She watched as Jackson's mouth puckered into a thoughtful frown. Not quite disapproving, she thought—though she'd seen that reaction plenty of times since coming here. But she had a sinking feeling this was another dead end. "At any rate," she continued, "Walter Everhard over at the garage told me that you might know someone I could hire. As I said, I can pay well, and I've done a lot of planning."
She broke off, waiting for some response, hoping against hope that her gut feeling was wrong.
Jackson plucked uneasily at the back of his collar, his eyes sliding away from hers. "Well, Miss Randall, I'd sure love to help you And I'm really sorry to hear things haven't worked out. But the truth is, the person I know who used to do guide work isn't really active anymore. The work wasn't steady enough, so he went on to other things. I really wish..."
His voice trailed off as Joey set her wallet on the counter and calmly counted out several crisp bills. Jackson stared at the money. "That's just a down payment," Joey assured him. "Once the work was finished, my guide would get twice that much again." The practical, almost cynical part of her knew that hard cash was a strong argument, and it didn't seem to be going over Jackson's balding head. "Are you quite sure this person you know couldn't be persuaded to take on one last client?"
There was a long moment of silence. At last Jackson blew out a deep sigh and shook his head. Joey's heart sank. "I'd sure love to oblige you, as I said, Miss Randall But I just don't think it's possible."
He glanced up at her and took in her reaction, by the softening of his expression, she knew her own face must be showing her despair. She bit her lip and raised her chin. With a helpless shrug, Jackson spread his hands out on the counter. "Listen, Miss Randall I can't say there's any chance that I can persuade my friend, but I'll run it by him. I'll see if I can give you a definite answer in a day or two."
Joey could not conceal her sudden hope, for he shook his head again. "Don't count on anything, please, Miss Randall. As I said, I'll have to run it by him and..."
The jingle of the entrance bell brought him to a sudden stop. Jackson's mobile face, which had been fixed in an expression of reluctant apology, tensed into quite a different aspect. Something about it made Joey forget her arguments and turn around.
It was like a replay of last night's scene in the tavern, on a much more intimate scale The imposing figure of Luke Gévaudan stood in the doorway, and once again Joey felt her attention inexplicably riveted on him Jackson, too, remained very still There was a beat of silence, and then Gunnar, forgotten in the corner, growled softly
Joey glanced down at the dog in startlement. The animal was up on his feet, head and tail lowered and motionless, a ridge of hair raised along his spine. The growl rumbled again, an obvious warning. Aimed at the man in the doorway. Joey blinked and moved without thought to the dog's side, resting her hand on his head. She could feel the vibrations of his exhalation under her fingers. Again her gaze was pulled to the stranger; she opened her mouth to speak, but the sound seemed caught in her throat.
Gévaudan's pale eyes met hers for the briefest instant and then rested on the dog at her side. In the filtered light Joey could make out their color—a clear, unusual amber-green, ringed in black. Not hazel—those eyes were nothing as ordinary as mere hazel. She stared, but he ignored her. The intensity that seemed to flow from him, the same intensity she'd felt the night before, was focused on something else.
As if in response to her thoughts, Gunnar shivered under her hand. The low growl faded. She could feel the animal's head drop lower, sensed the subtle shift in his muscles. Her fingers tightened to prevent the coming attack, but as she looked down, the dog seemed to shrink in on himself, whining softly.
With slow and subtle grace Gévaudan stepped into the room and crouched before the dog. His gaze, still locked on the animal's, never wavered. The dog shivered again beneath Joey's nerveless fingers and crouched down, sliding forward until his dark head rested on the ground inches from Gévaudan's knee. Joey's fist clenched on empty air as Gévaudan extended a hand and held it just under the animal's nose.
Gunnar whined softly, thumping his tail, his pink tongue shot out to touch the man's knuckle. Gévaudan's hand slid over the side of the dog's head and lightly gripped the loose skin at the back of the neck. The dog collapsed into an amiable puddle and thrust all four legs into the air. With long, sun-browned fingers Gévaudan scratched the dog's belly, and then he looked up. The full intensity of his stare met Joey's, and the hard lines of his face shifted into a faint, unsettling smile.
