably succeed, too. He usually does in high stress

situations like this one, which is why I won’t risk arguing the
matter now. As soon as the idea strikes, I shove it to the back of
my brain and survey the action outside the pit.

Sam’s still doing great, I notice—surprisingly well, more

power to him. Me, I’m tired and pissed, aching to climb out of my
wolf form and into a long, hot bubble bath. So let’s blow this joint,
as the saying goes, finish the job and get the hell out of here.

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Hunter huffs out an

exasperated sigh. “But, no, you always have to stop and debate
every detail. Your timing, as usual, sucks.”

I resist the urge to lift my leg and spray his knees so it’ll run

down into his boots and make his socks squish. Instead, I turn my
hindquarters toward him and swish my plume of a tail under his
nose.

Kiss my lily-white ass, pussycat.

THUNDERBALL

18

“All in good time,” he whispers wickedly.
I’ll ignore that.
“How about if I scrub it for you, too…inside and out.” He

projects a mental image of him in the tub with me. Naked. Wet.
Aroused. Radiating raw lust and shrouded in steam.

Um…that’s not so easy to ignore, but I manage.
The handlers have already fled, by the way, leaving us alone in

the pit, an island of tension surrounded by a mad sea. Neither man
paused long enough to waste any ammo on me. And no one else
appears willing to leap from the mastiff-frying-pan into a wolf-fire.
I’d call them chicken, but that would be an insult to poultry the
world over.

“How about chicken shit?” Hunter offers.
Very funny. First sexual taunts, and now jokes. He’s trying to

tease me into complacency, make nice-nice in his smug feline
way—like a cat who shreds the upholstery of your favorite
armchair, then, while you’re sitting in it, jumps on your lap and
purrs. But it won’t work. The bird poop suggestion does, though.
They just don’t make thugs like they used to. If Mugsy Malone
were here, I’ll bet he’d have shot me. Not that it would have done
him any good.

And flight won’t help Beefy and Bozo either, or anyone else.

This illegal arena is set up in the cavernous basement of a deserted
warehouse outside of Boston. There are no windows down here
and only one exit, which should be magically sealed, if the
Tinkerbell team Hunter left stationed outside when we arrived did
their job on cue.

A metallic reverberation mixes with the shouts.
The sound of frantic fists banging on a big iron door.
Yep, we’re locked in, and the bad guys have just discovered it.

THUNDERBALL

19

This was done to keep them contained and at my mercy, as per the
original plan. But it works the same way now. Anyone looking to
escape is shit outta luck until Baron Bigwig decides they’ve had
enough and gives the order to release them.

“Of course the door is locked. The pixies always do their jobs

without question, unlike some agents I could name. They know
which side their bread is buttered on.”

Hunter, don’t make me hurt you.
It so happens my howl wasn’t just for show. In case he’s

forgotten, it was also the prearranged signal to seal the area. I did
my job, too. Well, part of it. Sam has taken over the rest—and with
more force than I could have used.

Responsible werewolves, like me, are hampered in battle by the

fact that anyone we bite, who survives it, will himself become a
werewolf. There are some people you just don’t want to give that
power to. Like this bunch. Though I’d planned to scare them out of
their skins—and hopefully out of the business of dog fighting—I
really couldn’t have done much more than lunge, snap, and look
ferocious. And Sam was right, that’s not enough. He, on the other
hand, can inflict genuine pain, a stronger deterrent.

“But he’s doomed himself in the process, Sylver. There’s a

double standard at work here. An animal fighting another animal
can be overlooked, but when he goes on a rampage against
humans—however much they deserve it—that’s the end of him.
We might be able to protect Sam from being euthanized for his
aggression, but…”

The words disappear into a black void, but I sense what’s

coming. Hunter looks like a man on the way to the gallows, except
to him this is worse than a hanging. I can’t resist nudging him
toward the scaffold. I even switch from pure thought to telepathic

THUNDERBALL

20

speech for this momentous occasion, to spare him the effort of
probing my brain. He’s under enough strain already.

::But what? We can’t return Sam to his former life? The med

center won’t risk it, and Margo will be forced to agree?::

His lips press into a tight line.
::Yes, Hunter?::
Lightning flashes in his amber eyes.
::Come on, pussycat, you can do it.::
In a throaty grumble, he answers aloud, “Yeah. I was wrong

before, and you were right. Happy now?”

Delighted. It’s moments like this I live for. My tail is wagging

a mile a minute. If I were in man form I’d be chuckling. Not only
have I just had the rare thrill of hearing Hunter say something he
almost never says—especially not to me—but I get the added
pleasure of telling him he’s still wrong. So was I, for that matter,
but unlike him I have no difficulty admitting my mistakes.

“Since when?”
::About a minute ago. When I saw Sam pass up not one, not

two, but three golden opportunities to rip out three tempting, juicy
jugulars…speaking from a canine perspective, that is. I’ve been
keeping an eye on him. He’s getting in some good bites, but
nothing fatal. Contrary to killing anyone, he’s going out of his way
to avoid it.::

“Which is in direct contrast to what he was thinking when he

broke through the fence.”

::True. But thinking something and actually doing it are two

very different things.:: As I’ve discovered every time I’ve had a
belly full of Hunter’s bullying and planned to quit the Earth
Guardians.

Um…cough…forget that, because I’m not planning it now.

