Gone with the Wolf

by Kristin Miller

  Emelia couldn’t stop. She had to move so she could think straight. What was she implying, anyway? That Drake slipped something in her coffee so he could have his way with her?

  On the outside, Drake masterfully played the part of a lying, shrewd businessman. But Emelia got the feeling that it was a show, a staged front to hide a warm vulnerability beneath the chilly persona. There had to be more to Drake than an expensive suit and a multibillion-dollar business.

  No matter how much she disliked his business practices, she knew he wouldn’t take advantage of her physically. It was female intuition. A sixth sense. She trusted her gut, which meant she trusted him. On some level.

  “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think you’d stoop that low.”

  She charged around a marble statue at the foot of the stairs—a woman lying on the ground, with a fanged beast gently cradling her from behind.

  Fangs. Last night, hadn’t she seen…hadn’t Drake’s teeth looked…abnormal?

  Stopping as if she’d seen a ghost, Emelia spun around and nearly crashed into Drake’s chest. His teeth were perfectly straight and brilliantly white. Probably veneers. The shock from the whole incident, mixed with the rain and the panic episode, must’ve screwed with her vision.

  “You can accuse me of being a ruthless businessman, and I might even agree with you on certain occasions,” he said.

  Finally, an admission of Drake’s callous business practices; now they were getting somewhere.

  “But I’d never push myself on a woman.”

  The vein on his neck fluttered madly, capturing Emelia’s interest. He seemed so calm and controlled, like a steadily rolling storm, yet his heart was racing. She’d been right in her assessment of him—Drake hid beneath a stoic, controlled image even though passion roiled beneath the surface. Emelia bet that if someone studied Drake long enough, they would get to know all his tells. If he wanted to keep his fortune, Emelia thought, he should stay far away from the poker tables.

  “Women deserve to be treasured and treated with respect,” he said, as Emelia continued to study the telling vein. She got the feeling he whispered from a dark, secret part of his soul. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you think I could do something like that, even for a second.”

  Then and there, Emelia got one thing straight. Drake had passion for the words he spoke. He hadn’t studied the Romancing Women for Dummies handbook that her ex-fiancé had apparently lived by, where a guy was allowed to say anything to get a woman in the sack. The gleam in Drake’s eyes was hard, yet honest. As though he’d never whispered words holding more truth. Drake was a different breed. A rare creature in the social jungle—a man who stood up for a woman, despite her calling him evil a week earlier.

  He was an accomplice to murder, Emelia reminded herself, and the man who would put her out of business. How could she forget so easily? Seemed the more she stared into his dark, brooding eyes, the more he made her forget the reason she was here.

  “Sleaze or not,” Emelia said, desperate for fresh air, “there was no reason for you to get all stabby on my thigh. We should’ve already been at the police station reporting what happened.”

  She turned her back on him and marched around a set of leather couches to the opposite end of the great room. Even though she’d put space between them, Drake’s gaze bore into her back, heating her through and through. He slid behind her insanely fast, grabbed her hand, and spun her around.

  “We can’t go to the police. The report will become public record. Do you know what the media would do to me if they got wind of the situation? They’d twist the story into some kind of bar fight that spilled into the street.”

  Of course they would. It’s what the media always did. Rat-race journalism had sprouted horns over the last few years, and from what Emelia could recall from Seattle’s past headlines, they’d never had any dirt on Drake Wilder, rumored playboy. They would probably kill for details about a drunken bar fight, especially if they had the 411 from a “reliable source.” If Emelia wanted to royally screw Drake over, this was the chance she’d been waiting for. His reputation would swirl down the tubes.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t destroy everything he’d worked for in one quick swoop, then pretend it wouldn’t bother her in the slightest to do so.

  She wasn’t like him.

  “The media couldn’t twist anything if I told them how I was attacked by that guy, and how you saved me,” she said quietly, taking back her hand. Tingly sensations lingered on her palm, flittering through her fingers and up her arm. She rubbed her hand on her jeans. Drake noticed, watching the swiping movement with grimly lit eyes.

