Page 62 of Hunted

Because you never went into a mission without a Plan B.

Chapter 27

Three days later, Gunn and Michelangela were in a rented limo driving up to Trevor McIntyre’s mansion.

The estate was like nothing Michelangela had ever seen before—and nothing her wolf ever wanted to see again. The driveway went straight as a ruler through acres of fake-looking lawn dotted with perfectly manicured topiary trees. A butterfly. A cat’s head. A pineapple. An elephant.

Nothing rough or natural—everything cut or strangled into submission.

Michelangela’s wolf said, I want to dig a hole in the grass. Many holes. And piss on the pineapple.

Next to her, she could feel Gunn’s wildness as well—a wildness that belonged to the mountains and forests of Outlaw Ridge.

Neither of them could survive long in a place like this.

She reached out a hand to him, and he clasped it. “Ready to cause some chaos in this place?”

“Hell yeah.”

The house was worse than the yard. It was all gleaming white concrete, blocky and modern and angular, three stories in the middle and sweeping wings on either side. “It looks like a hospital mated with Caribbean prison,” she murmured. Gunn laughed.

“Thank the gods we don’t have to live here.”

We. That word gave her a little flutter in her stomach. She still wasn’t used to there being a we—and she hoped that didn’t get blown all to hell in the next few hours.

The driveway curved under a portico at the front door, which was guarded by more topiary in the shape of swords, and security guards in black suits standing guard right next to them.

That wasn’t subtle at all, but it did indicate that McIntyre was sensitive about his recent security breach, and was trying to reassure his clients.

Or himself.

Too bad that wasn’t going to work out for him. After this mission, nobody would trust his security anymore.

The driver pulled the limo to a smooth stop. Michelangela turned to Gunn and straightened the tie of his tux, even though they both knew it didn’t need straightening.

“How do I look?” she asked him. “Am I rich-bitchy enough?”

“Not to me. But only because I know what a wild child you are. McIntyre will be totally fooled.”

He kissed her lightly, careful of her makeup. “Let’s do this.”

Gunn got out of the limo as the driver came around to open Michelangela’s door. She put on her Angela Croft I’m-better-than-you-because-money face, took Gunn’s arm, and sailed into the house.

The game was on.

The interior of the house was also overwhelmingly white and gleaming. Gunn felt like he’d walked into a fucking snow field at the north pole.

Just inside the door they were met by more security—clearly a step up on the food chain, because they were wearing tuxes instead of mere suits. Not that that made them in any way look like guests.

He let Mikey do the talking, since she was the official invitee. “Angela Croft,” she said, in a bored tone. “I’m one of Trevor’s clients, and my guest and I have a special invitation for tonight’s event.”

“Yes, ma’am. One moment.” One of the security guards spoke softly into his comms unit, while the other asked, “Would you like a maid to take your wrap?” He gestured at the gossamer shawl draped over her arms.

“Of course not,” Mikey said, rolling her eyes. “It’s an integral part of the effect.”

The guard’s eyes barely flickered at her tone; probably all of McIntyre’s friends were rude and condescending. He simply gestured at a waiter, who brought over a tray of champagne glasses and offered them. Gunn and Mikey each took one, and then they were ushered off into a small anteroom.

Also white. Only a fucking polar bear shifter could feel at home here.