She loved it out here, deep in the forest where she felt most free, among the vast patches of pale-blue forget-me-nots, purple prairie crocus, and pert black-eyed Susans ready for plucking. Other wildflowers struggled to emerge from winter’s tight bonds and show off their raiment of oranges, yellows, and reds.
She did not have to explain anything to anyone out by the creek. She did not have to answer the concerned looks, the constant repetitions of “How ya doing today?” or the initially hushed silences followed by exuberant conversation when she first walked by a cluster of tenderhearted wolves. Here, the spray from the tumbling falls lightly misted her skin, and the thick walls of granite and ponderosa pine shielded her from view.
She did not need to recoil from anyone’s inadvertent touch.
She remained free to wonder what had become of the hunky baseball player who’d captured her soul moments before falling to the ground with a horrifying, grievous injury. She thought of him with longing, liquid heat stealing over her body as she imagined the erotic things they’d do together. If he were hers. And if she were his. Her hot feelings for him, so much at odds with the way she flinched away from the real people who populated her new life, made her realize she was alive.
She sighed. Only her sister Garnet kept her company here on occasion, words unnecessary between the twins Magnum had imprisoned together. They’d formed such a tight bond few finished sentences ever passed between them. On occasion, each had spoken to Dr. Liv Dunn, the psychologist mated to Xan. They’d learned they both suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. But only Garnet really understood her. And vice versa.
Amber stared into the creek at her reflection. In the seven months of plentiful nourishment since she and her twin had been rescued from the madman Magnum’s secret compound, her cheeks had lost some of their gaunt and hollow look, and the sun on her hair made it gleam light and bright in the rippling current. Although reunited with her family, she still had not completely lost the haunted shadows in her eyes.
She drifted her fingers through the icy, crystal water, capturing several smooth stones. She loved the rocks. They didn’t badger her with questions and demand answers, or stare with hurt and puzzled eyes if she shied from their embrace. Yet, they spoke to her nevertheless, and she found she had an affinity for them, able to correctly read the powers and properties captured within them.
Polished by the rapids, the pebbles she’d harvested glistened in the center of her palm: a chunk of rose quartz, a clump of glittering golden pyrite, a striated red-black-and-tan Fairborn agate, and, her prize, a nugget of watermelon tourmaline with a pink center ringed by its “rind” of bright green.
Minerals abounded in the Black Hills. Out of necessity, she and Garnet had learned to be handy and crafty during their years at the compound, fabricating objects they needed from broken parts and tinkering with cast-off appliances, such as the hot plate they’d constructed from a deteriorating toaster.
Since then, they’d discovered their creative streaks could be artistic, as well, devising unusual jewelry from the colorful polished rocks they found in the creek bed or on its banks, with thin bits and twists of fine wire to set the stones in place. Their brother, Brick, helped.
Not only alive and well, Brick thrived mated to Summer, his half-cougar, half-skinwalker love, and the mother of his twins—the tiny kitten cub and adorable chocolate wolf she and Garnet had so feared for when they’d been brought to the prison compound. Remarkable how much things had changed in Los Lobos with the demise of the evil Magnum and ascension of his more open-minded son, Drew Tao, as the new alpha. No-nonsense as Drew was, he also had a good heart and cared for the well-being of the pack. Brick’s story amazed her. Happy and content, he’d come into his own and doted on his young family. Once an outcast in his pack, these days he served as one of the pack’s protectors.
An artisan and master carver, Brick encouraged his twin sisters in their fledgling jewelry enterprise, helping them with the tools and supplies they needed. He also helped them sell some of their best pieces at Brenna’s Boutique in Shady Heart, the big cat stronghold on the other side of the mountain, where Brick’s own signature carvings sold like honey-slathered hotcakes despite the high prices they commanded.
The watermelon tourmaline would make a lovely pendant, delicately wrapped in a shred of silver wire, whisper thin so the setting did not mar the beauty of the stone. Geology had always fascinated her, even as a young girl. But the mystic meaning of stones and crystals, the metaphysical properties inherent in the rocks, their ability to heal or soothe or agitate, spoke to her in a different, more profound way.
