Werewolf in the North Woods: A Wild About You Novel

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Abby noticed her tablemates sneaking glances at her, and she had to admit the evidence was damning. But what about the smell? Grandpa Earl had been very specific about the smell, and he wouldn’t confuse skunks with Sasquatch.

  It was as if Roarke had read her mind. “Our local celebrity Mr. Dooley, who claims to have seen a mated pair, says the stench was unmistakable. Unfortunately for the veracity of his story, that stench could be any number of less exotic things—a skunk, a dead animal in the underbrush, even a colony of feral cats.”

  With a sigh, Abby acknowledged that could be true. Roarke wasn’t destroying her grandfather’s claim with ridicule. Instead he was quietly dismantling it with clear and unassailable logic, which was much more effective. She’d been faced with that kind of reasoning all her life, which was why she’d given up on tales of unicorns, frogs turning into princes, and Bigfoot.

  If Grandpa Earl’s cherished Bigfoot really existed—and Abby wanted to believe that for her grandfather’s sake if for no other reason—then more evidence was needed. One grainy picture and a report of an offensive smell didn’t cut it. Grandpa Earl wanted that evidence, but his arthritis kept him from spending hours hiking through the woods.

  She wasn’t scheduled to leave for another five days. Once she convinced this professor to lay off his campaign, she’d buy a better camera and devote the rest of her visit to combing the woods. She wouldn’t tell her parents about it, though, because they’d probably want to fly up and stage an intervention.

  Roarke finished his presentation and invited questions, but he didn’t get many. Judging from the comments at Abby’s table, everyone was convinced that her grandfather had seen a couple of tall hikers wearing bulky sweat suits. They’d left quickly because they’d known they were hiking illegally on private land. Case closed.

  Gathering her coat and purse, Abby exchanged pleasantries with the people leaving her table and assured them that she wasn’t offended by their doubts about her grandfather’s claim. And she wasn’t. The evidence was inconclusive and even Earl probably knew that. But he’d been there, and he believed.

  If Abby found better evidence, she’d enjoy parading it in front of the skeptical professor Wallace. She should be sure to get his card before they parted ways. The thought of continuing a debate through e-mail sent a zing of excitement through her.

  As she approached the small group of people surrounding him, her heart rate spiked. Okay, so she was attracted to him. Any woman would be who managed to look past his clothing choices. He might not be married, but there was a good chance he had a girlfriend back in New York.

  Maybe his girlfriend was a geek who preferred her man in plaid vests and bow ties. Or maybe she was a smart cookie who realized that turning her honey into a GQ guy would only increase his hottie quotient and cause her more problems with other women. Maybe . . .

  Abby blew out a breath, impatient with herself. Debating Roarke’s availability was distracting her from her goal to help restore Grandpa Earl’s reputation in the community. She’d come here to assess the enemy. Whether or not he had a girlfriend was completely beside the point.

  She waited until everyone else drifted away from Roarke before stepping forward. “Interesting talk.”

  He smiled. “You weren’t bored out of your skull?”

  “Not at all. Still have time for that drink?”

  “Sure. Let me shut down my laptop and I’ll be right with you.” He turned and tapped a few keys.

  He looked as handsome from the side as he did straight on, and she allowed herself to admire him in profile. He had very sensuous lips. That didn’t guarantee that a man was a good kisser, but it was a fine start.

  “Did I convince you that Bigfoot is a myth?” He closed the laptop and disconnected it before stowing it in a carrying case.

  “You convinced me that Earl Dooley’s evidence doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Nobody’s evidence has ever proved anything.” Grabbing a tan raincoat, he hoisted the carrying case strap over his shoulder.

  “Yet.” She couldn’t resist.

  “Ah.” He smiled at her as they started out of the banquet room. “You’re a believer.”

  “I’m a semi-believer. I’m also Earl Dooley’s granddaughter.”

  He stopped to gaze at her. “Oh.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me, but I’m curious why you’d want to buy me a drink, all things considered.”

