obligingly at the logs he arranged. “This’ll warm the room soon. There’s a small generator out back. I can start it for you if you like, but this will pass before long.”
He stayed where he was, with the firelight dancing over his face. And looking at him, she forgot about the storm and fears of the dark. She wondered if all that gorgeous hair that fell nearly to his shoulders was as soft as it looked, wondered why it seemed she knew exactly how it would feel under her fingers.
Why she had an image of him leaning over her, leaning close, with his mouth a breath away from hers. Only a breath away.
“You’re daydreaming again, Rowan.”
“Oh.” She blinked, flushed, shook herself clear. “Sorry. The storm’s made me jumpy. Would you like some wine?” She pushed herself up, began backing quickly toward the kitchen. “I have a very nice Italian white I tried last night. I’ll just … pour some. Won’t be a minute.”
For Lord’s sake, for Lord’s sake, she berated herself as she dashed into the kitchen, where a half dozen candles glowed on the counter. Why did being around him make her so skittish and stupid? She’d been alone with attractive men before. She was a grown woman, wasn’t she?
She got the bottle out of the refrigerator by the light of the candles, found glasses and filled them. When she turned, a glass in each hand, he was there just behind her, and she jolted.
Wine sloshed over the rim and onto the back of her hand.
“Must you do that?” She snapped it out before she could stop herself, then watched that fast, fabulous grin flash over his face, bright and blinding as the lightning in the storm.
“I suppose not.” Ah, the hell with it, he decided. He was entitled to some small pleasures. With his eyes on hers, he lifted her damp hand, bent his head and slowly licked.
The best she could manage was a small, quiet moan.
“You’re right. It’s very nice wine.” He took the glass, and when her freed hand fell limply to her side, he smiled. Sipped. “You’ve a lovely face, Rowan Murray. I’ve thought of it since last I saw you.”
“You have?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” She was so obviously befuddled, it was tempting to press his advantage, to go with the urge grinding in him to take before she knew all he wanted, and what he refused to want. One step closer, he mused, the slow slide of his fingers around the base of her neck, where the flesh was warm and smooth. Fragile. His mouth to hers while the taste of her was still mixed with the wine on his tongue.
And he wouldn’t be in the mood to leave it at something quite so simple, or quite so innocent.
“Come in by the fire.” He stepped back to give her room to pass. “Where it’s warmer.”
She recognized the ache spreading inside her. The same ache, she thought, she woke with whenever she dreamed of him. She moved past him, into the living room, praying she could think of something to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic.
“If you came here to relax,” he began with just a hint of impatience in his voice, “you’re doing a preciously poor job of it. Sit down and stop fretting. The storm won’t stay long, and neither will I.”
“I like the company. I’m not used to being alone for such long stretches of time.”
She sat, managing a smile. But he stood by the fire, leaned against the mantel. He watched her. Watched her in a way that reminded her of—
“Isn’t that why you came here?” He said it to interrupt her thoughts before they inched too close to what she wasn’t prepared to know. “To have time alone?”
“Yes. And I like it. But it’s odd just the same. I was a teacher for a long time. I’m used to having a lot of people around.”
“Do you like them?”
“Them? Students?”
“No, people.” He made a vague and oddly dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “In general.”
“Why … yes.” She laughed a little, leaning back in her chair without being aware her shoulders had lost their knots of tension. “Don’t you?”
“Not particularly—as a rule.” He took a sip of wine, reflecting. “So many of them are demanding, selfish, self-absorbed. And while that’s not so much of a problem, they often hurt each other quite consciously, quite carelessly. There’s no point, and there should be no pride in causing harm.”
“Most people don’t mean to.” She saw the light in his eye and shook her head. “Oh, you’re cynical. I can’t understand cynics.”
“That’s because you’re a romantic, and a naive one at that. But it’s charming on you.”
“Now, should I be flattered or insulted?” she wondered aloud, smiling with more ease than she’d ever felt with him, even when he moved to sit at the ottoman in front of her chair.
“Truth can be accepted without either. What do you teach?”
“Literature—or I used to.”
“That would explain the books.” They were stacked on the coffee table and in a box beside the couch. He’d seen others piled on the kitchen table and knew there were still more in her bedroom upstairs.
“Reading’s one of my greatest pleasures. I love sliding into a story.”
“But this …” He leaned back, reached over and plucked up the top book on the table. “The Study of Wolves, Their History and Habits. That wouldn’t be a story, would it?”
“No. I bought that on impulse one day, and didn’t even realize I’d packed it. But I’m glad I did.” In a habitual gesture, she brushed at the hair that had come loose from her braid. “You must have seen him.” She eased forward, the delight in her large, dark eyes nearly irresistible. “The black wolf that comes around.”
