by Holley Trent
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, and he believed her. Maybe it was the hard set of her jaw or perhaps the steely glint of her dark eyes. Or maybe it was the fact she as closer to her gun than he was to his own. It wasn’t like he could shape-shift on command. Could he?
He must have been pondering it too hard, because Dana reached over and tapped his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“When are you supposed to go furry?”
Good question.
“I don’t actually know. I haven’t exactly been given a primer on this, but I’m assuming the lore is true and it’ll be sometime the night of the full moon.”
“Which is tonight.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know if there was a lead-up and cool-down period or if it would only be tonight.”
“Shouldn’t you have a pack or something?”
He felt his eyes go wide as a scoff escaped his lungs. “Hope not. I’m not much of a joiner.”
“There’s got to be someone you can talk to—that can guide you through this. What about the guys you concussed?”
“No idea who they were. I called 911, but by the time the ambulance and police got here, they’d taken off. I left the hospital and came back to look for tracks, but it’d rained, and there was nothing.”
“How long were you in the hospital?”
“Couple of hours. I knew I was screwed then. Healed too fast. By the time the doctor made it into my stall, he acted like I was wasting his time.”
Her eyes widened.
Yeah, that’s exactly how he felt, too.
“I have a woman on staff who could probably find a were-group…uh…” Her forehead furrowed, jaw slackened. “Uh, were-pack-thing, if one actually exists. She’s good at tracking.”
“If there is one, I’m not sure I want them to know I exist.”
“I could see where that’d be a problem, but why don’t you let her look, anyway? If you know they’re here, you’ll know how to avoid them. And maybe she can find you some resources or see if there’s a protocol for full moon night. A safe house or something.”
“Why would you do that?”
She shifted on her cushion and studied her pants once again.
“Tell me. I know it’s not just because you’re coveting my desk chair.”
“No, although it’s a goddamned sweet chair.” She met his gaze, warily. “You were right earlier—what you said about me solving problems and wanting to know the why about things. I can’t just let things go. There has to be a sense of completion for me, or I can’t drop the case. My granddaddy used to call me his little terrier because I couldn’t let go of things. He was the reason I became a cop. He was a cop, and he said I was smart enough. I believed him.”
“Ah.” Actually, that news was somewhat reassuring. She’d done it to follow in the footsteps of someone she respected, and not because she had something to prove, although she’d probably proved “it” time and time again. “Well, sweetheart, I’m not a case. I’m just a man trying to figure out how to get through the next few days.”
She didn’t look convinced.
He sighed. “How much are you going to bill me for it?”
Finally, she smiled—an actual, honest-to-God smile and not a sneer. They’d been parrying for an hour and that was the first time she’d shown teeth.
“Uh-oh.”
“How about we work it out in trade?”
“Skin trade?”
“Ha ha.” She rolled her eyes and let her grin recede into a smirk. “I was thinking more like you open your pub up to my staff one day. It’d be nice for them to go out and unwind, have some drinks without getting hit on. They’re cranky about that.”
He could imagine. If the Shrew and Company staff were anything like Dana, they could probably start a riot in his pub without even trying. Especially if they were half as gorgeous as her. Maybe he could serve them personally. Well, one of them, anyway. Let the staff deal with the rest.
He hoped his expression conveyed his distrust. “I dunno about that. How’s your alcohol tolerance?”
Her grin widened again.
“You’re going to fuck my bottom line straight to Hell, aren’t ya?”
“High metabolism is apparently a side effect of being my brand of mutant. At least for alcohol.”
“How much do you have to drink to get drunk?”
“Why? You want to get me drunk?”
“That’s probably the only way I’ll get you take your clothes off.”
Her jaw dropped.
Score one for Paddy. Looks like she can be shocked after all.
“Filthy perv.”
He raised his shoulders and grinned. “Told you. You smell nice. Not gonna lie. If you come a little closer, I might escalate to the dry-humping stage.”
“No thanks.” Her voice was flat, but the corners of her lips twitched as if she were trying to suppress a laugh. She leaned over and picked up her phone. Once she’d dialed, she put it up to her ear and put her back against the armrest again. “Hey, Sarah? I need you to do some tracking tonight.” As she listened to the response Patrick couldn’t hear, she dragged her tongue over her lips and studied her nails.
Plump and moist, Patrick wanted nothing more than to smother those lips with his own, seek out her tongue and wrestle it into compliance. In fact, he found himself putting his knee up on the sofa and stalking close.
She raised an eyebrow when he grabbed one of her legs and drew it up to the sofa, turning her sideways.
“Uh, Sarah, hold on a second,” she said, and covered the phone’s mic with her hand. “Patrick, what are you doing?”
He pulled her other leg up and crawled into the V they made. He wrapped his fingers beneath her thighs and pulled her down so her head rested atop the chair arm. Then, he put his hands on either side of her head and smirked at her daringly.
Her scent changed again, and although her eyes were narrowed and lips pressed tight, her breathing had sped.
“Don’t mind me. Please continue.”
