Chapter Seven
C HAPTER S EVEN
Even the most aggressive dog knows when to turn tail and run.
—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs
Claire slid her key into the lock of her apartment door with practiced speed. In a flash, she was inside, the hard feel of the door at her back reassuring her, closing her off from the rest of the world, sealing her in. Her racing heart steadied. But not by much.
She hadn’t seen him, but she felt him, sensed him the whole drive home. Gideon March was close. Her nostrils flared, convinced she smelled the woodsy musk of him. But that was impossible. How could she smell the man when she could not even see him?
Whether he was out there or not, her gut told her she wasn’t rid of him. Too many days had passed since their last run-in.
Pushing off the door, she hurried into her bedroom and pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed. Shedding her work clothes, she slid on shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing garments into her suitcase, she marveled at her impulsive actions, replaying the phone conversation with her mother moments before. As unpleasant as it had been, she had endured her mother’s fussing. When she explained she was taking a leave of absence from work, her mother supported the idea and readily agreed to Claire’s request to stay at the family lake house.
As she grabbed the needed toiletries off the bathroom counter, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dresser mirror and jumped, for a second thinking a stranger stood there.
Wild, honey-hued hair. Flushed cheeks. Strange, glowing eyes. It would take time to get accustomed to the new Claire. Both inside and out. Ready to step out of the shadows, to explore her new self, she slammed her suitcase shut and zipped the top. She was almost out the door when she remembered the cat.
“Molly!” Dropping her suitcase, her gaze scanned the living room. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” No response. Not surprising. Normally affectionate, the tabby had treated her with uncharacteristic hostility lately and spent most of her time hidden away.
Dropping to her hands and knees, Claire peered beneath the bed. As she suspected, her cat glared back with unblinking eyes, baring its fangs in a warning hiss.
“Come on, Molly. Enough. We gotta get out of here.”
The tabby responded with another hiss. She tried the serene, soothing voice she used to reason with an obstinate student—well, the voice she formerly used. “You can’t stay here. You’ll starve. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Reaching beneath the bed, she grabbed Molly’s collar to drag her out. A pair of sharp fangs sank into her hand. Claire cried out and let go. Sitting back, she stared at the bite mark on her hand, a haze of red clouding her vision. Rage consumed her, blocking out all reason. Before she knew it, she’d wedged herself back under the bed, her curses filling the air, intent only on wringing that cat’s neck.
She was crammed halfway under the bed when his voice penetrated her haze of rage.
“Cats don’t care for canines.”
With a screech, she wiggled out from under the bed. Once free, she toppled to her side and looked up at his towering figure. Heart hammering, she eyed the man filling her bedroom doorway, Molly forgotten.
Gideon leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his broad chest. With his mussed hair and several days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
“How do you keep getting in here?”
He thumbed behind him, the gesture somehow weary. “Sliding glass door. Easy to jimmy. Miss me?”
“No,” she snapped, her lips—and other places—suddenly tingling, refuting her words.
His gaze shifted to the suitcase on the floor. “Going somewhere?”
“No.”
“I can’t let you leave.” His words rang ominously. His vow to kill her if she didn’t cooperate echoed in her mind.
He stepped fully into the room, his shadow falling over her. His pale gaze slid over her bare legs splayed on the carpet. The air thickened. A ripple of awareness crossed between them and she watched the dark centers of his eyes dilate. The pulse at his neck beat faster. Their gazes locked. A loud drumbeat filled her ears. His heart. She knew this, just as she knew it was impossible to hear the pounding of his heart across a few feet. And yet she somehow did.
He advanced until he stood between her ankles. His eyes glowed green fire down at her. He extended a hand. She hesitated a moment before placing her fingers in the warm grasp of his. He pulled her up in one smooth motion, bringing her flush against him, flattening her breasts into his chest. Her nipples hardened, throbbing against the hard wall of him. The corners of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile. Her heart contracted at the sexy curve of his mouth, wanting, craving it on her own, remembering the taste of him.
Cocking an eyebrow, he wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her to him by the small of her back.
“You’re hot for it,” he mused, his voice a husky rumble.
She shook her head in fierce denial, her hair brushing her cheeks in soft strokes.
“No?” His hand slid around her waist, inching up her stomach and ribs, singeing her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt. Warm fingers closed unerringly over one nipple, testing, measuring, caressing the distended tip through her shirt and bra. She choked back a sob as his fingers played with her, his touch growing firmer until he was rolling and twisting the aroused peak between thumb and forefinger.
“What about now?” he rasped.
Mouth watering, she shook her head, refusing to surrender even if her body already had.
“No?” His hand dropped from her breast. She bit her lip to stop her cry of disappointment.
In one deft move, he popped the button free on her shorts and unzipped her. The backs of his fingers brushed her navel, scorching like fire as he delved inside her panties, his touch swift, sure, taking. He probed between her curls, playing with her, brushing the spot hidden within the folds of her sex. She jerked at the contact, moaning, and parted her legs wider.