He continued to look into her eyes, straight in, as he enjoyed his wine. “I can’t say I have.”
“Oh, but I’ve seen him nearly every day since I came. He’s gorgeous, and doesn’t seem as wary of people as you’d expect. He came into the clearing right before the storm tonight. And sometimes I hear him calling, or it seems I do. Haven’t you?”
“I’m closer to the sea,” he told her. “That’s what I listen to. A wolf is a wild thing, Rowan, as I’m sure your book has told you. And a rogue, one who runs alone, the wildest of all.”
“I wouldn’t want to tame him. I’d say we’re just curious about each other at this point.” She glanced toward the window, wondered if the wolf had found a warm, dry place for the night. “They don’t hunt for sport,” she added, absently tossing her braid behind her back. “Or out of viciousness. They hunt to feed. Most often they live in packs, families. Protect their young, and—” She broke off, jumping a little when lightning flashed bright and close.
“Nature’s a violent thing. It only tolerates the rest of us. Nature can be generous or ruthless.” He put the book aside. “You have to have care in how you deal with it, and you’ll never understand it.”
Their knees were brushing, their bodies close. She caught the scent of him, sharply male, almost animal and absolutely dangerous. His lips curved in a smile as he nodded. “Exactly so,” he murmured, then set his glass aside and rose. “I’ll start the generator for you. You’ll be happier with some electricity.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She got to her feet, wondering why her heart was pounding. It had nothing to do with the storm raging outside now, and everything to do with the one so suddenly brewing inside her. “Thank you for helping.”
“It’s not a problem.” He wasn’t going to let it be a problem. “It’ll only be a moment.” Briefly, lightly, his fingers danced over the back of her hand. “It was good wine,” he murmured, and walked out to the kitchen.
It took her ten long seconds to get her breath back, to lower the hand she’d pressed to her cheek and follow him. Just as she stepped into the kitchen, the lights flashed on, making her yelp. Even as she laughed at herself, she wondered how the man moved so fast. The kitchen was empty, her lights were on, and it was as if he’d never been there.
She pulled open the back door and winced when the wind and rain lashe
d at her. Shivering a little, she leaned out. “Liam?” But there was nothing but the rain and the dark. “Don’t go,” she murmured, leaning on the doorjamb as the rain soaked her shirt. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
The next burst of lightning shot the forest into bright relief. And gleamed off the coat of the wolf that stood in the driving rain at the foot of the steps.
“God.” She fumbled on the wall for the light switch, flicked it and had the floodlights pouring on. He was still there, his coat gleaming with rain, his eyes patiently watching. She moistened her lips, took a slow step back. “You should come in out of the rain.”
A thrill sprinted up her spine as he leaped gracefully onto the porch. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until his damp fur brushed her leg as he walked inside, and she released it with a shiver.
“Well.” Trembling a little, she turned so they watched each other. “There’s a wolf in the house. An incredibly handsome wolf,” she murmured, and found herself not thinking twice about shutting the door and closing them inside together. “Um, I’m going to go in …” She gestured vaguely. “There. It’s warm. You can—”
She broke off, charmed and baffled when he simply swung around and stalked through the doorway. She followed to see him walk to the fire, settle himself, then look back at her as if waiting.
“Smart, aren’t you?” she murmured. “Very smart.” As she approached cautiously, his gaze never left her face. She lowered herself to the ottoman. “Do you belong to anyone?” She lifted her hand, her fingers itching to touch. She waited for a growl, a snarl, a warning, and when none came she lightly laid her hand on his head. “No, you wouldn’t belong to anyone but yourself. That’s how it is for the brave and the beautiful.”
When her fingers stroked down to his neck, rubbing gently, his eyes narrowed. She thought she recognized pleasure in them and smiled a little. “You like that? Me, too. Touching’s as good as being touched, and no one’s really touched me for so long. But you don’t want to hear the story of my life. It’s not very interesting. Yours would be,” she mused. “I bet you’d have fascinating tales to tell.”
He smelled of the forest, of the rain. Of animal. And, oddly, of something … familiar. She grew bolder, running her hands down his back, over his flanks, back to his head. “You’ll dry here by the fire,” she began; then her hand paused in midstroke, and her brows drew together.
“He wasn’t wet,” she said quietly. “He came through the rain, but he wasn’t wet. Was he?” Puzzled, she stared out the dark window. Liam’s hair was as black as the wolf’s fur, but it hadn’t gleamed with rain or damp. Had it?
“How could that be? Even if he’d driven over, he had to get from the car to the door, and …”
She trailed off when the wolf moved closer, when his handsome head nuzzled her thigh. With a murmur of pleasure, she began to stroke him again, grinning when the rumble in his throat reminded her of a very human, very male sound of approval.
“Maybe you’re lonely, too.”
