by Tamara Hogan
A wolf.
“Is that all you got? You fight like a girl,” Gabe heard a male voice taunt. “C’mon, baby, show me some sweetness.”
After a second of silence, he heard a higher berserker’s yell—female—followed by the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Gabe’s skin crawled. His brain skittered to scenes from every horror flick he’d ever seen. Reaching into the backseat of his car, he grabbed the first likely looking weapon—weenie-roasting sticks—and broke into a run.
Where the hell was Sebastiani? Gabe pounded his way through the pine trees in his driving loafers, shoving at the branches slapping his face and torso, coming to an abrupt halt when he reached a grassy clearing about the size of a basketball court.
Lorin was under attack, all right—but if the unholy grin on her face was anything to go by, she was enjoying herself immensely.
He loosened his grip on the weenie-roasting sticks. Gabe didn’t recognize the man Lorin was sparring with, but he’d found Lukas Sebastiani. The big man stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the fight with an amused—and relieved?—look on his face. His brother Rafe stood at his side, cheering Lorin on with clear partisanship.
His temper spiked. Gabe wasn’t as jacked in to the Underworld Council grapevine as his sisters were, but even he knew that Lorin Schlessinger and Rafe Sebastiani were lovers. If he had to deal with incubi pheromones stinking the place up all summer long, he was definitely going to demand hazard pay.
Looking at Rafe’s long, blond hair, his aristocratic features, the wicked grin, and the old-school aviator sunglasses that Gabe longed to be able to wear… of course Lorin was sleeping with him. The incubus was a physical ideal, and if his outrageous reputation was anything to go by, he pretty much slept with whomever he wanted.
So why sleep with Lorin Schlessinger?
Okay, that wasn’t quite fair. Despite her ferocious expression—teeth bared, a fresh scrape on her chin—Lorin was far from ugly. If pressed, Gabe would have to admit that, yeah, Lorin’s body was pretty much a physical ideal—if one’s physical ideal ran along the lines of Amazonian beach volleyball players, and his usually did not. He preferred the women he dated to be smaller, more feminine, and definitely better groomed. When Lorin deigned to attend department meetings, arriving late more often than not, her streaky blond hair usually looked like she’d just stalked out of the ocean with a surfboard tucked under her arm. Never mind that they were landlocked.
The man’s bare heel connected with Lorin’s right cheekbone. Gabe winced as her head snapped back at the impact. How could Rafe stand to watch this?
On the other hand, how could he resist? Lorin was stripped down to clingy black leggings, a sports bra that should have been ugly but wasn’t, and nothing else. Her taut, bare stomach was coated with mud, and he sucked in his own in response. She had better defined abs than he did. Time to get back to the gym.
Except there was no gym here, at the ass end of nowhere.
His breath caught as she tripped on a rock jutting out of the ground. The man capitalized, diving on top of her as she fell.
“Damn you, Chico,” Lorin growled, twisting her face out of the mud.
Rafe tipped his head back and hooted. “He’s got you now, babe.”
“As if.” Teeth gritted, Lorin scrabbled onto her elbows and threw the man off her body with a bump and grind of her tightly muscled butt.
Gabe swallowed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. Chico. Must be Chico Perez. Perez, a werewolf, was a Sebastiani Security operative. His brother Gideon had mentioned working with him to apprehend Annika Fontaine’s killer last year.
Lorin crowed as she maneuvered Chico onto his back, pinning him to the ground with her body weight. Though he was as scraped and muddy as Lorin, Perez looked like he was having the time of his life. He squirmed a little for form’s sake, but it was clear the fight was over.
“Draw?” Chico wheezed.
“As if,” Lorin replied without heat, flopping off of him. Lying side by side on their backs in the muddy grass, they sucked in air.
Was that what she looked like after—No. He was in tough shape if he was thinking about Lorin Schlessinger and sex at the same time. And even if he, in some alternate universe, considered the option? Lorin worked for him now, and she was so far out of his league that it wasn’t even funny.
“Hey, Gabe.” Lukas came over, extending his hand.
