She blinked, and her mind slowed briefly. Had he just offered sex? Man, he had. Yeah, he had a hot body, and those eyes could warm the coldest of hearts, but just how arrogant could one guy be? “I’m not sure, but I think you might be a complete jerk.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say so.” He stood, an intimidating presence in the ultra-feminine room. “But give my offer some thought.”
She stood, unwilling to let him tower over her too much as her brain and temper kicked right back into gear. “I think, Sheriff, that you’ve underestimated me if you think I can’t provide both my own cover and my own orgasms.” What an ass.
He coughed out a surprised chuckle. “Damn, woman. I’d like to watch you do both.” He strode across the room, stepped into his boots, and opened the door, partially turning. “David Laurence will most likely pick up Flossy in the plow truck tomorrow to head to Sam’s Tavern. If you want to help out at the tavern’s search headquarters, come with her. As for tonight, get some sleep and think about you and me.” He left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
She swallowed several times, staring at the closed door. Her body flushed hot and then cold. She felt rightfully insulted and embarrassingly intrigued.
It took her several moments to realize that he’d never answered her question about the EVE facility.
The brutal snowstorm nearly made him miss his turnoff. Visibility truly sucked.
By the time Brock drove the snowmobile down his driveway and pulled to a stop by his large metal shop, he wanted to slam his head into the nearest snowbank. What had he been thinking propositioning an FBI agent? He parked the machine and levered off, ducking to shove up the door, and ignoring the shadow to the side of the building. He drove the snowmobile inside and then returned, pulling down the heavy metal door. The wind whistled through the snow-covered trees, spreading flakes in every direction. “You coming inside?” he asked, kickingthrough the snow to the front door and not looking back, the freezing air stealing his breath.
Christian appeared at his side, long and lean, his boots thick and a black knit hat covered in snow protecting his head. “Yeah. When did you spot me?”
“Not sure I did.” Brock twisted the doorknob and stepped inside the instant warmth as his brother followed. “Just felt you close.”
“Huh.” Christian tugged off the hat and partially turned, whistling softly.
A sleek animal, its coat white as the snow, bounded from behind the shop. He stopped at the doorway, shook wetness off, and then gracefully stepped inside.
Brock dropped to his haunches and waited for the animal to sit and grant permission, keeping his face clear just in case. When the animal waited, he ran both hands through the thick fur along his flanks. “Well. You’re new.” He leaned back, studying the animal as it studied him right back. All-white fur with one blue eye and one bluish-brown, the animal was probably around a year old. “Who is this?”
Christian kicked out of his boots and hung his jacket on the peg by the door. “I’ve been calling him Tikaani, although he might want another name. Will probably shorten it to Tika. Found him last month down at Sawyer’s Crick with his leg caught in a trap. He’s been hanging close since.”
“A trap?” Irritation caught in Brock’s throat, heating him. He lifted the animal’s front left paw and then checked the others. “He healed well. What do you think? Husky and wolf?”
Christian nodded. “Best guess. Arctic wolf and Siberian Husky mix, and he’s gonna be big. The paws are huge.”
Beyond big. Tikaani served the little guy well. It meant wolf warrior. “So, puppy. Where did you come from?”
The animal, appearing bored, turned and loped over to the fireplace, where embers still glowed. He sneezed and flopped onto the rug, closing his eyes.
For a wild animal, he’d settled in quickly. Brock stood, studying the other wild animal in his life. “You hungry?”
“No.” Christian loped as gracefully as the hybrid had and sat on one of the two patchwork sofas. “Ace is drinking too much.” He leaned back and plopped his thick socks on the sturdy coffee table, turning to stare at the dying embers. “It’s time to get him to Smitty’s.”
“Look who’s talking.” Brock toed off his boots and removed his outerwear, instantly heading to stoke the fire and pile on a few more logs from the stack in the alcove by the fireplace. He was as careful and quiet as he could be, and the wolf-dog didn’t twitch. “You smell like fabric softener, brother. Not my brand.” While Christian often let himself in to use the laundry room, he obviously hadn’t recently.
“You want to talk about spring-fresh scents?” Christian asked dryly, his gruff voice edged with humor.
“No.” Brock moved to the stall bar near the floor-to-ceiling windows and poured himself three fingers of scotch. “You still not drinking?”
Christian cleared his throat. “I have enough demons.”
Didn’t they all? Brock took a deep breath and turned, sitting on the other sofa across from his brother. Christian’s dual eyes, one black and one green, remained clear and veiled, as usual. Should they talk this out finally? If so, finding the words felt impossible. Brock took a generous drink of the single-barrel brew.
For once, Christian spoke first. “I saw the blue flare.”
Brock swirled the caramel-colored liquid in his glass, watching the firelight catch its depths. “Wyatt Yankovich wentfishing and didn’t come home. The storm is worse, so we need to wait until daybreak.”
“Missing ain’t dead.”
Brock studied his brother. “No. We both know that dead is dead.”
Christian’s expression didn’t change. As they aged into their thirties, he looked more and more like Damian, with his angular face and high cheekbones, an intriguing fact given how opposite they seemed as brothers. Christian had tied his black hair at the nape, lacking even a hint of a highlight like Ace’s hair, yet he and Ace shared the same jawline.
