Truthfully, in a one on one contest, Ken would easily take down any of the wolves including Grey. They all knew they were fortunate to have him as part of the pack even if he did resist discipline, even if he was a little strange.
Kai practiced Zen and tried to control his baser instincts by chasing spiritual clarity. His surface appearance was mellow, wise, copacetic, but the others sensed a dangerous thread of ferocity lurking just beneath the pacific demeanor he worked hard to cultivate.
With renovations being underway and the weather being nice, they fell into the habit of eating by open fire at night, after which they would shift to wolf form and sleep outside on the ground.
One such night, while poking at the fire, Rapp said, “Seems like we might have landed on our feet.”
“We’re not cats,” Shea said.
“It’s just an expression,” Rapp defended. “I mean, you know, we’re with other wol…, ah, shifters. We’ve got means and room to run.”
“It could definitely have been worse,” Mars said.
“All that’s true,” Nick said slowly. “We’re just missing one very, very important thing.”
The other six waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, Grey said, “We’re all thinking the same thing as you. Life without females is…”
It seemed as if more than one shifter was reluctant to give voice to a longing for feminine presence.
CHAPTER THREE Something About Her
Nick was walking toward the elevator in the building where he had a meeting with the growers’ association representative when a woman breezed past. He had a vague impression of a symphony of silk moving in time with the undulations of her body, but it wasn’t her looks that captivated him. It was her scent.
He turned around and followed, meeting be damned, dragged by a scent that pulled him along like she was magnet and he was steel. Before he thought through what he was doing, he’d followed her home. She lived within walking distance of where she worked.
That was when the obsession began. He thought about stopping her on the street to ask if she’d like to get a coffee, but there were a hundred reasons why that sounded like a bad idea. There was no mutual friend to introduce them. No community or social network they shared. She didn’t go trolling bars for dates. So he watched and waited, thinking eventually an opportunity would present itself when he could talk to her without alarming her.
Reese was aware of the man who followed her. On any given morning walking to work, if she stopped and looked behind, she would spot him somewhere on the same block. Same thing at night. Even when he was hidden by a shadow or a sign or other people, she’d developed a sense that detected when he was nearby. The last thing she did before bed was to look down at the street from her window. He wasn’t always in the same spot. But he was always there.
She’d thought about going to the police, but the guy hadn’t really done anything except make her nervous. She imagined a possible conversation with the police.
“Has he done anything to indicate that he intends to harm you?”
“Well. No.”
“I see. But you’re afraid of this man, Ms.,” looks down at clipboard, “Braga?”
“Well. No.”
“He’s done nothing to worry you and you’re not afraid. Why are you here again?”
“He’s following me.”
“And you don’t know who he is.”
“No. He’s a complete stranger.”
Taps pen on paper. “There’s not much we can do about that.”
“Isn’t there some kind of ordinance against stalking?”
“Ordinance. That’s a good word. And yes. Stalking is a crime, but stalking consists of two main components. Following is one. Harassing or threatening is the other and more important. Is the man threatening?”
“No.”
“Harassing?”
“No.”
“Then technically he’s not stalking. Just following. Unless he’s doing it for the purpose of intimidating, annoying, or alarming, then no. Following is not a crime. You let us know if it escalates.”
Reese sighed. But as the dialogue in her mental play began to drift away, a plan formed. She would wait until she and her ‘follower’ were in a populated place, then turn and confront him. He would either cease and desist or ‘escalate’, in which case she could tell the police that she had an actual crime to report.
If nothing else, it would be enlightening to get a good look at him. He’d never been close enough for her to really get a mental fix on his looks, other than the fact that he was tall and athletic, judging from the way he moved and carried himself. She knew he had dark hair, but beyond that, she wouldn’t be able to identify him with certainty if he was sitting at the booth next to her in the deli where she had lunch on Tuesdays.
It took Nick only a few days to realize that Reese Braga was a creature of habit. She lived in a walkup apartment in a building near, but not in the heart of downtown. It was one of those old buildings that was interesting for no reason other than its age, primed to become development real estate any day. But in the meantime it was cheap rent and a pretty good location, all things considered. The old town block housed bars, eateries, and a liveliness that seemed to fit her even though she was a dedicated homebody.
He’d learned everything about her that could be collected from the internet and that was a lot. Truthfully, these days anybody could get tons of information on anybody else. For a small fee.
She was the only surviving member of a family of four that had been in a car crash in her teens. A maternal aunt had invited her to move from upstate New York. The change in geography and culture, compounded by grief, laid the groundwork for acting out behavior and, apparently, she did exactly that for the last two years of high school. By the time she pulled her head out and realized acting out was a luxury, her GPA was too ugly for college, even the online kind.
She got a job as a front desk phone admin at the offices of a coffee chain, a competitor of Starbucks. At least that was what they liked to think. It was boring. She wanted more. Fortunately, they were doing well and expanding. So when an opening for assistant to the general manager came up, she talked her way into a try out. Just as fortunately, she found that she was good at three things; details, being busy, and anticipating needs.
