Call of the Wolf (2 page)

He glanced around at the kitchen. “This was used as a safe house several times in the past and there weren't any problems. Any questions before I leave?"

Abby wrestled with the sudden urge to beg him to take her someplace else, anywhere else ... or just to stay. “I start work Monday, right?"

He nodded. “Don't lose my card."

Heaving a shaky breath, she nodded a little jerkily in response, and then followed him back through the house and out on to the porch. He startled her by grasping her shoulders and dragging her up against him. Kissing her on the cheek, he set her away. “Take care, sis!” he said as he turned and jogged down the steps. He paused and turned back when he'd reached the walkway. “You're comin’ to Irene's for Christmas, right?"

Abby blinked at him but managed a nod.

He turned back to wave when he reached the car. Abby waved back. “Be careful!” she called out for the benefit of their audience although she hoped the bastard croaked.

Without glancing toward the neighboring house, she ducked back inside the moment his car drove off. Leaning weakly on the door she'd closed behind her, she waited until her heart had resumed a more normal rhythm and finally pushed away from the door. After wandering from room to room for a while, listening to the hollow echo of her heels against the hardwood floor, she finally stopped in the rear bedroom. She studied the colorful quilt on the wide bed for a moment, and then crossed the room and crawled into bed fully clothed, pulling the quilt over her head.

When every effort to summon tears and fall apart failed because she was just too numb to feel any emotion deeply, Abby got out of the bed again, moved to the boxes stacked near one window, and set about emptying and sorting. By the time she'd gone through every container in both bedrooms, she'd lost the ability to distance herself from her emotions.

Her personal effects consisted of approximately half of what had been packed. The designer business suits she'd accumulated to ‘dress for success’ by scrimping on everything else had disappeared. The wardrobe furnished by Uncle Sam for her new role as school teacher was the dowdiest bunch of rags she'd ever laid eyes on and she was absolutely furious.

Curbing the urge to shred them, or throw them in the floor and stomp them and pitch a royal tantrum, she dumped them on the bed and stalked out the back door of the house, searching for some means of venting the rage boiling inside of her and threatening to spill out. A cheap grill caught her eye as soon as she'd stepped onto the porch, the sort that was more of an aluminum dish on legs than a real grill and no doubt purchased at some bargain store like every fucking else they'd ‘provided.’ Narrowing her eyes at it speculatively for a moment, she finally stalked over and picked it up, pushed the screen door of the porch open with her hip and stalked down the steps and into the back yard. After planting the grill a goodly distance from anything that looked likely to go up in flames, she strode back up the steps and grabbed the small bag of charcoal bricks.

She removed the grill top when she'd reached the grill again, tossed it aside, and formed a mound of charcoal in the center of the pan. All she needed was something to light it.

Stalking to the trash can near the back steps, she shoved the empty bag into it and went back on the porch to look for something to start a fire. A can of lighter fluid, she discovered, had been left thoughtfully beside the grill and charcoal bricks, but she didn't see any sign of a match or lighter. A search of the kitchen drawers turned up a box of oversized kitchen matches—no doubt to light the damned antiquated stove!—and she returned triumphantly to the yard armed with matches and lighter fluid.

Tucking the box of matches under one arm, she opened the can of lighter fluid and hosed down the charcoal bricks with the fluid until she'd emptied the can and was satisfied she'd put more than enough fuel on the bricks to produce a minor bonfire. Grasping the box of matches, she backed off a few paces and pulled a match out.

"You plannin’ on roastin’ an ox?"

The deep male voice startled Abby so badly she dropped the match she'd been on the point of striking. Whirling around, she spied a man propped negligently against the side of her porch, his arms folded over his chest.

Her gaze slid down the jacket clad upper torso that seemed impossibly broad—perhaps because of his folded arms and the jacket—following the stripe down the leg of his trousers to his serviceable black shoes.

Not a man, she mentally amended.

A cop!

Abby gaped at him, her mind scrambling madly for information it hadn't registered—most importantly just how long he might've been standing at the end of her porch observing her and
why
he might have been watching her. She hadn't noticed him. She sure as hell hadn't heard him creeping up on her.

It was hard seeing past the brown-and-tan uniform. As he reached up, however, tipping the brimmed hat back on his head that he'd had pulled low across his brow, her gaze followed the movement and landed on his face. His thick, black, almost straight brows were tented upward above the bridge of his long, straight and surprisingly patrician nose. His eyes were narrowed, either against the brightness or in anger, she wasn't certain which, and, in any case, he was, fortunately, too far away for her to discern the color of his eyes, but not too far to notice the thick fringe of black lashes.

