by Nora Roberts
“Dr. Greene is . . .” She could feel a sound, primal and desperate, clawing at the back of her throat.
“Ah, didn’t get the notice?” With a shake of his head, he opened the door to the vet’s office. “We had some problems with that. I took over a couple of weeks ago. Uncle Pete—Dr. Greene—had a bout of angina about a month ago. Aunt Mary put her foot down about retirement. He still consults, but I moved up from Portland. Been wanting to anyway. Gabe,” he said, offering a hand. “Gabe Kirby.”
She couldn’t touch him, didn’t dare, and had the wits to give Amico a hand signal. The dog sat and politely offered his paw.
With a laugh, Gabe accepted. “Nice to meet you. Come on in.”
He stepped inside the waiting room and spoke directly to the woman manning the desk. “I’m not late. My patient’s early, and we’ve been outside getting acquainted.”
“You are late. Four minutes. Hello, Simone. Amico!” She had a wide face, crowned by a curly mop of hair in a shade of red never seen in nature. “How you doing, handsome?”
Simone gave him the release sign so he could prance around the desk to be petted.
“ ’Morning, Eileen.” Discipline, Simone reminded herself. Discipline meant survival. Her voice was cool and calm. “I’m sorry to hear about Dr. Greene.”
“Oh, he’s fine. Time for fishing and sitting in his hammock. Only downside for him is Mary’s watching his diet like a hawk. And she’s threatening to make him sign up for a yoga class.”
“When you see him, tell him I said to take care of himself.”
“Will do. I see you met this one.”
“She talks about me like that because I got under her feet every time I visited when I was a kid.” He was leaning against the desk, casual, all the time in the world, but his eyes stayed on hers, and she saw the alertness, the intellect, and the interest.
“Are we set up for Amico?”
“All set.” The phone on Eileen’s desk began to ring. “Don’t worry, Simone. He’s young, and has trouble getting moving in the morning, but he’s a good vet.”
“I was not late,” Gabe said again, turning toward the exam room. “Come on back. So, tell me, Amico, how’ve you been feeling? Any complaints?”
“He’s fine.” She concentrated on regulating her breathing, on focusing on her dog, who began to quiver when they entered the exam room. “He gets nervous before an exam.”
“That’s okay. Me, too. Especially when it involves s-h-o-t-s.”
She managed a smile. “He doesn’t like them.”
“That’s ’cause he’s not crazy, right, boy?” He crouched again, running his hands over Amico’s face, his body, down his legs, giving him a playful rub, while—she noted—those long-fingered hands checked his frame, his bones.
“Handsome dog. Good healthy coat, clear eyes. Beautiful eyes,” he amended, smiling into them. “Somebody loves you.”
There was a rock on her chest, pressing on her heart so that it tattooed like a trapped bird. But her voice was cool and clear. “Yes, I do.”
“Let’s get your weight, pal.”
Before Gabe could lead the dog to the scale, Simone snapped her fingers, pointed. Amico stepped onto the scale.
“Smart dog. And in fighting trim.” He took the chart, made some notes. And was humming some tune under his breath.
What was it? “Pretty Woman,” she realized and couldn’t decide if she was flattered or embarrassed.
“We’ll get him up on the table. Will he give me any trouble when I check his teeth, his ears?”
“No. Amico, su.”
Obediently, the dog bunched down, then jumped onto the table. “Sedersi. Restare.”
“Cool,” Gabe said when Amico sat. He was grinning again, straight at her, all interest. “Is that Italian?”
“Yeah.”
Gabe picked up his otoscope, shone the light in Amico’s ears. “You Italian?”
“Part of me.”
“Me, too, somewhere back on my mother’s side. You guys lived here long?”
“Almost three years.”
“Nice place. I used to come up and hang out with my uncle when I was a kid. Loved being around the animals. Still do. Good boy, you’re a good boy.” He offered Amico a couple of doggie treats.
The dog looked at Simone, then gobbled them when she gave the go-ahead command.