"Hello, Ms Randall," he said.
Luke stood up, watching the woman as she felt the brunt of his attention. Her eyes—brown eyes, lightly flecked with gold—widened as he spoke her name. Apparently, he thought with a wry inward smile, she hadn't expected him to be capable of speech. He allowed a little of the smile to reach his mouth, though it was a deliberate gesture designed to put her at ease, not one that came naturally. Her eyes traced over his face, she did not look particularly reassured.
He took a moment to look her over more carefully. His first impressions had all been accurate, the patent femininity of her body was enhanced, not disguised, by her practical mountain clothing. Soft silver-gold hair drawn back in a braid freed the delicate lines of her face. Her brows, darker than her hair, were lowered in a subtle frown, the soft lips were slightly parted. He gazed at those lips for a moment, reminding himself that a hunter never gave himself away by striking prematurely. As much as he might wish to throw caution to the winds and feel that sweet, supple body against his, explore the promise behind those parted lips, he would have to remain in control.
It amused him to consider that she, too, wanted control. Even now she struggled to gain dominance over her own response to him—a response he felt with absolute clarity. It told him he would not have to wait too long to have her in his bed. Not if he took the minimum precautions. Considering the strength of his need—and his increasing conviction that she would fill it perfectly—it was a very good thing that there would be no complications.
And as for who would be in control. His eyes narrowed and met hers again. This time she broke the gaze, and her tongue darted out to touch her upper lip. His belly tightened in response to the unconscious sensuality of the gesture. No, there could be no doubt as to who would be in control.
"I don't believe we've been introduced," he said, gliding forward a step. At his feet the dog Gunnar rolled out of his way and resumed its place in the corner. Joelle Randall started, apparently taken aback once again by his attempt at friendly conversation. He moved forward another step, and she compensated by inching backward until she came up against the unyielding counter.
Sensing that he had established his dominance with her, as he had done earlier with the dog, Luke paused. Like the dog, she shivered—but it generated a considerably different effect. Luke controlled his sudden arousal, extending his hand to her with the same care he'd used before. "My name is Luke—Luke Gévaudan."
For a moment his hand hung in midair while she stared at it in fascination. Then her own came out to meet his, delicate fingers lightly touching his own. At first he thought she would drop his hand immediately, so powerful was the jolt of sheer attraction that passed through him at her touch. But though her eyes widened and her breath caught, she did not draw away. Instead, her hand suddenly tightened on his, hard.
"I've heard of you, Mr Gévaudan," she said, voice throaty and cool. Her eyes narrowed again, and all traces of her nearly mesmerized reaction to him fell away. What must have been considerable pressure for her hardly registered on his hand as she gripped it, even as he savored the feel of her soft fingers nearly lost in his, he respected her attempt to assert her own dominance. With another man she might have succeeded.
As before, she was the first to finally break the subtle confrontation. The way she unobtrusively shook her cramped hand did not slip past him, his smile widened. She caught the expression and leaned back over the counter with studied casual
ness. The movement pushed her small, firm breasts against the fabric of her shirt, and it was with some effort that he kept his eyes on her face.
"Since you know who I am," he said with deliberate softness, "you probably know I don't live in town. I've been remiss in taking the opportunity to meet you. We don't get many Americans here."
She shifted under his gaze but continued to meet it stubbornly. "So I've been told. I've been told quite a few interesting things since I've been here, Mr Gévaudan." Her lower lip jutted out and she tilted her head back, eyeing him in obvious challenge.
"I'm sure you have," he murmured. He moved experimentally, watching her shift again and then straighten. It delighted him to see that she was not easily intimidated. Long experience told him that her response was not typical, he was reminded of that every day he spent in town. "Life must be very different for you up here. I understand"—he came to a halt a little to her left—"you're from California, San Francisco." He noted her subtle movement that brought her around to face him once again.
