thighs. The race became one for her life, and she dashed to try and reach the doors at the end of the corridor. Without a doubt, those doors led to the ballroom and out into the freedom of the garden.
The rapid click of steps behind her on the polished floor added to the sound of breaths other than her own. A scream hovered at the base of her throat.
A savage kind of excitement tore through her. She’d no way to tell where the pounding in her blood might lead. Desperation to flee soared so her muscles bunched, ready to run.
Somehow, she had to get out of here.
But now her legs seemed impeded by treacle slowness as she fought for freedom. Perspiration poured from her in the effort to escape. She waded, dragged each foot forward as though through deep water, and a lick of hot breath scorched her waist. Her scream ripped out into the darkness. Naked, she battled, her fingers slipping and scrabbling for the door handles just beyond her reach. Soft, lush fur rubbed against her outer thigh. Twisting, she tried to avoid it, and cried out as again massive fur-covered muscles pressed tight against her hip.
A ripe scent urged her body’s response and a rush of fear raced in her veins. Swirls of darkness took all consciousness.
Eyes wide open, she bolted upright in the bed. Awake. The drapes flapped at the open window. Light spilled in from the car park security lamp, and the small room was freezing.
Rising from the bed on unsteady feet, she yanked the window shut, pulled her robe over her nightgown, and pushed a hand through her hair. She flicked on the bedside light. Four thirty-five AM.
Wow, that dream was one she didn’t want to go back to. All her terror had been encapsulated in less than five minutes’ sleep. Terror, the remains of it still sliding over her skin, rippled through her thoughts. A wave of nausea crept up from her stomach at the sheer helplessness of her inability to escape whatever had pursued her. Nasty.
In the bathroom she filled a glass of water, and staring at her reflection, washed the taste of fear from her mouth. The bright light in the small bathroom stung, and no wonder. Her pupils looked dilated to great, round circles. She narrowed her gaze against the light and drank. “It’s time you had a vacation, girl. I think you need one. When this shoot is finished, then it’s time to hit the beach.”
She flipped the light off and slid back into bed. The cool pillow molded to her, and with the hope her next dream would be sweeter, she tried to sleep.
By the time she checked out the next morning, the dream had faded to an unpleasant memory, its horror blotted away by her concern to make it through the traffic on time for a day at the office. She itched to find out what Franklyn thought of her plans for the shoot, and drove faster than she should have done, but made it to the office by eight thirty. Ensconced behind her desk, drinking her second cup of coffee, she twitched with tension.
Then Franklyn looked around the door to her office. His broad smile raised her hopes.
“Well?” she asked, and held her breath.
“My darling rosebud, my inestimable treasure, once more your creativity astounds me. I love it. Wild, sexy, all of it so very you. I mailed it to Niko, and I’ve called Richard in at eleven today for a meeting regarding the logistics.” Franklyn winked, and she grinned back with a relieved sigh.
“So, would now be a good time to talk about vacations?” she asked, only half joking.
“You would leave me to languish without you, my creative muse?” Franklyn’s brown eyes flashed wide. When she didn’t respond to this teasing, the expression she recognized as serious replaced his sham gasp of horror. “I’ll give you two weeks, when the Timeless shoot is over. Right? And dinner with me before you go?”
Pleased he understood she wouldn’t fall for his fakery as easily as once she had, she smiled back. “Yes, boss, all very satisfactory.”
“Good. I want you to contact Johansson and set up a date for the tech guys to take a look at the electrics and lighting. I also want another visit arranged with you and Richard. Tell Mr. Johansson I’ll email him with the financial settlement by the end of the month.”
“Okay, but…” She was glad today he was in one of his most approachable moods, but needed to phrase this right. “Franklyn, could you come out with us when we go? There’s something about the guy. Richard will run a mile.”
Franklyn stared, the indulgent smile she remembered from her teens spread across his face. “Don’t tell me, my lovely Galatea has met her match?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s only, well... He’s weird, and I think he’d prefer to deal with someone other than me or someone quite as cutesy pie as our darling Richard. Mr. Johansson and I didn’t exactly hit it off.”
“No, he’s not weird, my sweet. He’s just European, or has some other kind of disorder.”
Certain his mood could take it, she tossed a small eraser at him. “I’ll say. It sure is some kind of disorder.”
Franklyn dodged the eraser, blew her an air kiss and gave her a grin. “Honey bun, stop trying to make him normal and deal with it. Think of him as some kind of reclusive aristocrat with all the hang-ups possible from about a hundred years ago, and you’ll be close to the mark.”
“Maybe. Anyway, he can’t bite me with an email, can he?” She opened her laptop.
“If he does, rosebud, you come for a cuddle and tell Uncle Franklyn all about it, and I’ll knock a thousand off the price we’re prepared to pay him.”
“Would you, really?”
“No, not a ghost of a chance, not if I thought I’d lose his house for the shoot. Now, email away, there’s a good girl.” Franklyn sauntered off.
Johansson, an aristocrat? No way. Likely he was just a bad tempered individual, or totally reclusive. Well, he’d have to be to live in a place like his. She’d let him get under her skin. Stupid.
Next time they met, she’d make sure he understood her interest was purely professional, and no matter how he stared, the gaunt, hungry expression wouldn’t haunt her into doing anything she didn’t want to. Mr. Johansson needed to learn this was the twenty-first century, and women didn’t go for his soulful stare kind-of-thing anymore.
Chapter 3
Magnus woke to splashes of rain down the window, and the terrifying realization he’d traveled. His head ached and thumped. His body lusted painfully in the depths of his groin, and she’d escaped him. Delicious as she’d appeared in the dream, the shock at finding her there shook through him, and that he’d scented her, a dizzy explosion of delight tortured his wolf senses and left him trembling. How had it happened?
He closed his eyes and enjoyed the memory of her hair sweeping over her shoulders, the odd golden splatter of a freckle on the expanse of lusciously scented milk-pale skin. Mmm... Blissful. The dip of her waist had beckoned him to lay his head on her, the ripe fragrance she’d exuded had urged him to get closer, and he’d pressed himself tight up against her. To experience the touch of her skin had nearly been enough to send him over the edge, he was so hot for her. Now, that would be an expense of spirit he could ill afford.
Reining in the rampant lust, he tried to force himself to analyze events. He’d not traveled in that way
