Zander took another drink of his beer. “He doesn’t dislike her; he’s just wary of her.”
“Isn’t that pretty much the same thing?”
“No.” He thumped his bottle down on the table. “Now let’s fucking eat.” He turned his attention to his meal, but he kept an eye on Gwen: observing her, studying her, assessing her . . . and, yeah, ogling her legs. His wolf watched her just as carefully, still cautious, and—for the life of him—Zander couldn’t work out why.
“Zander.”
He snapped awake at the whisper in his ear. There was no one there. Well, of course there was no one there. Blinking, he picked up his phone and swiped his thumb across the screen to check the time. Seven thirty in the morning. He’d always been an early riser, so his body’s clock had obviously woken him. Obviously. It happened often and—
The balcony door was open.
Suddenly alert, he slowly slid out of bed. There was no one in the room—he’d smell them if there were. Yet, he didn’t feel alone. And he knew for sure that he’d locked the damn balcony door.
He silently padded onto the balcony, stepping into the humid air. There was no one.
Hearing muttering, he looked down to see an Aston Martin parked outside. Nice car. But something about the guy who was standing beside it, talking on his cell phone, raised Zander’s hackles. Or maybe it was the draft that came from behind him and brushed over his nape. He already knew before he glanced over his shoulder that no one would be there.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, refusing to acknowledge any of the weird shit going on. His focus was on the shady-looking guy outside. A guy who was now walking toward the house, a determined expression on his face. He was probably a new guest arriving, but said guest was setting off Zander’s inner alarms. Maybe he should go down there and find out why.
CHAPTER FOUR
Having finished their pancakes, Gwen and Marlon cleaned up their mess so they could prepare breakfast for the guests. The kitchen was pretty spacious, with oak cabinets, a large pantry, stainless-steel appliances, and the wooden island in the center.
As she swept the crumbs from the counter into her hand, careful not to drop any on the tiled floor, Yvonne walked in.
“Morning, darlings.” Yvonne beamed. “Where’s Donnie?”
“He came by a half hour ago,” said Marlon. “I offered him breakfast, but he said he was still stuffed from the squirrel he snacked on last night. He went to his cabin.”
“Well, of course he ate a squirrel as a late-night snack,” said Yvonne drily. “Who doesn’t?” She sighed. “I need to speak with him. I shouldn’t be long.”
“We’ll be fine here,” Gwen assured her.
Casting them a sunny smile, Yvonne disappeared out the back door.
Marlon shook his head. “Like we don’t know when she’s fake-smiling. She always gets like this around Asshole’s birthday. I don’t know why, because, as the nickname suggests, he’s an Asshole.”
“Yeah, but they were together for two years, and she’s not good at being on her own. She goes to Donnie because she knows he’ll verbally shred Asshole’s character until she feels we’re all better off without him—which we are.”
“Why doesn’t she like talking badly of him in front of us? She knows we despise him. It’s not like she’d be poisoning our minds against him. He did that all on his own.”
“I think she doesn’t want us to see how much he hurt her; she doesn’t want that to hurt us and—” Gwen cut herself off at the chime of the doorbell. “I’ll get it.” Hoping it wasn’t Colt with more complaints from the Moores, she strode into the hall. But as she opened the door, it wasn’t to find Colt on her doorstep. No, it was worse.
Gwen gripped the edge of the door, mouth tightening. It was hard not to snarl at the balding, impeccably neat male. His smile was wide and friendly, but it had a shady edge to it—the kind you saw on a slimy door-to-door salesman. At least Brandt didn’t hide that he was a bastard. His father, however, lavished everyone with a false charm that grated on her nerves.
She noticed his chauffeur, Thad, leaning against the car, staring right at her. From what she could tell, the guy was also Ezra’s right-hand man.
“Good morning,” Ezra said brightly.
She arched a brow. “Is it?”
His smile faltered slightly. “Miss Miller, I’ve come in peace, I assure you.”
“And yet, I’m not feeling assured, Mr. Moore.”
“Please call me Ezra.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
“I was hoping that you and I could talk.”
“Is that not what we’re doing?”
“In private, I mean.” He glanced over her shoulder, hinting to come inside.
“This is private enough.”
His eyes hardened a little. “Very well.” Clearing his throat, he offered her a contrite smile. “I wanted to apologize for my son’s behavior the other night. He confessed that the bat is his and that his injuries weren’t caused by you—that you simply took the bat from him before he could smash the window of your truck. The incident shamed all three young men, and I know their families feel just as disappointed with their sons as I do with mine.”
What a crock of shit. “While I appreciate your taking the time to come here, I don’t want an apology. I want assurances that your son will stay away from me—that is all.”
He gave a respectful nod. “Understandable.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a check. “Allow me to offer this as compensation.”
She blinked. “Compensation?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“You’re offering me ten grand . . . because your son acted like a dick?”
He seemed about to jump to Brandt’s defense, but then his face molded into a remorseful expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “Brandt is . . . troubled. I will admit that. But he would never raise his fist to a woman, let alone drug and beat one with a pole. He insists that you misread the situation you stumbled across, that he merely came upon the female shifter after she’d already been beaten by someone else.”
Anger surged through Gwen. She somehow managed to bite back a curse. “You don’t believe that. You want to believe it. But you don’t. Look, I get that he’s your son, and you don’t want to see him punished by the shifter council, but you can’t seriously think he doesn’t deserve a punishment for what he did.”