Rogue Wolf (4 page)

“God save me from Alphas.” She made a low sound in her throat and stomped away from him. Her path took her toward a small brick building. His instincts said to sweep ahead of her and make sure it was safe, but his intellect checked the move. Margo radiated fury.

Withdrawing his phone from his pocket, he sent a text to Giuseppe. His cousin spent several years in California studying their vineyards. Ignoring the time difference, he asked about the use of please in general vernacular of English.

The response came swiftly.
The word please softens a command and makes it a request. It is considered polite in English.

Frowning, he considered her reaction to his earlier requests. She’d assumed they were commands. He’d ruffled her fur unintentionally by attacking her pride with orders. The situation could be—would be—remedied.

Satisfied with the information, he texted,
Grazie.

Giuseppe responded promptly.
Prego.

The best part about Giuseppe—he didn’t question the request, merely provided the answer. He probably wanted to go back to his supper. Sliding his phone away, Salvatore waited. She took nearly thirty minutes to return. The time would have worried him, save for the fact he saw her pace out from the far side of the building, walking a circuit around the building three times before she stalked toward him.

Temper management.

Folding his arms, he leaned against the side of her vehicle. The concept of a woman without pack, or a ‘Lone Wolf’ as the Americans called it, troubled him. That she also served as a freelance soldier of a sort increased his discomfort. Women were to be protected, cosseted, and nurtured. They were the lifeblood of the pack, the future mothers, teachers, and in many cases the keepers of the history.

The mothers of his pack had long memories, as his own often reminded him. Margo should not be the one facing off against him in the middle of nowhere. The male who sent her—Julian, she called him—deserved a beating for his inability to protect the female.

If she were truly packless, then how did anyone order her?
Request
, she’d said. The assistance of the Enforcers had been requested, so Margo had been dispatched. He and Mason Clayborne would have words on this subject before Salvatore returned to Italy. As much as he disliked involving another female in the filthy business before him, his sister came first.

Finally, she seemed to have discovered some level of calm and stalked toward him with absolute grace in every motion.
Perfect predator.
His wolf approved.

“Thank you for your patience,” Margo said before he could open his mouth. “I apologize for my behavior. You are a guest, and I am your escort. If you don’t mind, we’ll get back on the road.” The tempered solicitation gave him pause.

“
Mi scusi, signorina
. I offended you because I did not say please specifically with my questions,
si
?”

Surprise filtered through the chill blanket in her eyes and she rocked on her heels. “More or less. However, language barriers can be issues. You are Alpha, I shouldn’t expect anything more from you than commands. I’ll try to cut you some slack.”

He wasn’t sure what she planned to cut for him, but he had no interest in being merely
tolerated.
“I shall endeavor to offer you a please when making a request. It is implied in my language most often when asking for something, save for the most formal of occasions.” The realization stymied his next words. Traveling with her should have required formality, yet he’d sidestepped directly into the familiar.

The unsettling thought added to the uneven ground upon which he already traveled.

“Well, it’s only for a few more hours, then we’ll be rid of each other. If you need to use the facilities.” She gestured to the brick building.

Ignoring the reminder she planned to deliver him to Willow Bend only, he said, “I would prefer to find somewhere to eat, please. You are hungry, and so am I.” Then in the interest of peace and diplomacy, he added. “Unless you have a schedule or an assigned time to make delivery, I believe eating will be in our best interests.”

Pursing her lips, Margo thrust her fingers through the rich tumble of her hair. It curled in places, and fell in waves in others. Would it be soft against his skin? “There’s a couple of decent diners along the way, one about thirty minutes from here. I trust their food, I can’t say much for the others. I’m not usually assigned to this sector.”

Filing away the interesting tidbit, he nodded. Spreading his hands, he attempted a smile. Perhaps she found charm in his diplomacy. “I shall put the selection of where to eat in your capable hands.”

Eyes narrowing, she gave him a flinty look. “Don’t start some European charm thing with me. Just say what you want.”

