Wolf Fever (10 page)

“I sleep wonderfully well.” She gave Ryan a quick smile.

He smirked. “Right. That's why you have dark circles under your eyes. I
am
trained to observe people and objects. I notice things.” He took a deep breath. “This won't take long.”

Which suited her just fine. She folded her hands in her lap and nodded. “Let's get it over with. The sooner the better.” But she wanted to look in the visor mirror and see for herself if she had dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't noticed when she smoothed lipstick over her lips or applied makeup earlier.

He shut her door, skirted around his vehicle, and climbed into the driver's seat.

There was no figuring what was going on in Ryan McKinley's investigative mind, but why was she bothered by the notion that he'd be leaving soon?

He considered her for a moment and then nodded. But something was off in the way he acted. As though he had to finish this so he could get to more important business back home, yet he didn't want to let go of the business here so quickly, either. What was that all about anyway?

Ryan circled the truck around the drive and then headed toward town.

No, it was something deeper than that. Something sexy, more primal, more wolf. If she shape-shifted, would it help her to recognize better what was going on between them? Or was her usual cynicism about men blocking her ability to see what was really happening?

Giving up on psychoanalyzing the situation further, she leaned into the seat and smelled the fragrance of new leather. She noted the spotless dashboard and a medallion hanging from the rearview mirror as it swung with the movement of the truck. She tried to glimpse the words etched on the medallion, on a brass plate below the name
MacKinlay
.

“What does the motto mean?”

“‘We force no friend; we fear no foe,' which was the motto for the Clan Farquharson. But some say we were associated with the Buchanan clan instead. Others say a people named MacAnleighs might have been more related to our origin.”

He didn't say anything further, and she prompted him, “Go on. Family roots fascinate me. Sometimes the meaning of a name gives a hint to a family's origins. Maybe something about their character that is passed down from generation to generation.”

His mouth curved up a little. “Never know. Since we had more family in the area of Braemar, we go with Clan Farquharson's motto. McKinley is a variation of MacKinlay. Some say the name originated from the Gaelic ‘Mac Fhionnlaoich,' meaning ‘fair hero.'”

“Fair hero. Hmm. See? What did I say?”

“Yes, but another meaning is given. ‘Son,' for Mac, ‘of the white warrior.'” He waited for her response.

She smiled. “Seems, with the occupation you've chosen, you carry the gene that validates the claim for both the motto and the meaning of your name.”

“I try to live up to the name, to make my ancestors proud.”

She noticed the blanket lying on the seat between
them, a predominantly blue-and-green plaid wool with black and red threads woven in, accentuating it. She ran her hand over the soft fabric.

“It's old,” Ryan said.

“It represents the McKinley clan?”

“Yes. It was my grandfather's.”

Chill bumps raced along her arms. Lelandi had explained to Carol how the
lupus garous
lived long lives, thirty years for every year after they reached puberty. So his grandfather could very well have fought in clan battles and been a clan chief even. Or not. He might have just been a sheepherder, for all she knew. She'd read so many Highland romances that the idea she could be sitting next to the descendant of one of those brawny men—barelegged, barefooted, and bare… she smiled… bare-assed men of the kilt—made her melt a little.

Ryan glanced at her and gave her a suggestion of a smile. Her cheeks instantly flushed with heat. He winked. “You may see visions of the future, but I wish I could read your mind.”

Her face heated anew. She pushed some of her hair behind an ear and looked out the windshield. “What did your grandfather do as an occupation?”

“Fought for the clan, took a mate, raised a passel of kids, and whittled in his spare time.”

“Whittled?”

Ryan chuckled. “That he did. Played the bagpipes, too.”

She sighed and touched the blanket on the seat, imagining what it would be like to fall into one of her romance novels and feel the soft plaid on a Highlander's hardened body until he slipped it off and settled it on the
heather. Hand outstretched, he'd offer to take her into his world and show her just how hardy a Highlander could be.

Her lips dry, she was sweeping her tongue over them when she caught Ryan glancing at her again. “Have you ever been to the Colorado Scottish Festival and Rocky Mountain Highland Games?” she asked wistfully. She had loved the place on the one chance she'd had to visit. All those Celts dressed in different tartans. The music. The games. The food.

“To listen to the pipes and drums, to step to the Celtic tunes, dance in the Highland competitions, participate in tug-of-war, and the parade of clans? I've participated every year for the past four years.”

