Moonlight Danger

by Tina Donahue

  A primal urge to mate nearly knocked him down. He strode faster then jogged through the dense foliage. Twigs and rocks bit into his soles. Saw palmettos whipped his calves and thighs. The discomfort energized Nick. Around him, the forest came alive, sounds pressing in. Vegetation rustling from animals trying to escape notice. A motor in the distance, the engine coughing, trying to die. Water gurgling over rocks. His hammering heart.

  He released his clothing and stilled, the change inevitable now, each cell within him screaming for freedom from his human form, the man he no longer wanted to be. His fingers trembled then his hands and arms until he quivered violently, similar to a flag in a stiff breeze. He experienced no physical pain, only boundless liberation, embracing his inner beast, skin roughening with short, black hairs, nose and teeth elongating, limbs morphing.

  He dropped to all fours, the forest ground slightly damp beneath his paws, scented with rich earth and other predators—coyotes, bobcats, feral cats, and dogs. Even skunks had crossed this area in the recent past. Nick welcomed the riotous odors overwhelming his senses, washing away Portia’s fragrance.

  Her face remained, eyes drinking him in, tempting, loving.

  He tore through the brush, unworthy of a present and future with her, sickened by the past. His last moments with Bree, his mate and wife, would torment him until he ceased to exist. He’d promised to protect her always and had failed miserably.

  She’d died in his arms, her throat torn away by a she-wolf from a vicious horde that had attacked their pack. He’d been so focused on helping Derek battle the opposing Alpha male, Nick hadn’t noticed the shifter behind him. Bree had attacked the much larger wolf. The creature’s mate had run to his rescue, determined to stop Bree.

  She hadn’t had a prayer. His fault no matter what Derek and the others had claimed. Nick’s one job had been to see to her safety. Such a small thing to do or expect, yet he’d fallen well short of what a man or shifter should do. With her mortally injured, he’d cradled her close and lied to himself, wanting to believe everything would be all right. Shifters healed quickly. He simply had to get her to an emergency room, let the docs fix her up, giving her a fighting chance. She slipped away before he could move her from the spot, the light in her eyes dimming, life escaping on her last breath.

  Before she’d gone, her eyes had filled with tears yet she’d smiled and mouthed, I love you.

  That night he, not she, should have died. If he could only have those moments back, sacrifice his future for hers….

  Too bad fate didn’t work that way.

  Unable to hold in his anguish any longer, he stopped and unclenched his jaws to howl his rage and agony. Wolf scent stopped him from making a sound.

  Nick shuddered, his sorrow turning to concern. He lifted his snout and sniffed, not smelling Portia. Relief washed over him, yet wariness remained, his hackles raised. He swept the moon-washed landscape. A large, gray wolf hid within the mottled foliage. Nick’s pulse jumped. The creature eyed him carefully. From its scent, a male and shifter, though not just one of Nick’s kind.

  Kent.

  What he was doing out here was a mystery. Kent lived in town, close to the store he owned. Although he was in admirable shape for a man in his mid-forties, he didn’t seem the type to take moonlight runs as exercise or for the hell of it. Holing up in his office, counting his cash, seemed more in line with his personality. Word had it he’d screwed his business partner big time, forcing the man to leave the area, giving everything to Kent. A couple of girlfriends had faced similar exits, used and abused. The guy was an ass.

  Nick braced himself for his approach.

  Ears pulled in, Kent drew back into the shadows and sank to the ground. A subservient position.

  Not wanting to prolong their meet, Nick leaped across a fallen tree and took off, putting distance between himself, Kent, Moonlight, Portia, memories. Forest streamed by, the landscape smeared from his speed. One mile lengthened into five and more. The distance didn’t help. Escaping the past was as impossible as changing his eye color.

  He stopped and howled until his lungs burned and his throat hurt. Ignoring the pain, he yowled repeatedly, pouring out his helplessness and grief, but not coming close to exhausting himself.

  Unable to go back, he ran into the darkness ahead.