  “You think your statement would matter?” His voice lowered to a flat calm. “The media are in the money business, not the truth business.”

  Emelia folded her arms, hardening herself for a possible confession. “What happened to the biker?”

  “Mr. Bloomfield took care of him,” Drake said simply.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t have to worry about that guy, or anyone else, attacking you ever again. Mr. Bloomfield ran his background and discovered that he had a dozen warrants out for his arrest. We simply helped capture a wanted felon. Your attacker is behind bars at this very moment.”

  “Oh.” Tension eased from Emelia’s shoulders. She took comfort in the fact that she’d been wrong—Drake hadn’t killed the biker. He wouldn’t be charged with murder and she wouldn’t have to testify about the attack in some godawful trial. To top it off, the greaseball wouldn’t be attacking any other women in the future. “Well, that’s…good, I guess.”

  Did the fact that her attacker was a felon make Drake any less shady for what he did? He protected her though, didn’t he? And he clearly hadn’t taken advantage of her, which he totally could have while she was knocked out. Maybe his motives were truly genuine. And maybe the sickeningly wealthy lived under the radar like this all the time, handling things quickly and efficiently so the media wouldn’t be able to dig up any dirt.

  “You hit the steering wheel pretty hard,” he said. “How do your ribs feel?”

  “They don’t hurt much.” Absentmindedly, Emelia touched her stomach, just below her breasts. Twinges of hollow, aching pain echoed through her. Sucking in a shallow breath, Emelia looked down and for the first time noticed a purple bruise forming on her chest, just below the lacy ridge of her tank top. “Shit, guess I hit harder than I thought.”

  “You should probably see a doctor.” Drake’s entire body stiffened like one of his statues.

  “I bruise easy,” she said. “It’s the pale skin.”

  Drake responded with a clench of his jaw and a slow nod of his head. Emelia couldn’t explain it, but she got the feeling he wanted to apologize for something. It couldn’t be the apology Emelia hoped for, the one she deserved for putting up with his bullshit about the deed to her building, because he didn’t know the true reason she’d taken the job at his company. He’d obviously screwed so many people out of their small business that he couldn’t remember their names.

  Why was he looking at her that way? She needed to get out of his house so she could think without feeling that Drake was studying her every move. Emelia eyed the door, wondering where she’d go when she walked through it. “Where’s my car and all my stuff?”

  “Your things are in the closet in the foyer. Your car is at EC’s Tow and Repair. They’ll have the damage fixed by the end of next week.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, crossing the marble entry beneath a teardrop-shaped chandelier. Now she had to waste money on a rental, when she should be using it on legal fees to figure out the dilemma with Wilder Financial. As she thought about the possibility of being stuck in a lawsuit with Drake over the true and rightful ownership of her bar, a strange sensation tugged deep within her chest. It wasn’t guilt. Couldn’t be. She pulled her coat, purse, and phone from the closet, then flicked her phone to life and searched for a cab company to get home.
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br />   “You’re welcome to drive one of my cars until yours is fixed.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Somewhere in his mansion, Mozart began to play, trickling soft notes into the foyer. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I should go.”

  In a flash of movement, Drake blocked the door, outstretching his hand as if he had no intention of letting Emelia leave. She gasped, stopping as his palm brushed over her stomach. Pinpricks of heat bloomed over her skin. His chest was a wall of thickly corded muscle, his eyes a luxurious shade of honey-brown.

  “I’d feel better knowing you weren’t taking a cab to and from work,” he said.

  What did she care about making him feel better?

  “I’ll rent a car.” Emelia covered the hand he’d placed over her stomach, and kneaded her fingers between his. Raw, animalistic hunger flickered across Drake’s expression…until Emelia lifted his hand and returned it to his side. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Emelia?” His gravelly voice laced with hints of pain.

  She froze, staring at the notches in the ancient wood door, unable to look at him. The chemistry sparking between them was fierce and palpable, speeding her breathing. She couldn’t afford to feel any of those things, so she stared straight ahead, channeling a faceless, emotionless zombie.