“Do you win?”

“Every year.”

“The truth?”

He smiled. “The truth is that a werewolf's strength gives me a bit of an advantage.” He shrugged. “I can't help it. Have you been?”

She sighed. “Once. All those men in kilts with great-looking legs nearly did me in.”

He gave her another shadow of a smile. “Do you have a Scottish background?”

“MacDonald, on my mother's side of the family. Our motto: ‘By sea and land.' We have an armored hand holding a cross for the clan's crest. After I went to that one festival, I went away to college, but I hope to go this summer again. Maybe I'll see you there.”

And see Ryan in a kilt, his legs bare, naked biceps and back straining to pull at a rope as men on the other side fight to win the game. Darien probably wouldn't
even let her go to the festivities, unless some of his people were willing to watch her.

Or if she had a mate already. And then her mate probably wouldn't be interested in going there unless he had Celtic roots. She chewed on her bottom lip. She had to find other men who appealed like Ryan did, since she didn't think Jake or Tom would ever make a move in her direction.

Then a new thought came to her. The librarian and masseuse were from another pack. Why couldn't she go to their pack, or even Ryan's, and see if someone who suited her better was in one of those packs?

She patted Ryan's thigh, making him tense and speed up as he barreled down the road.

“I have an idea. When you have your next gathering, I'll come to Green Valley and check out the eligible bachelors there,” she said. “Have any good hardy Scots in the bunch?”

Ryan's mouth opened as if he was going to make a comment, but then he quickly snapped it shut. He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel and finally said, “Darien wouldn't allow it.”

She was a little surprised at his reaction. “Funny, I thought you might be less against it than he would be. I've heard that a pack leader who can encourage unmated females to accept bachelors in his pack earns brownie points.”

Ryan's jaw tightened, and she assumed she'd hit another nerve. But she wasn't sure why this time, unless someone in his pack might truly be interested in her.

“In fact, I'll check into Becky and Marilee's pack while I'm at it. Surely, I'll find someone I'll be interested in. Don't you think?”

H
ELL AND DAMNATION
. R
YAN COULDN'T BELIEVE HOW
much the petite blonde could get under his skin. One minute she's touching his plaid, while he's wishing he was wearing it right that moment, wondering when she'd ask the question all women asked. Did he wear anything under the kilt? Ha, what God gave him. The next minute, she's wanting to find a mate in
his
pack?

How Carol could think the other women were hot and she wasn't was beyond his comprehension. But the notion that she'd come to his pack and check out some of his bachelor males was unthinkable. Not that it wouldn't help his standing in the pack. But hell. Seeing her mated to one of his men—not any of whom would be right for her… he couldn't have it.

Even the notion that she'd check out the other women's pack didn't agree with him. Who knew what sort of men were in it? These women weren't interested in their own bachelors. Why would Carol be? Besides, she was a special case. With special needs, because she was newly turned. She had to have just the right man.

He had no regrets about dancing close to her. He'd thought she might be feeling insecure about the way the other women looked because she'd changed into the clingy silk dress, and he'd wanted her to know she was just as hot an item in the soft pink sweater and jeans she'd worn earlier. He loved comfortable casual.

But he'd never expected her to turn his body into a raging inferno. Even now, he was still at half-mast, partly because of the way she'd danced with him, the heat and fragrance and softness of her body still lingering in his thoughts. And partly because of the way she had caressed his plaid. Envisioning his body wrapped in it and her touching him made him harden even further.

He tried not to frown at her too much as he parked at the Silver Town Tavern, the lot fairly empty. He would speak to Darien about ensuring she didn't check out the other pack.
Or
his own.

“Ready?” he asked her as she stared out the window.

She snapped her head around to look at him, her expression startled, and he thought something was wrong.

“Carol?”

She smiled, but the expression was forced. “Sure. Let's get the interrogation over with.
Pronto.
I'm sure you have more important business to take care of back home.”

She dropped the smile, and her look turned mutinous. Which appealed a hell of a lot more than when she was giving him a fake smile. Wondering about his own sanity, he shook his head and left the truck to get her door.

Ryan's question had yanked her out of a vision so fast that it startled Carol, but since he didn't believe she could see what she could, she hadn't any plan to enlighten him. Yet given the way he looked at her, she figured he'd question her about it anyway.

