Growl (2 page)

It felt good to have someone to talk to. Someone who didn't assume the charges against her had any merit. Good to vent and have someone pretend to believe in her innocence.

She wouldn't have thought any more of her chance encounter with the man or his promise he'd look into her case. What did Broderick think he could do? He wasn't a lawyer or a cop, just some kind of numbers guy who worked for an agency that investigated fraud.

But apparently he knew a lawyer, some hotshot, who could maybe help her. While charity didn't sit well with her, with almost nothing in her bank account Megan knew without help she was going to jail or going to have to flee to a country that didn't allow extradition—all to avoid a conviction for something she didn't do.

Hope for a different outcome meant she let Broderick lead her to the impressive chrome-and-glass building downtown. Hope also let her perch in the outer reception area of the lavish penthouse office.

Talk about swanky. Furnished old style in polished wood, thick carpeting, and leather club chairs, Megan had never felt more out of place. A swanky, high-priced lawyer who could afford this kind of work space wouldn't want to take on her case pro bono. But she couldn't extinguish the tiny flame of hope that hoped he would. She'd run out of other viable options—other than flight, which meant ducking the law the rest of her life.

Her current lawyer's optimistic prognosis? “If you plead guilty, then maybe we can whittle down the verdict from life to something like twenty-five years and eligible for parole.”

As for her retort of, “But I'm innocent,” “Not according to the evidence you're not.”

Framed. Just like a certain rabbit.

It was while thinking of rabbits that she heard the office door open and a guy stuck his head out.

He stared at her. She stared right back because, really, who in their right mind wouldn't? The man was freaking gorgeous. Tall, way taller than her five-foot-eight frame, and while she couldn't see his body, he bore the face of a god, chiseled from stone—square-cut jaw, aquiline nose, and a regal air. Add to that bright blue eyes, short, layered dark hair, and a frown, which creased his slightly tanned brow, and she locked her jaw, lest she gape.

Before she could take a breath and say hello, he ducked back into his office and the door slammed shut.

It stayed shut, and her nerve fled.

I knew this was a bad idea.
Her gut yelled at her to leave.

Up she popped from her seat, and she quick-stepped to the elevator. For some reason, it suddenly became imperative she escape. That instant.

While she didn't hear sound of pursuit, the hairs on her nape tingled. Again she jabbed the button.

“Why is this taking so long?” she muttered. A more athletic girl might have tackled the stairs, but Megan's rounded thighs, formed from a love of donuts and French fries dipped in ketchup, protested loudly against this plan. Much easier to poke a button and bitch. “Come on, damn you. Hurry.”

“Leaving so soon?”

The low, husky tone, coming from right behind, startled a small cry from her. With her pulse racing, she whirled and confronted a chest. A nice chest, mind you, wide and covered in a suit that she could swear cost more than she made in a month as a secretary, but also a daunting wall that blocked her view.

How could a man so large, with an unmistakable presence, sneak up on her, especially given how she'd been raised by a father and large extended family who preached constant vigilance?

Forcing her gaze upward, she fought not to gape. Even in close proximity, the guy appeared gorgeous. Too bad he was such an ass.

Slam a door practically in her face indeed.

Tilting her chin at a stubborn angle—her fighting angle, as her dad would say with a chuckle—she netted the butterflies in her stomach and managed to say, “Sorry if I disturbed you. It seems I visited the wrong office.”

“You're the woman Broderick wanted me to see.” He didn't ask. He stated.

Should she lie? What was the point? “Yes, but I see now this was a mistake. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

A
ding
from behind and a swish of a door sliding open indicated her ride down had arrived. It left empty, as she found herself propelled down the short hall back to the opulent office, not of her own volition. As if she were a piece of flotsam, he left her no choice but to go where he shoved her.

“What are you doing?” she managed to say instead of reacting in a more childish manner, wanting to duck out of his grasp and race for the stairs. Chubby thighs be damned.

“What does it look like I'm doing?”

Other than firing up her libido?

The big guy, with his rather large hand firmly placed against the small of her back, firmly guided her in the direction of his office. It wasn't too late to protest or to give in to her instinct for flight. However, given the insistence of his push and the uncompromising set of his jaw, she doubted she'd make it far.

The guy had a lot in common with a giant boulder. She got the impression that once he set his mind, not much budged it. Perverse as it sounded, it made him more attractive. She rather liked decisive people.

Two other reasons compelled her to follow him. One, that darned flicker of hope that refused to die. And second, at the touch of his hand, everything in her both tensed and relaxed at the same time.

That a thrill of excitement could ease her anxiety didn't make much sense, but it did confuse her enough that she found herself quick-marched through his reception area and into the most ridiculously awesome office she'd ever seen outside of a television drama.

Jaw surely hanging yokel-wide, she stared in fascination at the wall of glass that conveyed a panoramic view of the city.

“How the hell do you manage to work here? Isn't that distracting?” Good to know she wasn't tongue-tied around him, but it made her cringe to note her awed compliment.

“When you work long hours, having a view and a flood of daylight is a must. Especially for a guy like me. But we're not here to discuss my amazing view but rather your current situation. Broderick says you've been charged with the murder of your former employer.” He pushed her in the direction of a fabric-covered armchair before his desk. He circled the massive wooden expanse and seated himself in a smooth-appearing leather chair.

Ah yes, the reason for her being here. How should she handle it? “I didn't do it,” she blurted out. Way to shout her innocence. Heat infused her cheeks as she found herself the focus of his piercing blue eyes. He drew the oddest responses from her. She really needed to find her balance and start acting instead of reacting.

“Why not?”

The odd question saw her blink. “Excuse me?”