There wasn't a hint of a smile on his hard mouth.

"I beg your pardon?” Abby managed finally.

He gestured with his squared, cleft chin toward the grill. “That's an awful lot of charcoal and lighter fluid for a hamburger—or a steak."

Abby glanced toward the grill, trying to think. When no plausible excuse occurred to her, she returned her attention to the sheriff, who'd stood away from the porch and was sauntering toward her.

Big, she thought.

Brawny? Or fat?

A quick glance down his length didn't discern a sign of a gut. “Uh ... were you looking for somebody?"

He stopped when he was still a good yard away, tilting his head curiously. “You Abigail Winthrope?"

Abby stared at him blankly. “What?” she asked, stalling for time while she struggled to remember her name.

The straight, black brows lifted upward, tilting his hat forward again. “Sheriff Banner. Seth."

Abby blinked at him. “Who?"

His hard mouth abruptly curled. A faint chuckle escaped him. “Guess I startled you."

Startled didn't begin to cover what he'd done to her. Dragging her gaze from him, she stared at the box of matches in her hand, then the grill full of charcoal she'd soaked down to start a bonfire for the clothes the Feds had so thoughtfully picked out for her to replace the designer suits she'd worked her ass off to pay for. She looked at the cop again. It wasn't easy ignoring the fact that the man was damned easy on the eyes, but the uniform made it far less difficult than it might've been otherwise. “I'm sorry ...
Who
did you say you were looking for?"

Something flickered in his eyes. “Abigail Winthrope. You
are
the new school teacher?"

Abby studied him, feeling decidedly unfriendly. She didn't care if that smile ordinarily melted the hearts of women six to sixty, the heart palpitations the bastard had given her had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was a definite twelve on a scale of one to ten. “And
why
are you in my backyard?"

He looked a little taken aback.

Strike that. He looked a little pissed off. The smile flat-lined. His eyes narrowed again. “Mrs. Parker sent me to welcome you to town and invite you to dinner,” he said coolly.

Abby pasted a tight smile on her lips, searching her mind for the name until it finally surfaced—the neighbor with the Bed-and-Breakfast. “How very ... neighborly of her! Do be sure to tell her how much I appreciate the invitation but, as you can see, I was just about to throw something on the grill."

The sheriff studied her skeptically. “You'll have the fire department down here inside of five minutes if you light that thing."

Abby's smile became more brittle. “Y'all have a fire department?"

His complexion darkened.

On one level, Abby was well aware that she was being a bitch and that it was damned stupid to set up the back of the local law. On another, she'd had about all she could take of the ‘law’ of the land and she was pissed off besides that he'd sneaked up on her. It was her backyard, damn it! If she wanted to build a fucking bonfire in her grill, she ought to be able to!

"We do. We have all sorts of things ... just like they do in the big cities,” he responded with determined cordialness.

Abby fought the urge to ask him if that included electricity, running water, and sewage and managed to tamp it. She returned her gaze to the grill. As frustrated and angry as she was, as dead set as she was against even pretending to be friendly to a cop after all she'd been through, she realized she couldn't really afford to deliberately set everyone against her when she had no where else to go. “Too much charcoal, huh?"

"About three times too much ... unless you
are
plannin’ on grillin’ an entire steer,” he said dryly.

"I guess it wouldn't be a very good idea to put them back in the bag,” she said a little doubtfully, wondering what to do with the shit now that she couldn't vent her anger the way she'd planned.

"Not with a can of lighter fluid on them, no."

Abby ground her teeth together. Obviously, he'd been observing her a lot longer than she'd realized. She tucked the box of matches under her arm again. “In that case, I guess I'll just forget about grilling and fix a sandwich."

"Or you could take Mrs. Parker up on her invitation and join us for dinner."

Us?

Abby discovered she couldn't really maintain her anger in the face of his determined politeness. “That's sweet of her, but I'm really tired. And I haven't even started unpacking my things."

He studied her speculatively. “All the more reason to take her up on her offer. She's a good cook."

Abby looked down at the old jeans and t-shirt she'd put on to work in because they were comfortable and familiar—and she
needed
comfort and familiarity. She didn't feel up to dealing with meeting strangers and trying to maintain the role the Feds had manufactured for her.

She didn't think she would ever really be ready for it, though.

And she was hungry.

And she didn't feel like cooking.

"I should probably change."

She discovered when she met his gaze that he was surveying her with patent interest.

"Not on my account. You might want to put on a bra, though."

Abby felt her face heating. She couldn't resist the impulse to look down at herself, despite the fact that she more than half suspected he was only guessing. The t-shirt was old, but it certainly wasn't thread bare.

