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“You’re in luck. This one’s connected to the security system. I can silence the alarm if it goes off.”

Grace ended the call with Dubois, tucked her phone away, extracted her vials of ingredients and a packet of matches before tucking her clutch beneath her arm out of the way. Three vials. Two with a mix of Angelica root, black pepper and white oak bark, and the third with a mix of skullcap, passionflower, hops and kava kava. Three ingredients for breaking wards, four to use on Alain to knock him out for a while. That’d been her plan. Sweet talk her way into his apartment, slip some sedative herbs into his wine and night-night Alain d’Louncrais. She’d have been free to search for the grimoire, and she wouldn’t have had to…to be intimate with him.

Though the Alain d’Louncrais she’d met at the Cluny Museum was a far cry from how she’d imagined him, in a very appealing way, Grace didn’t give that sort of gift out to just anybody. She hadn’t planned to give it to him. She still didn’t, no matter the thought of doing so had her heart tripping along in her chest and her belly swooping.

She tucked the sedative herbs into the corset of her dress. Just in case. She’d taken every precaution before she’d left her hotel, prepped for having to break at least one ward, but… The witch who had taught her the protection spell was powerful, and her spell was the strongest Grace had ever come across, but with the power emanating off this ward, it might not be enough.

She set one vial of herbs in front of the door and, with trembling fingers, struck a match, dropping it in the tube. Smoke curled, and a pungent aroma teased her nostrils. The smoke alarm stayed silent. Drawing calm from the familiar scent of the herbs, running through the spell in her mind, Grace placed a hand on the door. She snatched it back.

What in blue blazes?

She reached out again, more cautious this time. Instead of a prickling heat, or the stabbing pain of a thousand knives she’d expected, warmth oozed over her hand and up her arm. Not a painful heat. More like a caress, sensual and…sexual, as if the man himself were here, touching her. Grace’s nipples peaked and an insistent throb pulsed between her thighs. She retracted her hand again. Slower this time, and with a reluctance she could only put down to the memory of Alain d’Louncrais smiling at her. Those dimples. Those eyes.

But what does it mean?

Was d’Louncrais’ plan to seduce whoever might have got this far into staying because they were weak-kneed with desire?

What balderdash.

Grace sniffed. She was not some spineless floozy looking for a good time. She was a witch on a mission to save her mama. Grace grabbed the handle, opened the door, stepped into the warmth and crossed Alain d’Louncrais’ ward. She had a grimoire to find.

Chapter Five

After extracting assurances from Solange she would scour through her collection for information, Alain weaved his way through the mingling patrons, in search of dark hair cropped into a pixie cut, the flash of warm brown skin of a bare shoulder and the sparkle of crystals against a background of pale-yellow satin. He’d had to make a few promises of his own. Solange’s time and expertise didn’t come cheap. Handing over his copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon wasn’t something he’d intended to do, but if it saved his pack—saved him—it would be worth it a thousand times over.

He could’ve taken her up on her other offer. Any other time, with a beautiful woman like Solange, one who shared his predilections, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but as she’d ran her finger along her décolletage, her meaning crystal clear, all he’d been able to think about was his vision. Of the mystery woman, tied to his bed. So he’d made his counteroffer of the text. It was an offer Solange couldn’t refuse.

“Alain.” The head conservator of the museum waylaid him on his circuit of the room. “So good of you to come. Let me introduce you to a few of our other patrons.”

Alain exchanged introductions, smiled politely, made a few generous comments about the museum’s recent acquisitions then excused himself, resuming his search. She must be here somewhere? He circled the room again and still couldn’t find her. Les toilettes? Maybe. He waited, but she didn’t appear and he turned his attention to the entrance. Could she have left? Instinct crawled up his spine and soured his gut. Why would she leave? The event had barely started. Even the most gauche would stay until after the speeches.

He did another sweep of the room, noted Madam de Poitiers talking to a wine magnate and his mistress. The mystery woman wasn’t with her. He paused by the entryway. Where is she?

He was about to do another circuit when a rush of desire ripped up his spine, as unexpected as it was forceful. It took his breath away and brought his wolf so close to the surface that his canines punched through his gums. His cock pressed against his zipper, ready and raring to go. It took every bit of his will to not throw back his head and howl. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a server and took several sips, covering his bewilderment and trying to quench some of the heat roaring through his body. As quickly as it came, it disappeared.

What the fuck was that? He’d never experienced anything like it before. He raked his gaze across the room, searching for…what, he wasn’t sure. Something out of place.

“Looking for someone in particular?” Madam de Poitiers sidled up to him. “Perhaps a beautiful woman in a yellow dress?”

He forced his canines to retract. “Perhaps.” Could the mystery woman have something to do with it? His reaction to her earlier had been strong, and she was a witch.

“She’s gone,” she said, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “She left not long after I mentioned your appartement-terrasse at the Maison de Paon.”

The idea she might have gone to his apartment, in his heightened and highly aroused state, had a predictable effect on his groin. Not that it was needing any help right now. But she wouldn’t have, would she? She was far too wholesome to be that bold.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Precognition prickled across his scalp, and he fished it out. A message from Pierre, one of the Montagne twins tech duo. It buzzed again. He clicked into his messages and an image popped up on his screen. Her. Caught mid step as she walked through his apartment door.

Putain. Cordelia’s grimoire.

He was moving, excusing his way through the crowd of jewels and satin and black suits and bow ties, and making for the stairs, the tinkle of Madam de Poitiers’ laughter ringing in his ears. So certain had he been that the woman in yellow was merely a pleasant distraction, a fantasy, he’d ignored what her scent had been telling him. Ignored his instincts. So much for his cock not ruling his head.

In his car, he dialed Pierre as he roared out of the undercover car park and into traffic. Merde. He scrubbed his face. His body should not be so damn eager to get to her. But it was. Oh, it fucking was.

“You got the image?” Pierre’s voice echoed through the car’s speakers.

“Oui. Why the fuck didn’t you call me the moment she stepped out of the elevator?”

“My, someone’s not in a good mood tonight.”