by Dani Harper
“But it’s a wild animal.”
“Doesn’t matter. Are you afraid of it?”
She didn’t have to think about that. “Logically I ought to be. Anyone with sense would be. But no, I’m not and I can’t exactly say why. I guess that sounds pretty dumb.”
“No. You’re intelligent and sensitive too. I’m pretty sure you would know if the animal meant you harm. And I’m also certain that you’re not going to act like a tourist with a bear and try to feed it marshmallows out of your hand.”
“Well . . .” She recalled her encounter on the trail below Elk Point. Even a tourist wouldn’t be crazy enough to hug a wolf, and she decided not to mention that little lapse of judgment. “I think a wolf would prefer dog biscuits, or maybe bacon.”
He laughed then, leaned over the table and kissed her. Sat back and put his hands behind his head. “So you want to create a wildlife center?”
The muscles had shifted in that broad Viking chest, and Jillian couldn’t help being fascinated. James would have no trouble using one of those heavy broadswords from a museum . . . or carrying her away. . . .
“Hello? Wildlife center?” He was grinning as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
“It’s the next step for me.” She hoped her face hadn’t gone red. She focused her eyes firmly on James’s face. Although that was pretty distracting too. “A wildlife center, I mean. I want to specialize in wildlife rehabilitation, especially wolves.”
“Connor’s mentioned there’s a need for one in this region. But I thought he treated plenty of wild creatures in his clinic. Seems like there’s always a fawn or two, or some kind of bird there. What would your center do?”
“We can give initial treatment here, but government policy dictates that the animals have to be shipped immediately to a certified recovery center. The nearest one is hundreds of miles away, and the travel subjects the animal to a great deal of stress. Plus there aren’t enough rehab centers to fill the need so too many animals end up euthanized that might have been saved.” She rose and dumped the old pot of coffee, made fresh. “I’d like to change that. If I had more experience under my belt, I could write up a proposal, apply for a grant. Maybe some of the local people would be interested, maybe volunteer some services to help get it off the ground.”
“You’d need a place for it, though. Some land.”
She slid a cup toward James and sat down with her own. “That’ll be the tough part. A wildlife rehab center takes a lot of space, and you have to own the land or have a ninety-nine-year lease on crown land before you can apply for the grants. There are all kinds of rules and regs.” She sighed. “I know it’s a big dream. It’s going to take a lot of time and money to make it come true. But someday.”
“I have some land.”
Jillian shook her head. “You have a farm. For farming.”
“I also have land. I own a fair chunk of the river valley. That’s not zoned for agriculture. Why couldn’t we use that? We could start building anytime.”
“But . . . but you, why would, we aren’t. . . .”
“You said I was the second biggest surprise in your life. Well, you’re the number one biggest surprise in mine, and I’m not letting you out of my sight again. I figure a big project like a wildlife center should keep you here for a long, long time. Maybe give me enough time to talk you into building a life with me, too.”
“A life?” Jillian floundered, her heart bumping against her ribs. She was dizzy but not from the concussion. “I mean, we like each other and all but. . . .”
He chuckled as he came around the table, leaned his face close to hers, nuzzled her cheek. He brushed her lips with his, making her breath hitch suddenly. “I think there’s a lot more than ‘like’ between us, Jillian Descharme, and we both know it. A lot more. And I want to give you more. I want you to take more. Starting right now.” He pulled her from the chair, kissed her long and slow and deep until she sighed into his mouth. He steered her to the bed and laid her on top of the blankets, followed her down. “I want to make love to you, and I want you to just lie here and feel it. Don’t move, just feel, okay? Nothing else.”
She frowned up at him. “It’s the concussion, isn’t it? I don’t want you to make love to me if you think I’m an invalid.”