Annoyed, he scowled. “I am saying what I want. I want you to eat. I would like to eat. You know the options better than I do.”

“Excellent.” Her sudden grin shocked him with its intensity. “
That
I believed. All right, Mr. Es-po-sito, hop into the car and let’s find some grub.” He was sure he didn’t imagine the mocking note in the use of his name. She pivoted, as though to circle to the driver’s side and he caught her arm.

Her muscles tensed and he kept his grip light. “Salvatore,” he said.

“
Gesundheit
.” Though she used the German salutation to wish him good health, the sarcastic layer to her tone belied the meaning. When she tugged her arm away, he released her. A smile followed the tart response. “Don’t push your luck.”

Gaze following her as she continued to the driver’s side, he shook his head. He did not have time to devote to the pursuit, but Margo Montgomery would look beautiful spread beneath him in his bed. To hunt her, however, would take finesse—and time he couldn’t afford.

His wolf roused, the animal scenting the possibility of a chase, but Salvatore quieted the urge. They were there for one hunt and it superseded all others.

“Are you getting in?” she called. The engine rumbled to life as though she had no intention of waiting for him.

Prickly.

God, she would be fun in bed. Growling at his misfortune, he stuffed the need down and slid back into the car. Features under control, he slid a sidelong glance toward her. Fortunately, she jammed the vehicle first into reverse to back from her parking spot, then accelerated from the lot.

Grateful for her terse attitude, he concentrated on burying the need to hunt the woman beneath the cantankerous exterior. He had to find his sister and slay a rogue. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else could.

Her scent teased his senses, and he scowled.

Less than an hour later, he sat across from Margo in a restaurant. She’d bypassed all the fast food offerings for an actual sit down place. Though the décor could cheerfully be labeled rustic—and rusting, if the scent was anything to go by—she’d insisted if they were going to eat, they would eat at JoJo’s.

“An odd name for a restaurant,” was the kindest comment he could muster.

Margo surprised him with a half-laugh and a grin. “Agreed. However, they make the best steaks and the roasted potatoes are hot, crispy and to die for.” As if to prove her point, she didn’t flip open her menu. “They also have these excellent microbrews and it’s worth the rusty atmosphere and cracked vinyl seats.”

Intrigued by her description, he set the menu to the side. “Then if you have no objection, I will let you order the steak and potatoes meal for me.”

Eyebrows raised, she gripped the bottle of microbrew by the neck before taking a long drink. “You surprise me, Mr. Esposito…”

“Salvatore,” he repeated and, though he was not in the habit of reiterating an earlier reminder, he found he didn’t mind so much with her. Margo made him work to earn more than courtesy. “If you
please
.”

She bit her upper lip, then shook her head with a sigh. “Fair point, you did ask and you asked politely, Salvatore. I would be happy to order dinner for you. Is there anything you don’t like?”

Being on the opposite side of the table was not his favorite, though he’d angled his position to watch the door. Margo had as well, and she’d selected their booth as the farthest from the door. They both had their back to a wall, so that was something.

“No, I prefer red meats to fowl, and fish must caught be fresh.” So many served it frozen. Neither he nor his wolf cared for the diminished flavor. Testing the microbrew with a sniff, he took a cautious drink. Bitter, yet smooth. An odd combination. He took another drink, allowing the barley based drink to rest on his tongue for several seconds before swallowing. The bitterness remained, yet he sampled other flavors beneath it and they lingered in his mouth.

Slowly, awareness swept over him. Margo watched him, her bottle tipped to the side. The intensity in her gaze a curiosity for him, one he wished to indulge at his leisure. “You don’t like it?”

“I do not dislike it,” he told her honestly, attempting a third drink. Neither refreshing like water nor as palate-warming as wine—yet there was something about the drink. “It is unusual. I prefer wine when given the option.”

“Not here you wouldn’t,” she said the last almost sub vocal as the waitress hustled over to them. “Two thirty-two ounce steaks cooked medium rare, emphasis on the rare. Two baskets of fresh roasted potatoes and a big basket of bread.”