THUNDERBALL

21

Nope.
Really.
I glance at Hunter to see if I’ve just screwed myself, but he

shows no sign of noticing. Eyes narrowed, he scans the melee and
witnesses the same thing I’ve been watching. A powerful dog
who’s been used and abused, and has the means and the motive to
commit bloody murder, is refusing chance after chance to do so.
Sam’s not a killer, after all. He may be punishing his tormentors,
but not executing them.

::Interesting, huh, Hunter?::
Margo said Sam was not only the smartest dog she’d ever

worked with, but also the most trustworthy and noble natured. It
looks like he still is. He certainly knows how to control himself,
even in anger, which is more than can be said for many humans.
His captors tried to make him vicious, but failed. Left to his own
devices, he just can’t bring himself to slaughter.

And I’m through with telepathy for the night. Receiving,

maybe, but it’s taking too much energy to transmit. Between the
knock I took earlier and the noise, I’ve got a real bitch of a
headache. Let Hunter fucking read my mind. He will anyway,
whatever I do.

“What about the dogs Sam slaughtered in pit fights?” he asks.
You see what I mean? I swear, he spends more time in my head

than his own. To answer the question, though, we can be pretty
sure Sam’s battle trained opponents tried to kill him. If he got them
instead, it was only in self-defense. Which is something Hunter
and I have been forced to do more than once—another reason why
I’m sick of the secret agent show. I don’t like killing any more than
Sam does. Yes, in wolf form I’ve hunted prey for food. Growing
up poor in west Texas, sometimes all I had to eat was what I

THUNDERBALL

22

caught. But that’s different.

“Not by much. Hunting is hunting, Sylver. It’s what you were

born to do, the same as I was. We’re natural predators. You can’t
escape it. And I won’t let you quit the Earth Guardians.”

Fuck. I’ve been busted.
“What else? You didn’t think I’d let an idiot idea like that pass

by unnoticed, did you?”

Well, hell, I was going to tell him. Eventually. I just wanted

time to compose a formal letter of resignation and submit it to
EG’s advisory council before the shit hit the fan and Hunter hit the
roof. Taking the official red tape route would have proved I meant
business and bolstered my argument, not to mention my resolve.

“There is no argument. And no resignation. Protecting this

world isn’t just a job, it’s a lifetime commitment, a mystical
mission. Case closed. Once an Earth Guardian, always an Earth
Guardian.”

Until retirement.
“Which you are way too young for.”
What about death?
“Not allowed. I need you. If you die on me, I’ll kill you.”
Uh-huh. Hunter logic. Don’t bother trying to figure it out. I

never do. Still, it’s nice to know he cares.

I bare fangs in a wolf grin. Gee, pussycat, we’re not about to

have one of our tender moments, are we?

“Sylver, don’t press your luck. You’re looking for an ass-

kicking.”

Good luck delivering it, ace.
What I’m looking for is a loophole in EG’s employment

contract—which I probably should have read more carefully before
signing. But who wants to slog through twenty pages of tangled,

THUNDERBALL

23

jungle-dense legalese while wearing a corset and feather boa? You
need a pith helmet and machete for something like that.

Hmm… I know we’re on a tight schedule. We always are. Sigh.

But it’s only been a few short minutes since Sam bolted out of the
pit. The talk has progressed swiftly, thanks to the lightning speed
of my thought-words. Which are also rapier sharp and dazzle the
discerning intellect with brilliance, don’t you think?

“No.”
Excuse me? I shoot him a glare. I wasn’t talking to you,

Hunter. Not everything is about you. Some musings are just for
myself. Honestly, the nerve of some people. Where was I?

“Finished!” He returns the glare. “I’m ending this asinine

discussion—forever—and ending the mission now. We’re immune
to bullets, Sam’s not.”

So? Who’s firing at him? No one. He’s staying too deep in the

crowd for anyone to get a bead on him.

“And I don’t want to risk that anyone will. We’ve got to corral

him and teleport out of here while he’s still in one piece.”

Well, of course. I was just thinking that we haven’t much time,

wasn’t I? But I also think Sam has earned the right to avenge
himself. He deserves another minute to vent before we—

Shit. Hunter leaves me eating his dust.
Moving fast for a gray haired baron who arrived here with a

fake limp, he vaults over the remains of the fence and hits the deck
running. Okay, okay, I’ll continue the “discussion” at home. But it
will continue.

I leap after him, and together we dive into a mob of besieged

men, all scrambling to avoid a one-dog task force. They do look
ridiculous. No escape route and nowhere to hide—except behind
each other, which isn’t working too well. In situations like this,

THUNDERBALL

24

tempers flare, so they’re also brawling among themselves. Morons.

Hunter clears a path for himself with sledgehammer fists. Me,

all I have to do is howl, and the whole bunch, save for Sam, hauls
ass out of my way. I can empty a straight bar with equal speed if
word leaks out I’m a guy in drag.

I bristle my fur and snarl—grrrr—and they all flee to launch a

fresh attack on the pixie-sealed portal, pounding on it and one
another. But this time the door opens, as my second howl was the
signal to unlock it. With whoops of joy, the mob tumbles out into a
precarious freedom.

The pixies, bless their devious little hearts, aren’t finished yet.

Hunter has given them free rein to target and torment these goons
for as long as the mischievous sprites desire. And, believe me, an
infestation of pixies in your life is worse than a plague of locusts,
cockroaches, and fleas combined. Plus, it enables EG to keep a
close eye on the riff-raff. No doubt the FBI will be receiving some
anonymous tips in the future as to where certain suspected felons
can be located, along with proof of their guilt.