“Lukas.”
Lorin sat up. “Lupinsky.” She spat his name like dirt was in her mouth. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Gabe glanced at Lukas, who shook his head no with an apologetic expression on his face.
Damn it. He looked at Lorin. “I’m your new site manager.”
Chapter 3
The phone rang. Lorin set the chef’s knife down next to a growing mound of peppers and onions that would adorn her breakfast pizza and peeked at Caller ID.
Elliott.
With a heavy sigh and a sinking stomach, she put the phone on speaker. She might as well pace while her ass was being chewed. “Hi, Elliott. You’re up early on a Sunday morning.”
While they exchanged pleasantries, her gaze shifted out the window to Gabe’s tent, glowing a cheerful bright blue in the tepid morning sun. At least it wasn’t falling down around his ears. Last night, after they’d all returned from having pizza at Tubby’s, Gabe had refused the other men’s offer to help set up the two-room monstrosity. She knew he’d survived the night because he’d knocked on her door ten minutes ago, all rumpled and grumpy, asking where he could wash up.
Yeah, given the frost on the ground, pointing toward the lake without saying a word had been a little bitchy—but his expression had been absolutely priceless.
And if he stayed on the walking path, he’d bump right into the hot sauna. If he veered off the path or took another route? Lorin shrugged. He’d learn to follow directions, or deal with the consequences. Guilt nudged her with a fingertip. With his BMW and his driving loafers and cappuccino habit, Gabriel Lupinsky had “city boy” written all over him. She could have given him a space heater last night. She could have asked if his sleeping bag was rated for the weather.
She hadn’t.
Whether he’d selected his campsite by knowledge or by accident, Gabe had chosen an ideal location to set up his home away from home. With the tent tucked under the overhanging branches of a big pine tree, he’d have some shelter from the wind and rain, and the branches would supply essential shade once the hot, humid days of summer arrived. He was a hundred-foot extension cord’s distance away from the building housing their communal dining hall and workroom. The outhouse was a fair distance away, and the bunkhouse where the student crewmembers stayed was on the other side of the clearing altogether—which was a good thing, because their raucous video game battles sometimes raged long into the night.
“Lorin? Did you drop?”
Crap. Lorin turned away from the window. Elliott Sebastiani might be the closest thing to a father figure she had, but he was also her boss, and her president. “I’m here, Elliott.” She sighed. “Let me have it.”
She held her tongue as he coached her in the most diplomatic language imaginable, killing her with kindness. Why couldn’t he just holler and yell, get it over with? But that wasn’t his way. Hollering and yelling was her way. Anger was hot and cleansing, a cauterization that healed cleanly.
And it expended the pent-up energy that plagued her kind. She’d already been for one jog this morning, and thanks to Gabe Lupinsky, she felt another one coming on strong. By the end of the summer, she was going to be in the best shape of her life.
Men. Within the past twenty-four hours, every man she’d come into contact with had pissed her off. Lukas, despite his peace offering, had driven up to the site primarily to handle her. Chico had given her the workout she needed but had stolen her last bag of Cheetos as payment. And what the hell had Rafe been up to, giving her that soft kiss that everyone—except her—certainly misinter
preted? If Gabe’s long-suffering expression was any clue, he sure had.
This morning, she wanted to give every person with a penis a FastPass to hell. She might make an exception for Elliott. Maybe.
“Elliott, have you watched the playback?” She certainly had, analyzing the video where she’d accidentally opened the command box as carefully as an FBI agent did the Zapruder film. “There’s no way such a light touch should’ve opened the box.”
“Accident or not, watching you dive into that corner gave us all some bad moments.” Elliott’s sigh was audible. “You were all alone up there, Lorin. Five hours away by car, two by chopper, which we couldn’t have used anyway because it would have drawn all kinds of the wrong attention. What if you’d been injured? Killed? What if this accident had happened when your student crew was there? What could the body count have been?” He paused, giving the vivid visual time to seep into her consciousness like toxic waste. “Imagine the headlines: ‘Suicide Pact At Northern Minnesota Church Camp.’ The media would have been the least of our worries.”
