A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Lightning flashed close by, followed by the earthshaking boom of thunder, causing her to jump. Still, she hesitated outside. “I didn’t show you the cards I drew from the for-tune-teller,” she said.

  “No, you didn’t. However, I saw your reaction to mine. The Lovers.” He couldn’t help it, the side of his mouth tugged upward. A scared doe, she had yet to step over that dangerous threshold. He entreated softly, “Come inside, Raven.”

  She tried to smile. Failed. Desperation…and finally capitulation flashed across her face. “I’m not certain, but it might be safer if I turned and ran.”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “You’d risk pneumonia? A walk in the October rain is a sure way to court it. Come inside, Raven. I promise not to bite.” As she took a step over the doorsill, giving a resigned sigh, he added, “Unless you ask.”

  She pulled up short. “All wolves bite, whether you ask or not.” Raven looked at him as if he’d fall on her and gobble her up in two chomps, maybe with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.

  He couldn’t resist teasing. “My, what big eyes you have, Miss Riding Hood.”

  Her mouth pursed as she reached for the doorknob to shut the door. With a lift of her brow she replied, “All the better to see tricky wolves.”

  As they were closed inside, muting the sounds of the storm, Trev stepped to take her cape. Raven tensed when he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Relax, Red,” he promised, “I’m just removing your wet cloak—being a gentleman again.”

  “I think a gentlemanly wolf is an oxymoron.” She turned her head to glance over her shoulder and see his reaction.

  “Possibly,” he conceded. “But finding out is half the fun, eh?”

  “I don’t consider sticking my finger in a light socket fun.” Reaching into her clutch she pulled out two cards and held them up. “The ones I drew from the Gypsy. The fortune on the back of each warns me to beware of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I pulled the same card twice.”

  “With The Lovers on the face,” he pointed out. “And since you suspect your brothers stacked the deck, why do you pay any heed?”

  “I don’t…I…” Her words faltered as she looked down at the cards.

  “My fortune warns the lamb is stronger than the wolf. Perhaps you should put the two together to make one, and take comfort in that,” Trev suggested, finally removing her velvet cloak. Carefully, he hung it on a tree next to an antique umbrella stand. He swallowed against a tightness cording his throat, desire coursing through his blood until it was hard to think. Turning back to her, he flexed his hands to cover their trembling.

  He resented Raven’s sway over him, hated how out of control he was. In his mind, over and over he’d played the movie of what would happen tonight. Just before he dropped off to sleep it unfurled in the same manner: dazzling Raven at the gala, them coming home to an evening of hot sex, using that physical attraction to bind her to him in an elemental, primitive fashion. Contrarily, nothing was going as planned. Instead he felt powerless, humbled and needy.

  His hands reached out and lightly cupped her bare shoulders, savoring the coolness of her flesh. Raven shivered but didn’t step away. He sensed she was as caught up in this strange magic as he. They remained locked in the moment, the sound of the storm outside enfolding them in a sensual cocoon.

  Compelled to break the silence, he asked, “Do you recall the ending to Little Red Riding Hood?”

  “Vaguely. Something about two woodsmen killing the wolf. A gory return of granny to the land of the living.”

  Trev leaned forward and nuzzled the hair by her ear. “Those Brothers Grimm. I never cared for that ending. Instead I rather fancy Charles Pennault’s version. Perchance you’re familiar with it?”

  “I’m not certain. There’s dozens of variations. I never cared for the Grimms’ tales or any of that ilk. A bit lurid.”

  “Well, Pennault’s version moved along in the same manner, right up to Red saying ‘Mr. Big Bad Wolf, my, what big teeth you have.’ From that point, the tales diverge.” When Raven was silent he went on, “How, you may ask? The child’s fable is designed to teach little girls to be scared of wolves. Ah, but then there are various kinds of wolves, no? In Pennault’s shorter but more interesting version, Mr. Big Bad Wolf tells Red, All the better to eat you with, my dear.’ And then he does. Eat her.”

