White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul (6 page)

“Done. You think he’s hitting on her?”

“He’s a dead man if he is or has.”

“I seem to recall he’s in his early forties, six-two or thereabouts, and one of those good-looking country boy types.”

“Not in as good shape as that pic from your research, maybe fifteen pounds heavier, but otherwise dead-on as usual. When was it that he became sheriff?” The mouthwatering aroma of bacon sizzling went straight from the Caboose’s exhaust to Mike’s nose. He salivated.

“About three months after we left.” Drake rocked on his heels while they waited for the sole traffic light boasted of by the citizens of Chabegawn to go green. “Never seen you jealous before. This mate shit’s eating you up. Christ on a bike. I hope I avoid it for another decade or so.”

“Good luck with that one. Trust me—you don’t have a choice when it hits you.” And if that wasn’t the understatement of several centuries, nothing was.

“I’m starved. Heck if there ain’t nothing like the smell of bacon frying.” Drake waved air to his nostrils and took an exaggerated inhale. “Bacon, steak, eggs, and the works for me.”

Both men had the high metabolisms of their kind and neither watched their weight, but Mike tried to eat healthy most of the time. Drake didn’t. The pup ate like a bear sensing the onset of winter, day in, day out.

Drake stalked across the intersection.

Mike shot a look at the sky. It was clear and a powder shade of blue. “God save me from growing pups.”

Drake cuffed him. “I’m legal and full grown. Cut the pup stuff.”

Mike ruffled Drake’s hair and ducked to avoid his brother’s right cross.

“Damn it, Mikey. I am
not
nine years old.”

“You cut the Mikey, and I’ll cut the pup.”

Halting at the entrance to the diner, Drake scowled. “I’d give my left nut if you really meant that.”

One second turned into minutes, and Mike had to swallow the obstruction in his throat at the loaded emotions blazing from Drake’s blue eyes. “I mean it. It’s time I stopped hovering over you. New beginning. New business. Equal partners in everything. Work for you?”

Drake blinked and looked away. His Adam’s apple bobbed. When he nodded and met Mike’s stare head-on, a glimmer made his eyes seem to twinkle. But Mike knew his brother was all choked up.

“Since you’re now the man, breakfast’s on your tab.” Mike shoulder jabbed Drake.

“Lead the way.” Drake held the door open and waved.

Mike couldn’t help grinning. Damn, he’d raised a fine man. And shit, he hoped to keep that promise, but being an alpha wolf meant he had built-in protective instincts that’d make a lioness seem sheepish.

He didn’t recognize the hostess, but then again it had been years since he’d been in Chabegawn for more than a few days. The yearning to grow roots had started gnawing at his insides five months ago when he’d spent three days dogging Melanie’s footsteps.

“Morning. Two for breakfast?” The waitress’s name tag read
Brinda
. Probably mid-thirties, hair a reddish honey brown, dark circles under blue eyes watered down by the unexpected ups and downs in life. Great dimples, a wide mouth that tilted up to reveal even, snowy teeth. She smelled homey, like apples and cinnamon.

“Yep.” Mike returned her smile. He surveyed the crowded diner shaped and decorated to mimic a long caboose. “We’ll take the counter if you don’t have any empty seats.”

“Got a booth in the back. Near the restrooms if you don’t mind. Quiet though.” She gathered two long menus and raised an ash brow.

“Perfect.” Drake edged in front of Mike. The pup had a thing for older women. Hankered after the motherly types, much to the disgruntlement of the Vegas showgirls who’d taken several shines to him during the days they hit the poker tourneys. “We’re your new neighbors. Just moved into the office across the street.”

She stopped for a second and glanced over her shoulder. “The old Laroque building that was just sold? Are you two the new owners?”

“That’s us.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks colored a whole rainbow of pink hues. “This way.”

Had he done wrong by Drake? Waited too long to tell him the truth? Was that why the pup went for mother-figure types? The reason for his brother’s desperate craving to please Mom? Drake tried to hide his anxiety, but Mike recognized the tiptoe dance he did around their mother.

The Caboose hummed with conversational chatter, and the clanking of dishes, cutlery, and glassware being cleared added an occasional cymbal to the orchestra. Brinda, followed by Mike and Drake, wove between tables, rounded the far corner, and at once the noise level dimmed. She halted at a cozy U-shaped booth tucked into an alcove kitty-corner to the kitchen doors. “This okay?”