A grim smile on his face, Hunter skids to a halt in front of Sam,

who stands winded but steady, staring up at him with a hopeful
gaze. He’s very sexy after a fight—Hunter, I mean—eyes blazing,
muscles tensed, all hot and sweaty. And those boots…

“Later,” his voice rumbles in my ears in a tone that sets my

teeth on edge. “We’re not out of here yet. Keep your scattered
brain on business.”

Oh, we’re back to that, are we? I got news for him. If all he can

do is insult me, ain’t no later gonna happen. Sorry, dear, not
tonight, I have a headache.

“You have a fucking concussion,” he answers in a growl.
No shit. I wonder if he just figured that out. I guessed it the

THUNDERBALL

25

instant my head hit the concrete, and I’ve been playing mental
hopscotch ever since, jumping from one thought to the next in an
escalating struggle to stay alert.

“Which is what you do all the time, anyway, so how’s a person

to recognize the difference?” With the words, Hunter ruffles the
fur of my neck and gives me a little pat. The gentle gesture belies
his gruff tone. He’s not without sympathy, just the macho type
who hates to display it.

Besides, we both know shifters are a durable breed. Shaky but

sure I’ll survive, I watch him pull a small, shiny rectangle from his
pocket and snap it onto his belt. By simply envisioning where we
want to go, it’ll take us there.

I hope.
Gulp.
Standing between Sam and me, he lays a hand on each of us

and draws us snug against his hips—and no tranquilizer-ray
needed. Hah! I love being right, especially in this instance. Wolves
aren’t supposed to be able to cry, but a salty mist blurs my vision
as I meet Sam’s soulful brown eyes. I’m too woozy to transmit a
telepathic message, but I visualize his coming reunion with Honey
and Margo, and hope he can read it in my mind.

::Truly? I will go home?:: he responds.
I swear I see tears in his eyes, too.
::Yeah, Sam, we’re all going to go home now,:: Hunter says in

the thought-image mind-speak of animals. He never cries, but I
notice he’s suddenly blinking awfully fast.

“Ready to beam out?” he asks me.
God, no. I’m never ready for teleportation. I don’t trust sci-fi

gizmos, never have, but we use a lot of them in EG. Yet one more
reason why I want to—

THUNDERBALL

26

“No!” Hunter roars at a volume that almost shatters my

throbbing skull and makes even Sam wince. “You’re not quitting
the Earth Guardians!”

Sam flashes him a reproachful look. ::That was not very nice of

you, cat-man. You hurt his sore head.::

I’m starting to really like that dog.
He heaves a canine sigh. ::But I made it sore. I am sorry, man-

wolf. I did not know your head would break so easily.::

::Don’t worry about it, Sam,:: Hunter says right before we

teleport out. ::It was cracked to begin with.::

* * *

I’ll crack him…
No quitting, huh? Once you’re in, there’s no out? Only Hunter

and the devil would dream up a contract like that and expect
people to abide by it.

“Everyone does except you,” he grumbles from behind a veil of

spicy steam. “I never hear any of my other agents complain about
EG’s service terms.”

Like he would listen if they did? Don’t make me laugh. It

makes my headache worse.

“Want me to kiss it for you and make it better?” he offers.
With a flick of my wrist, I send a splash of suds at his

lecherous leer.

We arrived home from the mission an hour ago, but too late to

return Sam to the Jansens. We’ll do that in the morning. In the
meantime, I’ve consigned him to the excellent care of Frederick,
Hunter’s longsuffering English butler, who’s a dog himself—part
of the time. To those in the know, Freddy is what’s called a lunar-

THUNDERBALL

27

shifter. He becomes a basset hound during the full moon.

In his capable and sympathetic hands, Sam will be fed and

groomed, petted and pampered, then bedded down in luxury for the
night. Freddy and I both agreed he should have the guest suite
reserved for visiting royalty. Nothing but the best for Sam.

“And if he ruins the carpet, it’s coming out of your salary.”
I roll my eyes. Puh-lease. Sam’s better behaved than most

people we host. You should’ve seen what Count Claudio—Poopsie
to his friends—did after one butterscotch martini too many. We
had to replace the carpet and the drapes. Which I paid for, too, now
I think of it.

“Because you egged him on!”
Ouch. Whatever happened to “quiet as a cat”? Injuries come

with me when I turn from one form to the other. Given my special
genetic structure, I can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. My
wounds heal fast, but that doesn’t make them any less painful.
Meaning, I’m human again but still have a sore head.

And Hunter’s still in it.
He’s also in my bubble bath, but slyly keeping his distance,

lounged across from me at the opposite side of our gargantuan
sunken tub.

“For now,” he whispers, lowering his tone to the husky purr my

cock loves—although the rest of me is determined to ignore it.

“Right. We’ll see how long that lasts.” He chuckles.
I frown.
“Looks damn cute on you, too. Anyone ever tell you those

pouty lips of yours are just made for kissing?”

“All the time.” When you got it, you got it. I’m adorable. “But

don’t change the subject.”

“I thought sex was the subject.”

THUNDERBALL

28

He would. Even in man form, Hunter’s all feline, sleek,

sensual, and predatory. Utterly full of himself.

“Sylver, people who live in glass houses—”
“Get lots of sunlight,” I finish for him. So I have a healthy self-

image. Sue me.