  “What?” she said finally, failing miserably at the whole zombie thing.

  “I already have a car waiting out front.” He leaned down, his breath warm on her neck. “Considering you’re bruised and just waking up from a long sleep, I think it’s best that I drive you home…for safety reasons.”

  As he pulled back, Emelia glared, her lips twisting as annoyance bubbled inside her. She should’ve told him to buzz off, but before she could open her mouth to fight him on the issue, Drake put a finger to her lips, shushing her. The pad of his finger was surprisingly calloused for a guy who pushed papers all day, but the pressure against her skin was soft. Gentle. His finger reminded Emelia of his kiss, the way his lips moved against hers in a sensual caress. He took back his finger like she’d burned him. Then blocked the entire doorway, his arms folded over his chest.

  “You’re not leaving this house until you agree to let me drive you home.” Two stalemated beats. “Emelia, say yes.”

  Drake may’ve been used to controlling things in the boardroom, but he wouldn’t control her. Not now. Not ever. She stood tall and raised her chin so that she looked down her nose at him. “Make me.”

  His nostrils flared as he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. She squealed, kicking her feet as he swept through the front door. Despite his speed and strength, Drake seemed oddly aware of where Emelia hurt—not a single hint of pain struck her as he bent her over his shoulder and carried out the door. She was strapped into the passenger seat of a black Mercedes, her stuff flung onto her lap, before she could argue.

  For the first time in Emelia’s life, she was struck speechless.

  Chapter Seven

  Clouds rolled in Monday morning, encasing the entire city in thick plumes of mist and fog. Drake wasn’t in the mood to get down to business quite yet, and the dreary weather wasn’t helping to motivate him. After Raul pulled files on the Knight Owl, the building on Porter Street, and Emelia Hudson’s past, all Drake could think about was cornering Emelia the instant she stepped off the elevator.

  They had to talk, to straighten things out regarding the building, and how he came to purchase it. He was certain that’s why she was mad at him. Drake read the e-mails she’d sent. She’d been wrong on all counts regarding her deed and wouldn’t listen to reason. Since she wouldn’t quit with the e-mails, all messages past the first dozen had been sent straight to Raul’s spam folder. He could’ve answered an e-mail or two, but it wouldn’t have mattered legally. The facts were black and white.

  Once they hashed things out, once Emelia saw the deed to her building in Drake’s hand, he had questions for her. Questions about something personal that Raul discovered—she’d applied for a marriage license one month before taking the job at Wilder. She’d accepted a proposal of marriage. In Drake’s pack, that meant that she was off-limits. Untouchable.

  What happened to her fiancé? Public records didn’t show a marriage and she’d never mentioned it. The whole thing didn’t sit right with him. His coffee tasted bland, though that could’ve been because he came in early and made it himself, and his coat clung to his shoulders too tightly.

  As Drake strode around the last corner and spotted Emelia slumped over her keyboard, he cleared his throat. She gasped, nearly jumped out of her chair. “Drake? I—”

  “In my office,” he said, shoving open the office door. They needed to get the deed business over with so they could move on to more pressing things. Like when she’d been claimed by another.

  “I wasn’t sleeping, I swear,” Emelia said, following his every step. “I was thinking…with my head down.”

  “I don’t care.” He strode to the windows and went palms-down on the glass. The cold lancing through his fingers did little to soothe the possessiveness flaring in his gut.

  “I should get back out there.”

  “Stay,” he commanded and then on second thought, added, “Please.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave my desk.” Her voice wavered with uncertainty. “What if someone calls or comes in?”

  “Let Trixie take the calls,” Drake spun around, holding his breath as he brushed past her.

  “Trixie’s not here. She had to run an errand downstairs.”

  “We’re going to straighten out this mess with your bar,” Drake said, laying everything on the table. “And we’re going to do it now.”