Drake flashed his dimpled smile. “Perfect, Brinda. Matter-of-fact, I think this can be our table from now. Are you always on the morning shift?”

She blinked and her blush deepened. “Um, most of the time.”

Mike rolled his eyes and slid into the seat against the wall.

Drake extended a hand. “I’m not much of a cook, so you’ll be seeing me often. Drake.”

She clasped Drake’s hand for a scant second and then slapped the menus on the table. “Your waitress will be with you in a sec.”

Both men watched her retreat, Drake’s gaze glued to the sway of her hips.

“Stop flirting with the neighbors.” Mike flipped open the laminated menu. “I’ll be here often, and I don’t want her soured on me after your fling’s over.”

Drake scowled, then heaved an audible sigh. “I hate it when you’re practical. Okay. Brinda and the rest of the diner staff are off-limits. Though you’ll be hubba hubbaing with Melanie.”

“That’s different and you know it.” Mike glanced at the Caboose Cravings listed as the diner’s specialties.

“Morning. Coffee?”

The sound of his mate’s voice had been imprinted in Mike. He speared Melanie with a hard stare. “I thought you had the late shift.”

Melanie’s hand twitched; the carafe of coffee she carried tilted, and hot liquid spilled across Mike’s wrist.

“Damn. Look what you made me do.” She banged the pot on the table and reached across to snatch napkins from a wooden caboose-shaped holder.

Her scent filled his lungs. His eyes glazed over and then focused on the plump breast so close to his nose that all he had to do was lean forward, open his mouth, and suckle. His balls fired hard and tight. His slit tingled, and his dick engorged with each inhale. Bemused and intoxicated, Mike froze, battling for control. If he moved a muscle, he’d be all over her and they’d be on the table fucking. Did she wear panties under that ugly, shapeless uniform and apron?

“Melanie White. It’s great to see you again.” The inherent warning in Drake’s greeting didn’t penetrate Mike’s exploding lust. “Aw, you don’t remember me. And I went to Mackinac High too, though I was a couple of years behind you and Mike.”

Busy gently swabbing the coffee from Mike’s wrist, she didn’t glance up. “It would be hard not to remember you, Drake, since you were called to the principal’s office on a daily basis.”

She dunked a wad of dry tissues in one of the two glasses of water on the table and wrapped it over Mike’s wrist. “Hold that there and I’ll get you some ice.”

Mike clamped his hand over hers. “Not necessary. You couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. You and Doc G. didn’t even head in the direction of the reservation until well after one. I’m taking you home right now.”

Her nostrils quivered, she narrowed her eyes, and her warm breath hissed over his lips. “How in heck do you know that?”

Chapter Four

Melanie didn’t know how to react. The last person she’d expected to see in the Caboose today was Mike Dorland. The sleepless night had dulled her senses. She hadn’t even noticed his Mike-the-sex-god scent. She wanted to brain him. Empty the coffeepot all over him. Oh wait. She’d already done that. Over his hand, anyway. She looked down at the large brown fingers curled over hers and couldn’t stop the delicious shiver snaking from one shoulder to the other.

“I’ll see you later at the office, Drake.” Mike stood. “Turn around.”

Who turn around? Melanie glanced left and right and then craned her neck. “What?”

“Don’t bother.” She squealed when Mike picked her up. “Postpone the conference till tomorrow. Same time.”

“Done. Don’t worry about a thing. I got your back.” Drake flashed her a wink and a dastardly grin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Melanie squirmed and kicked out. “Put me down.”

“If you’re quiet, no one will notice us leaving. Keep up that commotion and the gossip will spread like wildfire.”

He was right, damn him. The more she struggled, the tighter he held her. She whispered in his ear, “I should’ve poured that whole pot of coffee all over your head.”

“I like you spitting fire,” he murmured and burst through the swinging double doors leading to the kitchen.

A wave of moist heat and steam hit her in the face. The long, narrow room teemed with a breakfast cornucopia of aromas: bacon on a sizzling griddle, doughy bread toasting under an open broiler, cinnamon-pumpkin muffins cooling on a rack on the island in the center of the kitchen.

Virgil Sledden, owner and principal chef of the Caboose, manned the gas burners on the far left of the room. He didn’t bat an eyelid but continued to flip a line of pancakes two at a time, squinted at Melanie, and then glanced to Mike. “Hey, Mike. I heard you were back in town. Rumor has it you bought the Laroque building.”

