Chapter One
Paisley
Paisley Clark pulled the drapes in her hotel room, shutting out the white glare of the street lights. The room was almost certainly too high for anyone to see into— that was why she’d picked it— but you could never be too careful.
She took off her black wig, careful not to disturb the pinned-up braids of her long blonde hair. Then she stripped out of the expensive clothes she’d worn to check in. For a hotel this fancy, she’d needed them to blend in. Her false ID had passed without a blink.
Paisley barely glanced at her nude body in the full-length mirror. It didn’t matter what she looked like, so long as she was agile enough to leap, strong enough to climb, and fit enough to run.
She’d seen other women checking themselves in mirrors, and heard them worrying that they were too fat or too thin, too dark or too pale, too curvy or too flat, too s omething or too something else to attract a man. But Paisley’s problem wasn’t what she looked like, but what she was. She was a loner— an outlaw— a freak of nature. The closest she ever got to a relationship was a one-night stand, and that was the closest she ever could get. No man who knew what she was could ever want her.
Paisley fiercely pushed away the pang of sadness that had pierced her at that thought. She was always going to be alone, and that was just how it was. No point getting all weepy over something that couldn’t be helped, especially when she had a job to do. There were more important things in the world than whether or not one orphan werecat had someone to love.
She concentrated on catness . Being covered with a soft layer of pure black fur. Being able to see in the dark. Seeing the world in black and white and shades of gray. The ability to leap ten times her own height. The irresistible desire to pounce on small moving objects.
Paisley shifted. A little black cat sneezed, cleaned its face with its paw, then leaped on to the dresser. From there, it slipped behind the drapes, then jumped out the window that human Paisley had left half-open.
Her nimble paws easily balanced on the window ledge, thirty floors above the street. If she fell all the way down, she’d land on her feet, but she’d be just as dead as if she’d landed anywhere else. But she felt no fear as she leaped nimbly from ledge to ledge, working her way toward her target’s room. Paisley rarely fell, and she had plenty of ledges to land on if she did. It was an ordinary night’s work for a werecat cat burglar.
Two leaps down and four across, and she was at her target’s window. Paisley peeked through the drapes. The room was dark, but her cat eyes had no trouble making out the shape of a man sleeping beneath the bed covers.
Alan Krikorian , she thought. That scumbag.
He was a wealthy con man who sold land in Florida to elderly people who wanted to retire and build homes. The land was real, but it was under water. By the time they showed up to look at it in person, he’d taken their money and run with it. Paisley intended to steal his credit cards and bank account information, extract the list of his victims from his laptop, and return the money to his elderly victims.
Krikorian’s window was shut and latched. Now came the hardest part.
Paisley concentrated on being human. Clipped fingernails instead of sharp claws, blonde hair instead of black fur, and thoughts of loneliness and justice instead of napping and tuna fish.
She shifted, then instantly moved her weight to her toes and caught the window frame. Paisley wavered, then found her new balance. She was naked, of course, but she’d carried a few tiny tools in her mouth. She spat them into one hand, placed them carefully on the ledge, and got to work. Five minutes later, she had a small hole cut into the window. She inserted a loop of wire and flipped the latch, then eased the window open.
Paisley slipped through, landing soundlessly on her feet. As quietly as if she were
Paisley
Paisley Clark pulled the drapes in her hotel room, shutting out the white glare of the street lights. The room was almost certainly too high for anyone to see into— that was why she’d picked it— but you could never be too careful.
She took off her black wig, careful not to disturb the pinned-up braids of her long blonde hair. Then she stripped out of the expensive clothes she’d worn to check in. For a hotel this fancy, she’d needed them to blend in. Her false ID had passed without a blink.
Paisley barely glanced at her nude body in the full-length mirror. It didn’t matter what she looked like, so long as she was agile enough to leap, strong enough to climb, and fit enough to run.
She’d seen other women checking themselves in mirrors, and heard them worrying that they were too fat or too thin, too dark or too pale, too curvy or too flat, too s omething or too something else to attract a man. But Paisley’s problem wasn’t what she looked like, but what she was. She was a loner— an outlaw— a freak of nature. The closest she ever got to a relationship was a one-night stand, and that was the closest she ever could get. No man who knew what she was could ever want her.
Paisley fiercely pushed away the pang of sadness that had pierced her at that thought. She was always going to be alone, and that was just how it was. No point getting all weepy over something that couldn’t be helped, especially when she had a job to do. There were more important things in the world than whether or not one orphan werecat had someone to love.
She concentrated on catness . Being covered with a soft layer of pure black fur. Being able to see in the dark. Seeing the world in black and white and shades of gray. The ability to leap ten times her own height. The irresistible desire to pounce on small moving objects.
Paisley shifted. A little black cat sneezed, cleaned its face with its paw, then leaped on to the dresser. From there, it slipped behind the drapes, then jumped out the window that human Paisley had left half-open.
Her nimble paws easily balanced on the window ledge, thirty floors above the street. If she fell all the way down, she’d land on her feet, but she’d be just as dead as if she’d landed anywhere else. But she felt no fear as she leaped nimbly from ledge to ledge, working her way toward her target’s room. Paisley rarely fell, and she had plenty of ledges to land on if she did. It was an ordinary night’s work for a werecat cat burglar.
Two leaps down and four across, and she was at her target’s window. Paisley peeked through the drapes. The room was dark, but her cat eyes had no trouble making out the shape of a man sleeping beneath the bed covers.
Alan Krikorian , she thought. That scumbag.
He was a wealthy con man who sold land in Florida to elderly people who wanted to retire and build homes. The land was real, but it was under water. By the time they showed up to look at it in person, he’d taken their money and run with it. Paisley intended to steal his credit cards and bank account information, extract the list of his victims from his laptop, and return the money to his elderly victims.
Krikorian’s window was shut and latched. Now came the hardest part.
Paisley concentrated on being human. Clipped fingernails instead of sharp claws, blonde hair instead of black fur, and thoughts of loneliness and justice instead of napping and tuna fish.
She shifted, then instantly moved her weight to her toes and caught the window frame. Paisley wavered, then found her new balance. She was naked, of course, but she’d carried a few tiny tools in her mouth. She spat them into one hand, placed them carefully on the ledge, and got to work. Five minutes later, she had a small hole cut into the window. She inserted a loop of wire and flipped the latch, then eased the window open.
Paisley slipped through, landing soundlessly on her feet. As quietly as if she were
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