by Tamara Hogan
Wait a minute. The garage door opener.
The hair on her arms stood on end. “What if the guy who broke into my car wasn’t after my camera after all?”
She felt a subtle, inner click as Wyland connected the dots. “Bloody hell.” Fire in his eyes, ice in his voice. Steam wisped from the tiniest of cracks.
“When I moved into Vamp Central, Wyland gave me two garage door openers: one for the house, and one for the Archives,” she explained to the men. “We need to verify whether they’re both still there.”
After a beat of silence came a volley of curses. “Where’s the car now?” Jack asked.
“At the mechanic’s, having windows installed.” Nick’s phone already was in his hand. His thumbs were flying, no doubt informing the security team at Vamp Central of a potential threat to the house. “Shit, I didn’t even think of garage door openers.”
“No one did,” Wyland said. “Don’t blame yourself. There’s plenty to go around.” Such bleakness and self-loathing in his voice. “Thankfully, unless the person has the security code for the door connecting the garage to the house, they’ll run into the same issue there as they did here.”
Nick’s jaw was clenched tight. “I’ll call the mechanic.” He strode to the far corner of the garage to make the call.
“Wyland, if Tia’s car break-in wasn’t simply a crime of opportunity, we have even bigger problems,” Jack said grimly.
“Someone’s still following you.” Wyland’s voice was as cold as liquid nitrogen. “Still watching you.”
She wrapped her arms around her torso. With on-site bodyguards and drivers on demand, she’d gotten lazy, ceding responsibility for her safety to others. She’d led her stalker right to Vamp Central. “And now both the house and the Archives are at risk.”
Wyland whirled to face her. “Do you really think that’s what I’m concerned about? You’re in danger!”
His eyes were wild. He looked ready to explode.
“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Nick said, rejoining the group. “The mechanic says there’s only one garage door opener on Tia’s sun visor. Given that the break-in occurred here, it’s safe to assume which one was stolen.”
“So the house is safe. That is good news.” She gave Wyland’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He didn’t squeeze back.
The fissures were widening, cracking apart. She had to get him out of here.
“I’ll pick up the car later today,” Nick said. “The manager said he’d store the other garage door opener in his office until then.”
Chico’s nostrils flared. “Does anyone else smell that?”
“Smell what?”
Chico didn’t answer Jack, because he was already on the move. Nose in the air, he sniffed, wandering around in what seemed like a random pattern, until he abruptly veered toward some wooden pallets stacked near the security door. Dropping to his haunches, he sniffed at the wood, working from the floor upward. He paused at about waist height, then peered at the wood more closely. “Jack, I need an evidence bag.”
“What did you find?”
“A couple of hairs, caught in the grain. Scent’s fresh.”
Jack grabbed latex gloves, a pair of tweezers, and a clear plastic evidence bag from his kit, then joined Chico. When they turned back around, there were three very short, nearly invisible reddish hairs in the bag. “Body hair. Someone brushed up against the wood,” Chico said. “I smell Pack.”
“A werewolf?” Hope leaped. “Do you know who it is?”
“No.” Chico looked at Wyland, then Nick. “Do any werewolves have access to this building?”
Wyland and Nick exchanged a glance. “No,” Wyland answered. “To my knowledge, you’re the first werewolf who’s ever been here.”
“That stray,” Nick blurted. “There’s been a stray dog hanging around the neighborhood the last couple of weeks. Red brindle coat. Damn, I never considered that it might be a werewolf.”
“We don’t know that it is, but we have something to go on.” Jack sealed the evidence bag, scribbled something on the label, put the bag in his kit, then closed the box with a clank. “I’ll get this over to the lab.”
Something about the hair tickled the back of her mind, but Wyland was almost vibrating with tension. “Does anyone need us for anything else?” She had to get him out of here before he shattered apart.
Nick waved a hand toward the house. “I’ll change the garage codes here, then secure the building.”