The probation period turned into a permanent job offer with enough money to say sayonara to the roommate she’d found through classifieds, who had become the bane of her existence. The little apartment two floors above a pizza joint was old, tiny, and no frills, and smelled like pizza twenty-four-seven, which meant she was never going to want pizza again so long as she lived. But it was her place and she didn’t have to share it.
It was Saturday night.
She knew the block would be busy around eight. There were several cafes that offered sidewalk tables and it was nice enough for people to want to sit outside, especially those who were drinking red wine.
She also knew that her stalker would be somewhere around. Watching.
Looking out the window, she scanned the street and, yep, there he was in his usual spot. Authorities would call it loitering if he wasn’t well dressed. She didn’t know if his clothes were expensive from that distance, but she did know that he wore a sports coat over jeans. And it seemed to fit him. So it was unlikely he’d gotten it from one of the used clothing charities.
She took a deep breath and a look in the mirror. The latter bothered her the minute she did it. Why did she care what her stalker thought of what she looked like? Still, the black sueded tights complimented her long legs, and the ankle boots gave her just the boost of kickass confidence she needed to go through with her insane plan. The lavender silk weave sweater she pulled on brought out the slight hint of purple in her dark blue eyes and, last, she’d piled her light brown curly hair onto her head and stuck a couple of hair chopsticks in it.
She wasn’t getting decked out for the purveyor of unwanted attention. At least that was what she told
herself. But her more honest side knew all too well that wasn’t what she usually wore for a night of TV and frozen Lean Cuisine.
Having worked herself into a new frenzy, she stormed down the stairs, pushed through the outer door, and almost ran a couple over on her way across the street.
The man’s head came up when he realized that she was coming straight for him. But he didn’t look away. And he didn’t move away. He simply waited.
It was twilight on the street. Dark enough to encourage couples to steal moments of public affection, but light enough to see everything around.
The closer she got, the more she realized why she’d gotten tricked out to confront her stalker. On some level, even at a distance, she must have realized that the man might be disturbed and misguided, but he was also hot. Seriously hot.
His hair was dark, as was the stubble on the incredibly masculine planes of his handsome face. She couldn’t tell for sure, but thought his eyes might be dark as well. As her eyes quickly scanned his clothes close up she decided that, yeah, they were expensive.
She stopped three feet in front of him and put her hands on her hips. He seemed more curious, or amused, than worried. “What are you doing?”
He gave up leaning against the wall and stood up. She was glad she’d put on the ankle boots with heels because even with the extra inches, he towered over her. That made coming at this from a position of outrage a little trickier.
“What am I doing?” he repeated in a voice that was smooth and, for some strange reason made her think of chocolate cake. She loved chocolate cake.
“You heard me. What are you doing?!?”
“Minding my own business.”
“No, you’re not. You’re minding my business.” When she saw that his eyes were laughing at her, she was infuriated. She was also overwhelmed with interest in the way he smelled, which made her think, ‘Wait. What?’ She narrowed her eyes. “Listen, mister. Your stalking days are done.”
“Stalking?”
He was enjoying this entirely too much.
“Yes. That’s right. I’m calling it like I see it. Telling it like it is. This,” she waved between them, “thing you’ve been doing, that’s what they call it. Stalking.”
“I’m not a stalker.”
“Okay. What do you call yourself when you engage in this behavior?”
“A mysterious stranger?” He leaned in just enough to indicate being engaged, but not enough to frighten or alarm. “An admirer from afar?” At that his beautifully shaped mouth pulled into a smile so fascinating that, for a moment, she forgot the task at hand.
“Well, the jig is up,” she said. “You’re no longer mysterious and I’m not in the market for an admirer. So how about we make a deal? I’ll go on with my life unobserved by you.”
“That’s an order. Not a deal. What would I get in return?”
“A get-out-of-jail-free card.”
When he laughed, her chest expanded involuntarily like she thought she could breathe in the sound. “You’re funny. I like that.”
She gaped. “I’m not trying to entertain you! I’m trying to get you to stop following me.”
“Hmmm. I’m willing to negotiate.”
“Negotiate?!?” That came out somewhere between a huff and a squeak, but landed firmly in the territory of inability to believe what she was hearing. “You really are unstable.”
He looked around. “Not more than most.”
“What does that mean?” She shook her head. “Stop. I withdraw that question. I don’t care what you think it means. What I want to know is, why are you doing this?”
“This?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Don’t play stupid. Following me!” she hissed.
He stared into her eyes for a couple of beats before saying, “Trying to figure out how to approach and ask for a date.”
That caused her to lean back on her heels and pull her chin in like a turtle. “Okay, well, I admit I wasn’t expecting that.”
He sliced his head to the left in a quick jerk. “I’m not usually shy.”
She canted her head to the side. “Why me?”
“I like the way you smell.”
