by Jianne Carlo
Mike couldn’t help grinning. Damn, he’d raised a fine man. And shit, he hoped to keep that promise, but being an alpha wolf meant he had built-in protective instincts that’d make a lioness seem sheepish.
He didn’t recognize the hostess, but then again it had been years since he’d been in Chabegawn for more than a few days. The yearning to grow roots had started gnawing at his insides five months ago when he’d spent three days dogging Melanie’s footsteps.
“Morning. Two for breakfast?” The waitress’s name tag read Brinda. Probably mid-thirties, hair a reddish honey brown, dark circles under blue eyes watered down by the unexpected ups and downs in life. Great dimples, a wide mouth that tilted up to reveal even, snowy teeth. She smelled homey, like apples and cinnamon.
“Yep.” Mike returned her smile. He surveyed the crowded diner shaped and decorated to mimic a long caboose. “We’ll take the counter if you don’t have any empty seats.”
“Got a booth in the back. Near the restrooms if you don’t mind. Quiet though.” She gathered two long menus and raised an ash brow.
“Perfect.” Drake edged in front of Mike. The pup had a thing for older women. Hankered after the motherly types, much to the disgruntlement of the Vegas showgirls who’d taken several shines to him during the days they hit the poker tourneys. “We’re your new neighbors. Just moved into the office across the street.”
She stopped for a second and glanced over her shoulder. “The old Laroque building that was just sold? Are you two the new owners?”
“That’s us.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks colored a whole rainbow of pink hues. “This way.”
Had he done wrong by Drake? Waited too long to tell him the truth? Was that why the pup went for mother-figure types? The reason for his brother’s desperate craving to please Mom? Drake tried to hide his anxiety, but Mike recognized the tiptoe dance he did around their mother.
The Caboose hummed with conversational chatter, and the clanking of dishes, cutlery, and glassware being cleared added an occasional cymbal to the orchestra. Brinda, followed by Mike and Drake, wove between tables, rounded the far corner, and at once the noise level dimmed. She halted at a cozy U-shaped booth tucked into an alcove kitty-corner to the kitchen doors. “This okay?”
Drake flashed his dimpled smile. “Perfect, Brinda. Matter-of-fact, I think this can be our table from now. Are you always on the morning shift?”
She blinked and her blush deepened. “Um, most of the time.”
Mike rolled his eyes and slid into the seat against the wall.
Drake extended a hand. “I’m not much of a cook, so you’ll be seeing me often. Drake.”
She clasped Drake’s hand for a scant second and then slapped the menus on the table. “Your waitress will be with you in a sec.”
Both men watched her retreat, Drake’s gaze glued to the sway of her hips.
“Stop flirting with the neighbors.” Mike flipped open the laminated menu. “I’ll be here often, and I don’t want her soured on me after your fling’s over.”
Drake scowled, then heaved an audible sigh. “I hate it when you’re practical. Okay. Brinda and the rest of the diner staff are off-limits. Though you’ll be hubba hubbaing with Melanie.”
“That’s different and you know it.” Mike glanced at the Caboose Cravings listed as the diner’s specialties.
“Morning. Coffee?”
The sound of his mate’s voice had been imprinted in Mike. He speared Melanie with a hard stare. “I thought you had the late shift.”
Melanie’s hand twitched; the carafe of coffee she carried tilted, and hot liquid spilled across Mike’s wrist.
“Damn. Look what you made me do.” She banged the pot on the table and reached across to snatch napkins from a wooden caboose-shaped holder.
Her scent filled his lungs. His eyes glazed over and then focused on the plump breast so close to his nose that all he had to do was lean forward, open his mouth, and suckle. His balls fired hard and tight. His slit tingled, and his dick engorged with each inhale. Bemused and intoxicated, Mike froze, battling for control. If he moved a muscle, he’d be all over her and they’d be on the table fucking. Did she wear panties under that ugly, shapeless uniform and apron?
“Melanie White. It’s great to see you again.” The inherent warning in Drake’s greeting didn’t penetrate Mike’s exploding lust. “Aw, you don’t remember me. And I went to Mackinac High too, though I was a couple of years behind you and Mike.”