It had a few holes in it, though, very small holes.

And her nipple had found one of them!

She jerked her head up and met his gaze. A faint tremor moved along his well chiseled lips, but he managed to keep from grinning at her.

"I'll tell Mrs. Parker you'll be along,” he murmured in a shaky voice, turning and striding away.

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Chapter Two

His thoughts in riot, Seth strode briskly along the driveway and crossed the boundary between the two properties by simply stepping over the low picket fence that surrounded Abigail's front yard. He wasn't certain what he'd expected when he'd agreed to deliver Beth's invitation to the new teacher, but it sure as hell wasn't what he'd encountered.

He was pretty sure the turmoil churning inside of him was the fact that Abigail Winthrope didn't look anything like the image in his mind of a tall, skinny, mousy, middle-aged spinster whose face might crack if she smiled. He couldn't say that she looked too
young
to be a teacher—he was pretty sure she must be in her late twenties—but she looked entirely too
hot
to be a school teacher.

They damned sure hadn't had any teachers like that when he'd been in school. If there had been he would probably have spent most of his time in detention for trying to seduce her. He sure as hell wouldn't have had his mind on books—at all.

Not that he had anyway. Like probably the majority of young males, he'd had almost a perpetual hard-on from puberty until his hormones had finally settled down and there hadn't been a hell of a lot on his mind besides finding someplace to stick it.

He couldn't decide what to make of the hostility he'd sensed in her even before she'd cut into him with the sharp edge of her tongue. Obviously, he'd caught at her at a very bad time. She'd been fuming when she'd sailed past him the first time. He hadn't really registered it because he'd been pretty completely focused on the thong and the tops of her buttocks that he'd had a fine view of above the waist of her jeans when she'd bent over to set the grill down.

And the bounce and sway of her breasts as she stalked back in his direction as she'd headed onto the porch again. It wasn't until she'd slammed back into the house that he'd finally emerged enough from his stupor to realize that the scent that had been tantalizing him was laced liberally with rage ... and fear.

He didn't understand the fear any more than he understood the rage. She hadn't spotted him, hadn't realized he was standing at the corner of her porch watching her jerky, angry movements until he'd spoken to her.

It wasn't because he was a cop, although he hadn't missed the fact that that hadn't gone over well.

And it certainly wasn't because she had any clue of what he was.

He shook the thoughts off as he reached the steps of the boarding house and trotted up them.

"Well?” Cameron drawled as he reached the porch again. “Any luck enticin’ the little
mam'zelle
over for dinner?"

Seth narrowed his eyes at the visitor from ‘Nawlin's’ but merely shrugged. “She didn't seem to be much in the mood for socializing. You didn't mention she wasn't one of us."

Cameron's dark blond brows rose. Seth was almost positive the expression of surprise wasn't feigned. “Now that's a fuckin’ shame,” he murmured. “I done had my heart set on that little filly, too."

Seth's lips tightened. “You know pack law, Fontaine,” he said coldly.

Cameron's expression hardened. “I know pack law,
mon ami
,” he responded just as coldly. “Question is, do you mean to abide by it yourself? Or are you just aimin’ to make sure the rest of us do an’ leave the field to you?"

Seth felt his hackles rise and tamped the aggression with an effort. “Is that a challenge, Fontaine?"

Cameron glanced up and down the street and curled his lips. “Not over this territory—the woman—maybe."

"She won't be taking part in the mating festivities,” Seth said coldly. “She's human."

"Now hold on!” Adrian Paulson snapped, entering the discussion abruptly. “Pack law says she can't be inducted without her full knowledge and consent. It don't say nothin’ about persuasion."

"That depends upon what sort of ‘persuasion’ you have in mind,” Seth said tightly. “The gathering for the run is less than a week away. How much
persuading
do you think you can manage in that length of time?"

Cameron grinned at him abruptly. “Struck out, did you?"

"Bite me!” Seth growled, striding abruptly to the door and inside. Beth Parker was in the kitchen ladling food into serving bowls.

She glanced at him as he stopped in the doorway. “She didn't succumb to your charms,” she murmured wryly.

Seth folded his lips irritably. “Fuck! What? Is it written on my forehead or something?"

Beth gave him a disapproving glance for his language but chuckled. “It's written all over your face. If I had a camera, I'd take a picture. This is a moment to remember! Last time you was trounced by a female you was about eight, I'm thinking. What was her name?"

Seth glared at her. “I don't remember,” he said sulkily. “Set another place. She might show just for the hell of it."