Funny, Virgil didn’t seem surprised that Mike was back. Why hadn’t he warned her? He always had before. Damn it. She hated the fact that everyone who worked at the Caboose had cottoned on to her stupid crush on Mike. Valérie had made certain of that exposure with her snide remarks over the years. Then Virgil’s last words sank in. Not the Laroque building? Fate, the joker, had reared its ugly head again. No way could she avoid Mike for long, not with the building almost directly opposite the Caboose.

“Drake and I did. Where’s her purse and coat?”

Melanie knuckled her eyes; she must be dreaming. The normal kitchen noises—pots banging, dishes and glasses rattling, the hissing of bacon fat colliding with water—all ceased at once, as if an orchestra conductor had slashed his baton for an abrupt silence.

“Locker by the back door. Mind telling me what you plan on doing with our Melanie?” Tall, lean, and muscled, Virgil sported a shaved head and a once snow-white apron that had lost several wars and gained tattoo like splotches sporting a spectrum of hues, from mud-gravy brown through mustard yellow to ketchup red.

“I’m taking her home. Can you call in someone else?”

“Reckon I can get my sister to fill in. Melanie, honey, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” Virgil set his spatula down.

Nah. It wasn’t a dream. Someone had stuck her in a loony bin. “I’m feeling perfectly fine. Virgil, tell Mike to put me down. Right now.”

Virgil gave her a thorough once-over. “You kinda look feverish, honey. I think Mike’s right and maybe you should go home.”

“I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.” Melanie got up close and personal in Mike’s face. He kissed the tip of her nose.

Her brain went into lockdown and that man scent of his, that spicy aroma that promised a boneless, languid, postcoital haze, had her giddy and aroused.

“When’s her next shift?” Mike sailed across the kitchen.

“She’s on the breakfast shift the whole week, like normal.”

“Will you two stop talking about me as if I’m not here? Virgil, I order you to tell him to put me down.” Melanie grabbed a hank of Mike’s hair, intending to yank each strand from his head, but got waylaid by how soft and silky the curls felt.

“Best you let Mike take you home before Doc G. gets here. He was in earlier, and he’s mighty pissed at you, young lady. ’Pears you lied to him about your shift.” Virgil gave Mike a thumbs-up and flipped a golden pancake.

She’d never seen so many mouths hanging open. Everyone in the kitchen—Andy, the busboy, Virgil’s cousin Homer, even Janie the cashier who never let an expression crack her lined face—had their mouths open and their stares trained on Mike carrying her.

Melanie covered her flaming face with both hands.

She peeked through her fingers over Mike’s shoulder when the swinging doors to the kitchen opened again. Brinda walked in. She did a double take when she spotted Melanie. The tray she carried tilted left, and a glass filled with ice and water started an agonizingly slow slide to the tiles.

All at once, Drake was by Brinda’s side, and he grabbed the glass from thin air—or so it seemed.

“You okay, Melanie? What’s he doing?” Brinda shoved the tray at Drake and hurried across the room.

Drake jostled with the tray and its contents. Plates rattled. A knife clanged to the floor. Melanie held her breath. Could Drake keep his balance?

Just as Drake straightened and she heaved a relieved sigh, the doors slammed open and into Drake’s back. Doc G. stalked into the space behind Drake, realized impact was imminent, and tried to backpedal. To no avail. Doc G. crashed into Drake. Tray, plates, cutlery, and glasses went flying.

Brinda glanced over her shoulder at the commotion but continued her strident march in Mike and Melanie’s direction.

Andy pushed a cart filled with dirty dishes from one station to another, his gaze glued on Doc G., Drake, and the pileup.

Brinda and Andy were on a collision path, and neither was looking where they were going.

“Watch out!” Melanie yelled.

Andy let go of the cart and spun around. The cart accelerated as if Andy’d shoved it, and it raced down the narrow divide between counters and wall ovens, headed straight toward a bucket and a mop braced on the rim of a row of sinks.

Brinda jumped to the left.

The cart collided with the bucket, and the mop soared into flight. The ensuing spray of suds and soapy liquid drenched Doc G. and Drake, who had only seconds before they struggled to their feet.

In the noisy chaos that erupted, no one paid any attention to Mike and Melanie. He retrieved her coat and purse before she could blink. They were out the back door and into the morning sunlight and a brisk, bristling breeze determined to impede their progress before her brain registered what had happened. The frost in the air tore at Melanie’s eyes and made them water.