“Uh-uh, it’s not like that.” He kissed her again, slower. “Naturally I’d refrain from acrobatics for now, but if I was afraid of hurting you, we wouldn’t be doing this at all.” He had her attention now. Trailed his fingers along her face. “I need this from you, Jillian. I don’t know how to explain it, I just need you to feel. Feel me touching you, feel my skin next to yours, feel me inside of you.” His voice changed, thickened. The words came out so low and deep that she could feel them vibrating within her. “Feel me. I want you to feel me, Jillian.” And want me. Accept me. All of me.
Those last words resonated within her head, almost seemed to originate there. She could swear he hadn’t moved his lips. But he was moving them now, placing soft, sensual kisses along her brow, over her eyelids, her temple. His mouth was hot against her skin, soothing and arousing at the same time. Her breath caught in her throat as he suckled her earlobe, nibbled along the line of her jaw, and outlined her lips with the tip of his tongue.
She was already dizzy and dazzled by the time he slid his mouth over hers. His lips enticed, persuaded, coaxed, with a relentless tenderness. She didn’t notice that the buttons of her pajamas had been carefully undone, the material pushed aside, until he pulled her closer, skin to heated skin. She stretched catlike, instinctively basking in the delicious glowing heat. Melted before it. Her heart pounded in her ears and a delicious shiver began at the base of her spine.
Still kissing her, he rolled so that she was on top. She shrugged out of her pajama top and pressed herself against him again, luxuriated in the sensation of her nipples against his hot skin, rubbed them over the crinkling of hair on his broad chest until they stood out and her breasts felt tight, aching. Needing. Until she had to shimmy up and present them to be kissed. She moaned long and low as James obliged. His big powerful hands roved over her back, the rough palms rasping deliciously over her skin and helping her to shimmy out of the rest of the pajamas. James cupped her bottom, kneaded and squeezed, even as he continued to lavish attention on her breasts, building her excitement to a fever pitch. She wanted, needed, had to have. She could feel his hard erection straining upward against his jeans and rocked her hips, rubbed herself against the bulging material. She reached down for the zipper, but he caught her hand and kissed it, rolled her neatly onto her back. “Yes, oh yes,” she breathed. “Now. Now, now, now.”
“Not yet,” he said. “Later, later, later.”
She groaned, reaching for his zipper again, but he dodged, grabbing her hand, then seizing the other as well. She tried to arch her back, strained to rub herself against him but there was no relief from the wildness she felt, from the frantic need. She turned her face away from his inflaming kisses. “Stop teasing.”
He kissed her again, but softly. Soothingly. “I’m not teasing you, sweetheart. I have an itinerary.”
“An itinerary? That’s for travelers.”
“A very strict itinerary. And I am traveling. Watch me.” He kissed his way rapidly from her throat to her navel, then continued his kisses down her belly.
James nuzzled her mound, inhaled deeply. Her scent was unique, delightful, enticing. It called to him to taste. She cried out and came hard at the first stroke of his tongue, sending a jolt of excitement through him. Quickly he unzipped his jeans and slid them down before he strangled. Then bent his head to her again, pressed his palms on the insides of her thighs, holding her in place as she arched and bucked. He lapped at the delicious downy folds, moaning deep in his throat as they opened to him, revealed the tender pearl hidden away. Gently he surrounded it with his lips, drew it into his mouth. Licked and suckled it softly, felt it tighten like Jillian’s rose nipples. Her gasps and cries of pleasure poured fuel
on the fire in his own body.
But this time was for her. He changed tactics then, made long strokes with his tongue, darting it inside her, then laving up and over her tiny bud. Plunge and stroke. Plunge and stroke. Build the glorious tension within her.
It was building in him too. Her excitement was feeding his and his body craved release. But what he craved more was the expression of things he couldn’t put into words. The release he needed most was of unnamable feelings that were suddenly crowding his heart. He could only show Jillian, let his touch give voice to what he couldn’t say. He wanted so much to give and give to this woman, touch her body until he touched her soul.
Orgasm rippled through her, this one soft and long and sweet. He rose then, and was instantly dazzled by the sight of her. The morning sunlight had splashed across her translucent skin, gilding her delicate breasts and turning her sea green eyes to emerald. She arched her hips upward to meet him as he buried himself in her, joined with her in the bright clear light.
