Taming Heather [Cariboo Lunewulf 1] (3 page)

There was no way she could take him on physically. Even when she stood as straight and tall as possible, five-foot two-inches had never been an impressive height.

And this man—werewolf—had to be at least six feet tall. Staring at him head-on, she got an eyeful of broad shoulders, and what had to be hard, well-sculpted muscles.

She sucked in a breath, willing herself to keep her thoughts straight. Right now was not the time to imagine how powerful this man might be. Although without any clothes on, he left little to the imagination. He looked a hell of a lot more than powerful. He was a fucking werewolf. Of course, he was strong. What she needed to be focused on right now was her article, how best to use this situation to help her in writing it.

He tossed her fanny pack away. It snapped against twigs when it fell to the ground, but in the dim light, she lost sight of it immediately. Her phone, her gun, her notes—everything was in there—her wallet.

“It’s not going anywhere.” He moved in on her again, those firm hands on her before she realized he had moved.

Strong and determined, he gripped her waist, pinning her so she couldn’t move. His fingers were long, pressing against her flesh, which suddenly felt torturously hot.

“Do you make a habit of chasing werewolves?” he whispered, moving one hand to the center of her back. “First a funeral, and now a private run. Should I be flattered, or leery?”

She shook her head, a lump of nerves forming in her throat. He had her arms pinned between them. There was little she could do other than spread her fingers over his chest. Corded muscles moved against her palms, hard and pulsing with strength. His self-assured confidence soaked through her, reminding her that she dealt with so much more than a human man here.

“You have no plan of what to do now?” The amusement in his voice wasn’t missed.

“I didn’t think you would notice me.”

“You haven’t done your research then.” His breath tortured her forehead, but she couldn’t look up. “I smelled your scent before I undressed.”

He knew she was tracking him before he’d started his run. And she’d thought she’d been so clever. And he was wrong, she had done all of her homework.

After recording the ceremony, she’d learned his name was Marc McAllister. Maybe it was a fluke that she’d discovered he was a cop while down at the police station earlier today. But she’d considered it a blessing.

And when he got off work he’d come here. The large parking lot, shaped in a U that surrounded the edge of the woods, had made it easy to stay out of his sight. She’d parked her car well out of sight of his, watched through binoculars while he’d stripped and then disappeared into the woods. And she knew she’d been quiet when she approached where he’d entered the woods. There had been no sight of him when she’d reached the spot where he’d disappeared amongst the trees. She’d sat and waited until he’d returned. And he had known all along that she’d followed him.

Damn hard to believe.

“And you waited for me,” he added, moving his hand up her back to her chin and then raising her face to his with a finger.

Heather forgot to breathe, could hardly focus on what he was saying. Not only was he a werewolf, he was a damned good-looking man. Straight blond hair fell naturally around his face. Darker blond with a tint of red hair brushed over perfectly curved chest muscles. A small hairline scar next to his heart and another one on his flat abs added a sense of mystery to him, made him look even more dangerous.

She glanced up at his face, noting another, almost invisible scar along the edge of his mouth. Had he gotten all of these scars battling other werewolves under a full moon out in the wilderness somewhere? She met his gaze and dark blue eyes devoured her.

His grip tightened, pulling her against him, against his naked body. Yup, keeping her mind focused on what she needed to write her article was going to be one hell of a challenge.

“I was just fascinated by what you do.” She felt like a babbling idiot. The right thing to do was to tell him she was a reporter. But somehow she had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate knowing he was being investigated.

“By what I do?” he asked, his hands moving up her back, his touch almost rough, and definitely determined. “Or what werewolves do?”

“Yes, well, both.” Now she was definitely stammering like a stupid fool.

One hand gripped the back of her head, his fingers wrapping through her hair until he had a solid hold on her. He cupped her chin, pulling her hair just hard enough to heighten her senses. Her head fell back, her neck stretching while his fingers glided over her skin. She licked her lips nervously. He wouldn’t hurt her. After all, Marc McAllister was a cop. He had a reputation to uphold. Surely he wouldn’t want humans to think he was a manhandler. Not to mention, the Chief of Police was human. Heather knew that for a fact.

He held her head so she couldn’t move, forcing her to look into the deepest pools of blue she’d ever seen. She could drown in his eyes.

“So are you interested only in how we celebrate death? Or do all of our rituals fascinate you?”

“Oh. I want to know everything.” No matter that he had her head pinned. She blurted out the quickest answer that might help her learn more about his kind. And keep this conversation on a professional level.

Except she didn’t feel too professional at the moment. If only his holding her head so that she couldn’t move didn’t raise her body temperature a few notches.

Damn. She was a reporter to the core. And at the moment, she wasn’t sure he was in the mood for an interview.

Those blue eyes darkened, like a thunderhead ready to explode. She tensed, and his grip tightened. He held her hair tight enough that it almost hurt. Not quite, but enough that she should be getting pissed.

“Then maybe you’d like to know what we do with young bitches who traipse around after dark without an escort.” There was a gravelly edge to his voice, enough to give the impression he was no longer amused.

“How dare you use profanity with me.” She grabbed his wrist, knowing damn good and well she couldn’t force him to let go of her. “If you’re going to be rude then I’m leaving. Kindly let go of me now.”

“If you were a werewolf bitch,” he began, his voice noticeably deepening.

“Yes?” She managed not to flinch when his grip on her hair tightened to the point where her eyes almost watered. “What if I were a werewolf?”

He had stretched her neck, making her feel exposed, with her head tilted back so he could look easily at her face. Something in his gaze changed. If he weren’t a stranger maybe she could read his expression better. But fear and excitement rushed through her, making it hard to keep her thoughts straight.

