The Billionaire Werewolf's Princess

“Billionaire?” she whispered. “What have you stumbled onto, Indi?”

She scanned the article and it mentioned that Ryland James was a philanthropist who gave away billions but was noted as media-shy, and while he was occasionally seen with a date, no woman could ever be pinned to him as a long-term relationship. He was always the talk of the party when he arrived, and socialites listed him as their BILF—B standing for billionaire—on their social media pages.

“I was rescued by a billionaire?” She couldn’t help the incredulous tone. But at the same time... “Why have I never heard of him before?”

She was a socialite. She participated in all social media and liked to know who was who and what they were doing with whom and for how long. Of course, she’d never followed the philanthropy hashtag before. As a trust-fund baby, she’d grown up, admittedly, with a silver spoon in her mouth. But now that she was on her own, she was perfectly happy to create her own riches. And was doing a great job at it.

And yet.

“Why would a billionaire be out in the middle of the night wielding a sword and chasing weird monsters?”

Because that was what she’d witnessed. Much as she didn’t want anyone to hear her say it out loud, she had seen exactly that. Monsters. Big, black, sparkly monsters that had sort of faded out in a long wispy tail of darkness. And a tall, muscled, handsome man who had swung a sword like a Viking marauder.

“And I woke up under his coffee table. If only I had known he was rich, I would have stayed for breakfast. Ha!”

No, she wasn’t the gold-digging type. Generally, a man’s checkbook did not influence his attractiveness. And hadn’t she given up on rich, self-involved men because of the extremely humiliating dumpage from Todd?

“For sure. No more rich businessmen.”

Scanning through a few articles on him, she didn’t learn much more, other than that he had been wooed by major modeling agencies and had refused contracts from all of them. Was known for driving a black Alfa Romeo down the Champs-Élysées at top speed. And could be rude to reporters when they pushed him for information. A rumor that he’d once dated Lady Gaga could not be confirmed. However, according to a tabloid, they had been in the same New York concert hall on the same night and both had left in the same limo.

Teasing her tongue along her upper lip, Indi double-clicked on the one photo that showed his face. The man was so freaking gorgeous. He wore his long dark brown hair loose, yet in other pictures it was pulled back behind his head. Always, the shirts he wore strained across strapping biceps and pecs. And the mustache and trimmed beard framed some seriously kissable lips.

“Billionaire or not, I most certainly need to thank him. And ask him the burning questions. Today. I do remember where he lives.”

Now to figure out what to wear when thanking a man for saving her life, while also wanting to enhance her assets without looking desperate. But she had just been dumped. She really should go into mourning for a bit.

“He’s not worth it,” she muttered, dismissing Todd with the breezy apathy she should have had the other night. But if she hadn’t been so distraught she would never have had a few too many drinks and wandered the streets, and she would never have run into Monsieur Sexy Billionaire.

“Not chasing after another rich man,” she said, confirming her drunken decision to forgo them. “But I do need some answers.”

Grabbing her half-empty coffee mug and heading down the hall to her bedroom, Indi tore off her robe and entered her closet to stand naked, perusing the possibilities. She owned a lot of clothes, and she wouldn’t apologize for the extravagance. Shopping was in her blood. Her closet had always been bigger than her bedroom since she could remember, even from when she was a toddler. Dressing up made her happy, just as wearing cat ears gave her confidence. Besides, her job required she seek out vintage, and off-season, designer clothing. If she happened on the perfect item of clothing for herself, she would never deny that want.

She touched the red dress. “Too aggressive.” And it was the one Todd had always asked her to wear. “Never going to wear that dress again.” It was Betsey Johnson. She’d gotten it off the rack during a discards sale. “I’ll make a few adjustments to it, then sell it on the site.” She pulled out the pink lace number. “Too summer-wedding.” A white pantsuit with navy pinstripes was what she called her power suit. “Too businessy.”

The blue sundress with a fitted bodice and full skirt would look great with some rhinestone heels.

“Or some stop-him-dead-in-his-tracks gladiator sandals.”

Decided, Indi went about getting on her A-game.

An hour later, she stood before the door to Ryland James’s apartment. At least, she hoped it was his place. When she’d fled the other morning, she was pretty sure she’d walked down four flights of stairs. This was the only apartment on the fourth floor.

