Chapter One

 

Thunk. Thunk. One more? Yes. Keirnan Thane let his forehead hit the wall in a final thud and left it there, his body sagging into the hotel corridor wallpaper.

“Told you.” Amy Prescott blew out a cloud of smoke from the cigarette she was illegally smoking behind a potted palm. She stubbed out the butt against the ornamental pot and pushed it deep down into the plant’s soil before she slid out from her hidey-hole. “Warned you these press junkets were hell.”

“You did.” Keirnan straightened to face his co-star, one considerably more seasoned than him, whose famous waist-length red hair still hung in smooth waves and whose green eyes still looked bright. The glimpse he’d had of his own hair and face in an alcove mirror had shown overlong wavy brown hair escaping from the gel combed through it earlier, to now tickle his forehead and neck. It went with his now heavy-lidded moss-green eyes and the stubble that had thickened on his face since that morning. No sweat, though—the handler assigned by the PR company sprang up and blotted that off in the sixty-second gap between interviews.

Amy patted his biceps, her gesture soothing, although she hadn’t been shy in telling the media that she totally understood the liking Keirnan’s newly grown fanbase had for the six-foot-two actor. How much of that was mere PR fodder, Keirnan didn’t know.

She gave a snort. “And there was you this morning, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, looking— Oh, God. I wasn’t— You know I’d never…”

“I know.”

For a Hollywood starlet making her way up the ladder, she was decent. Amy had never sneered at him for being a wolf shifter, had never mocked him or made him the butt of any jokes or snide remarks. Not that many people had, since he’d reached his teen years—if his height didn’t command respect, his gym-honed two hundred-pound frame did. And now his acting was, finally. Even if each mention of him did come with a seemingly obligatory reference to his ‘intensity’ or his ‘coiled-spring energy.’ Yeah, he got it, heard the dog whistles—literal ones—for his species. At least he didn’t get the epithet ‘brooding’ following him, like vamps did.

“See you took my advice and told your handler you needed a cigarette break.”

“Even though I don’t smoke, and Raffa knows it.” Keirnan pulled the petals from a fat rose in the bowl of flowers on the table.

“You’re learning, kid.”

His turn to give a huff of laughter—she was younger than him. He shook his head at her offer of a mint and had to turn his head slightly when she threw one into her mouth and crunched it. Certain scents were very strong for a shifter, and the menthol of her candy and the citrus of her perfume were among them. He’d learnt early to endure, of course. He grinned, wondering if he’d ever reach the stage of stardom where he could dictate what colognes people working on set with him were allowed to wear, or what food and drink was permitted in catering. He somehow couldn’t see himself making those demands, or having those riders in a contract.

God, he was dry-mouthed from all the talking he’d been doing. And dry-brained, too, drained of retelling in different ways the handful of amusing anecdotes from filming Desert Warrior and expressing his very high hopes for the movie and his very favourable opinions of all the people involved. He chugged down a bottle of water in a series of swift swallows, hoping that would refresh his mental stock too.

“You know your problem, kid?” Amy asked, playing it like some 1920s mobster’s gal. “You take it too seriously.” Rummaging in her bag for a lipstick, she dropped into her exaggerated version of his British accent. “You see it as something more than it is, you know?”

Keirnan pushed the shredded petals back into the bowl and rapped his knuckles against the porcelain’s thin china side, trying to dissipate some of the ‘animal energy’ he apparently carried around with him. “Okay, so I hoped people would ponder on Desert Warrior’s message about the military-industrial complex shaping foreign policy and decisions to go to war…”

“Yeah, right. Good luck with that. Everyone likes the last scenes, though.” Amy imitated the knock-out punch he delivered to the armaments’ lobbyist after fighting his way through betrayal and heartbreak to the Pentagon.

“Yeah. Fine, I wasn’t really expecting people today would ask about the movie’s deeper themes, but we’re here to promote the product, and giving interviewers ten-minute slots means they all end up asking the same questions and I’m reciting the exact same answers. I’m trying to vary them, but they’re coming out word for word.”

“Journalists don’t care about the similarities as long as they get their sound bites.” Amy dropped her tube of lipstick back into her bag, then widened her eyes and put her hand over her mouth. “Ohh! I said bite. Sorry, Mr Thane. I guess the more you try and avoid mentioning something, the more it comes up. Like me hoping they don’t bring up my shoe fetish…” She sashayed ahead of him, kicking up her heels to show the red soles, crooning one of her crazy mash-ups. This one had “My pumps, my lovely lady pumps” seguing into “Throwing on my Louboutins.”

She was as kind as ever, trying to make him laugh and relax. And it worked; he was still grinning as he followed her, peeling off into his designated room. The pile of promo material reminded him they were gearing up for the London premiere. Would they be going through this again in several other capital cities? Well, he’d wanted to see the world…

‘“Second verse same as the first,”’ he muttered, catching Amy’s scraps-of-songs habit, when the next journalist was shown in.

