скачать книгу бесплатно
Inheriting her mother’s model looks, Angeline had grown numb to people’s ogles, waggles and even jealousy-filled glares.
But the way Lincoln looked at her when she’d laughed and he’d misunderstood had felt like an iron fist slamming into her stomach, hard and painful.
Pushing away from the door, she trudged to the couch, slouched against the leather cushions and pulled off her boots. Next she peeled out of the thick sweater she wore over the long-sleeved T-shirt and tossed it in the chair. Picking up the afghan Lincoln had carefully folded, she inhaled his earthy male musk. Instead of trotting outside to hang the afghan on the balcony in the cold night air to remove his scent, she shook it out and laid it across her lap. After all, she couldn’t leave her favorite blanket out in the elements.
Too keyed up to sleep, Angeline visually searched for the television remote and didn’t see it on either end table or the entertainment center. Slipping her hand between the cushions, she not only found the remote but also Lincoln’s wallet.
At the thought of returning it to him, her heart picked up speed. The sudden acceleration caused her body to tingle and anticipation coiled low in her belly.
Perhaps a brisk walk would cool things down.
Tossing aside the blanket, she didn’t bother with a sweater or shoes. It would only take a minute to return the wallet. She walked outside and scurried down the corridor overlooking the parking lot to the corner apartment.
“Lincoln, it’s Angeline.” Knocking on the door, her fingers were as cold as ice cubes.
Tristan had disconnected the doorbell years ago. Too many people pulling him in too many directions. Once he turned off his phone to sleep, he didn’t want to be disturbed by someone showing up at his door and pressing the bell until he got up.
Sure would’ve been nice for him to have reconnected the bell before subletting his place.
Still holding Lincoln’s wallet, she tucked her hands beneath her arms to warm them. “Hurry up! I’m freezing.”
“What are you doing out here, Angel?”
Angeline spun around, doing a little jig that could either be described as a startled jump or a stealthy self-defense move.
She preferred the latter.
“Whoa!” Lincoln’s hands lifted in surrender. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” Angeline stood tall.
“Uh-huh.” Lincoln’s disbelieving grin raised her ire and suddenly she no longer felt cold.
“Why didn’t I hear you coming up behind me?” Wahyas had excellent hearing.
“You’re not supposed to.”
“Right. Because you’re a Dogman.”
Silent as a ninja, as deadly as one, too. Or so the rumors went. No one outside the Woelfesenat’s militarized security force knew exactly what the Dogmen did, other than the generic job description of peacekeeping.
Considering the numerous scars on his body, whatever Lincoln had been doing, it wasn’t so peaceable.
“You’re right about one thing.” Lincoln pivoted to block the gust of wind that caused her teeth to chatter and then reached around her to open the door. “You are freezing.”
His broad hand heated the small of her back and he nudged her forward. Her mind mounted a protest but her feet didn’t get the memo in time to keep her from crossing the threshold.
“What were you doing outside?”
“Cooling off.” He tossed an odd-looking cell phone next to the take-out box on the asymmetrical coffee table. If he’d had the device in her apartment, she hadn’t noticed it.
“Change your mind about sharing a snack?” Lincoln sat on the couch and opened the box of chicken wings.
“No.” As a restaurant employee, she’d learned to eat only when truly hungry, otherwise she’d eat constantly and no amount of running in the woods would compensate for the extra calories. Ignoring the delicious scent taunting her stomach, Angeline held out Lincoln’s wallet. “I found it between the couch cushions.”
Mouth full of food, he gave a hand signal for her to leave it on the coffee table.
Angeline strolled around the living room. “This place is probably a culture shock for you. The furnishings are too modern for my taste. Tristan didn’t like it much, either, but his mother is an interior designer and she loves this stuff.”
Still eating, Lincoln watched her with the same quiet curiosity as he had in her apartment. And when she walked into the kitchen, his inquisitive gaze followed.