She knocked and someone called out from the other side of the door to “hold on.”

Primping, she quickly pushed up the girls. A lather of her pistachio-almond moisturizer over her décolletage, and some soft heather eye shadow along with pale lips, had given her a summery look. She liked to wear her hair pulled up, and today she’d gone with a bouncy ponytail high at the back of her head, with long strands teased out to frame her face.

Why she was nervous was beyond her. It wasn’t as though she intended to throw herself at the man. She was getting over a breakup. And she didn’t do rebound guys. That was crazy waiting to happen. But she did have good reason to return to his place today. And that reason was what made her anxious.

The door opened to reveal a man a good foot taller than her, wearing loose jeans that hung low on his hips to reveal gorgeous cut muscles that veed toward his crotch. He wore no shirt, so she followed those ridges upward, over abs of steel and pecs that might have been formed from stone. Indi finally met the man’s piercing brown gaze. His smile beamed.

And she lost all means of rational communication.

* * *

The prettiest pair of blue eyes gazed up at him. Blue? Maybe more like blue violet. They emulated jewels, for sure. For a few seconds Ry forgot his name. Not that he needed to know his name. A guy should remember a thing like that. But...ah, hell, what was going on in his brain?

“Princess,” he said. “Minus the pussycat ears. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Oh.” She looked aside.

He immediately picked up on her sullen expression. “But I’m happy to. I just wasn’t sure you’d remember, uh...things.”

She shrugged and offered him a straight smile. “I remember more than I probably want to. And I remembered where you live. I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by. I wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t have a phone number, so...”

“I’m glad you stopped by. Come in. I was warming up some nachos in the oven. You hungry?”

“I, uh...maybe? If I’m interrupting your meal—”

“Not at all. I left work early today and felt like bumming around home, catching up on some reading for business projects. Come in.” He grabbed his T-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on. “Have a seat on the sofa. Uh, unless you prefer under the coffee table?”

She gaped at him, then shook her head and nodded a grinning acknowledgment to the dig.

Ry took in her gorgeous pale skin, which was exposed from shoulder to neck to cleavage, and then her pretty knees and down to those very sexy sandals that wrapped thin leather straps up to her knees. Up along the soft blue dress. Her breasts rose from the low-cut top in a sensual yet not-too-blatant invitation. And he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth, pursed and the palest pink. And were those lashes for real? So thick and black and...

She paused and looked over the coffee table. Offering him a smirking grin, she sat on the sofa. “I can’t believe I slept under your table.”

“Me, either. Couldn’t have been too comfy. You look like you’re feeling one hundred percent better,” he said as he wandered into the kitchen to peek into the oven. Another ten minutes and the cheese would be melted. “How are you feeling?”

She turned and looked over the back of the sofa. “Good. Not quite a hundred percent. Still a bit tired. I guess I went on a crazy bender. Slept on my floor when I got home, too. Apparently, when drunk, I’m a floor sleeper.”

“Does that happen often?”

“The drunk?” Her laugh was soft but she waved off the levity with a gesture. “Not usually. But champagne goes straight to my head. I shouldn’t have had that fifth goblet.”

Ry whistled and wandered over to sit on the arm of the couch. “Believe it or not, wine is my bête noire. I can’t handle the vino.”

“Really? A big guy like you? It must take quite a few bottles to get you wasted.”

“Try one glass. I’m not sure what it is, but it lays me flat. And I can drink vodka and whiskey like it’s juice. Weird.”

He didn’t normally reveal himself so boldly like that, but he’d sensed her need for reassurance. The woman had lain under his coffee table all night.

“You must have thought I was a case,” she said. “And when I got a look at what I looked like when I got home? I can’t believe you didn’t think I was a homeless person.”

“Wearing a designer gown and diamonds? The homeless are never so stylish.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I guess. But they weren’t diamonds. I never go for the splash when rhinestones will do.” She leaned an elbow on the back of the sofa and pulled up a knee, catching it with a palm. “I needed to come see you because I don’t think I ever thanked you. You were so kind to make sure I didn’t lie abandoned in some dark alleyway. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you’d walked away. So, thank you.”