Her Werewolf Lover: Michael and Samantha (The Macconwood Pack Tales #15)

Prologue

G oodbye, asshat!

Samantha listened to the message and let out a squeal of triumph.

Was that it? Could it truly be over?

The clipped New York accent sounded from that insipid little rectangular piece of hell-spawned technology called a smartphone, and suddenly, it was like a choir of angels was singing to her.

Like her own little private concert.

“Ms. Jones the divorce is finalized. You are now the ex-wife of Gary Birkemeyer. As per your agreement, you have retained the title and deed to the New Jersey residence. Along with the remainder of all monies made during your modeling career that you brought into your marriage, including those funds earned during the first three years you were married while you were still employed. The total comes to $393,850 and sixty-two cents. Mr. Birkemeyer’s attorney deducted certain fees that he insisted were consistent with your lifestyle. Housing, food, medical and the like. There is about $20,000 left.”

She paused it, breathed in, then allowed the message to continue playing.

“Ms. Jones, I sincerely urge you to reconsider the matter of alimony. You were married to Mr. Birkemeyer for eight years and are entitled to much more than what you have settled for. His estate is worth upwards of fifty-million dollars. If you want to move forward with this, please call me. I am sending you a copy of all the final paperwork to your new permanent residence, 24 Winding Willow Way, Maccon City, New Jersey. Again, call me if you change your mind.”

“EEEEEEEEK!” she screeched.

Her attorney droned on and on, but all Sam had heard was the first sentence. Her divorce was final. It was the most important sentence in that whole spiel.

Sam was free.

Tears of happiness pricked her eyes, and Samantha expelled a deep, long breath before wiping them.

The former prom queen, magazine model, infamous June plus sized, calendar girl, and ex-trophy wife was finally free.

She stared in quiet awe at the cell phone in her hand and replayed the message.

Once.

Twice.

Seven times .

That was how long it took for her to firmly believe it was true.

When her phone rang after eight o’clock that night, she took her time answering it. Samantha figured her ex-husband was calling to give her even more grief, and she was so not in the mood.

Gary was nothing if not predictable that way. She’d promised herself she would no longer cower for that man.

And she didn’t have to. Not anymore. It was her choice to speak to him or not.

Really, she simply could not handle another taunting phone call or phony delay in the proceedings. She refused to feed his perverse appetite for torturing her.

Not now. Not ever,

The movers had just finished delivering the rest of her things, and it dawned on her she was no longer bound to him. Sure, it might seem sad that her whole life had fit into the back of a smallish truck.

But all things considered, that was fine with her.

She was looking forward to building her life anew.

Right now. Right here.

Which was why she absolutely hated the idea of Gary invading her space.

It might be his money that first bought it, and the ugly-ass furniture filling it, but now it was hers. Not theirs. Just hers.

This space is mine. It is safe and sacred, and I will keep it that way.

She exhaled after making that affirmation.

Fucking Gary.

He’d always loved taunting her with his money, and all the ways he could control her with it.

Threatening to destroy things she’d loved was one of his favorite methods of torture.

But now she could breathe again. Samantha was officially divorced. Finally, she was beyond Gary. Completely out of his reach.

The seven-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom, private residence, with one acre of land sitting on a quiet cul de sac was all hers.

She sucked in another breath, needing the oxygen to grasp what this truly meant. Satisfaction bubbled through her veins.

She knew that Gary had only agreed to let her have the house in their divorce settlement completely furnished and free and clear of debt with the taxes paid for the next five years because of her terms.

The businessman in him wouldn’t allow him to turn her down. One little old house in a state he hated, New Jersey , and in return she wouldn’t ask for alimony now or ever.

He could hardly refuse. Foolish as it seemed, he’d never had her sign a prenuptial agreement.

She couldn’t believe it either.

Gary could have been taken for quite the ride, but frankly, she didn’t have it in her. He’d taken all he was going to get out of Samantha.

He wouldn’t take one inch of her soul.

Samantha loved that house. She had already started to move in, traveling from California a few days ago.

