Unfortunately, before he could make a call—or explain to Ruby who the Moor was and why that had changed Alan’s mind, the Subaru with Montana plates they’d been told to look for splashed through the temporary stream where pavement met sidewalk and stopped. Her date was here. Twenty minutes early.
Alan gave a frustrated growl and said hurriedly, just before the engine stopped, “Treat him like you would Angus, if Angus were both crazy and ten times as dangerous as he is.”
The Subaru’s door opened. Alan shut his mouth and visibly tried to get control of himself.
Out of the mud-spattered car, the most beautiful man she had ever seen emerged. He glanced at them, then walked around the front of his car. He strode through the downpour with no more notice than if he’d been walking through dry sunshine as his shirt darkened and clung to every cut inch of him. It was an effect she’d have expected in a men’s cologne commercial or one of those racy Calvin Klein ads. She’d never seen anything like it in real life.
He stepped across the torrent of water without visible effort or a break in stride. His movement made her mouth dry and her pulse speed up—not a reaction she welcomed just now.
His skin was dark and his features were Arabic—“the Moor” might be as much a description as an epithet, she thought. As he got closer, she could see his eyes; the color made her think of liquid bitter chocolate. It made her nervous that her mind was giving her edible similes to describe him. This wasn’t really a date.
The photo on his profile had been a rose. She’d thought,casually, that it might be to conceal a blemish. She hadn’t considered that it might be to keep him from getting millions of queries and unsolicited offers of modeling contracts.
He was no more than average height, maybe less. His hair was short, as dark as his eyes, and it curled just slightly in the rain. There were no age lines on his face, but she knew better than to expect that with a werewolf.
He didn’t look crazy. Or even particularly dangerous—or at least not dangerous in any way that didn’t have to do with sex.
The address Asil had been given belonged to a grand old Victorian that reigned supreme on a quiet street of lesser houses. The light snow in the mountains had given way to a heavy, cold rain and he was soaked to the skin before he had even shut the car door.
His date sat on the wall of the porch, safe and dry. A man with Asian features stood near her. The man was a werewolf. Even the rain could not hide his scent from Asil.
He considered how that changed the game he was playing as he made the wet journey onto the porch. The werewolf kept his gaze on Asil’s shoes—but the woman had no trouble meeting his gaze; her own carried a challenge and, he thought, a reluctant interest. The werewolf, on the other hand, smelled terrified—but Asil was used to dealing with such a reaction.
Ruby Kowalczyk looked a lot like her photograph—which people didn’t always. She wore tight pants that followed the muscled curves of her body until they—the pants and the curves both—disappeared into the loose flowing blouse hanging halfway down her leg. The feminine blouse was balanced by black combat boots.
Her red-brown hair was in a neat braid, revealing her strongjaw and straight nose without precisely flattering her. Her ice-blue eyes were framed in dark lashes sparkling with glittery mascara. She looked, maybe, nineteen.
But Asil’s wolf knew better. The air carried her scent to him through the winter rain—something magical and old—though not anywhere as old as he was. Fae, he thought, or half-fae. Enough blood to give her long life and the power that roiled and coiled about her but was oddly contained. Trapped. He didn’t know how his wolf knew all of that, but he’d long since ceased doubting anything the old beast told him with such surety.
Her profile had said she was around thirty, a bookstore clerk and amateur but experienced ghost hunter. His had listed his age as thirty-five, a financier with a yen for adventure. Ghost hunting experience: interested novice.
He was pretty sure she had only lied about her age—which was a woman’s prerogative, after all—and the mealy word “around” could be stretched to gossamer to prevent a lie. In his experience half-fae could lie—but most of them tended not to. His own profile had been a lie from start to finish, but then, he wasn’t fae and he hadn’t written the cursed thing anyway.
Asil ascended the stairs and when he’d reached the dry boards under the porch roof, the other werewolf held out his hand, his gaze never rising above Asil’s shoulder.
“Hello,” the wolf said. “I’m Alan Choo.”
His fingers shook only a little, but his breathing was ragged and Asil could feel the other wolf’s tension rocketing to the sky at Asil’s touch when he took the offered hand.
Which was unacceptable to Asil and his wolf. The submissive wolves were the heart of the pack, to be protected above all others.
Asil let go of Alan’s hand, then reached up to touch his throat with light fingers.
“You are in no danger from me,” Asil told him—a little surprised to know he meant it.
It had been a long time since he’d been able to make such a promise to someone who was not an Omega wolf. Alan must be very submissive for Asil’s wolf to be so certain—especially after his almost disastrous meeting with Angus’s second. But his wolf’s determination resonated in a way that Asil had almost forgotten, as if his wolf were stable and sane once more—as it had been a century or two... no, four. Four hundred years since he’d felt like this. Calm, centered, certain.
Interesting.
Hearing the truth in Asil’s words, Choo took a deep breath and straightened, his body still obviously wrung with adrenaline but settling into calmness, which said good things about how well Angus watched over his wolves.
“Mr. Moreno,” said Ruby briskly, dismounting the porch rail and starting toward the door of the house without pausing to actually greet him. “The others are working on setting up our cameras and sound equipment. How about you come with me and I tell you what we are doing and why?”
Gone was the reluctant interest, the nervousness... the fear he’d seen in her. She might have been a real estate agent—or a tour guide—surface friendliness used as a barrier to prevent any real interaction. Any intimacy.
It was so forcefully done that Asil felt an involuntary smile spread across his face. Alan Choo made a small, defeated sound, as if he expected a disaster.
“Wait, Miss Kowalczyk.” The command in Asil’s voice was enough to pull her to a reluctant halt. “We need to discuss a few things first, I think. No?”