“Healthy, too. We’re going to make this part as quick as we can. You want to take his head, talk to him?”
She stepped forward, concentrating on the scent of her dog, on the scent of the cat and the human who’d just come into the waiting room. On the smell of antiseptic, on the aromas from the back room where pets recovered from surgery.
Anything but the scent of the man.
She murmured in Italian, in English, stroking Amico’s ears, telling him to be brave. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Gabe pinch some of the dog’s skin and slide the needle in.
Amico blinked, quivered a little, but made no sound.
“There now, worst is over. You’re some dog, Amico. Some good dog.” He pulled out more treats, and both man and dog looked at Simone for approval.
“Go ahead, Amico.”
“So, he’s bilingual,” Gabe said as Amico delicately nipped the treats out of his palm. “Did you train him yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Do you—”
“Sorry, we really have to go. Amico.” She gestured to the floor, clipped his leash back on his collar. “Thank you.”
Simone hurried out of the office, calling a good-bye to Eileen. “I’ll have Shelley bring down a check for the exam and shots. I’ve got to go.”
“No problem. Just—” Eileen pursed her lips as the door slammed behind Simone. “Well, she was in a rush.”
“Yeah.” Gabe crossed to the desk, shot a smile at his next patients. “Be with you in just a minute.” Then he leaned down close to Eileen, spoke under his breath. “I want you to tell me everything about her, as soon as we’re clear in here. No detail is too small to escape my interest. But just tell me this for now. Is she married, engaged, involved?”
“None of the above—that I know about.”
“Good. Life is worth living.”
Outside, Simone walked quickly, working to fill her senses with anything at hand. Exhaust fumes, the aroma of bread from the bakery, the heavily pine-scented aftershave of a man who bustled by her.
Her hands wanted to shake, now that she could relax—a little—that rigid control.
She’d never experienced anything like this before, but she knew what it was. Lust and longing and desperate need.
She’d never seen Gabe before, but she’d known him. Recognized him.
Knowing she couldn’t face anyone, not yet, she circled the block, avoiding her own shop and going straight to her truck. Inside, she gave herself one more minute, resting her head on the wheel while Amico nuzzled her cheek in concern.
She’d recognized the one thing she could never have.
A mate.
Chapter 2
IN eleven years, Simone had lived in seven locations. It had been her hard and fast rule not to allow herself to become overly attached to any place, anything. Anyone.
She had two goals in life. The first was survival; the second to find a cure for the infection that lived inside her. To accomplish these goals, she needed to live apart. Be apart.
She had no family—or those she’d left behind in St. Paul eleven years before were no more interested in her than she in them. She couldn’t risk neighbors, friends, lovers. Intimacy, or even the pretense of intimacy, was far too dangerous.
She hadn’t expected to become so fond of this little slice of Maine. She’d lived in the wide open spaces of Montana, in the towering forests of Washington, on the windswept coast of Nova Scotia. None of those places, or any of the others she’d settled in briefly or had passed through, had spoken to her like the green New England forest, the long, rocky beaches, the rough cliffs of easter
n Maine.
So she had stayed, breaking her own policy, and had begun to think of the house she’d chosen for specific and practical purposes as her home.
Then she’d seen him, scented him, spoken to him. Now she was afraid she would have to move on, again, rather than risk the consequences.
But she believed she was close, on the brink of finding the answers. She’d believed it before, she admitted. She’d let her hopes rise, only to see them dashed again and again, when the moon took her.
She could avoid him. Avoidance of people was a well-honed skill. She knew how to deny herself. There were other vets. And if her body required sexual release with a partner, she could find another man easily enough. She’d done so before. A quick coupling in the dark, simple and basic as food or drink.
There was no good reason to see Gabe again, and nothing to be gained by thinking of him.
Work was all she needed.
The kitchen of the old house was a hive of activity. Simone made use of the oceans of counters, the bulky stove, the computer with its list of products and their formulas. She liked the sunny brightness of the room as much as its practical layout. The woman she was craved the sun as much as what was inside her craved the moon.