But as the afternoon wore on, any relaxation or ease wore off. Or perhaps, maybe because his PR guy had taken off for a few hours, claiming a medical appointment, the gloves were off. These interviewers were focussing less on the movie as a whole and more on him, as a wolf. Yes, it was the first big Hollywood role for a shifter not playing a werewolf—not that there was any such thing—or an evil, swarthy villain. Yes, he was playing the lead in an action film. Yes, it was exciting, trailblazing for shifters and of course he hoped to see more of them in mainstream cinema, playing comedic roles, romantic leads, whatever. And more of them in mainstream society as a whole.

After Julia and Richie, the movie publicists in the room with him, had shut down more invasive questions for the umpteenth time as not being relevant to the movie, Keirnan begged for a break and a few minutes’ privacy. Groaning, he threw himself down flat on the too-small couch and held a too-floral pillow over his face to muffle his loud half-scream, half-moan, sneezing when the fabric conditioner smell prickled his nose. He held the makeshift blindfold over his eyes instead.

“No, I don’t fall to my knees and howl in pain when I transform. No, the moon doesn’t make all my clothes magically fall off,” he said out loud to the thankfully, blessedly, empty room, answering questions he’d faced from non-shifters since he was old enough to talk. And those questions the press had clearly wanted to ask, questions he’d faced since adolescence from non-shifters? “No, I don’t have an unfeasibly massive cock that springs up whenever I see a cute arse and that stops me walking. And, no, I don’t screw anything that moves.”

“Got it. So I won’t bother buying you a drink then,” a voice replied. A male voice. A sexy male voice, with a pissed-off note to it.

Keirnan whipped the pillow from his eyes to stare up at the owner of the voice. It could have been the upside-down angle he was peering from, but something about the sight struck him, hard, low-down and dirty, like a punch to the solar plexus from the stunt trainer. No, not the sight. The man.

Tall, lean-legged, flat-bellied and narrow-waisted, and yet broad-shouldered— that typical swimmer’s body Keirnan went for. But that wasn’t it, any more than the honed triceps and wide upper back Keirnan swung himself into a sitting position to check out. Neither was it the man’s short, straw-blond hair or his deep-end-of-the-pool-blue eyes, shining from behind his black-framed glasses, although Keirnan stared hard at both, just as the guy stared back at Keirnan, his striking eyes widening as he did so.

No, it was something more, something extra, something almost tangible, reaching out across the prissy, thin-cushioned, spindly-legged hotel room to him. Something that both scratched bone-deep, and yet made his blood itch. Something that stilled his lungs, yet made him pant. Something that warmed him through, like the heat of a fire and yet chilled him to the marrow of his bones. What the fuck? Keirnan didn’t like not understanding. It made him angry, had him springing to his feet.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” The open-mouthed staring match made him defensive, had him breaking the eye contact.

“Sam, I told you!” was hissed from the doorway by another guy, sticking his head around the opened door, his camera and equipment screaming photographer. Which made Blondie a journo.

“No one came for us. I didn’t want us to miss our precious eight minutes,” the reporter said, his gaze still trained on Keirnan, his tone clipped North London.

Oh. Terri—wasn’t it?—who was ferrying journalists from the hospitality suite to his room, must have grabbed a short break because her co-workers were.

“My fault.” Keirnan avoided looking at the blond and beckoned the lurking photographer forward. “We all took a quick breather. I’ll see you get your allotted time and move everyone else back a few minutes so no one loses out.” As near as he’d come to an apology. “Help yourself to water. There’s fruit juice too.” And so was that. “Sam…”

“Howard. London Chronicle and Sunday Chronicle.”

“Mr Thane?”

“Keirnan,” Keirnan corrected, both for the photographer and for…Sam. He pretended he didn’t see the other guy’s signals for Keirnan to sit in the chair raised on the podium with posters for Desert Warrior behind him and lights and diffusers trained on him. Instead he wandered to the window, to squint down at the London street below, and after a few seconds, the photographer followed, to snap away.

“So.” Keirnan eyed Sam, or more accurately, found his gaze pulled again to the tall, slim blond. “I suppose my cock size is now a sound bite.”

“A…sound…bite.” Sam didn’t echo Keirnan’s words—his phrasing gave them an entirely different meaning, one loaded and filthy.

And was he glancing down at Keirnan’s groin? Keirnan’s body tightened, and he half-turned away, his mind disbelieving that even the thought of Sam ogling him had this effect on him, while his body proved it so. The large hotel room had shrunk to a small intimate space for the two of them.

“And ‘alleged’ cock size. In quote marks.” Sam made them as he spoke. “An entertainment journalist can’t be too careful around stars.”

Keirnan did not want to examine why the fact he’d turned Sam’s mood so playful so quickly, after he’d entered the room so short-tempered, gladdened his heart. “Hmm. Why do I think you’re taking the piss? Or is this your first day on the job?”

“Something like that.” Sam’s tone had flattened.