James was more aware of his dual nature than he had ever been. As a man, his heart was close to bursting with a powerful mixture of joy and tenderness, with the rightness of the moment. As a wolf, instinct older than time sang in his veins, exulting in the taking of a mate. The knowledge that it was for life welled up from his very soul, carried him higher and higher until he tumbled into the heart of the sun.
Chapter Thirty
The sun was going down and Roderick Harrison’s dinner was still being kept warm in a tinfoil cocoon in the oven. Douglas was unconcerned. His father could be fixing fences on the far side of the sprawling ranch. Could be tending a cow with a problem, or searching for a calf. Could be in town having a beer or two and losing a game of pool to Varley. The Alzheimer’s continued to be in some sort of remission, and his father had simply resumed his old life.
Must be fucking nice, Douglas thought bitterly. Meanwhile his own life had been turned completely inside out. And no amount of Jack Daniels could stop his father’s words from replaying in his mind. She left us for one of them. She left us to become one of them.
His mother had loved a werewolf. He didn’t doubt their existence, he couldn’t, not after what he’d seen when he was fourteen. And he didn’t doubt that his father hated werewolves, certainly wouldn’t declare that his own wife had been with one unless it was true. Roderick had never uttered such a thing even when the Alzheimer’s was particularly bad. Nor had he ever once said Douglas wasn’t his son. Oh sure, he’d looked straight at him and not recognized him, even mistook him for an employee on several occasions. But there was a big difference between that and saying he didn’t have a son at all.
So whose son was he? Did having a werewolf father make him a werewolf too? Would he know? He stared at the photo on the mantel, at the smiling woman with curly auburn hair. His hair. He shared that feature with her, shared the amber brown eyes and the shape of the face, even the damn freckles. What had he inherited from his unknown father? A talent for howling at the moon? Tearing out the throats of deer?
He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes as if trying to erase that particular vision. Knowing Roderick Harrison, Douglas found it hard to blame his mother for having an affair. But why the hell couldn’t she have chosen a human lover? At least he’d only have to wonder who he was, not what he was.
The coffee pot shook in his hand, scattering droplets. Finally he set it down and gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. He yawned hugely, helplessly, until he thought his head would split in two. In spite of all the drinking he’d done recently, he’d slept poorly. Every time he nodded off, he’d dreamed of wolves. Only he wasn’t being chased by them.
He was running with them.
He jerked when the phone rang, swore as he grabbed the receiver. Varley was on the other end.
“Your dad there, Dougie?”
“No.”
“You know where he is?”
“Not a clue.” Frankly he’d flat-out avoided the old man since that little revelation in the living room. Didn’t know if he simply never wanted to see his father again or just not right now. Douglas had questions, lots of questions—but would the answers be worse than not knowing? And could he trust an answer from his father? His stepfather, he amended quickly.
“Look, two of the rifles are missing from my place. Your father’s favorites, the Browning and the Remington. Some boxes of cartridges. He say anything to you about hunting?”
Dad’s got a gun? Douglas forced his voice to be calm. “Not really. Said he found wolf tracks in the north section a few days ago but never mentioned anything about going after them.”
“Shit.” Varley was silent for a long moment until Douglas wondered if he’d hung up. “Shitfire. I know Rod’s doing really well and all, but I just don’t like the idea of him wandering around with a goddamn gun. Christ on crutches, Dougie. We both know he could have a relapse at any time, but he could also have an accident just because he’s old and he’s by himself.”
“You’re right.” He said what he was expected to say then, although he didn’t feel like it. “I’ll go look for him.”
“Good man. I’m going to get a couple of the guys to help me check the woods on the other side of the north pasture. Keep me posted, okay?”
“You got it. Thanks for the call.” Douglas put the phone down carefully, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Thanks for the call, my ass!” Every instinct he possessed told him that his worst nightmare had just come true. Roderick Harrison wasn’t hunting wolves at all.
He was hunting werewolves.