  She stiffened, catching his unspoken meaning. “As I said—lurid.”

  “Hmm, you think so? Are you sure, Red? Really?” He whispered against her ear, “Imagine you and me, the thunderstorm raging overhead, me teaching you just how delicious lurid can be.”

  In the hushed silence, he kissed the side of her face and then nipped the shell of her ear until he reached the lobe. When she shuddered he smiled. His tongue flicked that tantalizing morsel. Sucking the delicate flesh into his mouth, he rolled her diamond stud earring against his tongue, savoring the sensations like an epicure tasting his favorite meal.

  Raven closed her eyes on a sigh and leaned back against him, clearly relishing their contact. The velvet clutch and tarot cards fell to the floor. Almost as though she feared her legs couldn’t hold her weight, her hands reached behind and grasped the sides of his thighs. Her fingers flexed, sharp nails biting into the fabric of his slacks and the leg muscles underneath.

  Trev drew a slow breath to rein in the spiraling emotions pulsing through him. Not succeeding. He needed to go gently with this woman; she was unique, extraordinary, and too delicate. Oh, not physically. He had a feeling she could lock those long legs around him and ride until they both dropped in exhaustion, meeting him stroke-for-stroke, offering all she had and taking everything he could give. No, it was the inner woman that troubled his mind. At this late hour in the game, he wasn’t sure why everything was shifting like quicksand under him. Desmond’s plans were meticulous, years in the forming. But Trev felt like the proverbial fish out of water. His brain was screaming to do a one-eighty, to give Raven a chaste good-night kiss and then politely leave. Not what she expected. He could send roses, call later and invite her for a beautiful candlelight dinner. He could romance Raven as she deserved.

  But then the wolf inside him howled; a violent hunger refused to be denied. Twenty-four hours ago it had never entered his mind to be concerned about her, fretful over what would happen to Raven after his revenge. But twenty-four hours ago he never anticipated the power of this dark fire igniting between them.

  Need shook him to the core, made him want to toss caution to the wind. But as he placed his hand on her belly and pulled her back against him, letting her feel how hot his passions ran, he was rattled by the thought that she might not be the only one hurt by this affair.

  He disliked all these qualms, all this second-guessing; it was too damn much like Jago fussing at him. Bugger all, a conscience was something he’d learn to live without years past. Nothing but a bloody nuisance! Who needed some goody-two-shoes inner voice spoiling all the fun? Well, he wasn’t going to permit his supercilious superego to rear its head now. Blocking out his odd musings, he focused on the delicious sensation of his palms moving up her rib cage to almost cup Raven’s breasts.

  Oh, so tantalizing, that almost. She wanted him to shift his caress, waited for it. Her breath caught on a raspy hitch, willing him to move his hands just a little higher. Instead, he held at the brink, his thumbs brushing the soft under-swells as he allowed the heady drug of anticipation to course through them both. Inhaling the scent off her body, he gave over to her witchcraft. His inner voice screamed he wasn’t taking her, that she was claiming his soul, yet he was powerless to stop her. He did not even want to stop her.

  Angry with himself for allowing her such sway, he spun Raven around, intent on taking her mouth in a bruising kiss and unleashing the demons clawing at his insides. He’d let her see the full scale of his craving for her. Instead he stopped cold, gut punched by her fragile beauty. He simply stared, grappling to unravel the specifics of how she affected him, reaching with her craft into his whol
e being to change his core.

  What made Raven different than other women? He’d been with some who were more beautiful—well, who were perhaps as beautiful. Only, as he looked at Raven’s face, he had a hard time recalling any of them.

  He’d aimed to take her hard and fast, with them barely half out of their clothes, on the floor or up against the wall. Raw. Primitive. Animalistic. He’d meant to deliberately drag down these spiraling emotions to an animalistic level where he felt more in control. He was a wolf, all right—one that didn’t even make a pretence of wearing sheep’s clothing. Primeval mating instincts surged in his blood, nearly overpowering him. Still, another force trumped his intent.