Over the crappy landline, silence hummed. Lorin heard Elliott take another deep breath, then slowly exhale. “It’s been a really… bad year, Lorin. We can’t lose you too.”
Lorin swallowed hard. Even now, thinking about Annika Fontaine’s death sliced.
“Finding the box is a game-changer, Lorin, especially if what we suspect of its origins is accurate.”
“Okay, I get that. But why the watchdog?” Why this watchdog? “He’s a program manager, a paper pusher, for Freyja’s sake.”
“I see you’re conveniently forgetting that you report to him now.” Elliott’s voice was drier than the Mojave Desert.
“You know what I mean, Elliott,” she muttered, looking at the beamed ceiling. “He hasn’t worked in the field for ages. He’s deadweight.”
“Not to me,” Elliott responded. “I need day-to-day—strike that—hour-to-hour visibility into this project. Gabe gives me that visibility, without impacting your progress.” He paused. “Lorin, you’re a stellar archaeologist. You have a preternatural talent for unearthing things, but we all know that administration isn’t exactly your forte. Gabe, on the other hand, excels at administration. I need him there, if only for my own peace of mind.”
“What about my peace of mind?” she snapped. “We drive each other nuts, Elliott.” How could he sound so logical, so reasonable, when her thoughts were anything but?
“Will you submit daily status reports for the archive? Will you carry a sat phone 24/7, and actually answer it when it rings? No,” he said, answering his own question, “not if your past performance is any indication.” After another pause, he asked, “Don’t you think it might be beneficial to have a geologist and metallurgist of Gabe’s caliber available on-site?”
“Paige Scott is coming back this year.”
“Ms. Scott is a talented young woman with a lot of potential, but she’s still a grad student. Do you begrudge her the opportunity to work with Gabe?”
Lorin squeezed her eyes closed. Answering yes would make her look like a selfish pig. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She was well and truly stuck.
There was a knock on the door—two perfunctory taps, a courtesy, no more. “Speak of the devil. Gabe is here.” Taking the phone off speaker, she opened the door.
Gabe’s body temporarily blocked out the sun. “Very funny.” Barely waiting for her to wave him inside, he stalked toward her coffeepot.
His teeth weren’t chattering and his lips weren’t blue, so he must have found the sauna. Wearing jeans, a black fleece pullover, and leather work boots, with a day’s beard and his black hair slicked back from his forehead, he looked nothing like the urbane man she was used to seeing in Sebastiani Labs’ hallways and conference rooms. Though the boots looked like they were fresh from the box, his jeans were clearly old friends, molding his long legs and admittedly excellent ass. She’d almost bought the jacket he wore for herself because its pile was so thick and luxurious. She’d virtuously passed.
Lorin pursed her lips, reconsidering. If he’d shopped for most of his supplies at the same place he bought his jacket, he just might be okay. Ah hell, what was she thinking? No doubt he’d researched his gear thoroughly. He probably had a cost/benefit analysis stored somewhere on the laptop she’d seen him unload from his car.
“I’ll be done here in a moment.” Lorin arched a brow at the coffee he’d already poured for himself into a mug that said Bitch Is the New Black. “Make yourself at home.”
As she wound down her conversation with Elliott, she watched Gabe do just that, poking around the cabin, examining her woodstove, her coffee cup collection, taking in the unmade bed with a quick glance. Making his way over to the small bookshelf, he unerringly picked up the single most heinous picture of her in existence, the one her mother refused to put away despite years of pitiful begging. That summer, puberty had struck with a vengeance, and the picture had captured her with gangly limbs, huge feet, glasses, braces, and an unfortunate afro perm.
Gabe was grinning like a fool.
She snatched the picture from his hands and slapped it facedown on the shelf.
“Um… wow.” Gabe sat down at the table, smiling around the lip of his coffee mug.
On the phone, Elliott said, “I expect you and Gabe to play nice, Lorin.”