The most significant for her was amber, like her name. She greatly admired the large teardrop chunk strung on a leather strap and worn by Miss Claire, one of Los Lobos’ elder ladies. Amber wasn’t a true mineral, of course. Made from the hardened, fossilized resin of a coniferous tree, it should more rightfully be in the vegetable category, perhaps. The best amber even retained an aromatic hint of pine. Miss Claire’s belief in her necklace’s power to energize, to draw out negativity and soothe physical pain had urged Amber to adorn herself with the pieces.
She did not go overboard, as Miss Claire’s best friend, Miss Fern, sometimes did. That wasn’t Amber’s style. She wore on her index finger an amber cabochon ring as a reminder of her recent plight and, more especially, of her survival. A miniscule, nearly-invisible insect remained trapped inside the gem, perhaps a prehistoric bee lured to its death by the honey color of the sticky sap. Trapped. As she had been not long ago. As she might be still. Yet, the ring reminded her the huge and mighty dinosaurs were no more and the small bug, frozen in amber, endured.
Of course, Miss Claire also swore amber aided romance. Amber could not scoff at her belief. Stones and crystals had some intrinsic properties, but, largely, they were what the wearer needed them to be. Miss Claire believed amber was a love potion or aphrodisiac in hardened form.
When Amber rubbed the cabochon ring on her finger, warming the stone with her hand, her thoughts of the damaged baseball player grew more intense.
Her brother Brick believed. He’d given both her and Garnet small wolves he’d carved out of gorgeous pieces of agate—to always look after you, he’d said. Agate was known for its protective properties. Amber kept hers with her always, drawing upon it for courage and strength during trying times of the day, or to bolster her flagging confidence. Garnet did, too.
Plop.
Something sloshed into the creek from the nearby falls and briefly splashed about before emerging onto an island of rock—beaver or badger out to play and test the cold spring waters, most likely. Amber jerked her head up, gazing through the filmy curtain of spray, and sucked in a sharp breath.
A man.
Not “a man.” The man. The one she’d seen on the flickering TV screen eight months ago on the day of her rescue. The man who’d fallen to the ground in centerfield, writhing in agony. The man she could not forget. She rubbed her ring. The amber heated and seemed to glow. Everything inside her melted.
He seemed blissfully unaware of her, so she gaped her fill. Luna. Such a sinfully handsome naked man, droplets of water glistening like diamonds on his lickable, strokable, sun-kissed skin, his taut muscles bulging and rippling with every movement.
Tendrils of his rich, unique scent wafted across the water, curling around her, into her nose, into her brain, seeping into her body and setting a carnal fire between her legs. Goddess. He smelled delicious—as she’d known he would. She sniffed again. He smelled like summer, like hot sun and freshly mown grass, like the whisper of clean, soothing rain, bringing with it the barest hint of a dangerous thunderstorm. Like Cracker Jacks and cotton candy and roasted peanuts and salted caramel fudge at a state fair…or a baseball game. Not that she’d ever been to either. Still, she could taste him on her tongue, a feast for all her senses.
Lickable?
Strokable?
She wanted to devour him. A tremo
r ran through her, both excitement and fear. One thing to fantasize about the erotic delights she might share with an imaginary lover, another thing when confronted with a real, living, breathing, flesh-and-blood male. A big, clearly dominant male. When she could hardly bear to touch or be touched, when everything in her readied to flee, how had heated words like “lickable” and “strokable” entered her mind? How had she conjured images of her skimming her hungry lips in delight over his tanned skin, savoring the salty, masculine taste of him?
Amber dipped her hand in her pocket to run her fingers over the features of the small wolf Brick had given her, calling forth its protective powers. Instead, the little stone sculpture fairly buzzed, reflecting her own excitement. Warmth filled her palm. Something hummed and sang within her. She could not be imagining the sizzle of fiery energy coursing through her. Could not be imagining him. The amber ring on her finger lit with an inner fire, radiating light. Her hot blood scorched through her veins.