Busy gently swabbing the coffee from Mike’s wrist, she didn’t glance up. “It would be hard not to remember you, Drake, since you were called to the principal’s office on a daily basis.”
She dunked a wad of dry tissues in one of the two glasses of water on the table and wrapped it over Mike’s wrist. “Hold that there and I’ll get you some ice.”
Mike clamped his hand over hers. “Not necessary. You couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. You and Doc G. didn’t even head in the direction of the reservation until well after one. I’m taking you home right now.”
Her nostrils quivered, she narrowed her eyes, and her warm breath hissed over his lips. “How in heck do you know that?”
Chapter Four
Melanie didn’t know how to react. The last person she’d expected to see in the Caboose today was Mike Dorland. The sleepless night had dulled her senses. She hadn’t even noticed his Mike-the-sex-god scent. She wanted to brain him. Empty the coffeepot all over him. Oh wait. She’d already done that. Over his hand, anyway. She looked down at the large brown fingers curled over hers and couldn’t stop the delicious shiver snaking from one shoulder to the other.
“I’ll see you later at the office, Drake.” Mike stood. “Turn around.”
Who turn around? Melanie glanced left and right and then craned her neck. “What?”
“Don’t bother.” She squealed when Mike picked her up. “Postpone the conference till tomorrow. Same time.”
“Done. Don’t worry about a thing. I got your back.” Drake flashed her a wink and a dastardly grin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Melanie squirmed and kicked out. “Put me down.”
“If you’re quiet, no one will notice us leaving. Keep up that commotion and the gossip will spread like wildfire.”
He was right, damn him. The more she struggled, the tighter he held her. She whispered in his ear, “I should’ve poured that whole pot of coffee all over your head.”
“I like you spitting fire,” he murmured and burst through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen.
A wave of moist heat and steam hit her in the face. The long, narrow room teemed with a breakfast cornucopia of aromas: bacon on a sizzling griddle, doughy bread toasting under an open broiler, cinnamon-pumpkin muffins cooling on a rack on the island in the center of the kitchen.
Virgil Sledden, owner and principal chef of the Caboose, manned the gas burners on the far left of the room. He didn’t bat an eyelid but continued to flip a line of pancakes two at a time, squinted at Melanie, and then glanced to Mike. “Hey, Mike. I heard you were back in town. Rumor has it you bought the Laroque building.”
Funny, Virgil didn’t seem surprised that Mike was back. Why hadn’t he warned her? He always had before. Damn it. She hated the fact that everyone who worked at the Caboose had cottoned on to her stupid crush on Mike. Valérie had made certain of that exposure with her snide remarks over the years. Then Virgil’s last words sank in. Not the Laroque building? Fate, the joker, had reared its ugly head again. No way could she avoid Mike for long, not with the building almost directly opposite the Caboose.
“Drake and I did. Where’s her purse and coat?”
Melanie knuckled her eyes; she must be dreaming. The normal kitchen noises—pots banging, dishes and glasses rattling, the hissing of bacon fat colliding with water—all ceased at once, as if an orchestra conductor had slashed his baton for an abrupt silence.
“Locker by the back door. Mind telling me
what you plan on doing with our Melanie?” Tall, lean, and muscled, Virgil sported a shaved head and a once snow-white apron that had lost several wars and gained tattoo like splotches sporting a spectrum of hues, from mud-gravy brown through mustard yellow to ketchup red.
“I’m taking her home. Can you call in someone else?”
“Reckon I can get my sister to fill in. Melanie, honey, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Virgil set his spatula down.
Nah. It wasn’t a dream. Someone had stuck her in a loony bin. “I’m feeling perfectly fine. Virgil, tell Mike to put me down. Right now.”
Virgil gave her a thorough once-over. “You kinda look feverish, honey. I think Mike’s right and maybe you should go home.”
“I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.” Melanie got up close and personal in Mike’s face. He kissed the tip of her nose.
Her brain went into lockdown and that man scent of his, that spicy aroma that promised a boneless, languid, postcoital haze, had her giddy and aroused.