He groaned, dipping his head close, long strands of dark blond hair brushing her face. Finding her clitoris, he rolled it between his fingers, exerting enough pressure to make her shudder against his hand.
“Definitely hot for it.” He thrust a finger deep inside her. Her head fell back, a silent scream lodged in her throat.
“God, you’re tight,” he muttered, easing in a second finger, stretching her, the pleasure a sweet pain that built the tension inside her.
“See.” His voice rolled over her, drugging, hypnotic. “You don’t want to go anywhere.”
His words sunk into her brain, a wash of cold where there had been nothing but heat before. She jerked away, his hand slipping from her gaping shorts. The backs of her knees bumped the bed, stopping her from total retreat.
The hand that had caressed her fell limply to his side. For several moments she could only stare at those fingers that had wreaked total havoc on her, longing for them to do so again. Horrified at herself, at her reaction to him, she squeezed her eyes in one tight blink. Get a grip, Claire.
“I can’t let you leave,” he repeated, regarding her with grim resolve, reminding her that while she might have been caught up in her body’s reaction, he was still someone who believed she was a werewolf.
Instinct gave way then.
Her leg lashed out with lightning speed, striking him directly between his legs. He hit the ground like a slab of stone. Snatching hold of her suitcase, she ran for the door, not allowing herself a moment of regret.
His groan reverberated on the air and she winced, wondering if shooting him would not have perhaps been more merciful.
Gideon downed the last of the tepid 7-Eleven coffee and wadded the paper cup into a ball. With a curse, he tossed it to the passenger floorboard.
Where the hell was she?
When he got his hands on her…
It was his own damn fault, he reminded himself. He let his guard down, forgot what she was. Her sexuality overwhelmed him. Made him forget everything save burying himself in her body. Her lycan instincts were no less at her disposal just because she was unaware of their existence. Her bolting-fast reflexes and powerful kick could attest to that—as did four packs of ice and half a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol.
It had taken him a good while to pick himself off her bedroom floor. Good thing NODEAL agents weren’t the settle-down-start-a-family types because he seriously doubted his future ability to father children.
It had been one week since he had picked himself up off Claire’s bedroom floor. Panic threatened to swallow him whole at the prospect of not finding her again. That he might have set a lycan loose on the population made him slightly ill. Clearly, this was a lesson. And physically painful as far as lessons went. He should have destroyed her that first night. He should have said something when Cooper placed him on call—five days wasted on cleanup duty when he could have been tracking the lycan who had infected Lenny.
But he hadn’t expected her to run, had assumed to find her still in denial, going about her life in blissful ignorance.
He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. That first night had been ideal. Quick. Neat. Painless. Why didn’t he pull the trigger then instead of reholstering his gun and going against everything he believed in, everything he had been taught? In one simple act, he had turned his back on the very code that had been drilled into him. The code that he lived and killed by.
Destroy them at any cost.
Sitting outside her apartment, he told himself this wasn’t a useless venture. Someone would have to see to the cat she had left behind. She hadn’t left out enough food, and he knew enough about Claire to know that she was too responsible to forget about her cat.
Gideon had no idea if her parents lived in the area. It would take him the better part of a year to contact every Morgan in the greater Houston area. And time was the thing he needed most. Aside from Claire Morgan.
In minutes Gideon could have her complete file in his hands. But at what cost?
Typing her name into NODEAL’s database would wave a red flag for Cooper. If Gideon ran a search on her name, she would automatically be listed on the end-of-day activity report Cooper reviewed. Then he’d have some explaining to do. He wasn’t ready to admit that his own stupidity had cost him a lycan. Nor was he about to sic Cooper on her. If she had to die, he would take care of it. It was only right. She was his responsibility.
“Shit,” he swore under his breath. The new moon had come and gone. Time was running out. If he didn’t find her soon, he’d have no choice but to access the database.
From day one, everything had gone wrong. He could see that now. His first mistake had been identifying with the target, connecting with her. He had let her become more than a nameless animal. He had gotten a glimpse into Claire Morgan’s life. A life, for whatever reason, that provoked memories of his parents and disturbing what if questions. She wasn’t like the others. That much he accepted. Otherwise, she would already be dead.
And now she had bolted like a rabbit into the brush. Too late now, but he wished he had taken more aggressive measures to convince her. If he got a second chance he wouldn’t screw it up, he would—
He sat up alert in his seat as a woman parked in front of Claire’s apartment and stepped out of her Ford Ranger. She rifled through her purse as she shut the door with her hip. She was small, like Claire, and carried herself with a quiet timidity. He caught a glimpse of her profile and instantly recognized her from the photos on Claire’s walls. The mother.
He hopped out of the Jeep and followed her to the door of the apartment, where she sorted through a ring of keys.
“Hello there,” he greeted, making his presence known.