Chico eyed the stand of tall trees separating the parking lot from the river. “I’m going to take one more pass while I have the scent.” He reached for his belt. “Jack, I’ll meet you back at the office.”
A jagged shard of possessiveness from Wyland. “Let’s go,” he muttered, tugging her toward the open garage door without saying goodbye to anyone.
She trotted to keep up. In any other situation, she’d find his jealousy and lack of etiquette oddly reassuring, but right now he seemed…fragile, as if any burst of emotion would be too much.
Their feet crunched against gravel as they walked to the car. The rising sun was merciless, highlighting every line on his face. “Are you okay to drive?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
She studied him, then climbed into the passenger seat. The drive home was so short that he wouldn’t get the Porsche out of third gear. “Let’s go home.”
They were silent during the drive, his hands clutching the steering wheel at precisely ten and two. When they approached the driveway, he reached up to the sun visor, where his own garage door openers hung. Tightening his lips, he pressed a button, pulled into the driveway, and braked to a stop. As they waited for the door to lift, he yanked the opener from the visor and threw it into a storage alcove in the dash.
It bounced out, clattering to the floor by her feet.
She looked at it, then at him.
“Leave it.”
Her seatbelt pulled against her chest as she scooped the gadget up and matter-of-factly set it in the storage alcove. “You’ll need it to close the door behind us.”
A muscle ticked near his cheekbone, but he didn’t respond.
She sat still as Wyland pulled the car into the garage and pressed the button to close the door behind them. It descended with a mechanical hum, a dimmer switch on the sun. When the big double door met the floor, leaving them in shadow, Wyland took the car out of gear, set the parking brake, and turned off the ignition with careful, deliberate movements.
Neither moved. Neither spoke.
The air felt breakable. Combustible.
She had to get him into the house, up the stairs. What she’d do with him once they reached the bedroom was anyone’s guess, but anything was better than sitting here in the car, waiting for him to quake apart. Moving slowly, she unbuckled her seat belt, then reached over and unbuckled his, guiding the retractable strap back into its holder. “Let’s get out of the car,” she murmured.
He reached for the door handle, obeying as if on autopilot. She quickly got out of the car, meeting him near the door connecting the garage to the house. He stood there, staring at the security keypad as if wondering what to do with it. “How can I help you?” she asked softly. “What do you need?”
“What do I need?”
She felt something give, felt a mighty mental crack, as if a glacier had calved, breaking away from the shore. He straightened then blinked, as if trying to compose himself. To bind his own wounds.
“Wyland, look at me. Look at me.”
Their gazes crashed together, but he jerked away. He was drifting away from her, trying to shore up the damage all by himself.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” She grabbed him, then shoved into his mind. He tried to push her out, but she pushed back harder, searching for something—anything—she could do to ease him, to bring him comfort.
But…the pain. Snapping, crackling lights. A murderous red and black rage, and a yawning pit of guilt that threatened to swallow him whole. His essence wa
s volcanic, tectonic, tearing her breath away and shattering the ground beneath their feet.
“Tia…” he gasped.
He tried to push her away, but she shoved harder. God, it hurt. She tasted blood, but bullied on, seeking blindly, searching the seething ether for something solid, something familiar, but ice was cracking, rocks were falling, the fissures were multiplying and dividing, carrying him away to a place she couldn’t…she couldn’t… There. Back there, nearly hidden…a reddish-pink orb glowed. Throbbed like a beating heart, beating in time with hers. So warm and soft—encapsulated, yet vulnerable, so dangerously exposed…
Come to me. Come on…
She reached for him. Grasped at nothing. Saw rocks starting to crumble overhead, and under his feet.
Terror was a ripsaw, slicing clean through.
Grab on, damn it.
NOW.
His weightless leap almost yanked her off her feet. She clutched at him, scrabbling for a toehold, then wrenched him back, away from the crumbling ledge, with a mighty mental heave.
Together, they tumbled backwards.