“You’re a little distracting.”
“I won’t touch a thing,” he lied.
She cleared her throat and slowly pressed the phone against her ear. “Uh, anyhow. This is going to sound crazy as shit—probably the craziest thing that’s come across our desks in two years—but I need you to come out here and try to locate a cluster, uh…clump? Herd? Whatever. Mountain lions. Were-mountain lions.”
He could hear her associate’s shrill laughter even with the muffling from Dana’s ear, and chuckled himself as he dipped his body down against hers.
Her eyes widened as his erection made contact with her crotch.
Hello, there.
“Uh…”
He put his finger against her lips and shook his head.
She swallowed.
He drew the hand back.
“Uh…Sarah? Let me have Mr. O’Dwyer send you some information. Check your email in about five minutes.”
He shook his head. “I need more than five minutes.”
“Th-th-thirty minutes?”
He shook his head and this time took the phone from her. “Hello, Sarah. Dana is helping me with a little problem right now. Why don’t you just start driving west on 40 and we’ll give you some details when you get closer.”
Sarah, a woman with a husky, accented voice Patrick couldn’t quite place, replied, “How much heat should I pack?”
Dana tried to snatch the phone, but he grabbed her wrist and clucked his tongue at her. “Pack something with a scope just in case. Probably won’t need it, but distance is always good.”
“Okay. Be there around midnight.”
“Take your time, love.” He disconnected.
Dana narrowed her eyes and leaned as far back from him as she could. It wasn’t far. “We’re not having sex. I’ve known you for an hour.”
“Oh.” A grin crept across his face as he pressed their bodies nearer, his hardness against her warmth. “How long is the waiting
period? Not that I think you’ll be adhering to it.”
She sucked her teeth. “Aren’t you a cocky son of a bitch?”
“Dana, sweetheart, I don’t have to be cocky. You want to be touched. Haven’t been touched in a while, I bet, and you want me to be the one because you trust me.”
Her cheek twitched. Somewhere in there was a dimple!
“I trust you as far as I can throw you,” she said.
He chuckled and grazed his thumb along her jaw, up to that pouty bottom lip. “I bet you were a right cute little liar as a girl with pigtails, and I bet people actually believed you.”
She blinked.
“Well, just like you can see beyond the ordinary, I can smell you lying, Dana. This isn’t a question of if or even when. This is about how.”
Her forehead furrowed. “How?”
“Top or bottom, sweetheart? Your choice.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Is this guy for real?
Certainly felt like it to Dana, because Patrick’s hands seemed to be everywhere all at once. The waistband of her slacks. Her sweater’s hem. Stroking her cheeks. Raking fingers through her hair.
Part of her wanted to swat him away—especially from the hair that’d taken her nearly an hour to style that morning—but the other part said, “Who’s going to know? Why not indulge?”
The truth was, the last truly pleasurable thing she’d done for herself was replacing that bra she’d kept too long which had an underwire that stabbed her ribs. That had been three months prior. Since then, her life had been work, doctor’s appointments, and babysitting her staff. Her girls were ballsy, but they were needy as hell. Was she that needy?
Patrick pushed himself onto his arms and stared down at her face with his forehead furrowed. “You just got this really faraway look on your face, sweetheart. I don’t know whether I should be insulted or if I should dial 911.”
“Neither. I just started thinking about real-life stuff.”
“This doesn’t count as real life in your book?”
“Not what I mean.”
“Tell me what I can do to take that worried expression off your face,” he said.
“Why do you even care?”
Now he sat all the way up, putting some space between her supine body and his cushion. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
She opened her mouth to tell him just what kind, but before she could get the words out he interrupted.
“No, don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. I’m good at that, remember? You probably think I go through women like I do paper towels. Endless supply of them coming into my pub, right?”
She shrugged. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“And you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I’m very picky.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who has a type.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I’m too picky to even specify what my type would be. I just know when a woman is right, I act.”
He’s nuts. She gave him a long blink. He had to be nuts. Every man she’d ever dated had tried to change her in some way. Her hair was too short, so she grew out it. It was too long, so she cut it. She wasn’t fit enough, so she worked out more. She was too muscular, so she let her gym membership expire. She was too quiet. Too opinionated. Too reserved. Too voracious.
Too bitchy.
Never good enough.
“Patrick, I do believe you’re full of shit.”
“Sweetheart, I shoot straight, and I don’t just mean with that Ruger. I don’t waste words. I don’t lead people on. Who has the energy for those kind of games?”
She could think of a few people, but still… “If you’re so straight, why’d you hire an incompetent drunk to manage your bar?”
She felt like a bitch for even asking, especially after his face fell. She’d managed to put her foot in her mouth yet another time. To be so damned observant, she sure fucked up a lot when it came to assessing motives.
“That’s…personal,” he said.
She watched the set of his jaw tighten as he pushed himself to standing position, and had no words for him. She’d never been good at apologizing.
He walked to one of the front windows and pushed the curtain aside, standing there for a while, staring out at the rapidly-darkening woods.