“I will if you try to break your contract.”
Oh, goody, we’re back to the real subject. Mine.
“In what court?” I ask with a yawn. Ho-hum, I’m so scared.

Earth Guardians operate outside the mainstream legal system. Hell,
the mainstream world doesn’t even know we exist.

“I’ll create my own,” Hunter says, looking devious—

something he’s very good at. Practice does make perfect. “An EG
tribunal,” he elaborates. “Like a military court-martial.”

Sounds boring as mule shit.
“So is your mind tonight. How about if I give you something

more interesting to think about?”

Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding

around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub—a
manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed
faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue
marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian
Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar
“beach bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast.

A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New

England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the
world white, but we’re warm and toasty in here—too warm, I’m
afraid—surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic
splendor, lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the
promise of fleshy delights.

“Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips.

THUNDERBALL

29

My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.”
“Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman

Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.”

Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume…
He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side.
Uh-uh… No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal

seductive force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing
sex—especially Hunter’s brand—isn’t something I’m famous for,
but the headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the
other ache lower down.

Neck deep in hot water—in more ways than one—I scoot my

endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left.

“Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge.”
So do I, but not this kind. Unfortunately for me, it’s been “up”

since he invaded my bath, shortly after I’d settled my bruised
body—and ego—into the bubbles.

“I know. I can sense your arousal.”
Which increases his. And with it, his speed. To maintain my

distance, I’m forced to match his pace.

Advance and retreat, around and around… I don’t know why I

thought a bath would relax me. Soon we’ve made two full circuits
and begun a third, moving faster and faster but always opposite
each other, neither of us gaining or losing ground.

Cripes, this is making me dizzy. The chase whips up additional

lather. Perfumed froth, lacy white and lush with the earthy aroma
of patchouli, sloshes over the marble rim. Glub. I just swallowed
some. The stuff smells a lot better than it tastes. Yuck.

“Here, try a mouthful of this instead.”
Without warning, Hunter stops. I hit my own brakes just in

time to avoid slamming into him. For a breathless moment, I

THUNDERBALL

30

freeze, trapped in a high-beam amber glare. Then, like Poseidon
rising out of the sea foam, Hunter stands and looms over me in an
upright straddle stance.

Real upright.
I’m nose to nose with a mesmerizing erection.
Um…if cocks had noses, I mean. My eyes cross studying it.
How about nose to plum-sized swollen head? A big plum,

purple tinted, ripe and juicy, satin smooth and slick with suds.
Glistening with the diamond sparkle of water droplets… Smelling
of patchouli and male musk…

Yes, I’m rambling. Who wouldn’t be with a delicious dick like

this staring them in the face? The helpful headache melts away in
the heat of the moment—softens and dulls as something else grows
harder. It can’t compete with the sharper ache. All I feel is the
pressure and burn as my own dick gains painful new proportions.
All my awareness now centers on imminent sex. My nostrils flare
and I lick my lips, inhaling the heady scent of desire…the scent of
Hunter.

I’m so in trouble.
My breath quickens, and my pulse speeds right along with it.
Lord, have mercy… Help me, Herne, the Horned God of

animals and shifters. Except Herne is pretty lusty, as most pagan
deities are. He’d probably be on Hunter’s side… Hey, what about
the Horned Goddess, Hathor?

“She’d agree with me, too.” A sinister chuckle underscores the

words. “And you’re still rambling.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a defense mechanism, okay?”
“How’s it working?”
Like crap. As if he didn’t know. Hah. While I stare, fixated, an

iridescent pearl of pre-cum appears at the end of his shaft.

THUNDERBALL

31

Suddenly, I’m salivating. I can almost taste Hunter’s succulent
flavor, salty and rich, on my tongue.

“So why don’t you?” Raising his right knee, he plants an ebony

black foot on the marble rim to the left side of my head.

Black?
I blink.
He’s wearing boots?
The boots.
Uh-oh…
“I was wondering when you’d notice,” he purrs. “This is what

you get for trying to ignore me when I hopped in our bath.”

More like sneaked in. And it’s my bath. I called dibs on the

garden first. I also told him not to follow me out here, that I wasn’t
in the mood—and won’t be until he cuts me some slack regarding
EG.

I lied. I’m always in the mood. But I still have my pride, damn

it.

Specifically, I told him to take a cold shower and a flying fuck

at the moon, but no one ever listens to me, do they? So, yeah, I was
pissed when he joined me—also dozing, had my eyes closed
because of the headache. By the time I opened them, his lower half
was obscured by the bubbles. Then I tried to ignore him.

“Either way, you’re being punished for it now…slave.”
Slave?
My back hairs bristle. “Dems fightin’ words, mister.”
“Not mister. Master. I’m the sultan, remember? We’re playing

a game.”

“Not one that I agreed to.”
“You don’t have to. Slaves don’t get that option. I will give you

one choice, though.” Hunter rests his right forearm on the raised

THUNDERBALL

32

knee and leans in closer. “You can decide which you want to
lick—my balls, or my boots.”

How magnanimous.
“Since when do sultans wear cavalry boots?” I demand. No

mean feat with his cock a scant inch from my mouth.

“When they’re gearing up to go for a long, hard ride. Count

your blessings I’m not wearing spurs, too.” He smiles.

I don’t.
In a split second, neither does he.
Without thinking about it—pure reflex action, so he has no

warning—my hands flash up, my palms connect with his chest,
and I shove him backward into the bath.