  She laughed. “Afraid I’ll slip some arsenic in it?”

  His worried expression relaxed into a grin. “Would you?”

  “Nah. Too obvious.”

  “In that case, where’s this quaint little bar you mentioned ? I could use a beer.”

  “Follow me.” She led the way to Flannigan’s and soon they were seated opposite each other in a cozy booth surrounded by gleaming mahogany paneling and jeweled light from Tiffany shades.

  The place was nearly empty at this time of day, which meant Abby could actually hear the Irish ballads on the bar’s sound system for a change. She’d been in here with Grandpa Earl and Grandma Olive on summer nights when the noise level had made conversation impossible. Both her grandparents, Irish to the core, had enjoyed sipping a pint of beer served in a publike atmosphere.

  After Grandma Olive died last year, Grandpa Earl had stopped going to Flannigan’s. But then he’d sighted the Bigfoot pair and had headed to the bar with his pictures and his story. Abby’s heart squeezed as she imagined how excited he must have been to share his discovery.

  Roarke ordered a Guinness and Abby did, too. Being in Flannigan’s always brought out the Irish in her.

  The beer, served in glass mugs, arrived quickly. Abby lifted hers in a salute. “Here’s to scientific inquiry.”

  “I’m for that.” Roarke touched his mug to hers. Then he took a sip and set the mug on its coaster. “I’m going to guess you have some ulterior motive for coming to the meeting today.”

  “Of course.” She savored the tang of the dark beer, which she drank only when she was in Flannigan’s. “Have you known the Gentrys long?”

  An emotion flickered in his green eyes. “No. My dad knows Cameron Gentry’s parents.”

  “The Gentrys have wanted Dooley land for years.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Damn, but he was good-looking, which made it tougher to concentrate on her mission. “You’re a smart guy, Roarke. You also must have figured out that Cameron Gentry wants to make my grandfather into a laughingstock so he’ll give up and sell.” She waited, wondering if he’d try to deny it.

  He gazed at her for a long time before sighing. “Yes, I know.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t, but there were other issues, like concerns about trespassers. Once your grandfather made a public announcement of his supposed discovery, the Gentrys had to deal with unwanted curiosity seekers. That wasn’t fair to them.”

  “Come on. Don’t tell me that was a huge problem for them. With all their money, I’m sure they have a security system to end all security systems.”

  “They have a surveillance system, but—”

  “Roarke, if I tell you something, can you promise not to take it right back to the Gentrys?”

  He hesitated, as if weighing that. “All right.”

  “I’d like to see my grandfather sell that land, too.”

  “You would?”

  “Absolutely. He’s all alone up here now that my grandmother’s gone. That little general store he runs out by the main road is a lot of work, but he doesn’t make enough to justify hiring help. The rest of his family moved to Arizona years ago, and now we want him to come down there. It would be so much better for his arthritis and we could keep an eye on him as he gets older.”

  Roarke frowned. “So why hasn’t he done that?”

  “Bigfoot. He wanted to see that creature just once.”

  “And now he thinks he has.”

  “Right. And
he might have sold out after that, except the Gentrys brought you in to rain all over his parade. Now he says the only way he’ll leave is feetfirst.”

  Leaning back in the booth, Roarke scrubbed a hand over his face. Then he began to chuckle.

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Shaking his head, he picked up his mug and took a swallow of his beer.

  “Not to my grandfather.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Roarke returned his mug to its coaster. “Abby, I regret making your grandfather look foolish, but in a way, he left himself open to it with his flimsy case.”

  She felt compelled to defend Grandpa Earl. “If you’d searched for something all your life, and then you found it, wouldn’t you tell people? Wouldn’t you show them the picture, even if it wasn’t a very good picture?”

  His green eyes filled with compassion. “You love him very much, don’t you?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m asking you to help repair the damage you’ve done to his self-esteem.”