  Emelia stood in the center of his office, her mouth gaping as if he’d surprised her. She owned the hardworking secretary image with black dress pants that stove-piped to the floor, and a baby-blue sweater with crinkles of extra fabric at the collar. She was a chameleon, Drake gave her that much, able to adapt to the secretary role as easily as she had the bartending one.

  “I know I said we should talk in the morning, but maybe we should talk about this later…when you don’t look like you’re about to kill someone.” She took a step toward him, hesitating when he put his hands up to stop her. It was better if she didn’t get too close—he wouldn’t be intoxicated by her sugary sweet scent that way. “There’s more bothering you than you’re saying. What’s going on?”

  What was going on? Drake’s entire body was drawn tight, a rubber band stretched to the limit. Barely holding on to the thread of composure, Drake strode to his desk and flipped open a manila envelope filled with copies of e-mails between her and Raul. “When do you claim to have bought the building on Porter Street?”

  “When do I claim to have bought it?” Emelia mocked. She coughed out a laugh. “Good choice of words. Way to rob me of my bar in one fell swoop. I own that building. The Knight Owl is mine.”

  “When did you buy it and from whom?”

  “Eight years ago, January.” Folding her arms over her chest, Emelia sighed, then set her gaze on his mouth. “I bought it from the guy who owned the tattoo parlor next door. I’d leased from him for years, and one day he dropped in and showed me the deed to the entire building. He said the county rezoned and informed him that he could split off the bar from the tattoo parlor. He asked for fifty grand.”

  “Quite the steal, even for a building in that rough neighborhood.” Drake circled his desk and perched on the edge, crossing his feet at the ankles. It staved off the urge to kick something. Barely. “So you just handed it over?”

  With a cynical string of laughs, Emelia plopped into the leather seat facing him. He fought to keep his eyes level with hers and off the cleavage revealed from the drooping slouch of her sweater. His heart continued to race, meddling with his logic.

  “You forget there are people who work years to make that kind of money.” Emelia paused, and then, “I cut corners where I could, eating r
amen and macaroni and cheese for months on end. I pinched pennies, couponed, worked sixteen-hour days, opening up the bar early for karaoke nights or live bands. I advertised. I sweat and bled. I was the owner, the accountant, the janitor, the historian, the hostess…I was everything. When it wasn’t enough, I took side jobs waitressing during the day. It was damn hard, but I still couldn’t save enough. The rest of the balance I put on credit cards.”

  Shit, Emelia was in deeper than he thought. “Why not get a loan through a bank so the transaction would be legit?”

  “He said he’d dock the sale price ten grand if I kept the banks out of it. He claimed to own the building free and clear, and had the deed to prove it, so why not? I paid him cash, and he handed me my deed. I thought I owned the place…until you sent me a notice claiming to have bought the entire building.”

  Emelia’s accusations rang loud and clear. She believed that Drake had destroyed everything she’d worked for, everything she’d put her heart into. He remembered how she’d been in the bar—assertive and confident, proud that the place was built on her sweat and tears. She’d taken something that was sheer business and had made it personal. No wonder she hated him.

  “We’re going to get a couple things straight.” Drake watched her cheeks redden, and waited for steam to seep from her ears, but the train raced on. “Wilder Financial sent you the notice of purchase, not me. The board holds a meeting, we look at groups of property that are worth more than the sale price, I approve or deny the project, and it goes through. We donate certain properties to the city and rebuild others. We go through banks. We check county records. Everything we do is by the book, all the time. If the scheme between you and Tattoo Parlor Guy didn’t pan out, that has little to do with me or Wilder Financial.”

  “You ass.” She stood with the spirit of a fighter—a short, spunky, blue-eyed featherweight who’d pull a muscle before she hurt someone.

  If Drake wasn’t drawn so tight, he might’ve laughed at the contrast between the softness of Emelia’s appearance and the feisty show she put on. If she were a wolf, Drake thought, she’d be petite, with lean muscles and a sleek stride. A young wolf who thought she could snarl and growl and raise the fur on the back of her neck to frighten away packmates, even though they could take her down with the strike of a paw.