Splash!
Wow, look at that. Fluffy white froth sprays in all directions as

he lands flat on his sexy ass. For a magical moment it’s snowing
inside as well as out.

Now I can smile. Except when I do, it displays fangs and

probably seems more like a snarl. Considering my mood, either
works. When he hit the water, I hit wolf mode. Another reflex
action.

Self-preservation.
As a shifter—or Turner, as my clan calls it—I’m strong even in

human form. But so is Hunter, and when we’re men he tops me by
several inches and weighs almost fifty pounds more. I had to turn,
or he’ll skin me alive.

“I will anyway—and use your pelt for a throw rug, you son of a

bitch.”

What did I tell you? He’s mad all right. And so am I. It’s bad

enough when he insults me, but there’s no reason to bring my
mother into this.

THUNDERBALL

33

Grrrr…
I snap at him as he dives forward in a valiant but vain attempt

to grab my tail. Then I bound out of the bath and shake the soapy
water off my fur straight into his handsome, scowling face.

Ride that, pussycat.
“Arrgh!” Hunter’s growl echoes mine.
He’s so feral in the throes of fury. What a stud, huh? Hopefully

some soap got in his eyes because I need a few minutes head start.
But I don’t wait to see. I snatch up both our towels in my jaws and
hide them in the moist mulch under a big gardenia bush. That
should buy me another moment or two.

Way pleased with myself thus far, I prance out of the

courtyard, into the house, and up a wide flight of stairs, leaving a
trail of muddy paw prints on the immaculate cream colored
carpeting.

Guess who’ll be paying to replace it…
Several seconds later I’m human again, facing a full-length

mirror in Hunter’s and my bedroom, and playing quick-change
artist, one of my many theatrical talents. In less than a minute, I
pull on black fishnet stockings, a scarlet satin G-string and corset
with black lace trim, and five-inch stilettos, which will bring me
close to Hunter’s height. There’s not much I can do with my wet
hair, so I just slick it back off my face, and pause an instant to
study the effect.

Hmm, it makes me look kind of severe.
Good.
A speedy application of eye shadow, mascara, and ruby red

lipstick completes the ensemble. Almost.

As a finishing touch, I raid Hunter’s closet and confiscate

Baron Von Blitzen’s riding crop, then return to the mirror for a

THUNDERBALL

34

final check. A tall, sultry-eyed dominatrix stares back at me.
Wickedly winsome and kinky as hell with a sizable bulge straining
her G-string. A dominatrix with a dick.

Perfect.
And not a moment too soon.
Stomp, slosh, stomp…
Here comes Puss in soggy boots. They must feel awfully

uncomfortable. He really shouldn’t have worn them into the bath.
It’s okay, though. He won’t be in them much longer. I’m wearing
the boots now…metaphorically speaking. There’s just one last
thing I need.

My gaze slants to the tranquilizer-ray.
Tiny and shiny, disguised as a cigarette lighter, it sits atop

Hunter’s dresser, where he placed it when we arrived home
tonight. A single step carries me within reach, but I’m hesitant to
touch it. Why, I’m not sure. God knows I’ve been forced to use
weirder gadgets while working for EG, but I’m always leery of
them. As a shape-shifter, magic doesn’t faze me, yet technology
does. Blame it on my backwoodsy upbringing. Maybe deep down a
part of me is still an innocent, naive country boy.

“Innocent as a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Hunter bellows

through the bedroom’s closed door.

“Baaa,” I bleat as the door bangs open. In the same instant, I

snatch up the T-ray, aim, and zap him between the eyes. Damn,
that was almost too easy. I guess he thought I wouldn’t shoot—or
that he’d be able to stop me before I did. His mistake.

I think.
I’m wary, but stand firm, watching while he staggers forward.
One…two…three paces…
Timber! He keels over like a toppled sequoia, and lands face-

THUNDERBALL

35

first on our king-sized mattress. Helpless. Naked. At my mercy.
Right where I want him.

Success.
Way cool.
And I’m suddenly very hot—sweating, almost drooling. The

sight of him kindles a fire in my belly, hungry flames demanding
fuel. And we ain’t talkin’ charcoal. Wolf fires need meat.
Fortunately, there’s a smorgasbord spread out before me. Long,
strong limbs, broad shoulders, a muscular back, and an ass so good
it oughta be framed and hanging on the wall. If only I could. But
there’s nothing here to tie him to that would put Hunter in an
upright position. I’ll have to lash him, spread-eagled, to the
bedposts.

Not that I’m complaining.
Whew, this G-string is getting tighter by the second. And, no,

I’m not complaining about that either. I’m pondering the evil
possibilities, panting with anticipation.

The big question is should I secure my captive with baby blue

silk scarves, or pink? Fuchsia, maybe? Fashion accessories are so
important, y’know.

Okay, yeah, I’m rambling. Again. It’s difficult to think straight

with such a juicy array of options to choose from. Such a juicy
man… The real question, of course, is should I flip Hunter over
before tying him, or leave him facedown? Where do I want to
begin the feast? His luscious cock, or his scrumptious ass?

Suck him first, or fuck him? I can imagine both acts in torrid,

tempting detail. The exquisite taste and texture as his hard length
slides, inch by inch, into my mouth—the tightness and burn as I
shove my rod deep into him.