  Giving her a half bow, he asked, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

  Her lips twitched into a fleeting smile. “Back to the knight in shining armor?”

  “Safer than a wolf, no?” he teased, trying to ease the sexual tension. Impossible. His body refused to listen.

  In a dramatic gesture, he leaned down, snatched up her clutch and the cards and set them on the table. “Dance with me, Raven.”

  Her eyes were pulled to the tarot cards on the narrow table against the back of the sofa, lingered on the naked man and woman, the lovers intertwined. “There’s no music,” she said.

  Despite Raven’s air of weakness, Trev had a notion she would have dealt with him if he had come at her like a steamroller. It’s what she expected. Perhaps she might reluctantly embrace that headlong leap into the flames, because if he played the Big Bad Wolf she could surrender to his overwhelming charisma. The choice would be taken from her. But this switch back to manners was confusing Raven, maybe scaring her in another way: She’d have to make a conscious decision to take him into her bed.

  He stepped forward and put one hand lightly at her waist, then lifted his other into the proper stance for a waltz. “Can you not hear it?”

  Her perplexity deepened. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Come, come, you’re not trying. There. Just audible over the rain. Fairy music. Like tiny chimes of a music box. The Wee Ones play for us on this magical night.”

  Trev was kidding; however, as he encouraged Raven to strain to hear them, he almost did catch the soft tinkles of the notes of a melody. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him. Anything seemed possible tonight.

  She laughed as he swept her into a series of rocking steps.

  “What, you vexsome wench? Surprised I can waltz?” He twirled her through a doorway and into the open area of the larger greenhouse.

  “I don’t think vexsome is a word.”

  “See, I’ve created one especially for you!” Trev spun her across the stone slab floor, and under the canopy of glass as the storm raged all around.

  Raven gasped. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Dizzy? You think you’re dizzy? Woman, you haven’t seen dizzy.” He dropped her hand and then scooped her into his arms, turning them around and around in circles.

  “What are you doing, Trevelyn Sinclair?” Her hands clutched his shoulders, desperate.

  He smiled. “Why, I’m sweeping you off your feet.”

  Their laughter echoed against the glass walls as he kept rotating them, but finally he slowed and their mirth died. In the center of the glasshouse, amidst her ferns and flowering plants, Trev couldn’t think of anyplace on earth he’d rather be. Rapt, they stared at each other, silently speaking volumes yet unable to find actual words to set them on the proper course.

  “I could kiss you good night, leave, and then call you tomorrow. Ask you out for a date, bring you roses. But…”

  “But?” she prompted in a breathless whisper.

  “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with you and fully explore the magic of this night. It’s not a come-on, but I’ve never experienced an evening quite like this. My instincts drive me to hold on to the last minute of something so rare.” The words almost seemed as though someone else had spoken them. Even so, deep down Trev knew he meant every one. Desperate to cling to each second, he didn’t want dawn to arrive and banish the darkness, was frightened all these feelings would vanish like a puff of fog in the harsh reality of the morning light.

  He wasn’t sure if Raven believed him. Such sentiments sounded foreign coming from his lips. While they were dancing at the gala she’d displayed a jaundiced eye to romance and assumed he was handing her a line. Would Raven take a chance now and trust him? For, despite whatever pale aims that propelled them to this byroad, he did mean his words: he didn’t want the enchantment of this night to end.

  When she didn’t say anything, he asked, scared of her reply, “Shall I leave?”

  Nibbling the corner of her mouth, Raven reached up and pushed an errant lock off his forehead. Clearly enthralled, her dark eyes traced the lines of his face. Her hand slowly fell to his cheek, which she stroked with her thumb. “Stay, Trevelyn Sinclair.”

  She wouldn’t have to ask twice. He had played the gentleman and given her an out, something he couldn’t begin to explain to himself. So be it. There was no turning back for either of them. He tilted his head and very lightly brushed his lips against hers, savored the softness of her mouth. Not giving in to his overpowering hunger, he gently kissed her, feeling the world shift under his feet.