"It seems that you've heard things too, Mr Gévaudan." She looked away from him in sudden indifference, indifference he knew clearly was feigned. Her stance told him she was determined to end their brief acquaintance by refusing to offer any further conversation. But she wasn't going to escape quite that easily.
"Luke. My name's Luke. Up here we don't usually require formality."
She arched her brow and looked him up and down. "Do you speak for the town or just yourself, Mr Gévaudan?" she queried with a faint, false smile. "I understood that you don't care much for local company." As if suddenly realizing she'd spoken too freely she flushed and turned away, pretending interest in a row of canned goods on a nearby shelf.
"It depends on the company." Luke drifted closer to her, maintaining the same distance between them. He could smell her: the light perfume of the shampoo she'd used, the body-warmed cotton of her shirt, and the subtle odor of woman. He drew in the scents and savored them.
Her own nostrils flared like a deer scenting cougar. Warm brown eyes flecked with gold darted back to observe him. "I'm afraid I won't be good company right now, Mr Gévaudan," she muttered. "I have business to attend to."
She turned her back full on him, muscles rigid with an anxiety she could not possibly understand. He admired that courage in her, even now. With one silent step he came up behind her, so close that his breath stirred the delicate hairs that had come loose from her braid. His eyes traced over the curve of her hips and rump, inward along the small waist and up the graceful line of her back and shoulders, his hands yearned to follow that path, and he clenched them with a soft intake of breath.
She jumped. She whirled about to glare at him, her face inches from his. He could see the throb of her pulse in the delicious column of her neck. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from seizing her there and then.
Before he could lose that control, she slipped to the side, out of the shadow of his body, and darted around the counter to pause in the apparent safety of the doorway to the storeroom. Her instincts, at least, had been the correct ones.
For a long moment he struggled with himself, fighting down the powerful urge to take the prey. Every shudder of her body, every indrawn breath, tempted him. But the moment passed. He willed his muscles to relax, one by one, by the time he felt capable of coherent and reasonable speech; he and Joey Randall were no longer alone.
Bill Jackson hovered just behind the woman, one hand hesitating just above her shoulder. She pressed back against him.
Luke's eyes narrowed, and his lip curled. They joined forces to face him down, with all the self-preservation instincts of herd animals facing a wolf pack. But she—she was no herd animal. Not like the others. That was something he would make her understand, when she was his.
They were talking together in hushed voices now, and the woman was pretending interest in discussing some item she needed to order. The hunt was up for the day.
Luke turned on his heel, pausing with his hand on the door latch. Silence had fallen over the room again.
He pivoted to face her and caught her eyes watching him when she didn't think he would notice.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Joelle Randall," he said. "I hope we'll see each other again soon." With a final smile, he turned his back and left her staring after him.
Heat. Everything was heat, burning within and without. Joey shuddered with it, her body writhing to escape it yet yearning to be consumed by it.
His breath was hot on the back of her neck, inches away from her skin, sensitized nearly to the point of madness. His touch scorched her, long, callused fingers traced over her neck and shoulders, moved with aching slowness down her back, and spread out to circle the flare of her hips. No sound escaped her as he pressed his hard length against her back, though she could feel his arousal with aching clarity. As if in response to her unvoiced cry, the moist warmth of his mouth descended to brush the hollow where neck flowed into shoulder, his tongue moved in slow, delicious circles over her skin. Still she found her gasps and moans of pleasure and passion locked in her throat, even when his hands left her hips to slide over her belly and capture her breasts.