“You want any vegetables with that, honey? Or some salads?” The waitress barely looked up from her notepad.

At Margo’s inquiring look, he shook his head. He could easily eat two of the steaks, but he wanted to test the quality first.

“Nope, that’s it, and we’re kind of in a hurry, so if you can bump our order to the front, I’ll add an extra tip for you and the cook.”

“I know, sweetie. Your dad still does the same thing.” An older human, in her sixties if one could judge by the wrinkles and around her features, she winked before she collected the menus and strolled away.

Her dad. Margo’s father ate at this restaurant… “I thought you not a part of any pack.”

“I’m not,” she said, not offering any further insights. The lack of more information annoyed him.

“Yet the waitress knows your father and indicates he still eats here. If he comes here regularly, he must be part of Willow Bend.”

“Give the man a gold star.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Once we’re back on the road, we’ll be at the first checkpoint within an hour, the second an hour after that, and then we’ll make it into Willow Bend proper. I’ll call before we leave to see if they want me to check in with the Hunters on the outer reaches.”

So, her parents—at the very least her father—was a part of Willow Bend, yet she was not. The restaurant was a favorite, whether because of her father or the food remained to be seen. Collecting clues to her personality only increased his curiosity. She’d kept her voice low rather than insult the waitress. When the woman came to the table, she softened and bestowed a grateful smile on her. What would it be like to be on the receiving end of so much affection from such a strong wolf?

“You’re staring,” Margo said without looking at him.

“I am.”

With a sideways glance, she raised her brows once more. “Problem?”

“Why would your pack let you go?” The question bothered him. He knew some European packs allowed their wolves to wander. They also knew better than to enter his territory without treaty or permission. Females simply didn’t do it. The world was too dangerous a place—a lesson they’d learned in the bitter years of Mussolini’s rule over Italy. Humans had a capacity for violence, which rivaled and sometimes surpassed their own.

“Not relevant.”

Not dissuaded by the bluntness of her response, he tapped two fingers against the table. “Tell me why you believe that.”

Her glare intrigued him further. She really didn’t want to talk about herself. “It’s none of your business.”

“I am aware.” He tapped his fingers on the table again. When her gaze flicked to his hand before returning to his face, he kept his smile in check. Distracting her from challenging him eased the line of tension in her shoulders and softened the tightness at the corners of her eyes. “I am curious.”

“Look,” she shifted in the seat, sparing a glance around before facing him fully. Always aware of her surroundings, he had no doubt any attempt to ambush her would fail. “I get it. You’re bored. You’re traveling, and you’re trying to collect data. But
I
am not on the table here. I’m a courier.”

“No, you’re a woman running alone, and—this bothers me. So I would like to…understand.” He’d studied English enough to communicate with those Alphas. The same way he’d studied French, German, and Russian. His language skills, however, were not as expert as he would like.

“What does my being a woman have to do with anything?” Surprise cascaded through her expression.

“Women are to be protected. It is the duty of every member of the pack to see they are safe, to assure the future of the pack. Alone, you are vulnerable.” As his sister was vulnerable to that damn rogue. Salvatore would never forgive himself for allowing the bastard entry into his lands. Rayne’s initial politeness and observance of protocol disguised his true intentions—motivations he’d managed to hide from Salvatore. It mattered little that he’d behaved himself for weeks. What mattered was the rogue took Luciana.

“Wow,” Margo said slowly. “You really think that women are only suited to home and pack life?”

“Home is an opinion. Some of the most capable members of my pack are our females. They understand the need for growth, safety and protection.” His mother was a classic example. She ran the vineyard, selected the right grapes, and the areas for planting. She oversaw everything, and she kept the more dissolute members employed when no one else would take them. “It remains the province of the pack to protect them.”

They both went quiet when the food was delivered. Instead of second microbrews, the waitress brought tall glasses of water. It smelled of the faint chemicals the Americans put in their wells, but Salvatore found it passable. Once the waitress left, Margo picked up her silverware and asked, “So you have no female Lone Wolves in Europe?”