Decisions, decisions…

THUNDERBALL

36

“I thought you weren’t in the mood for either,” a husky voice

interrupts my plotting. “And you forgot the T-ray was tuned to a
canine frequency,” it adds with an incorrigible chuckle. “At its
current setting the device won’t work on anything human or
feline.”

Fuck.
Who forgot? EG’s full-sized T-rays don’t have different

settings. I didn’t know this new mini model did. But I knew Hunter
was faking. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Well, I’d suspected it, at
any rate. Then I got distracted by his bodacious bod.

I’m so damn aggravated I could spit. But somehow spitting

doesn’t seem the sort of thing a dominatrix would do—not a classy
one.

I stamp my foot instead.
Ker-ack!
Super. I just broke a stiletto. Now I’m aggravated and lopsided.
Hunter’s chuckle rolls into raucous guffaws.
My teeth clench. I wasn’t certain about the spitting, but I’m

damn sure no dominatrix would tolerate being laughed at. This one
won’t. Riding a fresh wave of reflex action, my hand snaps up and
the crop slams down.

The laughter explodes into a roar. “Ow!”
Oh, shit…
Horrified, I stare at the ugly red welt marring one hell of a

beautiful bottom. I’m mortified. The thing is, Hunter and I are
always threatening each other with bodily damage, but we never
deliver it. We argue, yes—it’s our contrary natures (also we kinda
get off on it)—but beneath the bickering, we’re really very truly
and madly in love.

Aren’t we?

THUNDERBALL

37

I sure am.
“With the emphasis on mad.” Slowly, with sinister stealth, like

a panther about to pounce, Hunter shifts to his side and props up on
an elbow.

I hold my ground—and my breath—bracing for a blow from a

granite fist. God knows I deserve it. I’m ready to receive a
retaliatory strike, but not at all prepared for the golden glow in
those gorgeous feline eyes. The hot gleam of a tease. Pure
devilment without a trace of malice or rage. Pure passion. My heart
hitches as a matching devil of a grin curls his lips.

“Mad as in crazy, Sylver, not angry. But it’s obviously

catching, because I’m crazy in love with you, too. Despite the fact
you’re a certifiable fruit loop.”

“Tangy and sweet?” Hey, I can live with that. I return the grin.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to taste you and find out, won’t I?”

Hunter stretches out his free hand and snags me by the G-string.
Warm fingers curve over the lace trimmed edge, grazing my cock,
tugging, pulling me close to the bed. “Can we screw the games
now? I’d rather we spend what’s left of the night just screwing.
How about it?”

He’s asking me? Frankly, I’m in no position to disagree even if

I wanted to—which I don’t. Off balance, teetering on a broken
shoe, I stumble and fall full-length on top of him. Sparks fly at the
contact. I’m swept into a furnace, the intense scorch of his flesh
molded to mine. Somehow in the impetuous second that follows,
my G-string snaps—okay, so I ripped it off—my thighs straddle
and hug Hunter’s hips, and my lips land on his.

::I’ll take that for a yes,:: he says telepathically—then fists a

hand in my hair and proceeds to kiss the stuffing out of me.

Yeah, I’m easy.

THUNDERBALL

38

And greedy for Hunter’s awesome lovemaking, ravenous for

the flavor and feel of him—solid and sensual. Hard muscle and hot
lust. Fevered skin dusted with downy dark curls in all the right
places. Iron and velvet, that’s my man. I’d planned to make him
submit to my will, but now I willingly surrender to his. What the
hell. The end result is the same. Waving the figurative white flag, I
lower my defenses and suck in his tongue, let him plunder my
mouth.

Mmm…minty. He’s been smoking catnip again. No wonder his

pupils are dilated. And here I thought it was the sultry sight of me
that put the glow in his eyes.

::You’re the glow in my heart, you idiot. I love your costume,

okay?::

He’s so romantic. Thanks, pussycat. I just wanted to make sure

he’d noticed.

::How could I miss it? Those fishnets drive me wild.::
Me, too, actually, but the man I wore them for drives me

wilder. In frenzied sync we devour each other, chest to chest and
groin to groin, two stiffening rods squashed between us. Hands
grope and grab, rove everywhere. Hearts hammer. Pulses pound.
Tongues duel, and the oral attack deepens. A harmony of growls
rumbles out—his and mine blended together—deep and throaty,
way sexy.

We do have our kinks, Hunter and I. He digs me in drag, and

I’m more than happy to oblige in that area. It works for us because
we both know, beneath the feminine frills, I’m all male. A fact that
sticks out like a sore thumb when Hunter pushes me up and off
him onto my ass, then sits opposite me to ogle his handiwork, what
a long, skilled kiss has accomplished.

“It’s your cock that’s sticking out,” he corrects, looking

THUNDERBALL

39

lecherous.

Yep, but it’s still sore—in the good way. Like a big, beefy

storm trooper in a Darth Vader helmet, my swollen dick stands at
rigid attention. How I hid it during my torch singer days,
performing in female attire, is a trade secret, but those who dared
to peek under my skirt got quite a surprise. Really. I have an
impressive package. Not as great as Hunter’s (no one’s is), but not
bad.

“Good enough for me,” he says, and flattens a hand on my

chest.

A hot thrill sluices through me as I’m pressed backward onto

creamy smooth satin. We always use satin sheets, mostly black,
Hunter’s signature hue, but this set is purple. Damn. They’ll clash
with my scarlet corset. Don’t you just hate it when that happens?