  ***

  When Nick returned, the community was quiet, lights off except for Portia’s kitchen washed in a warm, yellowish glow. He should have gone home and knocked back a six-pack to sleep. Perversely, he slipped behind an oak, spying on her like a lovesick teen.

  The window framed her perfectly. She bent her head to the sink, hair glossy with reddish highlights, shoulders drooped.

  His fault. The knot in his chest thickened and twisted, bringing a shitload of deserved pain.

  She fiddled with something then looked up suddenly, her gaze seeming to touch his. A pulse thumped in his temples, his urge to run intensified despite the unlikelihood of her having seen him. As shifters, their hearing was phenomenal. Some, not all, had eyesight much better than humans. Even with her backyard bathed in moonlight, she couldn’t see through a tree trunk to him.

  She lifted her face and sniffed.

  Smelling him was another matter. Her scent had already enveloped Nick.

  In another moment, she might come outside and call his name. What then? Give into his relentless need for her and spend the night only to wake up with the mother of all sexual hangovers? Or do the right thing and leave her alone so she could find a decent man, shifter, whatever she required. Someone without his baggage who could make her happy.

  He wanted nothing more than to see her smile. He would have given up several decades of his life to kiss her hurts before she covered them with Band-Aids. Neither was a workable option. He dug his thumbnail into the trunk, stalling.

  She left the sink and didn’t return. Before she rushed out the back door, he slipped through shadows, taking a circuitous route to his bungalow, the interior no more than five hundred square feet.

  Tonight, the space overwhelmed him with its unbelievable emptiness, her scent not as strong here. Bree’s was only a distant memory, fading more with each day.

  Troubled, he lumbered to his bedroom and fell on his mattress, fully clothed, begging for sleep, not expecting an answer to his foolish prayers.

  ***

  Well before dawn, Nick installed the linoleum he’d left the previous day. A project he completed in the faint glow of camping lights with the shades drawn to avoid detection. Portia was an early riser. Every few seconds, he stopped and looked over, expecting her to be in the doorway, giving him a dimpled smile, making him want all over again.

  Drained and edgy, he made too many mistakes, cutting the flooring short, nearly slicing off a fingertip. He sucked the cut until it stopped bleeding then tried to focus, take more care.

  By eight a.m., he’d sliced up his hands pretty damn bad, the heat sucked, and the air was beyond syrupy. He tied a blue-and-white kerchief around his forehead to keep sweat from stinging his eyes.

  His friend Ty strolled in, ready for work. “Morning. Whoa. You look like shit.”

  Just what he didn’t need. The man’s blunt comments.

  Nick pounded a nail into a board, hoping Ty would do the same in another room, preferably in another cottage.

  The goon rocked on his heels. “So, who’re you supposed to be with that thing on your forehead? Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean? A banger?” Ty contorted his fingers into pseudo gang symbols and danced around like a gorilla. Given his shock of red hair, freckle-stuffed face, and gangly limbs, he looked more ridiculous than usual.

  Nick lifted his hammer. “How would you like a free lobotomy?”

  “Bad day already, huh?”

  He muttered an oath.

  Ty leaned in. “You have a bad time with Portia last night?”

  The hammer hit wood rather than the nail, barely missing Nick’s thumb. “What?”

  He crowded Ty, who ski
ttered back, banging his shoulders against the wall. “Hey, take it easy. I was only asking.”

  “Did Portia talk to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why in the fuck would you ask such a stupid question?” Oh hell. Nick clenched his teeth. “Were you in her backyard last night?”

  “No, but it was hard to miss you guys heading there. If your face gets any redder, you’re going to explode. I can guess what happened between you two. Wasn’t it good? Wait. It was too good, right?”

  Nick cursed himself for having opened up to Ty in the past, admitting his shame over Bree’s death, his decision never to fall for any woman again. “I’m not going to talk about this. Don’t ask. Don’t even think about it. Ever.”

  “Hey, I’ve never been obsessed about your love life or lack of it. You want space, that’s cool. You want to talk, I’ll listen. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I don’t want to talk.” He returned to his work, pounding nails. His ears rang from the noise. Before long, his blisters had blisters. Fran and Olive, two older shifters, dropped by, complaining about the din that had gone on for hours.