She liked to work here in the mornings, simmering herbs on the stove, infusing them, drawing in the scents as she cooked or crushed or grated. She experimented here as well. Customers could be fiercely loyal to the standards, but they enjoyed, and paid for, new products.
She thought the new hand gel, with its base of seaweed she gathered herself at low tide, was going to be a hit.
The more she made from her business, she reminded herself as she filtered the cooled liquid into a bowl, the more she had to invest in her other work. Her personal quest.
She moved around her kitchen, checking pots, bowls, bottles, with her hair pulled back in an ancient scrunchie, her feet bare, her old shirt draping over the hips of her jeans.
While she worked she listened to Robert Parker’s latest bestseller on audio. Her company consisted of characters in books or movies, songs on the stereo. Those, and Amico, were all she required.
All, she reminded herself, she could have.
Spenser kept her entertained, amusing and intriguing her, until she broke for a walk and a light lunch.
Amico raced away, then ran back again as she wandered into the woods. So, it would be the woods today and not the cliffs. Just as well, she decided, as it had been awhile since she’d checked her No Trespassing signs, and her reaction to Gabe had reminded her of boundaries.
Mosquitoes buzzed around her as she walked. They never bit her. She supposed insect instinct warned them not to snack on her blood.
She sat in the cool shade by her skinny and twisty stream to share with her dog the egg salad sandwich she’d made.
Blood was the issue, she thought. The key. It was blood that ran both man and beast. She’d studied hematology, had countless books and web sites on the subject. She’d spent years researching blood infections and viruses, but she was no doctor.
She hadn’t seen a doctor in nearly eleven years. She didn’t dare. In any case, she was in perfect health—except for that pesky blood disease that turned her into a mindless, raving beast for three days every month.
But other than that, she thought with a half smile, she was good to go.
She hadn’t done so badly for a woman of her education, means, and disability. She had her own business that kept the—ha ha—wolf away from the door. She had her own home, a loyal canine companion. She had an enormous stockpile of audio books, CDs, DVDs, which were often better company than humans anyway.
She’d seen a fair chunk of the world and lived a relatively normal and contented life for a lycanthrope.
She took out the two pills she’d made, studied them. If this latest formula worked, she could be cured. She could be free of the moon.
Or not.
She popped them, washed them down with the fresh lemonade she’d brought along. She’d know in another few days. And if the newest dose didn’t work, another would eventually.
She’d never stop trying.
Once she’d thought she’d go insane. But she hadn’t. She’d wondered if death was the only escape, but death was the coward’s way. She’d overcome her own disbelief, doubt, and despair. She’d beaten loneliness and anger and grief.
What was left was determination.
“Could be worse, right?” she murmured to Amico, lazily stroking his fur as they both drowsed in the dappled light. “It could be a couple hundred years ago. Then I’d be hunted down by the villagers and shot at with silver bullets.”
She drew out the heavy cross she wore under her shirt. “Or it could’ve killed me.” She turned the silver so it caught a wink of sunlight. “Being dead’s a hell of a lot worse than eating egg salad in the woods in the afternoon. But lazing around here isn’t getting any lab work done.”
She gave Amico a quick rub before she stuffed the trash and her travel mug into the canvas sack she used as a lunch bag. Wandering back, she took time to pick some wildflowers, some berries, all useful in her work. When her gathering bag was full, she cut through to take the short way home.
She caught the scent along with Amico. Both woman and dog went on alert, and as Amico let out a soft, warning growl, she laid a hand on his head.
She needed a minute to muster her defenses before she walked out of the woods to face the man she most wanted to avoid.
He stood by a truck, so much shinier, so much trimmer than hers, it looked like a toy. The sun gilded him, or so it seemed to her, so that the light shimmered around him, caught at the ends of his hair and lit him like a flame.
Desire burst through her like a flood, carrying the dangerous debris of love and hope and longing. It would swamp her if she allowed it. Drown her.