Her mind told her to run, to leap up and shift and bound away, to escape the solitary confines of the woods invaded by the threat of the strange man.
But her wolf struggled inside her, rebelling and whining at the notion of flight, claws abrading her skin, urging her instead to plunge into the crystal water and twine herself around the man. Amber shook her head and curled her fingers into the grass, willing the motion to ground her to solid earth.
Her wolf howled its displeasure, compelling her to at least remain where she was and watch the naked man—if she refused to run to him, to bask in his proximity and loll in his scrumptious scent. The beast scampered in a confusion of joy and frustration, sensing something nearby that would bring it endless delight and crying in hungry need when she deprived it of the satisfaction it craved.
Amber remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze from a masculine form as perfect as a sculpture, so beautiful and hunky she wanted to weep.
Well, except for the weird angles of his left hand, the fingers somewhat gnarled and twisted, and the muscles of his thinner left arm not quite as toned and bulging as those of his right.
Water slapped around the wide granite pedestal on which he stood. As she stared, he went into a windup like the one she’d seen him perform on the TV screen so long ago. He ceased his movement before the throwing action, though, bringing his left arm back to his side with a disgusted shake of his head. Instead, he bent, gathered up a few stones, and skipped them expertly across the creek with his right hand.
Plop...plop...plop.
His sharp gaze followed the progress of the stones, the splashes they made as they traveled to the other side.
Then he looked up and their gazes met, his eyes locking with hers, his own wintry and dazzling, a mercurial quicksilver freezing her in place like a bee in amber.
Chapter Four
Mate.
Jesus. Not again.
He shut his eyes, waiting for the fantasy image of Jessica Rabbit or some other sultry and voluptuous Siren to reappear.
Unless…unless this time it was for real. The growl of his wolf sounded the same, just as confidant and certain as on the Day of Disaster. How could that be?
He snapped his eyes open and stared across the cackling stream. A thrill of surprised recognition spiraled through him. How? He didn’t know her. But he did. For a split second, he was aware of nothing else, nothing but her. About as far from the scarlet-lipped, ebony-haired phantom mate as one could get.
She had the face of an angel.
Her beautiful eyes held erotic heat as she stared back at him across the water, the fire in them chased almost immediately by a flicker of sheer terror.
No. Don’t fear me. You’re mine.
He couldn’t be sure of their color from this distance, but he suspected sky-blue or moss-green, to go with her delicate coloring.
His wolf paced, on alert, anxious that the woman seemed afraid. The wolf wanted to go to her, to rub its hide against her flank, to nuzzle her chin and neck and the top of her fair head in comfort.
She reclined like a mermaid on the opposite bank of the creek. She wasn’t nude, but that didn’t matter. Not at the moment, anyway. Barefoot and dressed in khaki cargo pants rolled to her knees, with an open, plaid flannel shirt flapping over her bright-yellow T-shirt, she lay on her side and drifted her hand delicately through the water. Crystal beads of spray shimmered on the fair skin of her forearm. Sunlight dappled through the trees, shining down on her amber hair and illuminating it like a halo around a perfect face, as pretty as any supermodel who’d ever graced his arm. At least, to him.
Angel.
He sucked in a sharp, fierce breath. Even from the distance, something sublime and utterly delicious tantalized his nose.
My angel.
The certainty of the thought resonated through him with undeniable power, hitting him so suddenly he nearly toppled from his perch on the rock. A hot, urgent blast of possessiveness filled him, exciting the wolf.
Mine. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.
His chest swelled. If he’d been a different kind of beast, or maybe acting in a Tarzan movie, he’d have beat upon his breast with his fists, shrilling his ownership of the female across the water. Instead, he silently trumpeted his own belated answer to the mate call he’d heard so many months ago. The mate call that had ended his major league baseball career.
Wait. Was she the One? Had it been her call he’d heard? How was that possible? What was she doing here in Los Lobos, anyway? Had she been here then? He’d heard the mate call was powerful, but never that its reach was strong enough to span continents, originating in South Dakota and bursting audibly into New York City.
