Alpha Wolf. Linda O. Johnston
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This was near where she had found Grunge last night.
Was he shot right here? And was his assailant still around?
Her state of mind lightened considerably when they arrived safely at her clinic. She pulled her key from her purse. “I have a few dogs to check on. No need to wait.” But she somehow hoped he wouldn’t rush off—not when she still felt a little nervous.
“I’ll come in. Make sure everything’s okay.”
“Not necessary.” But she didn’t stop him. Not with the relief she felt.
The idea of remaining in his company a little longer didn’t hurt, either.
“Your irritating some of the locals and tourists for being nice to Grunge last night might not be good for your health,” he said, accompanying her inside.
“I figured.” Melanie nearly exploded with frustration. “Why on earth do so many people around here believe in such absurd stuff? Werewolves. Shapeshifters. The value of silver bullets.”
“Keeps them from getting bored, I’d imagine.” In the light from the fixtures beside the clinic doors, Melanie could see his shadowed smile.
“That stuff seems pretty boring to me,” she grumbled.
“Really? I thought you enjoyed it.”
“What!”
Holding the door open for her, he grinned, sending awareness skittering up her spine and down to her most intimate areas. Again.
She couldn’t help smiling back.
He followed her inside. Nothing seemed out of order. Thank heavens.
The dogs in her infirmary greeted her eagerly.
She gave them small treats after allowing them out in the dog run to deal with nature’s call. Did they remember Drew being there with Grunge? They all greeted him eagerly, tails wagging, heads down as if they recognized him as a military man, used to giving orders. An officer, and therefore alpha in attitude.
Despite herself, Melanie appreciated that Drew stayed with her. And when she was done at the clinic, he accompanied her next door, to her home.
Again, he held a door open. An officer and a gentleman. So what if she felt sexually attracted to him? There was nothing personal in what he was doing. He was just…well, being gentlemanly.
She watched as he checked out her house. Everything looked fine.
She walked him to the front door.
“Thanks again for helping Grunge.” He looked down at her. She shivered slightly at the expression in his eyes. Their heat seemed to char her.
She wasn’t surprised when he pulled her into his arms. His body was as hard against hers as she had anticipated. All of it—especially where his hardness signified he was turned on, too.
She wasn’t the only one thinking about sex.
And that was both gratifying and a little scary.
When he lowered his mouth to hers, she participated willingly, concentrating on that kiss. His lips. The suggestive strokes of his tongue.
He tasted of steak—of course. And more, although she couldn’t define it. Something wild. And exotic, somehow. And much too addictive.
His hands roamed up her back, and every place he touched seemed to come alive with sensation. He made a low, rumbling noise in his throat that only made her shudder with the added aural stimulation.
She, too, stroked him—his back only, and what she could reach of his shoulders, and the taut, ropy muscles of his arms. As he had done, she moaned softly. Wanted more.
But she had just met this strangely seductive, secretive man. He had appeared in her clinic with no doors opened to him.
Slowly, as if withdrawing from a powerful magnetic force, she pulled away.
“Thanks again for dinner, Drew,” she said, out of breath and fighting the urge to kiss him again.
How could a mere first kiss be so erotic?
“Any time,” Drew said, his voice hoarse. “Goodnight, Melanie.” He looked down at her one more time, and the intensity of his gaze ignited additional flames everywhere inside her.
And then he walked into the darkness, toward the street, where his car was parked.
She stood watching him until she heard a car engine start. She closed the door.
Only then did she castigate herself for that kiss. It had been wonderful.
It had been meaningless. It had to be meaningless.
Time to return to the routine of being home alone at night.
She checked her locks, then went into her garage to retrieve her mail from the box beneath its slot. Bills, a couple of veterinary magazines. Nothing much.
She went into the living room to turn on the TV news and saw the blinking light on her telephone answering machine. She pushed the button to retrieve the message.
And froze, as a voice, obviously mechanically altered, said, “Werewolves exist. Other shapeshifters exist. Believe it, Dr. Harding. And if you help them, you will not exist. Remember the vet you replaced, Dr. Worley. Dead Dr. Worley.” There was a click, and no more.
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