column of her neck between the three undone buttons of her collar. His heartbeat stuttered and reset itself in time with the barely visible throb of her pulse.
When she finally put the glass down, half the beer was gone and most of his composure. Friend zone, he reminded himself sternly. Only a little more dangerous than a demilitarized zone.
She licked a spot of foam from her upper lip. “Ah. Now I’m great.”
“Tough week at the office?”
“You have no idea.” She leaned down—giving him a glimpse between those three loosened buttons to the shadow between her breasts—to pull off her shoes. “Why didn’t I pick a job like bartending that would keep me barefoot at home?” She set the piercing heels on the stool next to her.
Good thing the stools were hardwood. Just like the rest of him. Which didn’t stop her comment from poking him a bit. So he was a homebody, so what? He’d done his adventuring and hadn’t found what he was looking for out there. “I guess that’s what you get for running such a successful business.”
She grimaced and took another drink. “Telecommuting sounds good, but the big clients always want to meet in person.” She wet her lips again. None of the natural redness left her mouth.
Beck refused to look away, much as he imagined some New York exec had glimpsed her photo on her company’s “about” page and demanded a face-to-face.
Her pack, which claimed the upper end of the valley, was full of creative types. Her Beta, Keisha, took nature photos for all the best magazines. Even in black-and-white, Keisha had captured a hint of Merrilee’s Alpha presence: strong, focused and always in command. Seeing her in living, breathing color with those blue eyes and red lips, any man would want to capture more.
Not that an Alpha would ever allow such liberties.
Merrilee kept one hand on her beer as she swiveled the stool to half face the room, the chatting of the patrons a contented murmur in the background. “And how is the Beck pack?”
The small town—home to his pack as well as a mix of unaffiliated werelings and unsuspecting humans—nestled about two-thirds of the way up Mad Dog Valley. Merrilee’s great-grandmother had claimed the lake in the hills above to the wilderness beyond. Female Alphas—unusual among wolf-kind—had held the land ever since, even when Beck’s great-granduncle’s bigger pack had claimed the town and the lower valley and spread out onto the ranchlands below.
“Been quiet,” Beck said. “No more wanderers.”
“Speaking of.” She took another drink and glanced at him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to that loner who drifted through last month.”
He shrugged. “We followed him to the edge of our territory and then I called you. I’m sure you took care of it.”
Even though he’d longed to continue the hunt onto her lands. He had met her in his human shape while she had already been in her verita luna her Second Truth. When he pointed to where the prints crossed the invisible line between them, she had blinked at him—her blue eyes paler and more piercing in wereling form—then lowered her nose to the scent and trotted off.
Stopping himself from chasing after her that night had taken all of his considerable strength. Since then, he’d been working out.
A lot.
She quirked her lips, as if she knew what he was thinking. “His tracks headed upcountry, out into the wilderness. I have Peter and a couple others patrolling that border. If he crosses back, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.” She tilted her head toward the tavern patrons.
He found a grin at her disgruntled tone. “Small towns are the best, aren’t they?”
She looked at him through her lashes. “Unless you want to keep something quiet.”
His smile slipped. Maybe he was getting tired of secrets.
She finished her beer with another swipe of her red lips and grabbed her shoes. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you later.”
She didn’t make it a question and certainly didn’t wait for his answer, just sauntered out with those high heels slung over her shoulder. He stared toward the door for a long moment, even after it closed, before he reached for her bottle, aligning his fingers with the empty places her grip had left in the condensation.
By the time he closed the till—after finally booting Orson and his cohorts into the night at the end of one of their impromptu barbershop quartet sessions—and hauled the trash out back, the moon was directly overhead.
In the silvery light, the parking lot looked like a sea of ice, and a shiver raised the hair at his nape. He walked the bar’s perimeter once, running his hand over the seat of his Harley as he passed.
Since the Sun-Down was situated at one end of the main street, he looked straight up the dark asphalt to the slumbering town, all in classic-movie grays. From the alleys branching out to various backyards, Orson’s tenor warbled “Bright Was the Night” and his quartet answered from their own stoops. When their doors closed, the street was quiet.
Behind the tavern, a line of trees marched up to the ridgeline like a finger pointing to the forested mountains. The moonlight turned the pine needles to pewter, leaving the shadows underneath more mysterious in comparison.
Feeling the subtle prickle of a watchful gaze sweep over his skin, Beck faced the darkness. “I know you’re out there.”
The darkness held its breath, but it had been a long night—a long time—and frustration grated on him like the parking lot gravel.
“Quit hiding, little girl.” He knew that would work.
From the pitch-black under the pines glided a lean shape that did not give up its sable darkness despite stepping into the moonlight.
At a distance, the shape screamed wolf. Sometimes outsiders literally screamed wolf. But the faint glimmer of the verita luna lingering around her was a clue to anyone who knew to look that this was no ordinary canid.
She chuffed at him, a reprimand for the little girl remark.
He was in no mood to be scolded. “You forgot to pay for the beer.”
Quick as a thought, she dodged at him. Her shining teeth caught his pant leg and tugged him off balance before she jumped away.
He staggered and almost went down. “What, you left without a word, and now you want to play? You can’t have it both ways.”
She growled. Werelings in the verita luna were always more volatile, their human-style principles and filters stripped away.
He knew his complaint was stupid—werelings lived two ways every day—but the sight of her all dolled up had reminded him of the distance between them. And how easily she always walked away, whether in high heels or barefoot. “Go home. I’m done with your games.”
She stared at him. The moonlight couldn’t catch her plush, dark fur but it glimmered in her pale eyes.
“Shoo,” he said.
She charged.
He