  Nick mumbled an apology but kept busy, slapping white paint on the wood as quietly as possible.

  Ty whistled from across the room. “Time for lunch.”

  “You go. I’m not hungry.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I am.”

  “Your funeral, but you haven’t stopped since I got here.”

  “I’m not tired.” He slouched against the unpainted wood, stifled a yawn, and drew his brush sluggishly over the wall. After he was done here, he’d lay other flooring, work on some roofs, cut a few lawns, dig up plants then put them back and start over again. Anything so he’d sleep tonight. Hopefully, the dreamless variety.

  “Nick?”

  Portia.

  He turned so quickly, his brush sprayed paint across the floor, barely missing her work boots.

  Today, she had on yellow-and-white polka dot socks, no lace. She hadn’t worn her overalls either. Instead, she sported white cut-offs, the super short kind that barely reached past the tops of her thighs. Several strings dangled down them. He tore his gaze away. Her yellow blouse had tiny sleeves that fluttered in the scant breeze and sported a neckline that dipped low on her chest, giving him a promising view of her cleavage.

  She smelled better than a pristine forest, the first hint of spring, and a cool shower on a scorching day.

  He gripped his paintbrush, popping a blister.

  She lifted her picnic basket. “I brought us lunch. Hope you don’t mind. I wanted you to have the steak I promised.”

  Behind her, Ty lifted his reddish eyebrows. A muscle jumped in Nick’s jaw, his molars aching from gritting them. Ty put his screwdriver on the floor. “Think I’ll take lunch now. Later, guys.”

  He fled.

  “This is looking great.” She turned a slow circle, taking in his careless paint job, bent nails, tools tossed carelessly aside, the spattered floor.

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh no.” She hurried to him. “The paint.”

  Nick glanced over. “Where? What about it?”

  “On your face. You touched your nose, and your fingers had paint on— Oh my God, what did you do to your hands?”

  She grabbed both, unknowingly squeezing his cuts and blisters. At the surprising pain, he sucked in a breath.

  She stared. “You’re hurt.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Since when? Were you working with your eyes closed?”

  He’d been daydreaming about her. Dumb move. He pulled back his hands. “Nothing wrong with me.”

  “What about the paint on your nose?”

  He looked down it, not seeing anything.

  “Here, I’ll get it off before it dries.” She daubed his face with a lacy handkerchief in pale yellow.

  Her fragrance blanketed him, driving away coherent thought. Before Nick lost what little sense he had left, he grabbed her wrist. Bad move. Her softness and heat threatened to undo him. It took monumental effort to keep from hauling her into his arms. Speech was equally difficult. “Stop. You’re going to ruin that.”

  “I can get others. You can’t imagine the bargains on eBay and Overstock.com.”

  He laughed. “That where you get your socks, too?”

  “You don’t like them?”

  He could spend a lifetime watching her model those babies while she wore nothing else except a sultry smile. “They’re cute. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  She beamed, carving a deep dimple in her cheek. “I wasn’t planning to. We can’t eat in here. Looks great, but the paint odor kind of gets to me.”

  He couldn’t smell anything except her.

  “How about we go to a spot between our houses? We can sit on the grass and dip our feet in the stream just before it goes underground.”

  Water was a definite hazard when they were together. Too much temptation urging them to strip and cool off. “You’ll get grass stains on your shorts.”

  “I have OxiClean White Revive. Works great. If I weren’t such a chicken, I’d use it on my teeth rather than those expensive treatments.”

  Jesus, she was something. Definitely not his future. “I should keep working. I probably won’t be hungry for hours.”

  She glanced at his growling belly.

  Fuck, when had that started?

  “Sure you don’t want anything I brought?” She stroked his stomach.

  His cock sprang to attention, wanting out of his jeans and briefs, in order to slip into her hand, mouth, cunt, even her anus if she’d allow that. “You didn’t go to a lot of trouble, did you?”