“What were you thinking when I drew your attention?” Ryan asked, helping her from his vehicle.

The biting cold… silky red hair floating over her face… male amber eyes narrowed, padded armor, and a tiredness she couldn't free herself from.

“Carol?” Ryan asked again, his hand firmly on her arm as he guided her toward the tavern.

“Nothing.”

But the look he gave her told her he knew differently. He gave his head a slight shake. But what did she care? He wouldn't believe she'd had another one of her visions.
Anyway
. And the meaning of the vision eluded her as before, so what was she supposed to say? Even if he had been more enlightened?

She walked at Ryan's quickened pace, observing the carved wooden wolves guarding the double doors of the bar. If she'd only known in the beginning what they had signified. Werewolf territory.

Before she'd become a werewolf, Carol had only been in Silver Town's tavern once during the fall festival when the doors were open to non-members as well as members. She hadn't realized that to obtain memberships, citizens had to be card-carrying werewolves.

Ryan hurried to get the tavern door for Carol, the rusty hinges squealing as he pushed the heavy oak aside. Rustic fans circulating the air were probably new but looked antique enough to have been hanging from the time the place opened in the nineteenth century.

The smoky mirror behind the long, polished bar definitely had been there from the early days, and the counter was worn in spots where folks leaned against it, drinking their choice of poison. She imagined the shadows of people from long ago reflected in the dingy glass. Silva swore she was going to make Sam replace it with
new mirrors, but Sam was a rustic himself and wouldn't go along with it. Maybe because he was cheap, too.

Amber glass lights hung on brass rods from the high ceiling, casting a soft light over the dark wood tables, some round for smaller groups, some long and rectangular for larger crowds. The place was fairly empty, with just a few older couples enjoying drinks and conversation. The talking died when Ryan and Carol walked inside.

Many of Darien's pack were still at the gathering. Sam and Silva had returned at some point and were preparing roast beef sandwiches and drinks, the aroma of the roasting beef filling the air. Silva hurried to greet them and directed them to a table in the center of the room surrounded by other tables.

A fishbowl.

“We'd prefer one over here, thanks.” Ryan guided Carol to a table in a corner of the room where it was out of the traffic, half hidden in shadows, quiet, and easier to talk privately. And unavailable.

“This is Darien's table,” Carol whispered, her heartbeat accelerating, but she had a sneaking suspicion Ryan already knew that.

Silva tapped a pen on an order pad. “Boss man sits here with Lelandi and his brothers. I'll show you to another table.”

“He's not coming here tonight,” Ryan told her and pulled out a chair for Carol so self-assuredly that his move fed her own confidence.

His amber eyes steeled, Sam wiped the bar. “Darien might not be here tonight, but his brothers will be, guaranteed. And
they also
sit there.”

“Not tonight.” Ryan gave him a look that meant he would not be dissuaded. “Darien suggested we come here on our
date
. So I'm sure he won't mind if we take the most out-of-the-way, private spot.”

Silva looked at Carol as if hoping she would make Ryan come to his senses. Carol only smiled, figuring what the heck, and took her seat. She'd already done enough to create a scene or two, why not another?

“Yep. I figure capturing Darien's ribbon today entitles me to a reward.”

Ryan gave her a small nod of approval and pulled his own chair out and sat down.

Sam poured a beer for a man at the bar and inclined his head briefly to Silva, giving his okay. She let out her breath.

“All right. It's on Sam's head if Darien shows up expecting his table and finds it occupied. What would you care to drink?”

“A strawberry daiquiri,” Carol said.

Silva's brows shot up into her bangs. “You always get a Chablis. Are you sure?”

“Yep, tonight's a cause for celebration.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair. “A beer for me, Silva. And a couple of hot roast beef sandwiches for the two of us, too.”

Silva nodded. “You know, the word is getting around that you're here to question Carol about the murder case and then you're leaving for good. Best be quick about it, if that's all the business you have, because the bachelors are antsy about you being here. Rumors are circulating that it's more than that.”

“They have a lot more to worry about than me being here.”

Her face brightening, Silva said, “Oh?” Which meant she was delighted to share whatever the new gossip was around the tavern and the town.

“Some red male is running around here without Darien's permission, possibly targeting Carol or Lelandi, or both. That's who everyone should be more concerned about.”

Silva gave Carol a worried look.