So she wouldn’t allow it, any more than she’d allow herself to hide in the woods like a frightened rabbit.
She spoke quietly to Amico, releasing him from his guard stance so he could trot forward and greet the visitor.
He glanced over at the dog’s approach and grinned the way she knew animal lovers grinned at big, handsome dogs.
“There you are, big guy. How’s it going? Whatcha doing?” He leaned over to stroke and scratch, and Simone felt saliva pool in her mouth at the way his hands glided over fur.
“Where’s your girl?” He looked up, spotted her. “Hi.”
“Hello.” She crossed the lawn, keenly aware of the warmth of the sun, the tickle of the breeze on her skin. The scent of his soap—just a hint of lemon there.
“Been out for a walk? Gorgeous day for it.”
“Yes.”
There was cinnamon on his breath, sweet and appealing.
“I was about to dig up some paper, leave you a note. I had a house call nearby. Anemic goat.”
“Oh.”
“Nice place. Quiet. Great house. Got any coffee?”
“Ah . . .” She appreciated direct; it saved time. But she hadn’t been expecting it. “No, I don’t. I don’t drink it.”
“At all? Ever? How do you stay upright? How about tea? A soft drink? Water? Gatorade? Any social beverage I can use as a prop to have a conversation with you.”
“About what?”
“Pretty much anything.” The breeze ruffled through his hair like gentle fingers. “Come on, Simone, don’t make me slash my own tires so I can ask to use your phone.”
“Don’t you have a cell phone?”
He grinned again, and shot a few more holes in her shield. “I’ll claim the battery’s dead. It might even be true.”
Safer, smarter to send him away, she reminded herself. But where was the harm, really?
“I have fresh lemonade.”
“I happen to love fresh lemonade.”
She turned toward the house, careful to keep the dog between them. “I don’t know of any goats, anemic or otherwise, in the neighborhood.”
“I only had to drive eigh
t or nine miles out of the way to be in the neighborhood. It really is a great house. Kinda spooky and mysterious with those gables and their witch’s-hat roofs. I like spooky old houses.”
“So do I, apparently.” She took him around the back so they’d enter directly into the kitchen. When she took the key out of her pocket, he made no comment. But she could see in his eyes he wondered why she’d bother to lock up just to take a walk in her own woods.
“Wow.” He took a long, sweeping glance at the kitchen, its long counters, sparkling enamel pots, the hanks of hanging herbs, the bottles and bowls all lined up like a military parade. “Some room. Smells like a garden, and looks like one of those kitchens you see on TV cooking shows.”
There were two backless stools at the center island. Gabe slid onto one comfortably, while he continued to study. The cabinets were all fronted with pebbled glass. Through it he could see more bottles, all precisely labeled. More of what he assumed were cooking tools, supplies, ingredients.
Dishes were limited to a couple of plates and bowls, a few glasses and cups. From the looks of it, he thought, the lady didn’t do much entertaining.
“How’d you get into herbs?”
She took down one of the glasses before going to the refrigerator for the pitcher of lemonade. “An interest of mine I decided to turn into a profit.”
“I went by your store yesterday. Classy place. Interesting, too. The main thing I know about herbs is oregano tastes really good on pizza. Thanks.” He took the glass she offered. “What’s that?”
He nodded toward one of the hanging herbs.
“Prunella, also called heal-all.”
“And does it? Heal-all?”
“In a gargle, it’s good for sore throats.”
“He’s watching you—and me.” Sipping lemonade, Gabe glanced at Amico. “Waiting for you to tell him if he can relax or if he should stay ready to escort me out. I’ve never seen a dog more tuned to its master.”
“Meaning I haven’t decided whether to relax or escort you out.”
“Pretty much. The thing is, I felt, well, this pop the other day, soon as I saw you. This kind of It’s-about-time-you-showed-up deal.” He shrugged, bumped the toe of his high-top on the side of the counter as he shifted. “Sounds weird, but there it is. And it seemed to me you felt something, too.”