Breath heaved in and out of her lungs, and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple. The hood of the Porsche was warm against her ass—somehow, they’d ended up at the car—but Wyland, standing between her spread legs and reaching for her, was so much warmer. Though his designer suit and tie still hung perfectly, and his hair was tame and smooth, his face was flushed. His fangs flashed. His eyes spilled blue sparks.
Pure geothermal heat.
Arousal slammed into her, but she shoved it aside, patting and clutching at his body, then lifting shaky hands to his cheeks. “Are you okay?” She reached out with her mind, and this time he met her halfway. The dangerous maelstrom had subsided, but…he still seethed and burned—burned for her, with the heat of a thousand suns. She grabbed on tightly, braving the staggering heat.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was no escaping his gaze. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I know.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. Thankfully he’d recognized the Han Solo joke she hadn’t been able to resist. “You’re such a brat.” He grabbed a hank of her hair, giving it a gentle, admonishing tug she felt right between her legs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Whatever you want, because I love you, too.”
A pause. “I know.”
She grinned, delighted with him.
He returned her smile, but not for long. Clouds formed in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “You’re bleeding.”
She shrugged. “I bit my tongue. It’s nothing.” When he popped the thumb in his mouth, sucking away the red smudge, a tiny moan escaped. She was so wet she was about to slide off the damn car. “Wyland?”
“Hmm?”
She removed the thumb from his mouth, leaned in, and licked his upper lip. “Kiss me.”
Their mouths crashed together, and they gulped each other’s air, tongues and limbs frantically twining. Their hands were rough, clutching and pulling. Her T-shirt flew away. He picked her up like she weighed nothing, stripped off her shorts and underwear while she took care of her bra, then set her, bare-assed, back on the hood of the car. Their hands bumped and fumbled when they both reached for his belt buckle, so she dealt with his shirt and tie while he worked on the suit jacket and pants. Once he was unbuckled and unzipped, she shoved his pants and boxers over the curve of his ass, letting gravity pull them down.
She grabbed him again, hard enough to bruise, and poured everything she had into a soul-searing kiss—heat and fear, blood and tears, love and a driving, pounding need—a need to be in his arms. In his head. In his heart.
Skin to skin, joining in this most elemental way.
She lay back on the hood, arms and legs spread. Sun-warmed metal kissed her skin. A remote part of her laughed at how she was writhing all over his sports car like an ’80s video vixen.
She…liked it.
“You look like a virgin sacrifice.” His voice was soft and deep. His pupils were bottomless black pools.
She reached for his cock, stroking it from tip to base with a slinky twist. “I’m no virgin.”
“Thank the universe.”
She caressed him, exploiting every intimate, sensory secret. Hard and soft, warm and pulsing, with a tiny liquid pearl at the tip…so many tastes, so many textures. She cupped his balls, savoring their weight, their heavy heat.
His heartbeat was in the palm of her hand, pounding in time with hers.
“Wyland.” Sliding closer, she twined her legs around him, wrapping him in the tightest embrace she could manage. They both hissed when his hard, blunt flesh notched against her slick opening. “Love me.”
Gathering her in his arms, he pulled her upright, bringing her breasts against the hard, hair-roughened planes of his chest. They were skin to skin, face to face, heart to heart. “Always,” he whispered against her lips.
He entered her, simply and directly. Filled her, anchored her, hot and thick and hard. Gazed at her with eons in his eyes. When he kissed her, she tasted the zing of her own blood on his tongue.
The overhead garage light snapped off with a quiet click, plunging them into darkness as they moved together, as they rolled and surged, in an invisible rhythm that only they could hear. She felt the scrape of his teeth against her neck, then a white-hot pain that immediately turned to pleasure. When the tremors started, when the ground shifted and shook, they clasped hands. Lost themselves, and made the leap.
Tethered together. Forever found.
Dom ignored the slap of branches as he crashed through the woods. Ignored the itchy burrs clinging to his fur, ignored the animals scurrying out of his way. Chico Perez was a good distance back, but he was gaining.
Pursuing.
