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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Moon Illusion: The Moore Werewolves Copyright  2005 amy o'connor

ISBN: 978-1-55410-998-2

Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Gina took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

   The scene was the same. The deserted road, the fresh scent of pine needles, the brisk breeze of late fall. And the wrecked car leaning drunkenly against a tree; every panel dented, every window smashed.

   She shook her head, still hoping she'd somehow wake up to find she'd been dreaming.

   Didn't seem as if that was going to happen.

   Mesmerized by the sight of the car, she clutched her sweater closer. Within seconds of the front tire blowing she'd lost control, skidding across the rainslick bitumen. She'd wrapped herself around the steering wheel—her knuckles were still sore from the strength of her desperate clutch—and watched the world spin sluggishly as the car rolled down the embankment and landed up against the tree with a bone-jarring
thunk
.

   Then she was standing out here, cold and damp in the drizzling rain, with no memory of scrambling from the vehicle and scurrying to safety.

   She glanced around again, but still no one had come running. Okay, so it was the middle of the forest, she counseled herself, but that wasn't how it happened in the movies.
Someone
always came to the rescue. And there was no way the heroine would ever be left standing in the rain.

   Alone.

   Not a good thought, that one. Dusk had fallen early, and it was at least five miles back to town. If she was going to walk, she'd better get started.

   She flinched at a rustle deep within the trees. Her hair was plastered to her neck, and she yanked it off her skin. This was not the time to start thinking about all those half-remembered tales of werewolves in the forest. Bigfoot too, she mused. Or was it called Sasquatch around here?

   Another crash, louder this time, and closer. Just a branch falling, she assured herself. There's no such thing as werewolves. Or monsters. Or mad, chainsaw murderers…

   She hugged herself tight, giggling a little hysterically, and turned towards the road. Definitely past time to start walking.

   The rumble of an approaching car, its headlights cutting a bright swathe through the looming trees, was the sweetest sound. With the way her imagination was acting right now, she'd have considered accepting a lift with Jack the Ripper. Anything to get out of the forest that seemed to be pressing closer every minute she stood here.

* * * *

A stranger was standing on her front porch. No, on looking closer, she could see the stranger was
pacing
on her front porch. Who the hell…?

Gina stared at him for a few seconds longer.

   "This is your house, isn't it, honey?" Mrs. Chapman sounded worried. She was an elderly lady and had clearly been upset both by coming across the accident and having to drive at night in the rain. Gina wasn't quite sure which one was worse—she'd heard plenty about both on the ride home.

   She forced a smile. "Yes, thank you. I was just wondering about the man on the porch."

   Mrs. Chapman squinted near-sightedly across the yard. It was little wonder she didn't like driving after dark when her vision was so bad.

   "It's Nathaniel Moore." She nodded amiably back towards Gina. "Jack Moore's son," she added.

   "Umm…"

   "The realtor. You know, Moore Property."

   "Oh." The realtor? Oh, God. She'd forgotten…The realtor!

   "Oh, yes. He only moved back to town a few months ago when Jack retired. He comes along to bingo at the church hall every Wednesday now, and…"

   "Thank you so much, Mrs. Chapman. But I really have to run. I'd forgotten I had a rental inspection booked in for this afternoon." Gina paused as an odd thought struck her. "
Nathaniel
Moore goes to bingo every Wednesday?"

   "No, silly! Jack does." She jabbed her with a sharp elbow. "You should look smart there, girl. Nathaniel's quite a catch."

   Gina slid across the seat, wincing as the damp fabric of her skirt caught on the vinyl. She hesitated before closing the door, then simply smiled and waved as the car pulled out onto the street. It didn't look like Mr. Quite-A-Catch Moore was in the mood for watching any more social chit chat.

   At least he'd stopped pacing but, now she was closer, she could see the tension in his shoulders and just how tightly his pen was gripped in his hand. His very large hand. She could also see why he was considered such a catch.

   Early thirties, maybe? A good six feet tall, thick brown hair that looked softer than the fur on her favorite old teddy bear, and deep brown eyes.
Cranky
deep brown eyes, she had to admit, but they'd surely be the color of melted chocolate when he smiled. Or thick, rich treacle. It was hard to tell.

   Gina pulled herself together. Well, it didn't matter in the slightest if he happened to smile at her or not. He was here to do her annual rental inspection. She was only—she glanced at her watch—half an hour late. She screwed her eyes closed in embarrassment. She was never late for anything. But half an hour, and he was still waiting?

   She bounded up the three shallow steps until she was on a level with him. She held out her hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Moore. I'm Gina Longmire. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

   "I was about to leave." He grasped her outstretched hand and shook it brusquely. "Well, we might as well…"

   His mouth dropped. As close as they were standing, even in the fading light he had to have noticed just how soggy she was. Gina fumbled for her keys, refusing to look up. Until right that moment, she hadn't realized she'd left her sweater in Mrs. Chapman's car. Then, when he ran his eyes idly over her body—probably running a quick calculation on the value of her clothes, she thought—she saw with dismay just how indiscreet her lightweight skirt and blouse had become.