Since Reese was sensitive to smells to the point of wearing non-scented deodorant, she knew he wasn’t talking about perfume. “Annnnnnnnd we’re back to creepy,” she said.
He barked out a laugh that transformed his face from handsome to stunning. “It’s creepy to tell a woman that she smells good?”
To Reese’s horror, it suddenly occurred to her that the pizza aroma might have permeated all her clothes. Since it was widely accepted that men respond to food smells, he might be the victim of Signorelli’s Sorrento. “Pizza?”
“What?” He looked too confused by the question for the answer to be pizza.
“What do I…?” She stopped herself, realizing in mid-sentence that she didn’t want to ask him what she smelled like, and reframed the question. “How would you know how I smell?”
“Walked by you one day. You were leaving your building. I was entering. You were wearing a dress with splotches of brightness, like a watercolor.”
“Okay. Points for noticing the dress. It’s my favorite. But that doesn’t make you not a stalker. It just makes you metrosexual.”
He laughed. “You have a gift for humor, Ms…?”
“I haven’t done a thing but tell the truth. The fact that you’ve found that humorous means that you’re strange, not that I’m funny. So let’s get to the bottom line. You either need to stop following me or you need to escalate to harassment so I can go to the police.”
He laughed again. “I find it completely charming that you don’t even know you’re funny.” She crossed her arms in front of her body like she was waiting. “Okay. Bottom line. I’m Nick Sigil. Have you had dinner?”
She blinked rapidly. “Dinner?” She said the word like she was just learning English and trying to place the meaning.
While she was deciding whether or not she understood the term, he continued. “We could just step across the street.” He made a tiny gesture with his chin. “Maybe sit outside. It’s a nice night.”
Reese was so lulled by the engaging sound of his voice, she almost didn’t pick up the cue that it was her turn to talk.
“I…” She appeared to remain undecided about what to say.
“What can happen on a busy night on the boulevard? At an open air café with lights strung overhead?”
He made it sound like the most romantic spot on the planet. She looked across the street at the five restaurants that sat side by side.
She set about an internal talk with herself. What in heaven’s name was she doing? Having supper with her stalker? In the movies it was at that juncture when the audience usually concluded that the stupid girl deserved whatever she got. But how often in life would a woman have a chance to be pursued by a man like Nick Sigil? She decided that going to the next step, dinner, was worth whatever risk might come of that.
She took a deep breath. “I agree to the Bistro, but you’re picking up the tab. You owe me for the stress and anxiety you’ve caused.”
His smile was so predatory, for a second she wondered if his inner dialogue was about which he wanted most, ravaging her or eating her. The latter, not in the figurative, but rather literal meaning.
“Dinner is the least I can do in return for causing stress and anxiety, Ms…?”
“Reese Braga. Let’s skip the Ms. and go straight to the twenty-first century.”
The gleam in his eye appeared to be attached to the noticeably kissable corners of his mouth. As his mouth twitched or softened in amusement, that twinkle, although ever present, waxed and waned. “Reese. Suits you.”
“That’s good. ‘Cause it’s my name. But there’s a condition.”
“A condition on dinner? What?”
“Give me your driver’s license.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to take a photo of it, send it to my friend, and tell her to take
it to the cops if I’m never heard from again.”
Nick stared for a couple of minutes and then laughed as he withdrew his wallet. “Would you like me to hold it while you get a picture?”
“Yeah. That would be great. Thanks.”
As she was taking the photo, he said, “My driver’s license had better not end up counterfeited and available on the black market.”
She looked up at him, surprised by the hint of accusation. “Now look. You’re the one who’s skating very close to criminal behavior. Not me.”
“You’re taking a photo of my license. I’m going to call that skating close to criminal behavior because I don’t really know what you’re going to do with it. Do I?”
She held up a finger. “Hang on. We can talk about my fictitious life of crime right after I send this off to Melanie.” She texted a few words to accompany the message with the photo, but got a ping before she could put her phone away. As she looked at the phone she said, “It was a test. If you had nefarious acts in mind, you would have refused to let me take a photo of your license.” She paused, then said absently, “Probably.” Looking down at her phone she added, “Unless you’re completely psycho which, I guess, is TBD.”
Melanie: Holy smoley, Reese. Please tell me he’s as hot as his dl pic.
Reese: I think you’ve missed the point of the message.
Melanie: I think you’ve missed the point of being young, single, and in a dry spell.
Reese: Can’t talk now. Later.
“Sorry,” she said. “Where were we? Oh. You were demonstrating that two can be as suspicious as one.”
He smiled. “Nicely put.” He glanced toward the Bistro. “Shall we?”
“Where are you from? Who says ‘shall we’?”
Ignoring that, he took her elbow to guide her toward crossing the street.
She thought the gesture seemed a little proprietary, but the sizzle that slight touch caused was so surprising that she was focused on that instead of on protesting the contact. Besides, she told herself, it was kind of gentlemanly, in a pre-feminist kind of way.
Stalk (Hotblooded Book 1) Page 2