“Easily remedied.”
Rip! Hunter tears off the garment and sends it sailing across the

room. I lose more pretty clothes this way.

“You can keep the stockings,” he purrs. “They’re my color,

after all.” A feral, feline glint lights his eyes. “What’s in them is
mine, too, isn’t it?”

God, yes. I love it when he goes possessive, although he

doesn’t go there often. Usually I’m the possessive one. Wolf
nature. We mate for life, whereas tomcats…well, they’re not
famous for monogamy, are they?

I will say Hunter’s been doing his damnedest to be the

exception to the rule, though. “To stray or not” used to be our
favorite topic of discord. He tried to defend the practice—from the
cat’s perspective, of course. I tried to leave him because of it.
Neither of us succeeded. Now he devotes his full sexual attention
to his spouse, and we find other things to fight about.

THUNDERBALL

40

Like me quitting EG…
“No.” The syllable comes out on a groan. The glint in Hunter’s

eyes darkens. “We are not going to argue anymore tonight.”

“Shit, I wasn’t ‘arguing.’ Just thinking. If you don’t like it,

there’s an easy solution. Stay the hell out of my head.”

“Impossible. Your thoughts are the mental equivalent of

quicksand. Once I fall in, I’m stuck.” He flashes me an evil grin.
“The only remedy is to fuck you into a blind stupor.”

“Promises, promises—”
“Arrgh!”
With a savage growl, Hunter grips me behind the knees and

shoves them up to meet my shoulders, pinning me in a very
vulnerable and exposed position, putting my big erection and sweet
little ass at his mercy—and he has none.

Utterly ruthless, locking me down with one arm braced across

my legs and chest, he reaches to the side and grabs a gag gift, from
Count Poopsie, off the nightstand. A fluorescent yellow glow-in-
the-dark dildo. We’ve been using it as a flashlight.

::But I have a better use for it now,:: Hunter warns, while

sucking the thing like a banana freeze-pop. When it’s slick with
saliva, he deftly screws it into my rear.

Yikes, it’s almost as cold as a freeze-pop, too.
::Don’t worry, I’m not. That’s just to hold my place for me

until I’m ready for it.::

Hot and hungry, he descends on my dick, nibbling his way

down its length…laving my balls with raspy licks…teasing me
with tiny bites…then closing lips around my shaft and swallowing
me whole. I writhe beneath him, but I can’t escape. And, really,
who wants to? He sucks me into a spinning vortex of molten heat,
liquid fire. An undulating inferno…

THUNDERBALL

41

The center of a volcano.
The center of hell.
And it feels heavenly.
Flames lick me with Hunter’s tongue—demonic, divine. He’s

blowing me and blowing my mind. Psychedelic colors burst in my
brain, a kaleidoscopic whirl of smoldering reds and fiery orange.
Purple smoke billows around me… No, wait, that’s the sheets.
Still, they oughta be smoking. I am. Hunter sets me ablaze. I’m
gasping for breath, drowning in a scalding sea of sensation,
quivering, about to erupt—

::Sylver! Stop thinking and just come for godssake.::
Finally. Something we can agree on. His wish is my command.

Or, rather, his command happens to be my wish. The mere mention
of the act triggers it, and—bam—I shoot a load of hot lava down
his throat, then melt into the mattress. Through a steamy haze, I
watch him lick his lips, savoring the last drops.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, sounding incorrigibly pleased with

himself, “cats do love cream.”

So do wolves—at least this one does—but I haven’t the

strength or chance right now to suck Hunter. While I lay panting
and spent, drained, he removes the dildo and replaces it with the
real deal—grabs me behind the knees again, raises and spreads my
legs, and rams his cock in up to my tonsils.

Then he pulls out and rams in again…and again…stretching

my tight hole, straining me, nailing me to the bed with wicked
Steele strokes, bestial friction and force. He’s an animal.

Luckily, so am I. My wolf soul worships this unbridled

physical communion, and my Turner body is built to take it. My
body wants it, wallows in it, needs it for nourishment, even as my
heart needs Hunter in order to keep on beating. I’m tousled and

THUNDERBALL

42

sweaty, trapped under his weight… And, yep, he’s still wearing the
boots.

God, I love the rough stuff.
“Uhh…” A guttural grunt escapes me. It means wow. Only

better. He’s a lot larger than the rubber banana, and far more
effective. I knew that, of course, but it never ceases to amaze me
how great he feels—how great he fucks.

Potent, powerful, perfect. He almost crackles with energy—so

much sizzle, he recharges my batteries in seconds. You might think
we were hotwired together, and in a way, we are. Electricity surges
between us. Fresh heat floods my veins; heated blood swells my
dick. It’s wonderful how that works, isn’t it? I’m reloaded and
ready for action again.

“You’re also thinking again,” Hunter says on a hoarse breath.

“Which means I haven’t fucked you nearly enough.”

I hate to tell him, but that’s actually an inducement for me to

keep thinking, if you catch my drift.

“Catch this,” he growls. Digging a hand between us, he fists

my new hard-on in a warm, firm grip, then starts pumping it in
counterpoint rhythm to the pounding he’s giving my ass. He’s so
clever at multitasking.

And I’ve caught it, all right—fore and aft, coming and going—

kind of like catching fire. Every nerve ending ignites. Now I know
how a bag of popcorn in a microwave oven feels as the kernels
cook from the inside out, expand and explode. Hunter’s dual action
blisters my brain and nukes the rest of me.

