Taking the Stage

“It might. You’re going to be riding my tiger every night for the next three months.” The words dripped with mockery and some other indefinable emotion.

Roseatre shifted away, sparing him a dismissive look. She’d practiced the art of cool disdain for years under her mother’s tutelage. He might call her princess in his low, rolling sexy voice as a jest, but it didn’t make it any less true.

“What’s the problem now, princess?”

“You’re getting sarcasm on my shoes.” She lifted one, taking great care to inspect it.

Anthony threw his head back and laughed, a deep belly-trembling shout of amusement.

The noise drew the dancers’ attention like children to free chocolate. Cerveau’s face twisted comically, a mixture of censure and curiosity reddening her cheeks. She wouldn’t approve the tone, but she would appreciate the cause.

“You still haven’t told me why you don’t like my cats.”

“They’re cats.”

Head canted to the right, he studied her. The deep blue of his eyes was enhanced by a circle of darker blue along the iris. His pupils seemed to blink on their own, but that wasn’t possible. Roseatre forced her gaze back to his dimples, just barely disguised by the thick rush of blond beard coating his cheeks.

“Cats are magnificent, bold and affectionate creatures. They are slow to trust, but have unshakable loyalty.”

“Until you’re dead and then they just eat your corpse.” She shuddered.

He laughed again. “You don’t need your body when you’re dead.”

She was missing everything Heidi was saying to the other dancers. Clearly, the stage manager didn’t care because she wasn’t even looking in Roseatre’s direction, much less shooting her with her optic laser beams of impatience.

“I’d rather my body was undisturbed, thank you very much. The idea of anything feasting after I’m dead is unappealing.” Not to mention sacrilegious. A warrior’s death should be honored with blades and flame, never teeth.

Or, the gods forbid, a hairball. Roseatre grimaced.

“Would you prefer they do it while you’re alive?” The silken whisper brushed against her ear. Tingles raced over her skin from the sweep of his beard on her cheek.

Heart leaping, Roseatre barely managed to suppress her startled scream and settled for smacking his chest. The hard muscles didn’t even budge as her hand made contact, leaving a vivid, white mark against the golden tan.

“You really need to stop doing that.” Enough is enough. The man might be here at Heidi’s request or the Overseers’, but his job was to deal with the damn cats.

“Stop what?” The mock innocence coating his teasing grin reminded her more of the tiger yawning than it did a conciliatory gesture.

“Invading my bubble.” She rolled her hand in the air between them. “You haven’t been invited into my bubble.”

The coolness in his gaze warmed considerably, his grin widened. He was obviously enjoying the hell out of her irritation.

“How does one get invited into your bubble?” He batted the air in front of her, a downright playful gesture that sank its claws into her belly.

Nope. Not going to be turned on.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, her gaze dipped back to the ripple of his abs as he edged closer and she backed up. For every step she took, he closed the distance until he was practically leaning forward into her personal space, amusement shining from his sinfully blue eyes.

She stopped abruptly when she realized they were alone on the stage.

Except for the cats.

Where did they go? All the dancers had left the stage, abandoning Roseatre to the crazy, sexy blond god and a collection of behemoth tigers in various stages of repose.

“You didn’t answer my question, princess. You aren’t scared, are you?”

Don’t run.

The instinct to cut her losses, dart off the stage and race up the aisle of the empty lounge as fast as her Louboutins would carry her, roared through her. Hot on the heels of that flash fire was stony resolve.

“Princesses don’t run, Ruth. They stand the battlefield. They lead the charge. Their armies must know that their leaders will return with their shields carried upon them.”

Roseatre was her stage name. Her real identity—Ruth Ann—was a Princess Royal, born to the Queen of the Amazons. Hers was the first birth of a royal princess to their ancient and dwindling tribe in four centuries.

She would not run. Roseatre braced her legs. She ignored her thin, negligible attire and lack of armor. She allowed the tempest brewing in her soul to glow in her hazel eyes.

“You’re here to do a job, Mr. diNapoli.” Frigid didn’t begin to describe the tone she attempted. She strove to emulate her mother’s legendary aloofness. Roseatre didn’t need to put up with the beast’s behavior, even this handsome, sexy beast that left her insides damp and aching. “I suggest we get on with it.”

“Oh, whatever you say, princess.”

The bastard appeared more amused than cowed by her words as he stepped back, swept a bow and motioned her back to the stage.

With its litter of cats.

Spine erect, she strolled away from him, every step deliberate. His gaze was a physical caress on her ass. She took her time and let him look.

And then let him weep.

Chapter Two

The princess was late.

It was their fourth “private” rehearsal time. After their first night, he’d settled for introducing her to each of the cats, encouraged her to run her long, nimble fingers over their silky coats and ignored the possessive surge of fur that writhed under his skin. His cat wasn’t interested in watching her pet others, much less the meek and submissive cats under his command.

Anthony diNapoli interlaced his fingers behind his back and bent in a long stretch, palms facing the ceiling. The muscles in his shoulders burned from the pull, until one by one, his vertebrae popped, easing his stress. The relief was instantaneous. His gaze flickered to the stage with impatience. It was too bad he couldn’t relieve other issues as simply.

But Anthony kept it under control.

Miss Roseatre might be a showgirl now, but she still carried the smell of bronze blades inherent to her race.

Amazon.

He could hardly believe his luck. The sting of losing to his uncle had left him alone and without a Pride in a world hostile to lone shifters. It required delicate negotiation and the backing of a strong group to travel through warring territories without offense.

Anthony possessed neither the skill for negotiation nor the backing of a Pride. So he was forced to beg, borrow and steal the goodwill of others to sponsor his travels. That meant he must cross some territories in hours or pay an exorbitant amount in tithe to those Packs and Prides where he worked.

The Arcana Royale was neutral territory. Anthony need pay nothing to the Pack controlling the Las Vegas territory nor a tribute to its reigning vampire prince, as long as he remained within the confines of the casino property. The casino had even negotiated his travel arrangements. The casino boasted everything he could need: income, sanctuary, and with the amount of power they controlled, significant perks like his suite. The gambling didn’t interest him, nor did the tourists and other paranormals. He wanted a home for his cats, and time. His job