Connor’s brother? She knew her mouth was open but couldn’t seem to close it. She thought her boss had only
two
brothers—Culley and Devlin. The twins stopped by the clinic often. Like Connor, they were tall, wide-shouldered. All three had thick wavy hair that was nearly black. Connor’s eyes were pale gray. The twins’ hazel eyes wavered between gray, blue, and green. She stared at the man who loomed over her. Studied the angles of his face, the strong jaw that was accented rather than hidden by the close beard, the line of his brow. Tried to look at the shape of the eyes instead of their hue. And finally saw through the warrior image and the fair coloring to the family resemblance beneath. It was there, powerful and plain. He was a Macleod.
And he was true to his word. James Macleod released her carefully and sat back. She jumped to her feet, muscles bunched to sprint to the door—but something about him made her pause. Something in his eyes that she recognized, as like recognizes like. This man knew a lot about pain. “So, are you okay up here?” she heard herself say. “Do you need anything?”
It was his turn to be surprised. “I’m fine.” He remembered his human manners, dusted them off and added, “Thanks.”
“Well, I imagine you already know the staff kitchen’s pretty well stocked. The Watsons just filled the fridge yesterday or the day before.” She looked around, wondered if he needed a blanket or something. Her eyes kept coming back to his broad chest, his muscled arms. There was something wild about him, primal. Adding to that impression was the fact that his ragged shirt had taken the worst of the struggle and much of it was hanging in tatters. So why the hell was she standing here worrying about a weird stranger instead of running for her life? “I guess Connor’s already told you he has spare clothes in his office and probably anything else you need.”
He nodded as if that were true. Actually he didn’t have a clue what was in Connor’s office and didn’t care, but he couldn’t say that.
“I’ll see you around then.”
No, you won’t.
“Sure, doc. See you.” He watched her leave and was surprised that he didn’t really want her to go. He’d like to hear her voice some more, watch her face, see the flashes in those sea-green eyes. And he’d like to touch her again, hold her again—not out of surprise or reflex this time, but deliberately. Awake and aware, to just pull her body, warm and supple, against his, to run his hands gently over those soft curves . . . and maybe feel her arms slide around him, hold
him
. . . .
Great, just great. Jesus Murphy!
He rubbed his hands over his face and swore again. His human form had gained him no new information at all. Instead it had brought him a brand new problem. He was seriously attracted to Dr. Jillian Descharme.
Chapter Nine
S
leeping was hopeless. It was five in the morning when Jillian entered her apartment, but her brain was racing like a hamster in a wire wheel. She could still feel those iron muscles, hard and tough under skin that was lightly dusted with crisp blond hair. Those intense eyes, that strong face . . . it added up to quite a delicious package, and it stirred her more than she cared to admit. Still, she made a point of locking the door and angling a chair under the handle. Stacked pots and pans on the seat of it. Every dish she owned was plastic, so she gathered glass jars until she had a double row of everything from cold cream to peanut butter marching along the window ledge. James Macleod wouldn’t be entering her apartment again without giving her plenty of warning. She checked the phone beside her bed, made sure she had 911 on speed dial. And tomorrow she would have some words with Connor. He really should have given her some sort of heads up that his brother might be staying in the building. In fact, it would have been more polite to introduce her to James, not to mention a whole lot less scary.
Satisfied, she looked at the clock. Six
A.M.
The clinic was open every weekday but only every other Saturday—and this wasn’t one of them. She didn’t have to get up unless someone called in with a problem, so she should really try to get some sleep.
Sleep?
Oh crap!
She shoved the chair full of pots aside, dashed out the door, and returned a moment later with the bag of herbs and the dream catcher she’d forgotten by the loft ladder. Jillian hunted through drawers until she found a large pushpin and hung the dream catcher as her new friend had instructed, on the wall above the head of the bed. She stood back and admired it, enjoyed the way the feathers cascaded down from it like a soft waterfall. The early morning sun caught the tiny crystals in the webbing and along the quills of the feathers, making them glint and gleam. Rose quartz, fluorite, and citrine—she remembered those three. And there was some turquoise and some amethyst too. The rest she’d have to ask Birkie about again.
It was all of 6:20
A.M.
and Jillian couldn’t think of anything else to do. She’d barricaded the door again, lined up the bottles of herbs on the kitchen counter. Her eyes kept returning to the dream catcher, fascinated with it as the pale morning light played across it. She decided to lie down for a while, but she wanted to be able to see Birkie’s beautiful creation, so she arranged her pillows at the foot of the bed instead.
