“I have one job. Keeping your crazed fans from tracking you down and stripping the flesh from your bones. That’s it. That’s all I’m supposed to do. I, at no time, said that I would ever help you with your fashion sense.”

Rolling his eyes, the jackal laid the jacket on the bed and then stared at it. Like he expected it to tell him something. To actually speak to him.

Berg wanted to complain about this ridiculous job, but how could he when it was the best one he’d had in years? Following a very rich, very polite jackal around so that he could play piano for screaming fans in foreign countries was the coolest gig ever.

First class everything. Jets. Food. Women. Not that Berg took advantage of the women thing too often. He knew most were just trying to use him to get to Cooper Jean-Louis Parker. Coop was the one out there every night, banging away at those Steinway pianos, doing things with his fingers that even Berg found fascinating, and wooing all those lovely females with his handsome jackal looks.

Berg was just the guy to get through so they could get to the musical genius. And, unlike some of his friends, being used by beautiful women wasn’t one of his favorite things.

It was a tolerable thing, but not his favorite.

“I can’t decide,” the jackal finally admitted.

“I know how hard it is to pick between one black jacket and another black jacket. Which will your black turtleneck go with?”

“It’s not just another black jacket, peasant. It’s the difference between pure black and charcoal black.”

“We have a train to catch,” Berg reminded Coop. “So could you speed this—”

Both shifters jumped, their gazes locked on the balcony outside the room, visible through doors open to let the fresh morning air in.

Another crazed female fan trying to make her way into Coop’s room? Some of these women, all of them full-humans, were willing to try any type of craziness for just a chance at ending up in the “maestro’s” bed.

With a sigh, Berg pushed himself out of the club chair and headed across the large room toward the sliding glass doors. It looked like he’d have to break another poor woman’s heart.

But he stopped when he saw her. A brown-skinned woman, completely naked. Which, in and of itself, was not unusual. The women who tried to sneak into Coop’s room—no matter the country they might be in—were often naked.

What stopped Berg in his tracks was that this woman had blood coming from her shoulder. The blood from a gun wound.

Berg motioned Coop back. “Get in the bathroom,” he ordered.

“Oh, come on. I want to see what’s—”

“I don’t care what you want. Get in the—”