“That’s the idea,” he whispers.
Smug bastard. I got an idea for him, too. But I don’t think

about it, which should make him happy. I just do it. A hard, fast
contraction of inner muscles that stops Hunter in his tracks and

THUNDERBALL

43

squeezes his cock in a hot satin vise. Sweet agony and ecstasy
combined. I know exactly what it feels like to him, because I’ve
ploughed his back acres as often as he’s ploughed mine. What I
forgot is that every action has an equal reaction. As my ass
squeezes him, Hunter’s fist squeezes me.

Result: The eruption of Mount Saint Helens in stereo.
We both climax.
Instantly.
Explosively.
Gloriously.
Then sink into the purple smoke…um, sheets.
Hunter rolls off me and collapses onto his back, his eyes

closed, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Neither of us
speak, neither of us move. We don’t need to. We’re both sated and
content with each other. Yeah, it does happen occasionally.

After a minute, Hunter pushes up to a sitting position and

collects his pipe and a pouch of pure, organically grown catnip
from off the nightstand. Through drowsy eyes, I watch him fill the
bowl of the meerschaum and light it…wait while he takes a few
puffs.

He looks gorgeous with his black hair rumpled, his tanned skin

still moist and flushed from our lovemaking. His muscles ripple
like molten brass. A soft, almost gentle light shines in his usually
sharp amber eyes. It’s moments like this that I love him the most.
He looks so at peace, so relaxed… I think now would be a great
time to discuss my leaving the Earth Guard—

“No.” With the word, Hunter slams down his pipe so hard it

cracks. “No. No. Never!” He fires a laser beam glare at me. “You
are not resigning. You are not retiring. No quitting. Period. You
are going to stay in EG, and that’s that! Got it?”

THUNDERBALL

44

Nope. But I think I’m about to get it. Again. I see more than

rekindled rage in that golden glare. Rekindled lust burns in his
eyes, also, and burns brighter than the anger. The fact is, where I’m
concerned, it’s difficult for Hunter to separate the two.

Maybe that’s why I often deliberately piss him off. Because it

makes him horny. Of course, he goes out of his way to annoy me,
too. And I can get as turned on by it as he does. I sometimes
suspect we love to argue almost as much as we love each other.
Fighting and fucking just seem to be a natural match for us. Go
figure.

I lounge on my back and raise first my right leg then the left

into the air to peel off my black fishnets and toss them aside. The
gesture signals a challenge from me to Hunter. Man to man. The
gloves are off, so to speak, along with all the girly garb and the
theatrics that go with it. Being a drag queen, for me, is a
performance art as much as anything—and one I’m damn good at.
But just because I dress like a woman doesn’t mean I want to be
one. Especially not now.

From the corner of my eye I watch Hunter’s gaze grow hotter

and hotter. A wicked thrill prickles up and down my spine as he
begins inching my way—a cat stalking its prey. But, hey, the prey
is a predator, too. Desire coils in my core, like a cobra ready to
strike.

The job subject isn’t closed so far as I’m concerned. It’s not

that I hate EG or the work we do, protecting the environment and
helping animals and people in need. I suppose I could still lend a
hand now and then…in an unofficial capacity. I just don’t want to
be my spouse’s employee. The two positions simply don’t mix. I’m
sure there’s a loophole somewhere in that contract. Tomorrow,
after we return Sam, I’ll find it. I’ll put on some jungle music,

THUNDERBALL

45

something with a driving drumbeat, grab a bottle of mosquito
repellent, and safari through the damn thing page by page until—

“Oh, no you’re not.” Pure sin in his eyes, Hunter leans over me,

his breath warm and minty on my face. “I’m going to fuck that idea
right out of your stubborn head.”

“Y’think?” I beam him a wolfish grin. Frankly, he doesn’t have

a snowball’s chance in hell. But it’s going to be a ton of fun letting
him try.

M

IMI

R

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

* * *

Don’t miss Your Cheatin’ Heart

by Mimi Riser,

available at AmberAllure.com!

For Sylver Starr, it’s not easy being a cross-dressing werewolf, a
secret agent for Earth Guardians, Inc., and also being married to
one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire who just happens
to be a cat-shifter.

Yep, canine and feline, a match made in heaven. Not!

The problem is, wolves mate for life, and we all know about
tomcats when it comes to fidelity, right? Add to Sylver’s trouble a
homophobic deputy sheriff and an alien invasion of Crocodoids
from the satellite galaxy Draco Dwarf, and…

Well, let’s just say Sylver Starr, werewolf and secret agent
extraordinaire, is about to have a very interesting night.

A

MBER

Q

UILL

P

RESS

, LLC

T

HE

G

OLD

S

TANDARD IN

P

UBLISHING

Q

UALITY

B

OOKS

I

N

B

OTH

P

RINT AND

E

LECTRONIC

F

ORMATS

A

CTION

/A

DVENTURE

S

USPENSE

/T

HRILLER

S

CIENCE

F

ICTION

D

ARK

F

ANTASY

M

AINSTREAM

R

OMANCE

H

ORROR

E

ROTICA

F

ANTASY

GLBT

W

ESTERN

M

YSTERY

P

ARANORMAL

H

ISTORICAL

B

UY

D

IRECT

A

ND

S

AVE

www.AmberQuill.com

www.AmberHeat.com

www.AmberAllure.com