“When’s her next shift?” Mike sailed across the kitchen.
“She’s on the breakfast shift the whole week, like normal.”
“Will you two stop talking about me as if I’m not here? Virgil, I order you to tell him to put me down.” Melanie grabbed a hank of Mike’s hair, intending to yank each strand from his head, but got waylaid by how soft and silky the curls felt.
“Best you let Mike take you home before Doc G. gets here. He was in earlier, and he’s mighty pissed at you, young lady. ’Pears you lied to him about your shift.” Virgil gave Mike a thumbs-up and flipped a golden pancake.
She’d never seen so many mouths hanging open. Everyone in the kitchen—Andy, the busboy, Virgil’s cousin Homer, even Janie the cashier who never let an expression crack her lined face—had their mouths open and their stares trained on Mike carrying her.
Melanie covered her flaming face with both hands.
She peeked through her fingers over Mike’s shoulder when the swinging doors to the kitchen opened again. Brinda walked in. She did a double take when she spotted Melanie. The tray she carried tilted left, and a glass filled with ice and water started an agonizingly slow slide to the tiles.
All at once, Drake was by Brinda’s side, and he grabbed the glass from thin air—or so it seemed.
“You okay, Melanie? What’s he doing?” Brinda shoved the tray at Drake and hurried across the room.
Drake jostled with the tray and its contents. Plates rattled. A knife clanged to the floor. Melanie held her breath. Could Drake keep his balance?
Just as Drake straightened and she heaved a relieved sigh, the doors slammed open and into Drake’s back. Doc G. stalked into the space behind Drake, realized impact was imminent, and tried to backpedal. To no avail. Doc G. crashed into Drake. Tray, plates, cutlery, and glasses went flying.
Brinda glanced over her shoulder at the commotion but continued her strident march in Mike and Melanie’s direction.
Andy pushed a cart filled with dirty dishes from one station to another, his gaze glued on Doc G., Drake, and the pileup.
Brinda and Andy were on a collision path, and neither was looking where they were going.
“Watch out!” Melanie yelled.
Andy let go of the cart and spun around. The cart accelerated as if Andy’d shoved it, and it raced down the narrow divide between counters and wall ovens, headed straight toward a bucket and a mop braced on the rim of a row of sinks.
Brinda jumped to the left.
The cart collided with the bucket, and the mop soared into flight. The ensuing spray of suds and soapy liquid drenched Doc G. and Drake, who had only seconds before they struggled to their feet.
In the noisy chaos that erupted, no one paid any attention to Mike and Melanie. He retrieved her coat and purse before she could blink. They were out the back door and into the morning sunlight and a brisk, bristling breeze determined to impede their progress before her brain registered what had happened. The frost in the air tore at Melanie’s eyes and made them water.
“Put me down, you bully.” She cuffed his shoulder and winced when her knuckles stung.
“No.” Damn him for sounding so smug and arrogant.
“You are not taking me home.” She folded her arms and scowled at him.
“Too right. I’m taking you to the cabin.”
Whaat? “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
He was even more beautiful up close. Any woman would kill for his flawless bronzed complexion—not an open pore in sight, and even his stubble had a roguish he-man appeal. The short black fuzz gave him a piratical allure. Figured. His sexy mouth settled into the now familiar grim line. Lordy, she couldn’t prevent a soft sigh. His lips were rose pink, and he smelled better than mouthwatering double-fudge hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. Loads and loads of marshmallows—creamy and melting over her tongue.
“Melanie?”
“Hmm.”
“If you keep staring at my lips as if you want to eat them, we won’t even make it into the pickup.”
Melanie blinked and looked up to find him studying her with such intensity that she shivered. Then his words pushed through her lust-fogged brain matter, and a wave of heat scalded every inch of her skin. She buried her face in his shirt. So not the right thing to do. No one had the right to smell so mouthwateringly delicious. No one. The wind gusted: the ice in the air a torrid contrast to the desire burning her from scalp to toes.
