Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel Read Online Free PDF Page B

nipple ring, the air guitar, or the cowboy boots.
    â€œI’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” I tell him.
    He waves the smoke floating around his head away and snuffs the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. “You should have said so.” When he flashes me a grin, I see that he has dimples hidden beneath the three days’ growth of dark whiskers on his face. “You coming?”
    I glance around. “I’m allergic to dust, too.”
    Kane moves around his desk and sits in a chair with stuffing dangling from several rips. “Sorry, cupcake, my cleaning lady comes later today.” He leans back in his chair and props his boots on the desk. “Now, unless you’re allergic to snakeskin, come over and sit down so we can talk.”
    Against my better judgment, I move toward him. “I’m not sure about snakeskin. But I’m sure I’m allergic to being called ‘cupcake.’”
    Kane flashes the dimples again, which would be a better charm tactic if he shaved. “Sheathe the claws, kitten. I’m here to help you.”
    I fight the urge to glance at my hands and see if I actually do have claws and take a seat on a cold metal chair across from him. Kane smiles again and I almost expect him to reach across the desk, pat me on the head, and say, “Good girl.” Which would make him lose a hand.
    Instead of reaching for me, he reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of Wild Turkey. “A little hair of the dog,” he says, then unscrews the cap, takes a swig, and offers it to me. It’s a challenge of sorts so I take the bottle and actually drink after him.
    â€œTell me what you need, cup … ah, Ms. Smith, is it?”
    I try not to cough from the liquor burning my throat, not to mention the dust and the cigarette smoke. I nod, a little embarrassed that I couldn’t come up with a better fake name when I made the appointment. So I’m beautiful but not creative. Sue me. I didn’t want this guy looking me up if I didn’t show. Not to mention jacking up his prices when he found out who I am.
    â€œThat’s my name for now,” I say when I can finally speak again. “We’ll discuss that more if I decide to hire you.”
    Kane leans farther back in his chair and I think it would be great if it tipped over and he fell. “Of course you’re going to hire me, cupcake.” He sighs. “Oops, I forgot again. What do you need me to do for you, Ms. Kinipski?”
    The liquor seems to come right back up. I cough and choke while he smiles calmly at me from across his desk. Cindy would at least pat me on the back, not that I want this guy touching me. “How do you know my name?” I finally wheeze. “Did you trace my phone or something?”
    His smile stretches. “Didn’t have to. I know your face, even with the scarf and the sunglasses.” He turns his squeaky chair around and motions to the streaked floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a giant billboard across the street with my face on it, lips puckered up to advertise “won’t wear off until you’re dead and buried” lipstick.
    â€œI’m guessing Meagan referred me,” he continues, turning to face me again. “If you want the best, you want me. Bottom line.”
    This guy’s picture must illustrate the word “cocky” in the dictionary. I’m sure it’s in there again under “slimeball.” Something about him, besides the obvious, immediately rubs me the wrong way. But I’ve come this far. I may as well tell him what I want. “If I hire you, I’d want you to look for someone for me.”
    Kane shakes his dirty-blond head. “No, you’d want me to find someone for you. And I will. Just tell me who.”
    For the first time in six months, I really believe there is a chance of finding my birth parents. Of finding possible answers about my condition. Like