   Okay, so they were practically see-through. And clinging to every curve. Thank goodness she'd worn a lacy bra this morning because, if he cared to look, he could see it clearly. And going by his stunned reaction, he had noticed that particular fact.

   "What the hell happened to you? And why aren't you wearing a coat? It's got to be close to freezing out here!"

   The door finally swung open, and she slammed it irritably behind him. A small puddle formed on the timber floor as she stood there, already steaming gently in the centrally heated warmth. One more thing to clean up, she noted before meeting his stare.

   "If you must know, my car just went off the road in the Oldham Forest. It's raining, I'm wet." Gina smiled sweetly. "So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pop upstairs and get changed." She nodded towards the clipboard he held under his arm. "Feel free to get started and I'll be down shortly."

   She spun on her heel and stalked across the small entry towards the twisting staircase. It wasn't easy to appear so completely unconcerned by his scrutiny when every movement set off a new cascade of drips. "Oh, and my coat? I daresay it's still in the car."

   Gina flung her hair back and headed upstairs, just catching the adorably confused expression on his face. She shook her head at her own thoughts, groaning. Adorably confused? Puh-leeze.

   She looked like something the cat had just dredged up from the bottom of a slime-filled swamp and he was, as Mrs. Chapman had so neatly put it, quite a catch. Understatement of the millennium! He was drop-dead gorgeous, and the sparks that had shot up across her palm when he'd shaken her hand had contained enough heat to warm her through despite the soggy clothing.

   But in a town this small, he was sure to be taken— no matter what the bingo gossip insisted. And even if he wasn't, well, why would he be interested in her? New to town. A boring middle manager at the executive retreat down the road. Oh, and new to town. Polite as everyone was, in the twelve months she'd been here, she'd noticed that the locals kept to themselves.

   She snorted as she stripped off her sodden clothes. Besides, he was a realtor. That made him overconfident, way too sharp, and possibly dishonest. How would he see her? She glanced at the usually modest navy skirt and blouse lying in a damp heap on the bathroom floor. Conservative? Boring?

   Probably.

   But, damn, he was cute.

* * * *

stood there, as good as naked in front of him, totally unselfconscious, and coolly told him to get on with it. Any other woman with that body would have stood there preening, making sure he got an eyeful of every luscious curve.

   For the first time in an age, he felt his cock stir— uninvited. Sure, he bedded plenty of women—why not, when they practically threw themselves at him— but he was actually
interested
in her. There was something fascinating about that slightly distant hauteur, that attitude of 'look if you want; I don't really care.'

   He almost growled at the thought. He'd make her care, all right!

   Whoa boy! She was a client, not a bitch in heat to be taken by whichever wolf was closest. And it was way too close to the full moon to be having thoughts like those. Now wasn't a good time to be testing his self-control.

   Wolf. Yeah. He grimaced. It wasn't like he wanted to try explaining
that
to her anyway. Last time he'd attempted to date someone from outside the werewolf community, she'd run screaming. And not in the way he liked to make a woman scream, either. Oh, yeah, he'd like to see Ms. Conservative Longmire naked and screaming his name in orgasm.

   The kitchen, he'd start in the kitchen. He smiled at his own imagination. It was so easy to visualize her standing right here in that tantalizing—clinging—wet fabric. Maybe making her lose some of that steely control of hers. The kitchen was so much less personal.

   Or maybe not. Even here she'd stamped her own personality—but in a non-permanent way, the realtor in him noted approvingly. Conservative dark blue curtains, a healthy row of potted violets on the windowsill, and a cheerful checked tablecloth held in place with timber salt and pepper cellars. He made a note on his clipboard then hunkered down to look in the oven.

   "Nice ass," her voice drawled from the open door behind him. My God! Had she really just said that? Surely he was imagining things.

   He jerked upright, favoring her with the slow, sexy smile he knew was guaranteed to turn any woman to instant mush.

   Maybe the smile had been overkill… She was already beet-red, her hand was clamped over her mouth, and her eyes were wide with horror. It seemed she'd been just as surprised by the comment as he was.

   Nate couldn't help it—he grinned. Gina Longmire sure was cute when she was embarrassed. His let his gaze trace over her face. There was a faint shadow under one eye and, somewhat belatedly, his mind kicked into gear.

   Shit! She'd just been in a car accident and, no matter how minor, she had to have been shaken up by it. The last thing she needed was to have him teasing her. With conscious effort, he smiled again; a nice friendly smile, the sort you'd expect from a neighbor—or your friendly neighborhood realtor.

   "I'm sorry, did you say something?" It wasn't easy, but Nate managed to look faintly quizzical.

   "Huh?" She dropped her hand and straightened, instantly grasping the metaphorical lifeline he'd

thrown. "No, I don't think so."

There, problem all smoothed over.