  She circled his navel. His legs wavered. “Trouble with what?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Just some steak sandwiches with sautéed onions, Parmesan-garlic mayo, provolone cheese, Italian seasoning, and Worcestershire sauce stuffed between a butter-grilled hard roll, along with home fries, cole slaw, applesauce, and southern baked beans on the side. So no, I didn’t.”

  He lowered his face to hide his smile. “You not only fix pipes but can cook, too?”

  “I’m great at watching TV. Mainly Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals and Sandra Lee’s Semi-Homemade shows. Thank God for cable or I’d have to scour YouTube for recipes and demonstrations. I’m not an expert, so you tell me how this smells.”

  She opened her basket.

  Scents nearly as delicious as hers encouraged him to inhale deeply. His mouth watered so badly, he practically drooled. “Wow.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Let’s get our table.”

  ***

  Okay, so she was running him down like a rabid cop fixated on an FBI Most Wanted suspect. Portia couldn’t help herself. No, that was wrong. She didn’t want to stop. Waiting for Nick to come to the right conclusion about them could take forever. Even if it were mere days, she didn’t want to lose any more time.

  When he’d left last night, she’d never been as cold even though the day’s lingering heat and mugginess practically smothered her. With him, her nudity was natural and right. Once he’d gone, she couldn’t pull on her clothes quickly enough. She’d wanted to run off her anxiety but lacked the energy, barely shuffling inside her house. TV, computer games, and the Internet had annoyed, making her restless. Finally, she’d scrubbed her place from top to bottom, ending in the kitchen.

  Exhausted and lonely, two things hit her at once. The same awful odor from before and Nick’s scent.

  His delicious fragrance had vanished faster than their respective orgasms. Reluctant to go outside and sniff her property like a rutting she-wolf, she’d dragged to bed, tossing until dawn…possibly around the same time he’d been laying linoleum. This morning she’d seen his handiwork, guessing he was either the most dedicated employee on Earth, loved to do flooring, or he’d wanted to dodge her. That fucking hurt, but strangely enough also made her determined not to let him do
that to them.

  Someday, he’d appreciate that.

  She squeezed his hand, thanking him for carrying her basket. He laced his fingers with hers, no hesitation, a natural reaction. Reckless with joy, she steered him to their destination. Watery light drizzled through trees. Vegetation drooped in the insufferable heat. The puny breeze failed to stir up anything, including dust. An undeniably shitty day. She couldn’t have been happier.

  Stopped at the spot, she was ready to boogie. Even in full daylight, this place was isolated from prying eyes. Exactly why she’d chosen it.

  Nick studied the ground. “There’s nothing but dirt here. You’ll get your shorts dirty.”

  Not if she ditched them and everything else as she’d planned. “I can toss them in the wash.”

  “Or I can do this.” He pulled off his tee, smoothed it over the ground, and gestured to what he’d done.

  His muscles bunched and flexed with every move, stealing her breath. Dark, silky hair peeked from his pits. Simply awesome. “You want me to sit on your shirt?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “It’ll get dirty.”

  “But your shorts won’t.” He offered his hand, helped her down, and unlaced her right boot.

  Him undressing her was unexpected and nice. She’d assumed they’d tear off their own clothes, as they’d done last night, and get to the main event with no time to linger on flaws. God knew, she wasn’t perfect. Losing five pounds wouldn’t kill her. More runs in the woods would tone her muscles the way they should be. Thankfully, she’d touched up her toenail polish earlier. This morning, she groomed better than she ever had, her bikini line pristine, legs smooth.

  With great care, he laid her sock on his tee then traced her tat. Giggling, she pulled her foot away. “That tickles.”

  “Yeah?” He gripped her ankle and ran his fingers up and down her sole.

  She screeched and fell back. “Stop. I can’t stand it.”

  “Bad, huh?”

  Too spectacular for words. She grinned, loving this. He looked hot and adorable, his powerful chest, biceps, and shoulders making her weak. Paint streaks on his face urged her to cuddle him. “Do it again.”