  “How could I do that?”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’d give a talk saying you’ve studied his picture more thoroughly and have decided it could be a legitimate shot of Bigfoot.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Because of the Gentrys?”

  “Partly, and partly because it wouldn’t be true.” His glance flickered slightly. “Anyway, Bigfoot doesn’t exist.”

  If she hadn’t been fascinated by his gorgeous green eyes, she might have missed that flicker. In her experience with insurance claims, a flicker like that meant the subject wasn’t giving her the whole truth.

  She sensed an opening and decided to try a different tack. “I’m willing to agree that it’s unlikely that Bigfoot exists, but the world’s an amazing place, where new discoveries are made every day. I would think as a scientist you’d want to leave yourself open to the possibility.”

  “But all the hard evidence—”

  “Screw the hard evidence, Roarke. My grandfather saw something, and he doesn’t believe for one minute it was hikers. I challenge you to come by Dooley’s General Store and talk to him about it.”

  “He’d probably throw me out on my ear.”

  “Not if I’m there to stop him. Come tomorrow morning around ten. Please. This is a delicate situation, but you and I might be able to make it end well for all concerned.”

  Roarke turned his mug around in his large hands before glancing at her. “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll admit that Grandpa Earl has a stubborn streak, so somebody needs to hang around and referee. But I think if you hear him tell the story of what he saw and smelled, you’ll find that ridiculing his sighting won’t be so easy.”

  “It’s never been easy.”

  She leaped on that. “Because you think Bigfoot is a possibility?”

  “Because I don’t like poking holes in somebody’s cherished dream.”

  “So why did you?”

  He finished off his beer. “It’s complicated. I—” A cell phone chimed and he pulled a BlackBerry from inside his corduroy jacket and checked the number. “Sorry, but I need to go.”

  “No problem. But your call reminds me. Would you give me your cell number? I think my grandfather will be available tomorrow, but something might come up and I’ll need to call you.”

  “Sure thing.” He took a cream-colored business card from a different inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. Then he levered himself out of the booth and picked up his coat and laptop case. “Unless I hear from you, I’ll be at your grandfather’s store tomorrow at ten. I owe him that much.”

  “Thank you, Roarke.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. It could turn into a shouting match that won’t solve anything.”

  “It won’t be a shouting match.” She gazed up at him. “I’ll prepare him for the visit. I’ll tell him you’re actually a good guy.”

  He smiled at that. “You’re making quite an assumption on such brief acquaintance.”

  “I’m an insurance claims adjuster. It’s my job to separate the white hats from the black hats. Until today, I thought you were in the black hat category, but now I’ve changed my mind.”

  Roarke held her gaze. “I wouldn’t be too quick to do that if I were you.”

  A shiver of sensual awareness ran through her. “Are you saying you’re a bad boy?”

  “I’ve been known to be.”

  She gulped, unable to come up with a single snappy comeback.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Her heart racing, she turned to watch him walk away. Oh, baby.

  Chapter 3

  Although technically the Gentrys lived next door to the Dooleys, it was a couple of miles on the main road from the Gentry mansion to Dooley’s General Store, so the next morning Roarke drove his rented Corvette. There was enough misty rain to need the wipers every couple of seconds and the asphalt was shiny and wet. So far this week the convertible top had been a waste. He had yet to see a sunny day.

  Still, the Corvette was a sweet car to drive on a temporary basis. He’d always prefer his Ferrari, but the Corvette hugged the curves and purred like a contented cat. Growing up he’d longed to be a race car driver, but drivers spent too much time in crowds and on camera. A Were needed a certain amount of privacy because sometimes, shift happened. Ha, ha.

  As he neared the general store, he thought about his phone message yesterday afternoon, which had turned out to be a text from his brother, Aidan, announcing that Emma was pregnant. So Roarke had spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with Aidan, Emma, and his parents as they all celebrated the news. Although it was too soon to tell whether the baby would be a boy or girl, Roarke doubted that was the question on everyone’s mind.