Trying to appear unconcerned, Carol shrugged. “The bachelors are all going to be my bodyguards, and Lelandi will also be well protected. Nothing to worry about.”

“Ryan will be your bodyguard, too?” Silva asked, hopeful.

Carol attempted a nonchalant tone for her response, but it came out more annoyed than she had planned. “Ryan's going home as soon as he grills me.”

Silva gave him a hard look. “You could at least guard her. Be nice while you question her. If you're not… well, Sam will take care of you. Believe me, you don't want that.” She whipped around and headed to the bar to get their drinks.

Carol loved having Silva as a friend. “Ask your questions so you can return home.”

He glanced at Silva as she spoke with Sam, ordering their drinks. “Don't you want to wait for your drink first, Carol?”

“Why? Think it'll make me tell the truth?”

Ryan cast an elusive smile at her.

“It won't.”

His smile broadened.

“I mean that it won't get me drunk so that I'll tell the truth.” She paused. “I mean…” she said, totally
exasperated with herself, “I'm not telling you anything but the truth, no matter what. How do you suspect I learned about Larissa's murder?”

“You overheard something. I'm not saying you consciously have tried to hide anything. Just that—”

“Well, hell, that's nice to know.” She didn't try to hide her annoyance. He might as well know that she didn't appreciate his questioning her as if she had something to hide. “The truth is that you don't believe in parapsychology. Right?” She lifted her chin a hair.

Ryan had to keep a stern face on that one. He didn't think he'd get anywhere with Carol if he smirked as though he thought she didn't have any abilities. He just didn't believe in anything that couldn't be proven 100 percent. What she claimed to be able to do wouldn't hold up under any kind of scrutiny and couldn't be used in a court of law.

“Just the facts, ma'am. Solid, hard, physical facts,” he said.

“All right.” She sat up straighter, and he loved her backbone. “Did you know that I was a prisoner of Darien's household before the battle between the reds and grays occurred?”

Not having known, Ryan frowned and pondered that. “Before you were turned?” He drummed his fingers on the table, then quit. “Of course. They feared for your safety because you'd discovered something about the murderer. They were afraid whoever it was would be sure to silence you also.”

Looking like she was fighting to keep from showing her irritation, Carol clenched her teeth. Then she leaned forward and speared him with a hard look. But no matter
how irritated she looked, he couldn't help thinking how attractive she was, her blue eyes heated and narrowed, her face lightly flushed.

“You're right, of course. The reason also was that if Lelandi was injured, I'd be her personal nurse. But the biggest reason?” she asked.

“Enlighten me.”

Silva joined them with a tray of beers and one strawberry daiquiri. She leaned over the table and then deposited Carol's red frothy drink and his beer.

“Before she was changed, but way before she actually saw our kind frolicking in the woods, she had a premonition of it.”

Ryan hadn't expected Silva to offer the explanation, and he really wished she'd butt out, but he nodded. The so-called premonition was certainly easy to explain away. “She could have seen it happen, but not as a premonition.”

Silva smiled. “Tell him, Carol. Tell him how you saw us.”

Carol looked as though she didn't think he would believe her, and he wasn't sure she was going to bother explaining. She took a strawberry from a tiny, plastic pink sword in her drink, wrapped her glossy lips around it, and then sucked for a moment. He swore it was the most erotic thing he'd seen in a long damn time. And that she did it on purpose to stir him up again.

Then she took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I saw men and women shifting in the woods near Darien's place. They stripped out of their clothes, and in a blink of an eye, they were wolves.”

His gaze shifted to her dipping the strawberry back in her drink, and then he watched as she licked the sweet liquid off the remainder of the strawberry. It made him think of the way her tongue had touched and tasted and teased his earlier in such a seductive fashion when he had kissed her. And he was damn ready for a repeat performance. How appealing it would be to taste the sweet flavor of strawberries on her tongue!

Not intending to allow the vixen to distract him further, he cleared his throat. “I still say you could have seen this and then imagined that it had occurred as a vision. Dreamed it, whatever.”

Carol licked her lips in such a sensuous way that he swore she was trying to make him hot all over again. Even if she wasn't doing so consciously, she sure had that effect on him. She dipped her strawberry back in the drink, pulled it out, slipped it into her mouth, and sighed.

Once she had finished the fruit, she pointed her tiny sword at him. “No, I saw everyone shift in the dark, and the night was foggy. As a human, I wouldn't have been able to see what you can.”