How stupid he’d been to just sit there, watching from the tree line.
His muscles burned, his lungs were screaming, and the plastic grocery bag he carried between his teeth swung back and forth as he ran. Don’t drop the bag. Don’t drop the bag. Dropped clothes and shoes would be easy enough to explain, but latex gloves, a switchblade, and a garage door opener? Not so much.
Destroying that door handle had been really fucking stupid. He should have known it would set off an alarm, that it would bring the security guard he’d been dodging for a couple of weeks running. He’d barely managed to shift back to wolf form, pick up the bag, and dive into the grass surrounding the parking lot before the guard arrived, swearing up a storm at the open garage door. After a quick, professional-looking search, the guard made a couple of phone calls, then went back into the building. He and Tia Quinn reappeared a short time later, when Chico Perez’s beat-up Jeep Wrangler pulled into the lot. Then Jack Kirkland had showed up, then Wyland.
Why was Sebastiani Security responding to a break-in at a business on the Minnesota/Wisconsin border? A failed break-in, at that?
What the hell was going on in that building?
Crouching low, he veered sharply left. The Pathfinder was over there, just through those trees. His peripheral vision blurred, his lungs burned, as he put on a final burst of speed. He’d planned ahead, parking behind a dilapidated barn a good five miles away from Vamp Central, but why had he driven his own damn car? And hell, he was leading Perez right to it.
Too late for second guesses. He’d gotten a good head start. By the time Perez tracked him here, he’d be gone.
When he reached the car, he dropped the bag, collapsed onto his belly by the driver’s door, and called his wolf. Time whirled like a tornado. When he came back to awareness, he scrambled to two feet, stumbling over the bag. It split open, spilling the garage door opener, one glove, and the switchblade onto the grass. “Shit.” He glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Perez, not yet, but dressing would have to wait. Moving quickly, he opened the driver’s door, scooped up his belongings, then tossed them onto the passenger seat.
He c
limbed behind the wheel. “Damn,” he hissed, jerking his hips away from the sun-baked seat. Holy parboiled balls, why hadn’t he parked in the shade? Grimacing, he lowered himself back down to the seat. He had to get out of here, fast.
He started the car, threw it into gear, and hit the gas. As the Pathfinder bounced down the rutted farming road, he glanced in his rear view mirror. Still no sign of Perez, but it was too soon to relax. He had to make sure Perez lost his trail.
So he drove. Drove for miles. Drove until the adrenaline shakes stopped, and the upholstery cooled. When he finally pulled over, he was on a remote dirt road, surrounded by trees. No houses in sight.
Perfect.
He grabbed the bag, opened the door, then stepped out onto the gravel. The rocks bit into his feet, and the wind found every crack and crevice. The sky looked ominous to the west; storms were moving in. Hannah’s soccer game would probably get rained out, but he needed to get home just in case it wasn’t. Once I figure out where the hell I am. His cell phone was sitting on the dash. After a couple of taps and swipes, he had his answer: just east of Eau Claire, Wisconsin.
He’d driven nearly eighty miles, bare-ass naked.
“Shit.” He did some quick traffic math. Rush hour wasn’t a factor, and if 94 Westbound was moving at the posted speed, he’d reach Minneapolis in an hour and a half, easy. Plenty of time to ditch the gloves, stash the garage door opener someplace safe, then get Hannah to her soccer game.
It was a solid plan. “Better late than never,” he muttered. Today could easily have turned into an epic clusterfuck.
He took another look around. Remote, rural, lots of trees…this was as good a place as any. I should probably get dressed first.
After pulling on clothes and shoes, he grabbed one of the latex gloves off the passenger seat. He trotted about forty yards into the woods, jammed it under a rotted tree stump, then ran back to the car. He’d ditch the other glove once he crossed the state line back into Minnesota.
He picked up the switchblade from the passenger seat. He’d keep the knife, a beautiful antique he’d found in his father’s top desk drawer. It would be too easy to trace, and he’d gotten used to its reassuring weight.