“I… saw someone dressed up to resemble you.”
“Ah, the cheeky bastards!” the prime minister growled, and puffed a gout of blue smoke.
When their audience with the prime minister was ended, they left the building and stood on Downing Street. A car with an RAF driver was waiting for Lazaris. He embraced Chesna, one-handedly, and then hugged his comrade.
“Gallatinov, you take care of Goldilocks, eh?” Lazaris smiled, but his eyes looked a little damp. “Around her you act like a gentleman… which means like an Englisher, not like a Russki!”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He thought, however, that Lazaris was a fine gentleman, even for a Russki. “Where will you be?”
Lazaris looked up, at the cloudless blue. He smiled again, slyly, clapped Michael on the shoulder, and got into the waiting car like a member of the royal family. The RAF driver pulled them away from the curb, and Lazaris gave Michael a salute. Then the car merged with traffic, and was gone.
“Let’s walk,” Michael said. He took Chesna’s hand and guided her toward Trafalgar Square. She was still limping a little, but her ankle was healing with no complications. He liked Chesna’s company. He wanted to show her his home, and who knew what might come of that? Something lasting? No, probably not. They were both moving in different directions, but now linked by hands. For a time, at least… it could be sweet.
“Do you like animals?” he asked her.
“What?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Well… dogs and cats, yes. What animals do you mean?”
“A little larger,” he said, but did not elaborate. He didn’t want to scare her before they left their London hotel. “I’d like for you to see my home, in Wales. Would you care to go?”
“With you?” She squeezed his hand. “When do we leave?”
“Soon. My house is very quiet. There we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
Again, she was puzzled. “Talk? About what?”
“Oh… myths and folklore,” he said.
Chesna laughed. Michael Gallatin was one of the most curious—and certainly unique—men she’d ever met. His nearness excited her. She said, “Will we only talk?”
Michael stopped, in the shadow of Lord Nelson, put his arms around Chesna van Dorne, and kissed her.
Their bodies pressed together. Citizens of London stopped to gawk, but neither Michael nor Chesna cared. Their lips merged together like liquid fire, and as the kiss went on Michael felt a tingling sensation.
He knew what it was. Black, sleek wolf hair was rippling up his backbone, under his clothes. He felt the hair rise over his back and shoulders, tingling in this moment of pure, intense passion and joy, and then his flesh itched as the hair began to recede.
Well, there was always more where that came from.
Michael kissed the corners of her lips. Her aroma, cinnamon and leather, was in his soul. He hailed a passing cab, and he and Chesna got in and headed for Piccadilly and their hotel.
On the way he took the envelope from his pocket, broke the waxed seal, and removed the letter. There were two words, written in a familiar handwriting: Another mission?
He returned the letter to the envelope and the envelope to his pocket. The man in him yearned for peace, but the wolf in him yearned for action. Which one would triumph? That he couldn’t say.
Chesna leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. “Is that something you need to take care of?”
“No,” Michael told her. “Not today.”
A battle had been won, but the war went on.
The End
The Wolf's Hour Page 64