“You’re in luck,” she said, peeking into the refrigerator. “It’s stocked with a few basics. At least you won’t have to go grocery shopping on Sunday.” Closing the refrigerator, she added, “Which technically is today, since it’s after midnight, you know...in case your days are mixed up from traveling.”
A chuckle accompanied Lincoln’s slight head shake.
“You would think Sundays are good days to go to the grocery store.” She sat on a stool at the bar rather than leaving. She and Tristan had their fair share of late-night chats. Being back in his apartment, it seemed natural to carry on tradition. Even though Lincoln was a Dogman, she could still be neighborly.
“Because everyone is either going to church or sleeping off Saturday night’s good time. But actually, the early risers are buzzing around to get their shopping done to have the rest of the day free. Late-goers are trying to grab something on their way to wherever. And the rest are trying to find something to fix their hangovers.”
“Good to know.” Not one speck of sauce marred his mouth and very little dotted his fingers. An amazing feat considering most people who ate her uncle’s wings required a plastic bib and a double stack of napkins.
And while looking at his mouth, Angeline couldn’t help but notice the perfect shape of his masculine lips or how his straight nose balanced the angles of his cheeks. His black hair didn’t conform to a human military’s regulation cut but rather fell to his collar in soft waves. The muscles in his strong jaw, darkened by a shadow of stubble, worked in tandem as he chewed. When he swallowed, she watched the slow descent of his Adam’s apple along his throat. The silver chain around the thick column of his neck held the dog tags hidden beneath his sweatshirt.
The thick dark slashes above his pale green eyes drew together as the curiosity in his gaze transitioned to something primal. “Angeline.” He softly growled her name and it whispered across her skin, heightening her own awareness of him.
She shouldn’t study him so intently. Wahyas’ senses were acutely sharp and staring too long usually signaled a threat or sexual interest. Obviously, Lincoln wouldn’t consider her a threat. He stood over six feet tall, while she only pushed upward of five-seven, and he out-massed her by at least seventy pounds.
However, underestimating her would be a mistake. Her brothers might not be quite as imposing as Lincoln, but they weren’t pushovers. They’d never taken it easy on her and the skills she’d learned tangling with them had come in handy a few years ago when a hook-up had turned sour and she’d needed to escape the situation.
Like most wolfan males, Lincoln would misinterpret her interest as...well...interest.Which, of course, it wasn’t. If she and a Dogman were the last Wahyas on Earth, she wouldn’t be interested. Even if it meant the salvation of their race, it simply would not happen.
Too bad, thanks to a treacherous brain, her body had no troubling recalling the intimate heat of him crouched above her, while his fierce gaze mapped every inch of her soul. His light-colored eyes had presented a striking contrast to the rich brownness of his nearly naked body and thick black waves of hair. Unbidden desire curled inside her like wisps of steam rising from a cup of hot chocolate.
“Tuesdays,” she said, throwing the brakes on primal instincts. Despite the close friendship with her former neighbor, Angeline had never experienced a sexual attraction toward Tristan. Considering her body’s unexpected and wholly unappreciated reaction to Lincoln, she would not make a habit of being overly neighborly.
“Tuesdays?” Confusion clouded Lincoln’s gaze.
“About midmorning.” Angeline slid off the bar stool. “Trust me. It’s the best time to go grocery shopping at Anne’s Market.”
“Appreciate the tip.” From his neutral expression, Angeline couldn’t discern if he truthfully did, or if he merely humored her.
“I should go.”
Lincoln met her at the door. “Here.” He tugged off his sweatshirt.
“Thanks.” She kept focused on the faint scar below his eye rather than the short, dark hairs spread across the broad, chiseled expanse of his chest. “But I don’t need it.”
He slipped the sweatshirt over her head and onto her shoulders anyway. His clean, crisp, masculine scent immediately invaded her senses, and she obediently slid her arms into the sleeves.
The fabric still held his warmth, and she remained nice and toasty all the way to her apartment.