  Fingers of lightning arced around the greenhouse, as if the storm fed off the emotions rising within them. Never had he felt anything as wildly moving as standing in the center of this glass room with Raven in his arms, knowing this instant in time was pure and unique. All the emotion was too much to handle, so he just gave over to the magic.

  The fingers of her right hand wove into his hair, clutching those curls; her left arm slid over his shoulder. Raven opened her mouth, and her wicked, clever tongue ran over the curve of his lower lip. He thought he couldn’t get any harder? What a joke. His erection bucked in agony, and all the blood left his head in a whoosh.

  Breaking the kiss, he groaned. “No tongues.”

  “No tongues?” Confused, she blinked.

  He chuckled. “Well, not until I get you in the bedroom.”

  “Down the hall—and the stairs are on the right, Mr. Wolf.” Placing her head on his shoulder, she playfully nipped the side of his neck.

  His heart pounding with the force of his desire, Trev carried Raven through the darkened house and up the L-shaped stairs. Oddly, he again felt the slippage of time: he was a conquering warrior carrying his damsel to safety in his bower. A shiver rippled up his spine, as if he’d done this before in some distant age. Only, as he looked down at the woman he held, her hair was black, black as his own, long, wavy and cascading free. It caused him to pause before the bedroom door in an attempt to blink away the intruding images.

  “Duck.” Raven’s voice finally made Trev realize he’d been standing, locked in the strange spell. He gave a shake of his head to realign his thoughts. Still, he frowned. Never before had he been given to flights of fancy. Casting his mind back, he couldn’t ever recall experiencing any. Yet, his sense of déjà vu was so strong.

  “Duck? I thought I was a wolf,” he joked, striving for a sense of normalcy.

  Raven’s laughter was soft, husky. “No—duck your head. The door’s opening is a bit low, as many thatches are.”

  Turning sideways to protect her feet, he danced through the door, stooping to avoid bumping his noggin; then he spun them to the bed, which they fell upon. Their laughter echoed through the room but faded as awe of the very special moment filled them. They were strangers, yes, but this choice would bind them and make them more. So much more. They’d be lovers, just like the man and woman in the tarot.

  Trev wanted to study this cozy bedroom that would be a reflection of her character, this space she’d consider most private. Only, as he watched Raven’s huge, unblinking eyes, that curiosity was driven from his mind. The one thing he did take note of, a detail that shouldn’t surprise him, given the rest of the house: the back slant of the room’s roof was glass. He started to recall a fairy tale ab
out a princess placed upon a glass mountain, but caught himself. There were already too many damn children’s stories running around his besotted brain; there simply wasn’t room for more!

  Despite the thunder overhead, a tranquility filled the room, as though time was held at bay in Raven’s small bower. He couldn’t envision a more sensual setting. The heat off her body mixed with the scent of her arousal and the faint hint of perfume. It filled his mind, more intoxicating than fifteen-year-old Macallan. Something dark and profound coiled within him as he stared at her where she lay half under him. Something terrifying.

  “Allow me, Miss Riding Hood.” He inched down the bed to where he could slip off her red satin slippers. Not glass, alas, they were ruined by the rain like her velvet cape. It was hard to hold on to magic, he supposed. One shoe fell to the floor; then he removed and dropped the other. “Hmm. This is similar to unwrapping a Christmas present. Where do I start? The shoes and the cape are damaged from the rain. It’d be a shame to damage this beautiful dress as well. I believe my clever little hands detected a zipper while we were dancing…”

  Raven reached out and took his left hand between hers. She ran her thumb back and forth over his palm, raising deep prickles on his scalp. Never would he have thought such a simple gesture could be so damn arousing! His groin cramped with the thick blood of his desire. She stroked the backs of his fingers. “Clever? Perhaps. But hardly little. Warrior’s hands, yet hands blessed with the grace of a magician or a pianist.”

  He reached out and ran his thumb across her lower lip. “You know what they say about men with long fingers.”

  Ignoring his question, she rolled over onto her stomach and exposed her back. “Are they good with a zipper?”