And if this female was the One…why the hell would he want her? She’d destroyed him. Demolished his career, his life as he knew it.
He wanted nothing at all to do with her. He despised her, the woman who’d ended everything for him. A whisper of sheer disgust and loathing shivered through him for a split second as he stared at the woman, so blissfully unaware of what she’d done to him…and then the turbulent emotion burned away and vanished like the smooth stones he’d skipped across the creek, replaced by something far, far hotter. Far more savage.
Lust.
Hunger.
Need.
Holy crap, the wolf wanted her. He did, too. His balls tightened, and his cock swelled, rising in an instant, until it lay stiff and throbbing against his belly, hard as a Louisville Slugger. Naked on his perch of granite, he couldn’t hide the erection. He turned more fully toward her, letting her get a good look. Letting her wolf recognize him and the wolf within him.
This is who I am, lady. This is the male you called. The wolf you bound. This is how the man responds to you.
Yet, for all he wanted to plunge through the roiling stream and pounce on her, the purity of his desire dazzled him, blinding him to all else except his growing hunger and craving, the arousal of his starving wolf clawing at him and howling to be let free to claim.
He hadn’t been looking for his life’s companion. Hadn’t thought he’d wanted to meet her at this stage of the eternal game. Yet, here she was. And he wanted nothing more.
His mate. His. Mate.
He could not hate the woman, despite the utter demolition of his career. Did she even have any idea what she’d done to him seven months ago? Probably not. How had she done it? It couldn’t have been from here. Had she been in New York that day? In the stadium? In the stands? She appeared as innocent as if she’d never been outside of Los Lobos, her cheeks burning as she looked quickly away from his hot stare and the stiff, turgid evidence of his desire.
She gathered up her small collection of stones, dropping more than she saved in her hurry as she obviously prepared to flee him.
“Wait!” he growled.
“Stay back!” she responded, her voice raw.
But he could not let her get away.
He plunged into the creek and gained the opposite ba
nk in a few swift strokes. The icy water did very little to kill his ardor or shrink his hard-on. Head and chest bursting from the water, his lower half still licked by the bubbling spring, he grabbed hold of her bare ankle with his good right hand as she turned to go.
A bolt of profound awareness sizzled up his arm. Warmth filled him. Palpable sexual tension crackled between them. He’d been so wrong about the color of her eyes. Honey-gold, like melted sun.
Yet, even though the woman’s amber eyes filled with recognition as she stared down at him, she gulped for air and kicked out, trying to shake him off, her whole body stiffening, overtaken by a full-blown panic attack. Something desperate and fearful prowled beneath the attraction in her eyes, but he did not understand. Her blow glanced off his slick shoulder. She did not really wish to injure him.
“Want to play?” he inquired, offering her his celebrated slow-as-molasses smile. “I can wrestle.” He tightened his grip on her foot.
“Let. Me. Go.” Her tone left no room for debate. Her voice rang with anger but held a faint musical quality. Once upon a time, he imagined, she’d sung and laughed much more. For all her apparent timidity, he sensed the fine and subtle steel strengthening her backbone.
“I’ll never let you go, my angel.”
A fleeting flash of terror illuminated her amber eyes then disappeared, replaced by stoic determination.
He’d said and done the exact wrong things, he suddenly knew. His role was to protect her, not frighten. But he didn’t understand. Women didn’t fear him. He charmed them with his happy-go-lucky, shucks, I’m just a hayseed country boy from South Dakota style, and they adored him. He loved and respected women. Honored them. Revered them, the way his mom had taught him. He’d never intentionally hurt a woman. His wolf cringed. What was he doing wrong?
“I’ve heard that before.” Her voice emerged low, and so flat, it was almost devoid of emotion. “Some stupid male braying that he’d never let me go.” She shook her head and a thread of defiance and triumph skated along the surface, emboldening her stance and her expression. “And here I am. Free.”
Amber's Ace Page 3
