by Rebecca York
She was considering going back for the flashlight on her desk when a dart of movement caught her eye. Turning her head, she saw a man materialize out of the rain and darkness—a man hurtling purposefully toward her.
There was hardly any warning before he crashed into her, almost knocking her to the wet ground. The still-unopened umbrella sailed out of her hand and onto the grass, and she gasped, stumbling on the water-slick sidewalk, numb with shock as arms fastened around her body, pulling her close in a parody of an embrace.
He was taller than she, and too close for her to see anything. But she felt him, solid and menacing in the darkness.
Rain pelted against them, drenching her hair before he pushed her against the wall where the overhang gave some protection from the torrent of water.
She began to pound at him with her fists, trying to make him loosen his hold. But he was wearing something slick like shiny rubber or plastic so that her hands slid off of him, unable to get a grip on the wet surface.
When she finally landed a heavy blow, he grunted. Raising her hands, she tried to claw at his face, his eyes, but his head was covered by some sort of knit fabric—a ski mask, from the feel of it.
He had deliberately hidden his face, and that simple fact spurred her terror. Sensing there was no point in wasting her breath on pleading with him, she simply fought him as he wrestled her to the wet pavement.
Desperately her fingers scrabbled under the edge of the ski mask, and she raked her nails across his neck.
With an angry roar, he slapped a hand across her face so hard her ears rang. Coming down on top of her, he tore at her clothing, his hands on her body in intimate places—high up on her legs, her breasts.
And the scream that had been frozen inside her tore from her throat.
A woman's scream pierced the downpour. Ross had been sitting behind the steering wheel of his car, eyes closed as he waited for the rain to let up enough so that he could dash to the door of the lab. He was still tired from the night before, still weak from the leg wound, and he was half dozing, lulled by the drumming of the rain on the roof of the SUV.
But the scream snapped him to instant attention.
Megan. God, that was Megan. In trouble.
He didn't stop to think, because thought had become impossible. He was already kicking off his shoes, tearing off his jacket and shirt and throwing them onto the seat of the car. Then, leaping onto the rain-slick pavement, he pulled his pants and underwear off and kicked them under the car even as the words of transformation rose in his throat.
"Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen. Gá. Feart. Cleas. Duals. Aithriocht. Go gcumhdaí is dtreoraí na déithe thú," he shouted into the deluge then repeated the phrase.
He could see nothing through the driving rain. But the wolf would know. The wolf would find her.
He had never felt this urgency, never tried to hurry the transformation. But tonight he pushed the process, the pain searing him as he forced muscle and sinew to respond to his commands.
He picked up Megan's scent even before he was down on all fours and streaking across the strip of blacktop.
MEGAN fought as the assailant dragged her skirt over her hips and clawed at her panty hose.
Dimly, in the back of her mind, she thought she heard the sound of a car door opening and strange words drifting toward her above the pounding rain.
She couldn't understand them, and yet she had the feeling she'd heard them before.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as if nature were providing background music for the attack. The next sound that reached her ears was an animal snarl, deep and dangerous in the darkness. It sent a jolt of awareness through her system, and all she could think was that a hound from hell had come to tear her to pieces.
The attacker must have heard it, too, because his whole body stiffened.
Claws clicked against the pavement. She could still see nothing through the pouring rain, nothing from her position on the ground. But she felt a heavy body crashing into the man on top of her—heard more growling, snapping, snarling, the scraping of claws.
MEGAN'S scent had led him to the struggling figures. She was on the ground. A man was on top of her. Rage coursing through his mind and body, the wolf leaped onto the man's back, jaws snapping, claws digging through slick vinyl to contact flesh.
The assailant gave a cry of pain and terror and sprang away from Megan, his face strange and grotesque in the darkness.
Not a human face at all.
Before the wolf could puzzle it out, the man raised his hand to protect his eyes as he skittered away across the wet pavement.
With a growl the wolf started to leap after him—to finish him off.
Then the woman on the ground moaned, and he knew his first thought must be of her.
Words clawed their way to the surface of his brain. But there was no way to force them from his mouth.
Megan. Talk to me.
Are you all right?
He couldn't speak, couldn't ask the question. He could only stand there in the rain, staring down at her with anxious eyes as she pushed herself up and cringed away from him.
A car door slammed, an engine started, and a car skidded off through the pelting rain. Dimly he realized that he had let the man escape. But that was good, wasn't it? He hadn't killed him. He had gone to Megan instead.
He stood for a moment, choked with a swirl of emotions. Then, backing away, he turned and fled to his own vehicle, shielding himself behind the open door as the words of transformation echoed in his head again. Once more he pushed the process. Once more he intensified the pain, his head spinning with it, his vision blurring.
Then he was standing on two feet—a man, naked in the slackening rain. Reaching under the car, he found his jeans and shoved his legs into the legs before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head.