And she sat with him while the storm shifted out to sea, the thunder quieted and the whips of rain and wind turned to soft patters.
It didn’t surprise her that he walked through the house with her. Somehow it seemed perfectly natural that he would accompany her as she blew out candles, switched off lights. He climbed the stairs with her and sat by her side as she lit the bedroom fire.
“I love it here,” she murmured, sitting back on her heels to watch the flames catch. “Even when I’m lonely, like I was tonight, it feels right being here. As if I’ve always needed to come to this place.”
She turned her head, smiled a little. They were eye to eye now, deep blue to dark gold. Reaching out, she skimmed her hand under his powerful jaw, rubbing the silky line of his throat. “No one would believe me. No one I know would believe me if I told them I was in a cabin in Oregon talking to a big, black, gorgeous wolf. And maybe I’m just dreaming. I do a lot of that,” she added as she rose. “Maybe everyone’s right and I do too much dreaming.”
She crossed to the dresser and took a pair of pajamas from the drawer. “I guess it’s pretty pitiful when your dreams are the most interesting part of your life. I really want to change that. I don’t mean I have to climb mountains or jump out of planes …”
He stopped listening—and he had listened all along. But now, as she spoke, she tugged the navy sweatshirt she wore over her head and began to unbutton the simple plaid shirt beneath.
He stopped hearing the words as she slipped the shirt off, stood folding the sweatshirt, wearing only a lacy white bra and jeans.
She was small and slender, her skin milk-pale. Her jeans bagged a bit at the waist, making the man inside the wolf nearly groan as her fingers reached for the button. His blood warmed, his pulse quickened as she let the denim slide carelessly down her legs.
The swatch of white rode low on her hips. He wanted his mouth there, just there along that lovely curve. To taste the flesh, to feel the shape of bone. And to slide his tongue under the white until she quivered.
She sat, tugging off her socks, shaking her feet free of the jeans. And nearly drove him mad as she stood to lay them aside.
The low growl in his throat went unnoticed by both of them as she unhooked her bra in an innocent striptease. He felt his control slipping as he imagined cupping his hands there, over small white breasts, skimming his thumbs over pale pink nipples.
Lowering his head until his mouth was—
The sudden violent slash of lightning had her jumping, muffling a scream. “God! The storm must be coming back. I thought …” She stopped in midsentence as she glanced over, saw those gold eyes glinting. In an instinctive gesture, she crossed her arms over her naked breasts. Beneath them, her heart bounced like a rabbit.
His eyes looked so … human, she thought with a quick panic. The expression in them hungry. “Why do I suddenly feel like Little Red Riding Hood?” She eased out a breath, drew in another. “That’s just foolish.” But her voice wasn’t quite steady as she made the grab for her pajama top. She made a little squeak of surprise when he caught the dangling sleeve in his teeth and dragged it away.
A laugh bubbled up and out. She grabbed the collar of the flannel, pulled. The quick, unexpected tug-of-war made her laugh again. “You think it’s funny?” she demanded. Damned if she didn’t see amusement in those fascinating eyes. “I just bought these. They may not be pretty, but they’re warm— and it’s cold in here. Now let go!”
When he did, abruptly, she stumbled back two paces before she caught her balance. Wonderfully naked but for that triangle at her hips, she narrowed her eyes at him. “A real joker, aren’t you?” She held the top up, searching for tears or teeth marks, and found none. “Well, at least you didn’t eat it”
He watched her slip it on, button it. There was something erotic even in that, in the way the brightly patterned flannel skimmed her thighs. But before she could pull on the bottoms, he pleased himself by shifting his head, running his tongue from her ankle to the back of her knee.
She chuckled, bent down to scratch his ears as though he were the family dog. “I like you, too.” After pulling the bottoms on, she reached up to loosen what was left of her braid. As she reached for her brush, the wolf padded over to the bed, leaped up and stretched out at the foot.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Amused, she turned, running the brush through her hair. “I really don’t. You’ll have to get down from there.”
He watched her unblinkingly. She would have sworn he smiled. Huffing out a breath, she shook her hair back, set the brush aside, then walked to the side of the bed. In her best teacher’s voice, she ordered him down and pointed meaningfully at the floor.
This time she knew he smiled.
“You’re not sleeping in the bed.” She reached out, intending to pull him off. But when he bared his teeth, she cleared her throat. “Well, one night. What could it hurt?”
Watching him cautiously, she climbed up, sliding under t
he duvet. He simply lay, his head snugged between his front paws. She picked up her glasses, her book, shrugging when the wolf lay still. Satisfied, she piled the pillows behind her and settled in to read.
Only moments later, the mattress shifted, and the wolf moved over to lie at her side, laying his head in her lap. Without a thought, Rowan stroked him and began to read aloud.
