Free Wilder's Mate by Moira Rogers Page A

her. Instead she looked away, cultivating her best bored look as her fingers curled into her skirts under the table. After a long silence, the chair scraped across the floor. “Why don’t we take our negations somewhere a little more private, and see what we can settle upon?”
    Wilder turned to her and nodded. “The choice is yours.”
    If he was giving her a choice at all, it followed he wanted her to agree. She nodded once and then held out her hand.
    Before Wilder could take it, the blond man rose from his chair and closed his gloved fingers around hers with another of those wicked smiles that probably set female hearts aflutter whenever he chose to wield it. Cool, firm lips brushed her knuckles, his mustache tickling the back of her hand before he glanced up. “Archer, at your service, m’lady.”
    Wilder’s expression didn’t change, but he kicked the chair again, slamming it into the man’s knee.
    Satira was close enough to see his tiny flinch—and the odd little flash of satisfaction across Archer’s face as he released her hand and straightened. “I’ve taken the liberty of securing the private dining room. If you care to escort your lady?”
    Wilder rose and pulled back her chair before offering his arm, his sharp gaze still on the blond man.
    “If you please.”
    It seemed as if every eye followed them as Wilder led her to the far side of the common room. A heavy wooden door opened to reveal a smaller dining room decorated in golds and rich burgundy, from fabric draped haplessly on the walls to the too-large tablecloth that dragged against the floor.
    Satira pulled free of Wilder the moment the door closed and braced both hands on her hips, fixing the man with her best glare.
    It made Archer laugh. “Well, old man, you can still rile the ladies up, true as you ever did.” Wilder punched him on the arm. “Maybe you should keep your lecherous stares to yourself, Archer.” Her ire rose another notch. “I’m glad the two of you find this amusing.”
    “I’m not amused,” Wilder retorted. “I’m about to kick this turd’s ass.” Satira ground her teeth together until her voice came out as clenched as her jaw. “ Why ?” Archer laughed. “Bloodhounds are territorial, sweet thing.” He tossed his hat onto the table. “Best remember that if you plan to run with one.”

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    Moira Rogers
    Wilder turned a chair around and sat. “What the hell are you doing here anyway, Arch?”
    “Undercover.” Archer sprawled in the opposite chair and lifted both booted feet to the table, heedless of the damage they’d probably do to the precious tablecloth. “Been deep in the Deadlands for six months now.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Inciting the bloodsucking bastards into killing each other off. Most of them are in a blood feud with at least a half dozen of the other ones. Keeping them stirred up isn’t so hard.” Wilder chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”
    It sounded useful. Satira stepped forward and planted herself firmly between the two men, intent on capturing Archer’s undivided attention. “Have you heard anything about a Guild inventor who’s been taken captive?”
    The man’s humor faded, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “I’ve heard rumors. Been waiting for confirmation.”
    Too many nights in Wilder’s bed had dulled her sense of self-preservation. She’d already taken a step forward before she remembered that the man sprawled so casually in front of her wasn’t a man at all. The urge to curl her fingers in a bloodhound’s vest and shake him until answers tumbled out was damn close to suicidal.
    Her hands shook with the effort control cost her. “What rumors?” He watched her sharply. “That one of the younger bloodsuckers is planning a coup, but he needed a weapon. He needed a Guild inventor.”
    “Which one?”
    Archer huffed out a laugh, and Wilder spoke. “We plan to head out, Arch, so you may as well tell us.” He shook his head. “You’re