Good job, Dana. Usually when she managed to bruise someone’s feelings, she’d shrug it off, thinking perhaps the fault was on their end—that they were too sensitive. She wouldn’t give it more than thirty seconds of mental expenditure, so why was this different? Why did she care what Patrick O’Dwyer felt?
Perhaps it was because he cared about what she was feeling? That was new.
“Okay.” She rubbed sweating palms against the thighs of her pants and worried at her lip. It would have been so easy to just let the conversation drop—to move on to other topics. Hell, she could even get her shit and head down the mountain to her hotel for the night and let Sarah take it from there. This case, which wasn’t even a case anymore, was becoming far too complicated, and not in a way she was good at untangling.
It must have been the masochist in her, though, because she forced the words up from her gut and locked her gaze on his back as she said them. “Patrick, I’m sorry.”
Did he hear me? He was so still there at the window, she couldn’t be sure.
Finally, his head turned and those wise green eyes fixed on her.
“I was out of line. That’s typical for me,” she explained, wringing her hands.
“Only child, I bet.”
“Close, but not quite. I’ve got an older brother. Much older. By the time I came around, he was in high school. My parents were older by then. Tired. Too gentle, I guess.”
He raised his shoulders into that elegant shrug again, and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “Sometimes we can’t help the way we are. It’s ingrained. Innate. Nature. The nurturing bit just fosters what’s already there.”
“So you’re saying I’m doomed to be an insufferable bitch?”
“Quit it.”
And she did. She pressed her lips into a tight line and watched him pace.
He didn’t say anything for a while, and just stared at the floor, watching his socked feet make their passage back and forth across the wood planks. He wasn’t looking, so she took that opportunity to study his tall, lean form—her eyes lingering where his sleeves were rolled up his forearms to reveal the very bottom fringes of some intricate ink work. She liked a little ink, especially when it was hidden away and meant to be discovered when clothes came off.
“Patrick, how big are your tattoos?”
He quirked up a brow and looked down at one arm as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. They go up and over to my shoulder blades in the back and to just above here…” He drew an imaginary line with his finger across his chest just above his pecs. “…in the front.”
“Is it done?”
“I don’t know. I started it before I left Ireland and have been adding bits and pieces here and there when inspiration strikes. I guess I’m fresh out of inspiration.” He managed a grin as he rolled one sleeve up a bit more and studied the artwork on that span of flesh. “Do you have any ink?”
She shook her head. “I like it on other people, though. It’s one of those things like having pink hair or wearing leather pants. I can appreciate it on other folks, but it wouldn’t suit me.”
“Ah. I don’t know if I agree with you on the leather pants bit, though.”
He started pacing again. Was he still annoyed at her for that tactless insinuation about his staffing choices? She probably would be if someone had made a snide remark about one of her girls. They were a rough crew, but they were hers. A peace offering was in order, perhaps?
“Hey, what do you have here to drink besides whiskey?”
He stopped pacing. The tension he’d been holding in his jaw relaxed as he looked up at her. “What do you have against whiskey?”
“It’s a bit rough going down for me. I
’m more of a wine kind of girl.”
“Like to curl up with a glass in a bubble bath, huh?”
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said, even as her lips peeled back into a broad smile. Actually, a bubble bath right around then didn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Something to slake off the chill she’d picked up outside and relax the tense muscles she’d acquired over the past few soggy, wintery weeks. Maybe a nice backrub while she sipped a nice dry white. At home, she never wanted to spend the time. It seemed wasteful when she could be getting in her half hour of cardio or completing some of the never-ending pile of paperwork she brought home.
Maybe at the hotel, if the tub is clean…
“I don’t have any wine here, but I have beer. I could drive down to the store if you want. I think they’re still open. If not, I can go into—”
“No, that’s okay. Beer’s fine, as long as it’s not green.”
“What do you have against green beer? That’s my biggest money-maker for the year.”
She made an Ugh face. “I just like the things I consume to be the color God intended.”
“Tattooed men excluded, huh?”
Her cheeks burned as he strode to the kitchen and she was glad he couldn’t see it.
What is this man doing to me?
She dragged her sweater sleeve across her forehead and blew out a breath as she stood. Distraction seemed like a good idea—to think about anything besides the way Patrick O’Dwyer’s lips curved when he spoke or how good his ass looked in a pair of loose jeans.
She walked the perimeter of the living room, and memorized the floor plan of the cabin. It was a basic square—living room comprising the front, the small kitchen in the back right corner, and a second closed-off room in the back left. She imagined that door would lead to the bedroom and bathroom.
She’d never been one to let her imagination do all the work, so she found her hand on the doorknob, and was turning it as Patrick’s crackling energy filled the room. Ashamed, she dropped her hand from the knob.
He held out the de-capped beer. “Go on. You won’t find anything scandalizing. I haven’t had a chance to move much stuff in because I thought I was going to sell the place.”
She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and drew it close, narrowing her eyes at him as she took the first sip.