She yawned hugely as she got into her favorite flannel pajama pants and topped them with a soft cami. The mattress yielded comfortably beneath her, the blankets were soft and warm. The sun dappled the wall but wasn’t bright enough to bother her. Instead it lent a pleasant golden haze to the room. Slowly her eyelids fluttered down.
James’s lips descended over hers, barely making contact, but she could feel the heat of them. He brushed the corners of her mouth, then back over her lips, again and again. He touched nothing else, yet every inch of her skin seemed electrified, abuzz with sensation and want. Her fingers ached to knot themselves in his hair, pull his mouth to hers, but her wrists were willing prisoners in his grasp.
Slowly, lazily, James nuzzled her face and took possession of her mouth, cradling her head in one of his large strong hands. Heat. Much more heat. Jillian had kissed a date once right after he’d taken a swallow of hot coffee. But this was far hotter, this was
living
heat. Not the parched dryness of a fever, but the radiant warmth of an inner fire. She melted into the kiss, felt her own lips become pliant, supple. She feasted on each hot breath, drawing it into her lungs as if from some sultry tropical night. His tongue explored softly, lapped at her lips and slid gently alongside hers . . . and she had a sudden mental image of dolphins mating in a heated lagoon. Her own tongue dared to skim his lips and dart swiftly just inside. She inhaled sharply as he caught it in gentle teeth. Held it there until she let out her breath in a long slow exhale. She could have pulled away but instead permitted him to suckle her tongue softly, shivered as he drew it carefully into his hot, wet mouth. Then realized she couldn’t pull away, not with that strong hand cradling her head, holding her in place. But the tiny quiver of fear only heightened the delicious sensations.
James drew her tongue in and out of his mouth with painstaking slowness, released it and lapped at her lips, occasionally pressing the point of his tongue at each corner of her mouth. She took his bottom lip in her teeth and tugged softly. Wanted, wanted something, wanted anything. Accepted his tongue eagerly when it plunged deep.
Jillian had never imagined a man making love with only his mouth. Her hands were free, but she could think of nothing but touching his face, cupping his powerful jaw beneath the close-cropped beard, and tracing his strong features as he kissed her long and deep and slow and hot. Again and again. And as he kissed her, James began to stroke her throat from chin to collarbone with a heated hand.
Her body had relaxed, gone lithe and supple. She exulted as her cami was skimmed away, leaving her naked to the waist, and the warmth of his body blazed into her skin right through his clothing as he lay beside her. Her heart skidded and skipped as she realized she could feel his erection, hot and straining within his jeans. Her hip was pressed tightly against the thickness of it.
Suddenly he cupped her breast, engulfed it in heat. He broke off kissing her and leaned over to taste her nipple, lapping at it with a hot, wet tongue.
Oh!
Her breasts felt tight, the nipples hard and seeming to strain toward him. Deep within her core she could feel the sudden hard clenching of her womb, the spread of warmth and moisture between her thighs. Dear God, she wanted this man.
His eyes never left hers as he slowly opened his mouth and drew her nipple into the moist warmth there. He suckled gently at first, letting the reaction of her body guide him. Then James paused for just a moment to breathe deeply, to inhale as if to pull her scent into his lungs, as a lion or a wolf might savor the subtleties of pheromones newly released. And to her chagrin, Jillian whimpered a little, missing him already. He bent his head to suckle once more at her breast, harder this time, faster, as if it were the most delicious thing on earth.
Jillian held his head to her, almost shaking with the excitement he was creating in her. His hand rubbed softly, steadily over her pajamas, up and down, up and down the thighs—then dipped insistently between her legs until she parted them, moaning for more. He palmed her then, pressing firmly against those sensitive parts until she arched and pushed back, until the flannel was soaked through. And then the pajama pants disappeared. One moment they were on and the next there was only cool air against her quivering skin. She supposed she should feel vulnerable, completely naked now while he was still fully clothed. Instead, it simply added to her arousal.
His hand slid down and rubbed her flat belly. She was surprised at how exciting that felt, how intimate. She jumped a little as his fingers moved further down to barely brush the soft curling hair.
James!
Her hands tightened their grip in his hair. She felt nearly wild with wanting him to go on, to reach further, touch her
there
. He lifted his head and sought her lips again, his tongue darting in and out, in and out, wet and hot. Then without warning he ran his fingers up the insides of her thighs and stroked lightly across the soft moist folds that enclosed her most sensitive places.
Jillian was certain her heart had stopped. James’s light touch electrified her, fanned tiny embers into flame. In a split second she had forgotten all, forgotten everything she had ever known except that she wanted James’s touch, needed,
craved
his hands, strong and gentle, hot and soothing, on every part of her body.