  Instead of mating with a Were as he’d been expected to do, Aidan had mated with Emma, a human. Would their kid be Were or human? Nobody knew. The baby would look like a human child until puberty, so the family would have to wait for the verdict until then. At puberty a Were child began showing signs of being able to shift.

  Aidan’s choice had rocked the Wallace family to its foundation, and although Roarke liked Emma, even loved her as a sister-in-law, he still didn’t approve of Aidan’s decision. Weres mated with Weres, and that’s what Roarke would do. He hadn’t found anyone yet, but he wouldn’t turn thirty until next year. Aidan hadn’t married until he was thirty-two. Roarke had time.

  His immediate concern regarding females, Were or human, was what to do about Abby Winchell, who made him think of cool sheets and hot sex. She was here visiting and so was he, which made for a potential fling, a shipboard romance minus the ship.

  Except, as he’d determined yesterday, he didn’t have the time. He sighed as he pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of Dooley’s General Store. Maybe he’d luck out and find the Bigfoot pair this afternoon, arrange for their relocation before dinner, and be free to party with Abby tonight. Dream on, Wallace.

  Climbing out of the low-slung car, he took a deep breath of pungent, rain-soaked earth before surveying the store in front of him. Yes, it was a little run-down, the gray siding a tad bit weathered, but Roarke felt welcomed by the covered front porch complete with four rocking chairs. True, the chairs were wet with rain that had blown in. But if Portland ever had a sunny day—and Roarke had been assured there were many sunny days in Portland—those chairs would provide a relaxing spot to watch the world go by.

  A row of stained-glass sun catchers hung in each window on either side of the door. Roarke wondered if anyone ever bought them or if the display was evidence of wishful thinking. Personally Roarke didn’t mind the constant light rain, which created such beautiful and werewolf-concealing foliage and washed away incriminating wolf tracks. But he did miss being able to drive with the top down.

  A mechanical bird twittered as he opened the front door and stepped inside. True to its label of “general store,” Dooley’s seemed to stock a little bit of ev
erything. Roarke smelled coffee brewing, wood smoke, and the musty odor of canvas. A quick scan of the shelves revealed camping gear, groceries, fishing tackle, kids’ toys, and Portland souvenirs.

  At first Roarke thought the place was empty, but then his Were senses picked up Abby’s distinctive aroma. A second later she appeared from the back room and walked toward him. Today she looked more like the woman he’d seen on the outcropping than the one who had appeared at the Rotary meeting. She’d pulled her bright hair up into a ponytail and she wore jeans and a green Kiss me, I’m Irish sweatshirt.

  The sentiment on the sweatshirt made him wonder if she was throwing out hints. No need for that. He’d be happy to kiss her whatever nationality she was. But he didn’t have time. Damn.

  She looked him over with an impish smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your vest and bow tie.”

  He glanced down at his jeans and black sweatshirt with the NYU bobcat mascot on it. “You’re disappointed. I should have known the vest and bow tie were a turn-on.”

  “Oh, yeah. Especially the vest.” She laughed and glanced out the window. “Is that your red Corvette out there?”

  “It’s my rental.”

  “I see.” She pursed her lips and gazed at him. “So who’s the real Roarke Wallace? The geeky professor or the laid-back guy driving a red ragtop?”

  “Geeky? I’ll have you know that’s my Henry Jones Jr. look.”

  “So you did that on purpose! I wondered.”

  “I’m an anthropology professor. I recognize the value of costume.”

  Humor flashed in her blue eyes. “So is this your indolent rich boy costume?”

  “Something like that. I’m a man of many parts.” Boy, wasn’t that the truth. If she knew about his third costume, she’d freak.

  “And a man of your word,” she said quietly. “I appreciate this, Roarke. Grandpa Earl will be out in a few minutes. He didn’t want to appear too eager, so he’s dawdling around back there pretending to be very busy.”

  “Just so he’s not very busy loading a shotgun.”