Her nipples were already erect as he cupped her in his big hands, rough against silky, yielding softness. His mouth sought the other side of her neck, licking and sucking, while she arched in desperate, blazing silence against him. When he caught her nipples between his fingers, it was more than she could bear. She struggled in his grip, and he obeyed her unspoken desire, turning her in his arms. Before she could see his face, he lifted her, pressing his mouth between her breasts, his hands holding her in place. She could do nothing but fling back her head, unbound hair cascading behind her, as his tongue moved in circles over her heated skin, catching her nipple between his teeth. He moved from one breast to the other, claiming each thoroughly, ignoring her hands as they clutched helplessly at his shoulders. The trapped cries in her throat were an exquisite torture.
When he withdrew at last, she pressed against him, cold in the absence of his scalding touch, but he let her slip down in his arms and took her mouth in a kiss that drew the sounds of passion from deep within her and set them free. Her own arms came about him, raking his back as his hands tangled in her hair. His arousal was a shaft of furnace heat against the inside of her thigh, rising to meet her flowing warmth.
In the instant before union, as he lifted her onto himself and she prepared to take him, she opened her eyes. His face was cast in shadow, taut with hunger, but she could see his eyes. They were the source of the burning heat, they radiated it, glowed with it. The full shock of those eyes drained all the desire from her body.
"No!" She pushed at him, repelled his immovable strength, pummeled his shoulders and chest in rage. He was hard, demanding, unyielding, staring at her with that hot, terrible gaze. Even as she struggled, she knew if she looked at him again, she would lose herself to him forever. His grip tightened, and he forced her against him, he compelled her—he compelled her to meet his eyes, to surrender, to submit to him now and for all time.
Her voice rose in a ragged cry of defiance, but her gaze was drawn irrevocably to his, and she was lost. Lost, burning and lost...
"No! Joey jerked to wakefulness, her body tangled amid the sheets and blankets of the bed. The only sound was the harshness of her breathing, there was no one with her, no burning eyes engulfing all the world. For a long moment she lay gasping, trapped in the clinging warmth of the covers and staring into the moon-laced darkness of her room.
She focused slowly on the homely furnishing of the guest chamber, the old oak bureau and the antique radio, the ancient pictures discolored by age and sunlight.
The light of the moon, cutting a brilliant, broken shaft across the floor, gave the illusion of midday and cast the corners of the room in deep shadow. Joey concentrated on the light until her breathing had slowed and she was able to think clearly again. A nightmare. She reassured herself with that thought over
and over until its reality took firm hold.
With slow, deliberate movements she freed her arms and legs of the entangling covers. They were soaked with perspiration, the illusion of heat that had infused her dream had not been entirely a fantasy. It helped to remind her that the feeling of being trapped had also come from a very real condition.
But that was not entirely comforting. Joey could feel remnants of another kind of heat, coiling unfulfilled deep with her. There was moisture there, too, her mind and body had reacted to the nightmare with an enthusiasm that frightened her. In the nightmare she had lost control—completely and irrevocably. Her body had rejected the careful fetters that her mind had struggled to impose so many years ago. In dreams her mind lost its mastery.
Joey sat up, ignoring the hard edges of the wooden headboard at her back. The eyes in the dream. She had recognized those eyes. She wrapped her arms tightly about herself and suppressed a shudder. It had been him. The man she'd seen in the bar and the general store—Gévaudan. The man who had at once frightened and fascinated her. In her dream it had been Gévaudan who had caressed her and breached all her careful boundaries, who had taken control and dominated her—until that very last moment, when the sanity of her waking mind had freed her from a situation that had become unbearable.
The images were burned into her mind, though she stared into the silence of the room until she had memorized every tiny detail of it. Rage welled up in her—rage that Gévaudan had invaded her dreams, upsetting her careful equilibrium. Why? She pounded the damp mattress with her fist. Why was her own mind betraying her?
She remembered the incident in the general store—the way his mere presence had almost overwhelmed the room, quieted a threatening dog, and frightened Mr Jackson into retreat.
She remembered fighting the powerful attraction of him, even as she struggled to understand it and tried without success to dismiss it. Every logical faculty denied that a total stranger should affect her that way. Her own anger at the irrationality of it all had helped her to reject it.
PRINCE OF WOLVES Page 4