DIZZY, disoriented, Megan scooted back under the shelter of the roof overhang, out of the rain, her hand grasping at the rough surface of the brick wall. Her mind was focused on standing—running. But when she tried to shove herself up, her legs were like rubber, and she flopped back to the pavement with a sob of frustration.
She was making another attempt to coordinate her limbs and her brain when the light in the reception area snapped on, casting a dim glow into the rain and darkness. It was enough for her to see a man's shape filling the doorway.
"No." The cry tore from her throat just as the man came down beside her on the pavement, looming over her.
She was still cringing away when the sound of his voice, his words, penetrated her fear.
"Megan. Megan, are you all right? Megan," he said over and over.
When she realized who it was, a sob welled in her throat. "Ross?"
"Yes. I'm here. I'll take care of you."
She pressed against him, and he scooped her up, carrying her inside the building. Leaning back against the wall, he set her gently down, but he didn't let her go. His arms embraced her, cradling her close, protective and possessive. She burrowed into his warmth, the familiar scent of him, the strength.
"God, Ross," she gasped out, clinging to him, her face burned in his shoulder.
He moved them to the reception room couch, holding her on his lap, stroking the wet hair out of her face. Then his hand touched the sleeve of her blouse, and she realized it was ripped.
"Did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"No. The dog stopped him. Or was it the wolf?" Unable to meet his gaze, she kept her face pressed against his chest as she asked, "Did I dream that, too?"
She heard him make a low sound in his throat. "Do you want it to be a dream?"
"Yes."
"Then it is."
The confirmation soothed her. Something had happened. Something strange that she had no way to explain. But she didn't want to think about the details. They were far too threatening.
Instead she nestled closer to him. Ross. Ross was here. Not the wolf. Seeming to know exactly what she needed, he rocked her in
his arms, leaning back so that her body rested against his. She felt his lips skim her damp hair.
"He was on top of me, tearing at my clothes," she said, gulping.
"He won't hurt you. He's gone," he said, repeating the reassurance, probably because he knew she needed to hear it again.
She nodded, but the thought of what had almost happened stabbed at her, and she made a small sound of protest.
As Ross's arms tightened around her, she lifted her face, stared up into his dark eyes. She could lose herself in those eyes, she thought. Lose herself in him.
For long moments, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then he cleared his throat. "We have to call the police."
She started to protest that she didn't want to talk about it with the police, then realized he was right. "You'll stay with me?"
"Of course."
Pushing herself up, she tried to straighten her clothing and found that the front of her blouse was hopelessly torn and her skirt was sopping. Quickly she walked to the lab and grabbed a white coat and a pair of scrub pants that she sometimes wore when she was working with chemicals that might ruin her clothing.
Ross stood guard at the door, then escorted her to the ladies' room where she changed into the coat and pants and stuffed her ruined clothing inside a plastic bag from the supply closet.
When she came out, he was there, although she'd thought she heard him run down the hall while she was in the bathroom. He stayed beside her as she returned to Betty's desk and stared at the phone, her hand suddenly shaking.
"You want me to do it?" he asked.
"Would you?"
He picked up the receiver, made the call to 911.
"A patrol car is on the way," he said after he hung up.
She nodded, then thought about Walter. "I should call my boss."
"I can take care of it."
She pictured Walter's reaction to yet another disturbance in his ordered way of life. "No. It's better if I do it."
Ross handed her the phone, and she struggled to control her trembling fingers as she punched in Walter's number.
She got his answering machine and was relieved that she wouldn't have to talk to him right away. Instead, she left a message saying that there had been another incident at the lab and to call her as soon as he could.
As she sat on the couch in the reception area, her eyes lifted to Ross, who was pacing back and forth.
She studied him, thinking that he'd been barefoot when they'd first come in. Or was she remembering that right? Because now he was wearing his shoes again.
Her eyes flicked to his jeans and shirt. His clothing was damp, but not as wet as hers had been.
Why not? she wondered, an uneasy feeling gathering in the pit of her stomach.
"What should I tell the police when they get here?" she asked.
"Tell them what happened."
"That you chased him away?"
She saw him swallow. "Yes."
Even as she nodded her agreement, some part of her knew that she was treading on dangerous ground. Unstable ground that could open up and swallow her whole. Instinct urged her to back away, back to where the surface under her feet was firmer.
The wolf…
He had stood there, staring at her.
No. Forget the wolf, her mind ordered. You were scared spitless, and you made him up. That's all. It had to be all, because there was no other way her mind could cope.
ROSS forced himself to stop pacing, forced himself to sit quietly on the couch in the reception area with his arm around Megan. While she'd been in the bathroom, he'd retrieved his shoes from where he'd dropped them before he changed. The underwear he'd shucked off was in the pocket of his coat. Presumably the police weren't going to search him, so there'd be no reason to explain why his underclothes were in his pocket instead of covering his butt.
Now that he had time to think things through, he knew that he'd had no real reason to change into a wolf. Private detective Ross Marshall could have gone after the man who'd attacked Megan. But when he'd heard her scream, animal instinct had taken over. He'd torn off his clothing, changed into wolf form, and leaped on top of the bastard.