With a squeak, she jumped and dropped the keys. He bent and picked them up, pasting on his most charming smile. He knew women appreciated his looks, never having a problem gaining female companionship when the need arose. But those were only temporary diversions. An agent’s life didn’t allow for commitments. Still, he thought it appropriate to exercise some of that charm right now.
“Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He looked beyond her to the door, striving for a guileless expression. “Are you a friend of Claire’s?”
“I’m her mother.”
“Really?” Faking a look of shock, he went for the kill. “I thought maybe you worked together. You don’t look old enough to be her mother.”
Mrs. Morgan blushed, her hands fluttering self-consciously to her frosted hair.
He continued in a smooth voice. “I dropped by to see if Claire wanted to go to lunch. I’m Gideon.” He smiled and shrugged, a gesture meant to illustrate both his disappointment and his understanding if this was to be a day reserved for the two of them.
Mrs. Morgan’s gaze roamed his face and body appreciatively. “You and Claire are dating?” she asked with undisguised shock.
Had she seen her daughter lately? Yet he couldn’t help wondering how much of that magnetism was truly Claire and how much belonged to her lycan blood. The way her gaze devoured him, the way her body moved—if he didn’t get to her quick she’d probably end up pregnant. The lycan instinct to seek a mate and procreate demanded it. She wouldn’t even know what drove her. But he did. He did, and he needed to stop her before her trouble multiplied. Literally.
“Well, yes, ma’am. You could say that.”
“Claire never mentioned—” Mrs. Morgan stopped abruptly, her gaze lowering. “But she wouldn’t. My daughter’s very private. Mike would just pester her to bring you home for dinner.”
And this, he judged by her nervous little laugh, was something both women hoped to avoid.
“I’d love to come over for dinner. I’ve heard you make a mean pot roast.” It seemed like a safe guess.
“Oh.” She laughed and glanced to the door as if it could speak on Claire’s behalf. “We’d be thrilled to have you over—that is if it’s okay with Claire.”
“It might be sooner than you think,” Gideon replied, feeling only a twinge of guilt at the hopeful gleam entering Claire’s mother’s eyes. He could almost see the wedding plans formulating in her head.
“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.” She looked down at the keys in her hand as if suddenly remembering her purpose. “I’m here to get Molly. Claire’s at our lake house.” Her brow wrinkled. “You didn’t know that?”
He made a display of slapping his forehead. “Oh, that’s right.”
She smiled tentatively, and he wondered if it struck her as odd that an alleged boyfriend didn’t remember when his girlfriend went out of town. It certainly would send a red flag up in his face. That Mrs. Morgan didn’t possess a discerning nature was fortunate for him.
“Yes, she said she wanted to get away for a bit, and we hardly ever use the place. I sometimes wonder why we even bought it.” She shrugged and unlocked the door. “Just glad to see it get some use.”
“Sure.” He nodded, forcing himself not to ask which lake.
“Well, it was nice meeting you.” Mrs. Morgan hovered in the doorway. “I hope Claire brings you around soon.”
“Me, too,” he murmured, trying to keep the anxiousness from his voice. He had a lead, and as soon as Claire’s mother left he could work on developing that lead.
He tossed out a quick good-bye and waited impatiently in his Jeep until Mrs. Morgan stepped back out of the apartment with Molly tucked in her arms. The instant she exited the parking lot he broke in to Claire’s apartment by way of the sliding glass door.
This time he inspected her apartment carefully, with deliberation—not the idle inspection of that first night, when he broke inside to rid the world of another lycan menace.
He knew what to look for this time. Knowing the address wouldn’t be plastered to her wall, he started with her journal. Finding no mention of the lake house in the pages of painstakingly neat handwriting, he dug through drawers as immaculate and organized as the rest of her apartment. He eventually pulled a floral print box from beneath the bed. Inside he found photo albums. Sitting on the floor, he browsed through pictures, catching himself smiling at Claire in different stages of life. His smile slipped when he came to a teenage Claire on a boat, looking distinctly uncomfortable with a fishing pole in her hands and her father looking on with a critical expression.
He turned the page, the plastic crackling in the silent apartment. His heart skipped when he came to the photo he’d been waiting for. Claire, her parents, and an elderly couple—grandparents, he guessed from their resemblance to her father—posed in front of a restaurant, the name of which was boldly displayed above their heads. Riverside Bar and Grill. He dropped the album and pulled out his phone. In moments, he had a list of Riverside Bar and Grill restaurants. He narrowed his search to the state of Texas and arrived at two restaurants. One in downtown San Antonio on the Riverwalk and another located in Canyon Lake. Last he heard there weren’t any lake houses along the Riverwalk.
For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosened. A grim smile spread across his face. One more search and he had the address of one Michael Morgan, Canyon Lake, Texas.
“Claire, baby,” he vowed, slipping out of her apartment, an excited thrill coursing through him, “I’m coming for you.”