He halted, and she realized they’d reached his truck. Not thirty seconds later, they were on the move. The pickup’s cabin felt suffocating. Mike filled the small space to overflowing. His smell, his body, his muscular thighs, even the sound of him breathing overwhelmed her. She shifted close to the door and rested her cheek against the cold window.
“No questions, Melanie?”
Her mind was too muddled to string together a logical phrase, far less formulate a rational query. And she was too scared to ask the question. Then it hit her. The two of them at his family cabin. All alone. It couldn’t be. Mike Dorland couldn’t mean to…her?
“No? I have one. Are you on the pill?”
Huh? She straightened, jammed her back into the corner, and risked a quick glance. For a second, their gazes met, and she hastily lowered her eyelids and then studied her fingers. She kept her nails trimmed short; no time or money for manicures. Only when her lungs started burning did Melanie realize she was holding her breath. On the pill? As if she needed to be.
He geared down, and they turned onto a dirt road.
She couldn’t stop staring at her nails, and all her spit seemed to have dried up.
“Not curious about me being a half-breed?”
That jump-started her stun-gunned gray cells. She snorted and crossed her arms. “You’re a Dorland. As white as they come.”
“I am a Dorland, but the woman you know as my mother didn’t give birth to me.” He made the incredulous claim in a good-morning-how-are-you bland tone.
Melanie couldn’t stifle a gasp. She clamped her lips together and turned to stare at him.
He braked and twisted to face her. A small smile played across his lips, and he tipped her chin. “I’m half Native Canadian. A woman from a tribe on one of the lake islands was my birth mother.”
She couldn’t process his words. They bounced around in her head. Native. Canadian. Tribe. Birth mother? Mrs. Dorland—not his real mom?
“You didn’t seem surprised last night. That I knew about your father and grandfather.”
Melanie shook her head, but the move jumbled her thoughts even more and she gritted her teeth. Concentrate. She waved her hands. “I don’t understand. Any of this.”
“You must have known, Melanie. When Shuman refused to give sanctuary to Drake and me all those years ago. That kind of decision isn’t made without a council of elders and discussion with the tribe’s members.”
Her eyes would surely pop out of her head if he said another
word. She put up her hand. “Stop. You asked for sanctuary from the tribe?”
“Not long after my Uncle Boyd was murdered.”
“I never heard anything about you and Drake and sanctuary.” Nothing made sense.
He scrubbed his chin. “If you didn’t know about me being a half-breed, why did you start avoiding me in high school? Why the nose-in-the-air attitude? If I so much as came into a room—you ran in the other direction.”
Because Valérie de Verteuil had told practically the whole school about Melanie’s crush on Mike one lunchtime in the cafeteria. The whole room, every single student, had erupted into a snickered guffaw that she still heard every single time Valérie walked into the Caboose.
Until the day Valérie graduated, she had taunted Melanie at every opportunity about the great divide between a Dorland and a White. Because her parents were the town drunks and his were the town’s royalty. Because she was plump and had short legs and a manly jaw. Because she was Native American. A litany of becauses Melanie didn’t have to strain to remember.
Wait a jammin’ minute. It couldn’t be… She studied the grim frown spiking his brows together. “Why are we here? Why are you telling me this? And why do you want to know if I’m on the pill?”
“Because the first time we make love, I don’t want anything between us—no condoms, no lies.”
She shivered when he trailed a finger up her throat and tilted her head back so their gazes connected. She could drown in those silver-rimmed eyes, jump into the circle haloing his dark pupils, and wallow in his stare.
“Tell me you’re on the pill, babe. Make my day, my year, my entire life.”
Melanie gulped and whispered, “No.”
His hand dropped away, and he banged his forehead on the steering wheel. “You’re going to kill me. I want inside you so bad it’s all I can think about.”
Mike Dorland wanted Melanie Frances White. Wanted inside Melanie Frances White. Inside. Melanie licked her lips and couldn’t help it—she snuck a glance at his lap. The bulge in his pants had her mesmerized.
Her pussy clenched. Again and again and again. If he so much as touched her, she’d go up in flames. Spontaneous combustion.