Her stomach jumped. “Yes, Elliott.”
“I mean it. Don’t torture the man. No fighting.”
She eyed Gabe. “What if he throws the first punch?”
Elliott’s sigh was less patient this time. “Lorin, his job is going to be tough enough without you provoking him. Just stay out of his way. Do what you do best, and let Gabe do the same.”
Stay out of his way? How was she supposed to do that when he sat sprawled at her table like he owned it? As she watched, Gabe removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a small cloth he pulled from his pocket. It was like he’d removed body armor. As he stared myopically at nothing, she could see the flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes.
Sleet falling on Lake Superior.
She turned her back on him. “Okay, Elliott, I get it. Take care, and enjoy your Sunday. Okay. Kisses to Claudette. Bye.” The clatter of the handset sounded unnaturally loud in the small cabin.
“Tattling to the boss already?”
She stalked away from the phone, picked up the chef’s knife, and chose her next victim, a plump Vidalia onion. The first chop sounded like a falling guillotine. When she looked at Gabe again, his glasses were back where they belonged. “For your information, Elliott called me.”
“Okay.” His stomach growled audibly.
Guilt poked her again. No doubt her mother would be horrified at the hospitality she’d shown Gabe thus far. “Would you like to have some breakfast?”
“Thank you—as long as you’re eating too. Less chance of being poisoned that way.”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Breakfast pizza—a flatbread Mom and I learned to make when we spent some time at a dig in Ethiopia when I was young,” she answered. “It’s one of my favorite comfort foods—” Lorin, you’re babbling. Just shut up.
But of course he’d picked up on the edge in her voice, and now he was watching her much too closely. “You’ve had a stressful few days, that’s for sure. Being quarantined isn’t an experience you forget.”
She flicked a glance his way before turning her attention back to her onion. Sounded like there was a bigger story there.
“Well, now that Wyland’s cleared you, you can dig and run and… fight to your heart’s content.” When he cleared his throat and started asking detailed technical questions about the sauna he’d just used, she knew she’d imagined the huskiness in his voice.
“It’s a wood/solar hybrid,” she told him. “We converted part of our grid to solar a couple of years ago.” When she walked past him to rinse her hands at the washbowl, she smelled her own shampoo. Somehow, on him, it
s crisp rosemary-mint scent seemed darker, less civilized.
He stretched a yard of leg under the table, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “I was never so glad to see a building in my life.” He shot her a wry look over the rim of the steaming mug. “I was certain you were trying to kill me off with hypothermia.”
“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.” She wiped her dripping hands. “But don’t worry. If I wanted you dead, you’d see me coming.”
Gabe’s hand jerked, sloshing a tiny bit of coffee. “Sorry,” he muttered, catching the spilled liquid with a quick lap of his tongue before it dripped on to the table.
Lorin’s gaze locked on his mouth, and her sex gave a voracious clench. Oh, hell no. She knew she was hard up, but Gabe Lupinsky? Slick, ambitious, annoying Gabe Lupinsky? No.
But her traitorous body wasn’t listening to common sense, because rough and ready looked damn good on him. Unlike the corporate Gabe Lupinsky she had no problem ignoring when they were both at work, this Gabe hadn’t shaved, had towel-damp hair, and wore faded jeans that cupped him as faithfully as a lover’s hand. For a desk jockey, he had a pretty great body.
She assessed the subtle flexing of his forearm muscles as he drank the coffee. He had a pretty great body, period. He must work out, somehow. What did Gabe Lupinsky do when he wasn’t crunching numbers, squinting at a laptop screen, herding cats, and generally making her life miserable?
Gabe nudged an adjacent chair away from the table with the toe of his boot, indicating that she should sit down. “We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.” Lorin sat but chose the chair across the table, trying to ignore the heat blooming between her thighs. Great body or not, they had to get a few things straight. Her mother wasn’t here to protect their find, so it was up to her to do it. “Reporting relationship be damned, you’re not in charge here.”
His face clouded with the first hint of temper. She hadn’t known he had one.