She read until her eyes grew heavy, her voice thick, and once more slipped into sleep with a book in her hand.
The air quivered as wolf became man. Liam touched a finger to her forehead. “Dream, Rowan,” he murmured, pausing as he felt her slide deeper. He took her book, her glasses, and set them neatly on the bedside table. Then he eased her down, lifting her head so he could spread out the pillows.
“You must be waking every morning stiff as a board,” he murmured. “Forever falling asleep sitting up.” He skimmed the back of his hand over her cheek, then sighed.
The scent of her, silky and female and subtle, was enough to drive him mad. Each quiet breath through those full, parted lips was a kind of invitation.
“Damn it, Rowan, you lie in bed with me with the rain on the roof and read Yeats aloud in that soft, almost prim voice of yours. How should I resist that? I’ll have to have you sooner or later. Later’s the better for both of us. But I need something tonight.”
He took her hand, pressed palm to palm, linked fingers. And shut his eyes. “Come with me, two minds, one dream. Sleep is not now what it seems. Give what I need, and take what you’ll have from me. As I will, so mote it be.”
She moaned. And moved. Her free arm flung up over her head, her lips parting on a shuddering breath that seemed to whisper in his blood. His own pulse thickened as he made love to her with his mind. Tasted her, touched her with his thoughts. Gave himself to her.
Lost in dreams, she arched up, her body shuddering under phantom hands.
She smelled him, that musky, half-animal scent that had already stirred her more than once in dreams. Images, sensations, desires, confused and tangled and arousing beyond belief swarmed through her. Embracing them, she murmured his name and opened to him, body and mind.
The hot wave of his thoughts lifted her up, held her trembling, aching, quivering, then stabbed her with unspeakable pleasure. She heard her name, said quietly, almost desperately. Repeated. Desire drugged the mind, swirled through it, then slid silently away into fulfillment.
He sat, his eyes still closed, his hand still joined with hers. Listened to the rain, her soft and steady breathing. Resisting the urge to lie with her, to touch her now with more than his mind, he threw his head back. And vanished.
Chapter 3
She woke early, blissfully relaxed. Her body seemed to glow. Her mind was calm, clear and content. Rowan was out of bed and in the shower before she remembered anything. Then with a muttered curse, she jumped out, dripping, grabbed a towel and dashed back into the bedroom.
The bed was empty. There was no beautiful wolf curled in front of the cold fire. Ignoring the water sliding down her legs, she dashed downstairs, searching the house and leaving a trail of damp behind her.
The kitchen door hung open, letting in the chill of the morning. Still she stepped out, her cold toes curling up in protest as she scanned the line of trees.
How did he get out—and where did he go? she wondered. Since when do wolves open doors?
She hadn’t imagined it. No, she refused to believe that her imagination could create such clear images, such textures, such events. That would make her crazy, wouldn’t it? she thought with a half laugh as she backed inside again and closed the door.
The wolf had been in the house. He’d sat with her, stayed with her. Even slept on the bed. She could remember exactly the feel of his fur, the scent of rain and wild on it, the expressions in his eyes and the warmth, the simple comfort, when he’d laid his head on her lap.
However … unusual the evening, it had happened. However odd her own actions, letting him in, petting him, she had done so.
And if she’d had a brain cell in her head, she’d have thought to grab her camera and take a few pictures of him.
To prove what? To show to whom? The wolf, she realized, was her personal and private joy. She didn’t want to share him.
She went back upstairs, back to the shower, wondering how long it would be before he came back.
She caught herself singing and grinned. She couldn’t remember ever waking up happier or with more energy. And wasn’t that part of the plan? she thought as she lifted her face to the spray and let the hot water stream. To find out just what made her happy. If it happened to be spending a stormy night with a wolf, so what?
“Try to explain that one, Rowan.” Laughing at herself, she toweled off. Humming, she started to wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror, then paused, staring at her own misty reflection.
Did she look different? she wondered, leaning closer to study her face, the glow of her skin, the sleek sheen of wet hair and most of all the light in her eyes.
What had put that there? She lifted her hand, running her fingers curiously along the ridge of her cheekbones just under her eyes.
Dreams. And her fingers trembled lightly as she dropped them. Hot and shivering dreams. Colors and shapes pulsing through her mind, through her body. So stunning, so … erotic. Hands on her breasts, but not. A mouth crushing down on hers but never really touching.
Closing her eyes, she let the towel fall, skimmed her hands over her breasts, down, up again, trying to focus on where she had journeyed in sleep.
The taste of male skin, the hot slide of it over her own. Needs rocketing through the mind to be met and met again until the beauty of it brought tears.
She’d never experienced anything like that, not even in life. How could she find it in dreams?
And why should she go to sleep with a wolf and dream of a man?