Standing watch from his doorway, bare-chested and unflinching against the icy wind winding through the corridor, Lincoln presented a striking image of a proud warrior. He reeked of confidence, but not the arrogance she had imagined to have infected all Dogmen.
Once inside, Angeline sighed against the locked door. Hugging Lincoln’s sweatshirt to her body, she held the collar over her nose, breathing his scent and absorbing his warmth like a she-wolf showing more than a casual interest in a male—
Like cold water to the face, the realization shocked her senses and she couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough.
This was all Tristan’s fault!
Leaving the sweatshirt in a puddle on the floor, she stomped to the kitchen bar, snatched open her purse, whipped out her cell phone and began furiously typing.
Chapter 3 (#u484207a4-2c17-5558-bff5-b92a662a77e9)
“Dammit!” Angeline swiped the pick down the guitar strings, abruptly halting the sappy tune she’d been composing for the last hour.
Sitting in the middle of her unmade bed, she stared into her open closet at the numerous prestigious awards her love songs had won. Hidden away from all eyes but hers because no strong, self-respecting she-wolf would ever pine over a man who didn’t want her. Neither would she write songs about the devastating experience. Especially not a she-wolf raised by Patrick O’Brien. He’d be appalled to learn that his daughter had been reduced to inconsolable tears by the man who’d broken her young heart.
However, Angeline had turned the heartbreak from Tanner’s rejection and the heartache from his death into writing love-lost songs that country and pop recording artists fought over to record.
Of course, she had long moved past the actual events. But to write the music and lyrics people wanted, she had to tap into those old feelings, putting herself back into the maelstrom of all that pain. Lately, though, she had grown weary of the process.
Again, she blamed Tristan. His migration from her staunchest bachelor friend to happily mated had left her feeling off-kilter. A feeling magnified by her unusual reaction to Lincoln. Also, Tristan’s fault. If he hadn’t left Lincoln the wrong key, she wouldn’t have his scent imprinted in her nose and lingering in the living room.
Obviously, she found the wolfan sexually appealing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with chiseled abs and sculpted pecs, and muscled limbs that proclaimed his strength without being ridiculously pretentious. The way he moved and carried himself proved he’d earned those muscles on the job rather than in the gym. But she was accustomed to physically fit wolfan males. Generally, they didn’t stay on her mind.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about Lincoln, whose commanding presence had not been diminished by the loss of his leg. The injury appeared to be fairly recent, considering the freshness of the scars on his stump and on the left side of his body.
However, it was the lost and lonely look in Lincoln’s eyes that had haunted her all night and greatly interfered with her creativity today.
Sympathy infected her heart, causing it to ache for the Dogman. It shouldn’t. Her heart should be cold and unfeeling toward them. They’d made their choices and should live with them. Why should anyone be sympathetic? Especially those they’d abandoned to pursue glory.
Growling, Angeline strummed the strings in frustration and set aside the guitar. She slipped off the bed, stretched and then padded out of the bedroom. The pounding at her front door halted her trip to the kitchen.
She opened the door to Tristan’s famous grin.
“Hey there, Sassy.”
“Hey there, Slick. Bite me.”
Before she could close the door, Tristan thrust his arm through the opening, gripping a white paper bag. The scent of apples and cinnamon and sugar caused her nose to twitch. He nudged the door open a little wider and showed her the large coffee in his other hand. “I come bearing gifts,” he said lightheartedly.
“Once upon a time that didn’t work out so well for the Trojans.” Regardless, Angeline lifted the coffee cup and bag of pastries from Tristan’s hands. Ignoring him as he entered the apartment, she sat cross-legged on the couch and fished a bear claw with an apple filling from the bag.
Tristan closed the door and made himself at home in the overstuffed chair. “I’m not exactly sure what this means.” He showed her the angry, emoji-filled text message she’d sent last night.
“Just delete it.” Angeline wiped away the sugar sticking to her lips. “We’re good now.”