“Let’s just say we take better care of our own,” he grumbled. “Cute bitches out by themselves are assumed fair prey. If you were a werewolf, I would be forced to become your escort. Unless you’re the kind of bitch who would rather run on the wild side.”

His gaze dropped from her face, resting somewhere below her neck. Heather’s breath caught in her throat. No one had ever accused her of having large breasts. And she’d dressed casually this evening, knowing she would be following a werewolf. Her loose-fitting sweater had to make it impossible for him to see how her nipples hardened into hard pebbles, brushing against the wool of her clothing.

No. He couldn’t see how he physically aroused her. And she wouldn’t give in to it either. He was being a pompous ass, and she wouldn’t let him think he could imply what kind of woman she was, or call her names.

Nonetheless, she couldn’t utter a word when his mouth crushed over hers, demanding, and hot as hell. He parted her lips with a swift flick of his tongue, entering her, devouring her, and she drowned in the sensations that rushed through her.

His hands moved, swiftly, like an expert at seduction, one sliding under her bulky sweater, while the other shifted on the back of her head. He tweaked her nipple, sending sparks of electricity dancing through her, out of control.

She groaned, and he let out a growl that burned her alive. Never had a man been so forward with her. His hand cupped her breast, his rough fingers torturing her nipple.

Everything inside her swelled. Her heart raced. Blood pumped through her, making her pussy throb with a need she hadn’t felt in years. No one had ever turned her on so fast, made her ache to be fucked. And that was exactly what Marc McAllister was doing.

She turned her head, forcing him to quit kissing her. Gasping for breath, she couldn’t let go of him, or force his hands off of her. He’d rendered her helpless with little more than a kiss. If this was how werewolves treated their women, then this was a species that were dangerous in more than one way.

“Little bitches who run alone are often looking for a quick fuck in the woods,” he whispered, his breath scorching her skin. “Is that what you want, little one?”

“Take your hands off of me,” she whispered, fighting for control in her voice, and hoping she sounded authoritative enough to impress him.

He did, and then turned without ceremony and walked over to where her fanny pack was. There was no way she could look away when he bent over, completely nude, and picked the bag up off the ground. His legs were long, evenly covered with the same downy hair that graced his chest. Dark blond hair with just a hint of red. Corded muscles rippled against his flesh when he bent over. And damn it, if he didn’t have buns of steel.

In spite of the cool evening, Heather was way too hot in her jeans and sweater.

Her mouth went dry, then too wet when he turned around and she found herself staring at his cock again. Well, hell. She couldn’t believe she stood out here on the edge of an empty parking lot with a naked man. And a damned sexy man, who was actually a werewolf, and who could suddenly decide to do her serious bodily harm.

But he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?

The sudden thought of having sex with a werewolf made her skin flush furiously, wondering if he would be rougher, a bit on the wild side, more raw and carnal than a human man as he fucked her silly.

But this man, Marc McAllister, police officer and werewolf, had just insulted her, implied she was some kind of slut for being out after dark by herself. The last thing she’d do was give him the satisfaction of knowing that his nudity turned her on. She bit her lower lip, and looked away when he approached.

He didn’t hand her fanny pack to her but instead held on to it and took her arm, guiding her toward his car, the only one visible in the parking lot. Something told her that he probably knew she’d parked her car on the outer edge of the lot, shaded from the dark shadows of the trees.

“A bitch is what we refer to our women as. It’s not an insult among werewolves.” He maintained his grip on her until they reached her car. “And we keep a close lookout for our single bitches, protect them. A single bitch running alone at night tends to gain a reputation. Until a bitch, or a woman, is mated, her family and friends keep a close eye on her. It’s tradition and the way things should be.”

“I’m not out running around. I’m working.” She could still feel his fingers wrapped around her arm even after he let go of her. “And I know what you call your women, but I’m not one of them. I’m a grown woman, a human woman. I don’t need my family taking care of me.”

It was none of his damned business that she didn’t have family in Prince George. Her job had brought her here, and she was almost always by herself. Obviously humans were different than werewolves in more sense than one. And the way she saw it, she was lucky she was human.

He let go of her when they reached his car, and opened his passenger door then pulled out a pair of jeans. God, she was salivating watching him dress. This was completely unprofessional. Obviously werewolves didn’t mind being naked around each other. He sure didn’t seem to care that she watched him.

He pulled his shirt over his head and then slowly strolled toward her, handing her fanny pack to her. “What is it that you’re working on out here in an isolated parking lot in the middle of the night?”

Once again he took her arm, then took off with long strides that had her almost running to keep up with him. He walked her straight over to her car.

“Somehow I have a feeling you already know the answer to that.” More than anything she wished she could calm down, get a grip on her senses, tell him she was a reporter and ask for an interview.

He was just so damned cocky though, and he’d gotten her dander up.

He opened her car door for her. “What I do know is that it’s time for you to go home.” He rested his hand on the top of her door, staring down at her with those deep blue eyes that about made it impossible to think straight.

For a moment she wanted to challenge him, inform him in so many words that she was a grown woman and would do whatever the hell she wished. Her look must have told him as much.

“You can go home escorted, or unescorted. The choice is yours.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you think me capable of decisions now. I was beginning to think you’re accustomed only to women who are doormats.” Heather had been told more than once before that her quick tongue too often got her in trouble.

He moved around the car door, capturing her so that her only escape was to climb into her car. She held her ground though, standing there and glaring at him. So damned sexy, yet bossy as hell. Well, there was no such thing as a perfect man. Must be that werewolves were the same.