Since waking up on the floor of her apartment after an electrical shock, Tara has felt…different. Colors a little off. Shadows where they shouldn’t be. But hot guys glowing blue light and a cheetah drinking a cup of coffee? That’s not something you see every day. And why doesn’t anyone else seem to notice?
The pillar of blue light is Marshall, a Metamorph—a human who can change at will into an animal or energy form. His human form is damn fine-looking, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t crazy, with his stories about belonging to a secret government agency and rogue Metamorphs trying to kill her. Plus he wears sunglasses indoors—who still does that? But when there’s a panther scratching at her door, she has no choice but to trust Marshall, even if it means her life will never be the same.
Her Wild Protector
Naomi Bellina
This book is dedicated to all the STARs who offered their words of wisdom. I love you guys!
Tara tore off her pantyhose and wadded them in a ball, throwing the sweaty garment on the floor. Who the hell wears pantyhose in Florida? Women with a demonic supervisor, that’s who. Tara’s daily attire usually consisted of comfortable, casual pants and a business-friendly top, but when visiting dignitaries invaded the Canaveral Port Authority office, her manager strongly suggested she don a dress and nylons.
As if the dignitary was going to make it all the way back to her little corner of the workplace. Most of the time, the officials were ushered into the conference room, where they spent an hour or two, and then were whisked away to the next destination. Tara often didn’t even know visitors were in the building and they certainly weren’t aware of her.
She dug in her refrigerator, wondering what else she could throw in a bowl of spaghetti to disguise the fact that it was leftover leftovers, and almost fell inside as a loud crash came from the apartment above. There was the sound of a woman’s laughter, and then rhythmic thumping began.
Tara moaned. Not again. The couple that lived upstairs frequently engaged in loud, raucous sex that went on and on, sometimes for over an hour. Though part of her was happy that someone was enjoying boisterous sex, the sounds were not only annoying, but they also served as a reminder of her own nonexistent love life. Normally she waited out the intercourse interlude, but today she was not up to dealing with it. There was no reason for all that noise. People who lived in apartments should have respect for their neighbors.
She grabbed a broom and jabbed the handle several times into her ceiling. The sounds from overhead ceased for a moment, then after another peel of laughter from the woman, they resumed. Tara debated continuing her assault with the broom, but decided against it. She didn’t know the couple and didn’t want to antagonize her neighbors. At least they were quiet most of the time.
Instead, she turned on the television to drown out the noise and flipped through the channels. She stopped when she came to a channel where a symphony played a haunting, melancholy tune. The classical song stirred a memory buried deep inside. Though she couldn’t place where and when she’d last heard the melody, she remembered holding the hand of her companion and smiling, content, as they listened. Tears pricked her eyelids and she forced them down. She’d cried quite enough in the past years.
The sounds of love from above grew louder and she jabbed the volume button on the remote control. Nothing happened. It probably needed new batteries—one more thing that hadn’t made it to the shopping list this week. Hauling herself off the couch, she pushed the control on the television set. Still nothing. This appliance was on its last leg, she knew, but she intended to nurse it along as long as she could. Surely, with a little tweaking, the volume could be made to work. Grabbing a screwdriver from the kitchen, she unfastened the back panel. The voice of reason told her to unplug the unit first, but if she did, she wouldn’t be able to hear to adjust the sound, she argued. Truthfully, she was impatient and wanted to drown out the racket from the lovebirds immediately.
There, that looked like a loose wire. If she could just wiggle it a little…
The second she touched it a jolt ran through her body. She yelped and backed away, and as she did, tripped over the wadded pantyhose, turned to try to catch her balance and fell facedown on the floor. The thin carpet offered no protection and she felt a brief moment of pain and then nothing.
* * *
Opening her eyes, Tara’s first thought was that she was in bed and her mattress was mighty hard. She slowly sat up and a stabbing pain in her forehead reminded her what had happened. Looking at the clock, she saw it was time to get up for work. She stood. No bones were broken, and when she looked in the mirror her pupils appeared normal, though her forehead was swollen.
She rushed through her morning routine because she had to be at work early today. The visiting dignitary was in again and her supervisor requested she arrive before her normal starting time to make coffee. Though she was certain coffee making was not in her employment description as an accountant, Tara didn’t argue.
The cursed nylons she’d worn the day before were torn, and after rooting through her dresser drawers, all she could find was a pair of stockings and a garter belt, remnants from better times. Wearing the racy articles of clothing gave her a little tingle as her bare thighs touched each other. Though not overweight, she wasn’t a beanpole, and her legs had a bit of meat on them. Skin on skin felt different than having the barrier of material between her legs, and for some reason, this extra bit of stimulation felt particularly good today.
Tingling wasn’t the only odd sensation she felt. Everything looked different. Colors were brighter, more vivid, and she saw flashes of light and movement in the corners of her vision. Concerned that these apparitions were a result of smacking her head on the floor, she decided to visit the doctor later in the day if the situation didn’t improve. Her forehead was noticeably swollen and bruised, and she was thankful she wore her hair in bangs.
The workday progressed with its normal dull routine up to lunchtime. Tara pulled her purse from her drawer and turned down her computer. Her coworker looked up from a document she was perusing.
“Where are you going so early?” Brenda asked. “It’s not your lunchtime yet.”
Tara started to argue, then looked at her clock.