The sound of the back door slamming made him jump. He was even more surprised when his father came through the kitchen door and laid a quarter of venison on the counter with a flourish.
“Got a nice young buck, down along the line of spruce in the south pasture. Thought it was about time we had some game on the table. Varley around?”
“He’s out looking for you. North section by the woods. He was . . . figuring you might need a hand with whatever you got,” Douglas lied a little. He heard his father’s words, saw the deer—but it didn’t feel right, something was off. “You can call him on his cell.”
Rod was in a buoyant mood as he picked up the phone. He arranged for Varley to swing by the house and pick him up, called for another hand to set up the table and the meat saw in the machine shed. Argued amiably over whether to do sausage or hamburger after they cut off some steaks, whether to use plastic wrap or butcher’s paper.
Within a few minutes, Douglas was left standing alone in the kitchen staring at the bloody spot on the counter. Rod had taken the quarter with him to trim down and package.
All normal. All ordinary. Everything just as it had always been. Except Douglas’s gut said it wasn’t. He sighed and poured half a cup of coffee, topped it up with the Jack Daniels he had stashed in the bottom cupboard. Considered drinking it.
Then poured it down the sink.
“It’s brilliant.” Connor spread out the sketches on the table in the lunchroom. “The design isn’t just great, it’s absolutely brilliant. Jillian drew these?”
“She did.” There was pride in James’s voice. “This is her dream, and she’s been designing it for years in her head. I just encouraged her to put it on paper.”
“She has an amazing grasp of how wild animals think, what they need to feel secure. Look at how there are no corners, no hard angles. It’s—what’s the word I’m looking for?—organic, flowing. I’ve never seen anything like it. You didn’t help?”
“A couple small tweaks, just recommendations really. She did it all, created something incredible.”
She’s done more than that. She’s worked a miracle. Connor shielded his thoughts as he looked at his brother. James was relaxed, easy in his own skin. His human skin. And happy. Connor had to look back a lot of years to remember his brother happy.
And as for Jillian, well, she seemed to be floating on air. Glowing since he’d finally consented to let her résumé work
part-time. Officially at least. He knew full well she’d been doing little things for Birkie and Caroline when he wasn’t looking, everything from running lab tests to updating files. At first Connor tried to talk Jillian into manning the reception area for half days. She was so horrified by the prospect that he had relented at once. What had he been thinking? Jillian was too good a veterinarian to be tied to a desk. Instead, he relegated the small animal surgeries to her. Besides, considering some of the customers that came through the front door, surgery was probably a lot less stressful for her.
Jillian appeared in the doorway just then, still dressed in her greens. Connor watched as James swept her under his arm and kissed the top of her head. Both of them smiled and Connor’s eyes moistened unexpectedly. “Finished in surgery already?” he managed.
“There were only a couple of spays today. And I removed a lump from Poodle’s leg.”
“That old Siamese? Good God, he must have used up eight and three-quarters of his nine lives by now.” Connor shook his head.
“Poodle?” James looked baffled.
“It’s his name,” explained Jillian. “Kind of like the old Mr. Magoo cartoons. Remember his cat was named Bowser?”
“I thought that was because he couldn’t see it was a cat. Maybe Mrs. Malkinson has the same problem.”
Birkie joined the conversation from the hallway. “Enid Malkinson can identify a finch in a bush at a hundred yards. She wanted a poodle for her birthday one year, but her husband gave her a kitten instead.”
“And the rest is history,” said Connor. “A lot of history actually. That was what, two husbands and three decades ago? Poodle’s a genuine antique.”
“Speaking of antiques, bossman, I’ve got a couple of overdue accounts I need you to look at.” Birkie headed back to the front.
“I hate numbers,” Connor grumbled but followed her.
Jillian could still hear the sound of retreating footsteps when James began placing soft tender kisses on her throat, her ear, along her jaw. He took her mouth slowly and sweetly until she lost her breath and had to pull back, one hand planted on his chest to keep him at bay. “You make me dizzy.”