She’d put all her worldly belongings into a trailer, paid the drivers, and hopped on a plane. She picked up the Jeep Wrangler she’d bought herself right from the airport and took possession of the residence immediately .

Samantha smirked as she looked around the place. She should have known better than to trust the slime ball ex of hers, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Not about the terrible décor, the dark red paint, or the gold fringed curtains.

Nope.

She was just that happy. Sipping her wine, she replayed the conversation she’d had with him in her head.

Ugh.

He’d even called her that awful nickname.

“ Fine, you can just take the New Jersey property, Doll. Even if it’s the most valuable piece of land I own. I’ll even give you the furniture.”

The sanctimonious louse. She’d always hated it when he called her Doll . As if she was nothing more than plastic.

Nothing about her looks was fake, despite the nasty rumors he’d started accusing her of enhancing her looks through surgery.

Samantha grimaced and tossed a horrible red velvet pillow across the living room. Gary’s toad of a lawyer had convinced him to give up the place because she was waving her right to sue him for alimony in exchange for a house he did not like or use.

He’d given in. But she should’ve known better than to think it was all good.

Vincenza , she cringed at the thought. His other ex-wife had apparently been hired to redecorate it from the last time Samantha had seen the house three years ago.

The rustic charm of the home she’d loved and remembered was gone. In its place was more red velvet and gold lace than had any business being anywhere off the set of some bad horror flick.

The house actually looked like some kind of vampire bordello.

Samantha sighed disgustedly and tripped over another cardboard box the movers had just stacked randomly in the hallway.

That didn’t matter. Nothing did except her future. Despite being past her prime , as one snarky journalist had said when reporting on her split from Gary, Samantha didn’t feel like she was finished yet.

The papers said she was too old. She’d let herself go and basically forced her ex into his latest flashy lover’s bed.

As if eight years of marriage meant nothing. Samantha shook her head. She was over the hurt. Society could think whatever the fuck it wanted.

But she knew better. Her husband had been cheating on her for years. The fact he’d finally dumped her for some twenty-year old model from Sweden only meant that the younger woman was holding out for a ring.

Good luck, Gary .

Samantha thought with a grin. Sure, at first, she’d been completely stunned when she met the platinum blonde beauty.

Thin and tall, with enormous silicone enhanced boobs that defied the laws of gravity and tight buttocks sculpted by what must be some of the major gods of plastic surgery.

She shuddered, thinking this was how he’d seen her in the past. Like some kind of plastic toy, not a real person at all.

She was far too young for the silver-haired shark that was Samantha’s ex. Surely, Gary thought he had the upper hand, but Samantha had seen something in the younger woman’s eyes.

She would eat him alive, and it was all that he deserved.

So what if he and the journalist he’d hired to cover the divorce said Samantha was a washed-up former model, with dyed hair, crow’s feet, and a drooping bust line?

Okay. Ouch.

That kinda hurt. Samantha picked up a large framed picture of herself from her modeling days. It was sitting on the top of the open boxes.

It was a flashy photo from an advertisement that Gary had liked to show off.

He’d had this image hanging on the wall of their entryway back in L.A.

She shivered at the thought. So very tasteless, but that was Gary for you. Always eager to show off his new toys.

She looked at the bright-eyed, practically nude woman in the photo and wondered when she’d been that young.

Maybe her ex and that dickhead journalist had a point.

Samantha’s breasts no longer stood up on their own. And yeah, more than a few threads of gray wove through her auburn locks. She definitely had crow’s feet.

But dammit , she was thirty-seven. Aging gracefully had always been her plan and fuck anyone who tried to make her feel bad about it .

Fine. Her usefulness as a decorative piece had expired. She could deal with that.

Gary made his bed, and he could lie in it alone or with every teeny bopper model he could bribe to fill it for all she cared.

She was moving on.

Alone.

No more men.

Period.

Samantha let out a little scream of glee and did a little victory booty shake on the tacky gold and burgundy carpet that covered the living room floor.

The sound of footsteps brought her head up, and she cringed. She probably shouldn’t have screamed.