“I said why didn't you kill him? Was he a good boss?”

“Not really. But he wasn't the worse one I've had either,” she hastened to add.

“Were you fired?”

“No.”

“Fucking?”

She couldn't help a wrinkle of her nose at his profane question. “Most definitely not.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

A frown creased her forehead. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I'm going to take that as a no then. Did you owe him money?”

“No.”

“Was he cooking the books?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So, in other words, you have no motive?”

“No, I don't have a motive. And even if I did, I still wouldn't have killed my boss.”

“Too squeamish?”

“What? No. Yes. What the hell is wrong with you? I wouldn't kill him or anyone because it's just not something normal people do. Something you're apparently unaware of. What is it with you lawyers? Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” She had managed to only stand before she found herself pushed back down. Her ass hit the chair and she stared in consternation at the man. He'd leaped over his desk to stop her from departing and now towered over her.

How did he manage to move so fast?
Only her daddy ever moved as quick.

“I think you need to tell me everything, from the beginning. Starting with how you came to work for the guy.”

“I saw an ad online looking for a secretary.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Not long. I just celebrated my one-month mark.”

“So you weren't referred to this job? Subcontracted in any way?”

“No. Does it matter?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. When it comes to establishing motive, these are questions that will arise during the course of your trial. The prosecution might attempt to show premeditation, which is why these little details are important. Speaking of details. What do we know of the evidence gathered that implicates you?”

Instead of replying, she dug into her voluminous purse—a secondhand Prada that she loved dearly, even if she paid way more for it than she should have. But nice secretaries didn't buy hot Pradas from the back of a truck. Being nice sucked.

“I brought a copy of my file.” A folder filled with papers the lawyer gave her detailing the circumstantial evidence pointing her way. Even she had to admit it appeared damning.

Her fingerprint on the weapon, mysteriously located in her closet when the police executed their search warrant. Traces of her deceased employer's blood on her clothes in the hamper. The facts shone a bull's-eye on her, and yet …
I didn't do it.

Forget the truth. Her assertion fell on deaf ears. No one had listened to her when she told her story. She'd gotten home from work with her take-out Thai food, and from that point on she didn't remember a thing until she awoke the next day, face-first on her bed in bra and panties, when the cops came pounding on her door to arrest her and toss her apartment.

Gavin took the thick bundle of papers from her and tossed them onto his desk. “I'll read those later. I'm less interested in what the reports say and more in what you have to say.”

“So you believe me when I say I'm innocent?”

“I'd like to”—she perked up in her seat—“but I barely know you.” She slumped back down. “Which is why you and I are going to dinner.”

“We are?”

“Now.”

“But—”

He fixed her with those amazing eyes, and her mouth snapped shut. “If you're going to be my client, then you need to start doing what I say without argument.”

Not argue? Ha. Like that would happen. “Who says I'm your client?”

“I do.”

“Even though you don't know if I'm innocent?”

“I enjoy a challenge. Besides, defending only the innocent is for the altruistic.”

The word “altruistic” reminded her that her bank account was hovering awful close to zero and she refused to call her daddy. “I have no money to pay you.”

“Don't worry about it. We'll figure something out.”

The way he stared at her, his gaze smoldering and his body intruding on her personal space? A lightbulb suddenly illuminated.

Megan's lips pursed. “If you think I'm going to sleep with you to pay for your services, then you're sadly mistaken. I'm not a whore.” She'd do a lot of things for money, if the price was right, but sell her body? Not one of them.

White teeth flashed when he laughed. The sound sent a shiver, a pleasant one, racing down her spine. “I never said you were, and I guess I should have made myself clearer. I won't be requiring payment for your case, at all. I have money. Lots of it. Which means if I'm intrigued I can indulge in the occasional pro bono case.”

“So you'll take me on?” The flutter of her heart now had more than one reason to stutter fast.

“Oh, never fear, little rabbit. I fully intend to
take
you.”

How did he make that sound both ominous and promising at the same time?

 

CHAPTER 3

Initial panic conquered, Gavin, while not resigned to his fate—yet—could now take a mental step back and analyze his situation.

Less situation, more like dilemma, as he contemplated what role the woman who sat across from him would play in his life. Not just a woman, his mate.

My mate.

Even just thinking it made him want to run for the woods. Or get really, really drunk.

Before anyone came to the conclusion he was blowing things out of proportion, perhaps a few facts would help. When it came to his kind, in other words, Lycanthropes—men who became werewolves if the wolf virus took a fancy to them after a bite—it was said that there was only one woman destined to share their secret and heart.

One woman. One lover.

Forever.

One.

Ha.

Until now, Gavin had scoffed at the very idea. He'd spent the last ten-plus years as a werewolf, tasting the delights of the nubile fairer sex. Indulging in erotic pastimes—bad, bad wolf.

Sex with whomever he fancied was part of his lifestyle. In his world, he couldn't imagine why anyone would give up variety for monogamy.

It was Broderick who first tried to dispel that notion over way too many tequila shots.

“Once you meet the one”—and yes, Broderick used some ominous finger quotes—“you're fucked.”

Leaning back in his chair, Gavin grinned as he eyed the scantily clad gyrating bodies on the dance floor. “Fucked? I like the sound of that.”

His feline buddy made a rude noise. “Not that kind of fucked, you idiot. I mean screwed, as in hand in your man card, harness your balls, and prepare to dedicate over half your closet and bathroom counter space. Once you meet the woman destined to be your mate, you're a goner.”

“You're drunk and full of shit,” was Gavin's reply.

“Drunk, yes. But as to the shit part? Sorry, dude, I wish. The mating thing? It's totally real. Think of it as just another weird quirk of our kind.”