His fingers brushed her downy folds a second time. A third. He smiled against her breast—funny how those harsh warrior features were lightened by that smile—and ran his tongue over her other nipple, as his fingers parted her folds and dipped into the moisture there. Her breath hitched as he began to stroke her intimately.
James! Oh God, James! Don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m—
There was a ringing in her ears, then a ringing in the room. A doorbell. An alarm. No, a phone.
A phone!
The dream vanished like a soap bubble. Jillian’s eyes shot open and she lay there stunned. Awake. Wide, wide awake—and very unsatisfied.
“Jeez goddamn Louise!” She kicked the blankets off in a fury and got to her feet, wanting to punch something. Cursed herself, cursed whoever was on the phone (which was still ringing and damned if she was going to answer it) and most of all, cursed James Macleod. It was bad enough that the man had occupied her waking thoughts far too often—and that was before she knew he was real. It was downright unfair for him to start taking over her dreams as well.
She glared at the dream catcher on the wall and pointed an accusing finger at it. “You! Why did you let a dream like
that
in here?”
Jillian plunked down on the edge of the bed, her body abuzz with an unfamiliar pressure. Got up hurriedly when she realized James had once sat on that very spot. “Good God, there’s no hope for me. I need a cold shower. Something. Anything to stop thinking about him.”
Coffee was a good antidote for almost anything. Making it in such a distracted state proved difficult. She spilled the entire package of coffee filters when she caught herself wishing James had turned around just once so she could catch a glimpse of his behind. It just proves I’m not dead, she reasoned. That’s all. And that’s what she told herself again in the shower when her skin felt over-sensitive to the water spray. “Hormones. All hormones. And I’m dead tired. Don’t they use sleep deprivation to brainwash people?” She leaned against the tiled wall, was tempted to bang her head against it. “Look at me, I’m drooling like a brainless idiot over some strange guy I just met. Talk about mind control.”
Two cups of strong coffee later, her brain kicked in enough that she wasn’t thinking about his body. Well, not constantly. She was wondering about the look in his eyes. That haunted expression, the one that had stopped her in her tracks when she was about to run out of the loft screaming. What had happened to James Macleod?
I should be asking what happened to his clothes. Maybe he’s not quite right in the head or something. Although you’d think Connor would have warned me.
She shoved those thoughts away as she poured coffee into a travel mug, checked her watch, and headed out the door. If she hurried, she could still go yard-saling with Birkie. Maybe she could even find something useful for her apartment. Like a baseball bat to keep by the bed.
James badly wanted to Change. He had had his fill of being in his human form, of feeling human emotions and thinking human thoughts. But not a damn thing had been resolved. And now there were even more things to think about. For instance, there was that little detail about the date. He was still in shock from
that
discovery. He knew instinctively that he had been a wolf for a long time. Knew Evelyn had been gone for a long time—he could feel a distance. But thirty years?
And the dream—he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d dreamed like that.
Like a human.
When he was a wolf, there were only brief pleasant dreams of the hunt, the chase, forgotten within seconds of awakening. This dream was different. Not only did he recall every detail, it felt more like a memory than a dream. Had he been remembering something? James thought carefully, recalled the sight of the blond woman on the ground. The picture matched the odd vision he’d had when he left her sleeping on the trail below Elk Point. It had to mean something. And if it was a memory, then there was more to remember. Would he dream again?
As he paced the loft, he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. The bit of fluttering plaid turned out to be a hanging strip of his sleeve. Closer inspection of his clothes—or what was left of them—revealed that he wasn’t as dressed as he’d first thought. No wonder Jillian thought he was homeless.
Annoyed, he seized his shirt in both hands and yanked. It came away with no resistance, and he held the shirt up to look at it. The material was not just torn, but the edges looked charred, and the entire left shoulder was missing. James stared, then touched a tentative hand to his own shoulder. Changelings didn’t scar, but there had been a wound there, no, two of them. Shot
.
How had he forgotten that? There was no blood on the shirt of course—the Change had taken care of that, converted it into energy as it did with most organic substances. But he
had
been shot. By whom he didn’t know, only that it had happened as he knelt over Evelyn.
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
The urge to Change was strong. He didn’t want to think about any of this stuff, didn’t want to think about anything at all for that matter. Except now there were practical concerns to be dealt with. Even if he was planning to be a wolf, there was always the chance he’d have to switch to human form, even briefly. Who knew what situation would come up? He’d certainly never expected the situation he was in now. And Jillian’s reaction to what he was wearing—which was little better than nothing—proved that he didn’t have a hope of blending in with other humans. Instead he would attract attention, something that went against every natural instinct.
Shit.
He’d have to follow her advice and raid Connor’s office, find something to wear, something to last the next thirty frickin’ years. It was definitely going to take him a while to adjust to that date.