Instinct again. The curse of the werewolf. And now he had to deal with the consequences—whatever they were going to be.
At least he hadn't ripped out the man's throat. That was something.
Before he could wander any further down that line of thinking, two uniforms came through the door, introduced themselves as Officer Brant and Officer Martinez, and began taking information from Megan.
They were in the middle of taking her initial statement when a detective joined the proceedings. It was Jack Thornton, and Ross's first thought was Oh, shit.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
« ^ »
JACK STARED AT the bedraggled couple sitting on the sofa in the reception area, Ross Marshall and a woman who had apparently been assaulted outside her office. He was wearing rain-spattered jeans, his leather jacket, and a shirt—the same clothes he'd had on earlier in the day. Her hair was wet and mussed, and she was clutching the front of a white lab coat.
He'd responded to the call because he was working the late shift. From the expression on the PI's face, it looked like he wasn't pleased to see Detective Thornton.
After telling the uniforms they could leave, he studied the couple's posture. Marshall had his arm around her. And she was leaning into him as though she were seeking comfort and protection. Maybe more than that, he thought with sudden insight.
He introduced himself to the woman. "I'm Detective Jack Thornton."
"Dr. Megan Sheridan," she replied. "And this is Ross Marshall."
"We know each other," Ross interjected.
She looked from one of them to the other. "Professionally?"
"Yeah," Marshall answered.
Jack cleared his throat, addressed her again. "You work here?"
"Yes."
"You're a medical doctor?"
"Yes, but I don't treat patients. My job is research oriented."
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"No. But I will." She pressed closer to Marshall, and his arm tightened around her. "I was working after hours. When I realized the window of my car was open—" She stopped, made a face. "It's still open! Anyway, I got an umbrella and went outside."
"You're not wearing the clothes you had on during the attack?"
She looked down at the lab coat. "No. I put this on because my blouse was torn and my skirt was wet."
"Where are they?"
"In my office."
"I'd like to send them to the lab."
"For what?"
"Trace evidence. Hair. Fibers. Something to help us identify the guy."
She got up, swaying a little on her feet. Marshall was about to jump up and steady her when she lurched away and walked stiffly down the hall.
Jack watched Marshall keep his eyes trained on her until she disappeared through a doorway. "How is she?"
"Shaken up. Not hurt," the PI answered.
Before he could ask about Marshall's role in the incident, she was back carrying a plastic bag, which she set down beside Jack.
"Okay. Sorry for the interruption," he said. "You grabbed an umbrella and went outside."
"Yes, I opened the front door, and it was raining really hard. I couldn't see more than a couple of feet in front of me. I was thinking about getting a flashlight when a man came out of the darkness and attacked me."
"What did he do exactly?"
She shivered, and Marshall stroked his hand up and down her arm. "He grabbed me, threw me to the ground, and started ripping at my clothes." She stopped, glanced at Marshall, and a look passed between them that Jack wished he could read. "Then Ross got the guy off me."
"Did you pursue him?" Jack asked Marshall.
"He got away."
"Were you in the building?"
Marshall shook his head. "No. I was in the parking lot and heard Megan scream. I came running toward the door,
and I could dimly see her struggling with someone on the pavement outside."
"You pulled the guy off of her?"
Marshall's mouth tightened. "Yes."
There was something odd about Marshall's answers. Something that he wanted to understand. But he decided to come back to that later. "Can either of you tell me anything more about the man?"
"He had a ski mask over his face," Dr. Sheridan said. "I know because I tried to claw him, and my hand hit the fabric."
"It was dark. I can't give you many details," Marshall added. "I guess he was something over medium height. Medium weight. I couldn't see his features, of course."
Jack wrote it down, then asked, "What kind of work does Bio Gen do?"
Dr. Sheridan replied, "Genetic testing—mostly for couples who want to know if planning a family is a good idea. Also testing in paternity cases. And I have my own research."
"On what?"
"Myer's disease, a genetic form of macular degeneration that strikes certain individuals in their thirties. The macula is the part of the eye where the vision is sharpest. I'm working on a gene therapy that I hope will arrest further deterioration."
"Gene therapy? Isn't that dangerous?"
"It's gotten some bad press. But what I'm doing is different. I'm using an adenovirus—a modified cold virus—to deliver a normal copy of the gene to the back of the eye. But I haven't gotten to clinical trials, if you're thinking that someone I damaged with my wild experiments came after me."
Again her expression shifted subtly. He waited for her to elaborate, but she apparently didn't have any more to say on the subject.
He turned to Marshall, "And what were you doing at the lab?"
"I was here to meet Megan," the PI answered.
"You mean, for a date?"
"Business."
"Which was?"
"Why is that relevant?"
"Everything's relevant."
"I had asked the lab for genetic testing."
Jack stared at the arm that Marshall kept firmly around the woman's shoulder. "And you and Dr. Sheridan have gotten to know each other well during the course of your professional relationship?"
