Free Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply by Michele Bardsley Page B

Mama Bear. “I’m bored! I’ve eaten my weight in quiches, and you’re supposed to prevent me from doing that. If you don’t call me in the next five minutes, I’m going to the dessert table without you. I will eat all the cheesecake, Dove.
All
of it.”
    I ended the call and slipped the phone back into the little purse. Worry nibbled at me like vicious hamsters. Surely Dove was fine . . . just being extra Dove-y, or something. And I really wanted her to see my dress. I suspected it might actually rate Dove approval.
    I looked down at said dress and sighed. I’d unearthed the purple sheath and matching heels from the closet. With my hair pulled into a topknot, and the amethyst jewelry I wore, I looked good. And with all the lotion and powder and spritz I’d put on after my shower, I smelled good, too. Considering I spent a lot of time in the same clothes, sweating daily, showering . . . um, weekly, and ignoring stench and beauty in the name of archaeology, dressing up in this kind of finery was unusual. And uncomfortable. Why couldn’t some designer make T-shirts and khakis the next big trend?
    I looked at my wristlet, debating whether to call Dove again. Maybe I should go to her apartment and make sure she hadn’t suffocated after putting on her corset.
    Dove was an irreverent bitch, but she was responsible. And she didn’t lie. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. I was giving her fifteen minutes. If she didn’t show by then, I would track her down. And if she was alive . . . I would kill her.
    I sipped my champagne. The college orchestra played lovely eighteenth-century music, and performers from our dance and theater programs were showcasing Baroque dances, such as the minuet and the gavotte.
    Then the tempo changed to an upbeat tune, and the performers dispersed, grabbing partners from the watching crowd and dancing with sweet abandon.
    “Good evening, Dr. Jameson.”
    I turned my gaze to the gentleman who’d approached me. He was taller than I was by several inches, and I was six feet. He was also nicely filled out, muscled in a non-brutish way, with sandy brown hair and eyes so blue they looked gray . . . and cold. Like fog rolling over a fresh grave. I had no idea where that imagery was coming from, but that’s the feeling he gave me. He was handsomely dressed in an old-fashioned tailored tuxedo. I had pictures of my grandfather from his youth in the same style of formal wear.
    “Good evening,” I said. I felt electrified in his presence, as though I were standing near a live wire and should tread very, very carefully. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
    “Ah, now there’s a question.” He studied me closely. “You don’t remember, do you?” He bent his arm under his waist and swept into a graceful half bow. “My name is Karn.”
    His name was Karn? Last? First? Or was he more like Cher or Madonna? “I’m Dr. Moira Jameson,” I said, even though he apparently knew my name.
    He extended his hand. “Dance with me.”
    “It’s kind of you to ask, Mr. Karn,” I said, as though he had politely queried instead of quietly demanded. I resisted the urge to bat his hand away, “but I’m leaving.”
    “Just Karn,” he said, in nearly the same severe way that Dove often introduced herself. He dropped his hand and offered a thin-edged smile. “A dance, Dr. Jameson.” He leaned close, the smile growing sharper still. “I’m afraid I must insist. Especially if you hope to see your darling little Dove again.”
    “What?”
    He kept a polite, distant expression while he took the champagne flute out of my hand and set it onto the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m quite sure you don’t have problems with your hearing, Dr. Jameson.” He once again extended his hand. “Shall we?”
    This man had kidnapped Dove? Why would anyone take her? I gripped his hand, resisting the urge to twist his fingers enough to break them. For a moment his eyes gleamed with challenge,