“I’m sorry that I didn’t give you a heads-up about Lincoln.” Tristan paused and suddenly the exhaustion he’d been hiding surfaced. “Nel and I were at the hospital most of the night.”
“Is Nel all right? Did she have the baby?”
“False alarm. She’s had Braxton Hicks pain on and off, but last night she got so uncomfortable, I took her in to be checked.” Running his hand through his tousled blond hair, Tristan yawned.
Angeline did, too. Seemed they’d both had a long night.
“Lincoln called right as the nurse took Nel to an exam room. I meant to text you—”
“Forget it.” She waved off Tristan’s worry and he began to relax. “You’re dealing with a lot. Seems to be your calling.”
“I’m hoping to build a team to shoulder that burden.” Everyone’s problem solver, Tristan—a former sheriff deputy, had recently been named the Walker’s Run Co-op’s chief of security. A huge undertaking considering the pack now had its own police force.
“Don’t look at me. I like my life the way it is.” In defiance of Tristan’s pointed, disbelieving look, she shoved another pastry into her mouth.
“I’m talking about Lincoln,” Tristan said. “Brice wants him to remain in Walker’s Run.”
Not surprisingly, the Alpha’s son had a habit of keeping his friends close. “Good luck to him. Lincoln doesn’t seem the type to walk away from the Program, even if he could.”
“Apparently, he’s being forced into a medical retirement.”
“Whoa.” The only utterable word able to form on Angeline’s lips. A Dogman losing his career, much like a wolfan losing a mate, hurt to the soul.
She would not sympathize with Lincoln, though. Not about that.
“I have a favor to ask,” Tristan said quietly.
Over the rim of her coffee cup, Angeline watched him squirm in his seat. The hot liquid heated her mouth and the warmth traveled all the way to her starting-to-clench stomach. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“I need you to keep an eye on him.”
“No.” Angeline cut her eyes at her oldest, dearest friend. He should know better than to ask such a thing. “I’m not spying on a Dogman.”
“Just be neighborly.” Tristan leaned forward, his elbows planted on his knees with his fingers laced. “Brice trusts him, but I don’t know this guy. Dogmen are just this side of feral. I need to know sooner than later if he’s on the verge of crossing the line. The pack has been through enough violence.”
“Why me and not Shane? He’s only a few doors down.” And a legitimate pack sentinel.
“Shane doesn’t have your assets,” Tristan said good-naturedly. “Lincoln isn’t likely to let his guard down around a male. But you?” Tristan’s expression turned serious. “You could make a wolf lie down at your feet, roll over and purr, if you wanted him to.”
“You know why I can’t do this.” Angeline swallowed another mouthful of coffee but the kinks in her stomach tightened rather than relaxed.
“Lincoln isn’t Tanner. Don’t judge him for Tanner’s mistake.” Tristan stood. “If Lincoln is the man Brice believes, when the realty of his medical retirement sets in, he’s going to need help coping. It can be you or someone else, but I strongly feel you’re the best person he could have in his corner because you know how it feels to lose the life you thought you were meant to have.”
Quietly, Tristan closed the door as he left.
“Dammit!” Angeline slung a throw pillow after him. Harmlessly, it glanced off the door. She snatched it up and punched it. “Damn you, too, Tanner.” She smacked the pillow again, then hugged it to her chest and schlepped to the couch, knowing she’d do just what Tristan had asked. Because she did know exactly how it felt to watch the future crumble. No one, not even a Dogman, deserved to face it alone.
Bracing against the cold, Lincoln knocked on the door to Brice Walker’s residence, two miles up the mountain from the family-owned Walker’s Run Resort. Used to the heat in Somalia, the lower temperatures in Northeast Georgia would be a welcomed change if his stump didn’t ache.
The heavy wooden door opened to reveal a petite, human redhead. A smile warmed the porcelain tone of her skin and her cinnamon eyes shimmered.