“Which?”

He didn’t get his answer—his three-person team rushed in, horrified and nervous that the schedule had become scrambled. Keirnan waved it all away as best he could, still pinned against the window by Sam’s gaze.

“Just a few minutes left,” Richie warned, his face twisted into the apologetic grimace it always wore at this point of the interview.

“Do you have a question?” Keirnan shot Sam a look from under his half-closed lids and lowered lashes. Sam was his height—Keirnan didn’t have to train his gaze downward.

“Actually, I do. Have you thought about breathing meditation to help you balance your energy?”

“Have I…” Keirnan stared, nonplussed.

Sam flicked a glance at the couch with its pillow discarded on the floor from Keirnan’s abbreviated meltdown. “Focussed breathing?” he continued.

“You…could teach me?” Woah. That hadn’t been at all what he’d set out to say. That had perhaps been some snark about Sam being like all the rest, taking refuge in lazy clichés, on doubt churning out anther cookie-cutter piece rife with comments on Keirnan’s ‘raw power’, his ‘on the volcano’s edginess’.

If he’d been about to add more, it was lost when he found himself copying in sinking to the floor, his back against the wall and Sam’s against a chair, their hands resting in their laps. Keirnan inhaled, taking in Sam’s scent, something natural and delicate, like soft and clean fresh water dripping from leaves and flowers and pooling on the grass. It stole his senses and made his head swim, and he fought to focus on his breath, on his inhalations and exhalations.

“Ham it up,” Sam instructed, his full lips curved into a slight smile, taking an exaggerated breath in to show him. Copying his action brought Sam’s tantalising cologne to Keirnan again. He breathed as deeply as he could, taking it into his body, into his memory. “Hold…and out.” Sam exhaled. He repeated the actions a couple more times, nodding encouragement to his student.

“Focus on the rise and fall of your chest, or how your breath feels passing through your nostrils into your lungs,” Sam said.

Keirnan traced with his gaze the sink and swell of Sam’s upper body, and when he caught Sam’s eyes glued to Keirnan’s chest, Sam flushed. “If you find your mind wanders, distracted by thoughts or bodily sensations, that’s okay,” he said, his voice a little husky. “Just bring your attention back to your breath.”

“Yes.”

Sam canted his head at Keirnan’s reply, but didn’t speak. Instead, they sat, breathing in unison, their gazes locked, Keirnan’s forest-green holding Sam’s sapphire-blue just as much as Sam’s gaze trapped his. They were too far apart. With the distance, there was no way his knee could rub against Sam’s, much less his hand bridge the gap and reach for Sam’s to pull it into his own lap. Still less possibility that he could—

“Ahem.”

Damn Richie and his exaggerated pursed-lipped ‘sorry time’s up; get gone’ performance. Damn Terri, ready and waiting to show Sam and his photographer out.

“Relax. Come back to yourself, and you’re done.”

Sam’s voice was low and soft now, and Keirnan ached to hear it even more quietly and intimately, in some place where it was just the two of them, Sam leaning into his space, sharing confidences with him, revealing secret, scorching longings—longings Keirnan caused. He’d reciprocate with his own, his deep, dark desires, clutching Sam’s hand to his chest for him to feel Keirnan’s heartbeat, strong and fast, accelerated for the blond man close to him.

He followed Sam’s movements as the man stood. Keirnan blinked and shook his head, hoping to clear it. Was Sam as affected by their meeting as he was? If he was, he wasn’t showing it, although his eyes looked a little more guarded, mysteries in their blue depths, when he reached down a hand to pull his student up.

Keirnan held Sam’s hand even after he was on his feet, feeling life throb under his smooth skin and jump in the pulse at his wrist. Awareness and something else flared in Sam’s eyes, and his heart rate increased, just a notch. A human wouldn’t have seen it, but Keirnan’s shifter senses told him Sam’s blood pumped that tiny bit faster and his heart beat a tad more strongly. And that private knowledge only served to whet Keirnan’s appetite—what other secrets was Sam keeping?

“This way.” Terri was almost shoving the journalist and photographer out of the side door.

“Well, thank you.” Keirnan shook Sam’s hand before letting it go. With reluctance. “Oh, keep up the swimming.” He let his lids half-close over his eyes and tilted his head back to look down from between his lashes, instantly cursing himself after in case Sam didn’t understand that Keirnan was imitating the sleepy-sexy-stare pose he struck in the movie poster and publicity material.

The photographer did, thank God, looking from Keirnan to his life-size cardboard doppelganger near the podium, chuckling as he did so.

“Swimming? I intend to, thanks.” Sam was back to sounding vaguely pissed-off. “You keep up the, erm, body-building,” he called over his shoulder as he exited.

Keirnan stood staring at the door the twosome has left from, and it took Julia pulling on his arm and Richie fake-coughing in his ear to snap him out of it, make him turn around with a plastered-on smile for the next reporter, the next microphone, the next set of identical questions.