Marked by Moonlight (11 page)

“I haven't told you thank you.”

The soft beat of his thumbs on the steering wheel abruptly ceased. “For what?”

Claire looked at him again. “Helping me.”

His lips thinned. “I haven't helped you yet.”

“I think you have.” Claire recalled what he had said about the police force being full of hunters like him. “Those other hunters you mentioned, would they do what you're doing?”

“No. They'd have destroyed you that first night.” The muscles in his jaw knotted and his eyes grew intense, burning as they looked at her. “I guess I'm just growing too soft for this job.” There was both sarcasm and anger in his voice. Claire wondered to whom it was directed.

Gideon turned, relieving her of his intense gaze as he accepted the bags of food through the window. She took the warm bags, the aroma of fried food tantalizing. He shifted the gear stick and they were soon speeding along the frontage road. Even with the top attached, the air hummed loudly around the vehicle as they merged onto the interstate. Grease soaked through the white paper bags balanced on her lap, singeing the tops of her thighs. But she didn't care. A burger in one hand, she shoved fries into her mouth, hardly chewing before she swallowed.

“Mind handing me my burger?”

“Oh,” she mumbled around a mouthful of hot, salty fries. She fumbled in the bag for his burger, unwrapped half of it, and handed it to him, avoiding the overwhelming temptation to take a bite.

“So,” she asked, biting into an onion ring, “how does one become a lycan hunter?” Silence stretched, so she pressed. “I mean it's not exactly the kind of job you find in the classifieds.”

“I've been training since I was a kid,” he offered.

She ate another onion ring, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she sighed impatiently. “What? Is it the family business or something? Was your father a lycan hunter, too?”

“No. Just another victim of its curse.”

Her gaze shot to him, the onion ring in her mouth suddenly dust. “He was infected? Like me?”

His jaw knotted again. “No, my mother was. My father merely her dinner.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, nausea churning her stomach. “That's why you do this.” It was personal.

Cursing, he jerked a hand from the steering wheel to run through his hair, tousling the sun-kissed locks. “Christ. I don't talk about this. With anyone. I don't know why I am now.”

“Maybe you need to talk about it,” she suggested.

He slid her a bitter look. “Let's get a couple things straight. Just because I'm helping you doesn't mean we get friendly. We don't chat and share life histories.” His gaze cut to her, penetrating, demanding nothing less than total agreement. “We're
not
friends. Get it?”

“Yeah.” Claire understood. Even as his words undeniably stung. It should have occurred to her sooner. In the event they didn't break the curse, killing her could be awkward, difficult, if they formed a friendship. “So how many like me have you helped before?” she asked.

He slanted her an unreadable look. After a long moment, he finally replied. “None.”

“None?”

“Look, my job is to destroy lycans. That's the code. Whether you've fed yet or not doesn't matter. You're infected. Every agent in the country—hell, the world—would snuff you out rather than let you draw another breath.”

“Codes? Agents?” She shook her head. “What are you, the FBI?”

“Underground societies. I'm an agent for NODEAL, the National Organization for Defense against Evolving and Ancient Lycanthropes. Europe has EFLA, the European Federation of Lycan Agents.”

“Werewolves are that rampant?”

“Like damned locusts. And their numbers have been growing. Especially in the States. There's been a lot of rumbling in the ranks. NODEAL's considering merging with EFLA. They're better at controlling their lycan population.”

“That many people are being infected by werewolves?”

“Actually, no. Lycans are very discriminating. They prefer to breed within their packs. A single lycan female can successfully procreate for a generation or two.”

“If they're so discriminating, then why was Lenny infected?”

He frowned, staring straight ahead at the two-lane highway. “I don't know. Rogue lycan, perhaps. Or maybe the kid got away before they could finish him off.”

Fighting back the brutal image that evoked, she swallowed down the tightness in her throat and asked, “So what else can I expect?” Besides turning into a monster and feeding on human flesh?

He was silent a long moment. “Heightened senses—taste, touch, smell, sight. You're stronger. Faster. Quick to anger. Quick to react.”

She nodded. Her temper had certainly been hair-trigger lately. And her senses had been sensitive. To a distracting degree. She had tried to dismiss it. Rationalized it away, pretended not to notice.

“You're the one living through it. You can probably better describe it.”

Moistening her lips, she volunteered, “I eat a lot.”

“You're burning more calories now.”

Her head swiveled to look at him. “What?”

“Your metabolic intake has increased because lycans burn energy faster.”

“You mean I can eat like this and not gain weight?” She glanced at the discarded bags on the floorboard, her lips twisting. “Guess that's one perk.”

“This isn't a joke.”

“Am I laughing?” she snapped. “Trust me, I'm hanging on by a thread here.” Hearing the wobble in her voice, she blinked burning eyes and stared out at the pastureland flying past, knowing soon she would be back in a concrete jungle full of flesh-hungry beasts.

And she was one of them.

Dogs come in all shapes and sizes; know your type.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

N
ibbling on her straw, Claire surveyed the house beneath the muted glow of streetlights. “This is your house?”

“Yeah.” He pulled her suitcase from the backseat before she had a chance to grab it herself.

The narrow, redbrick two-story with a deep front porch was an older home, circa 1940s. An inviting swing swayed in the night breeze on one end of the porch, and a pile of firewood sat on the other end. A large magnolia tree shaded the house, its thick leaves rustling. Inhaling, she caught its sweet, almost lemony aroma.

A family house. For a family man. Definitely not the house she had imagined him residing in.

Come to think of it, she really couldn't imagine him having a home at all. He had taken on such mythical proportions in her mind that she couldn't imagine him putting down roots anywhere. She visualized him living out of his Jeep, never sleeping, simply passing his time cruising the city streets, frequenting seedy bars as he hunted and destroyed werewolves. Silly. Despite his extraordinary vocation, he was just a man. No more. No knight in shining armor sacrificing his life in pursuit of a grand quest.

She followed him into the house and up the stairs, their footfalls deadened by the faded runner covering the wooden steps.

“The couch folds out,” he explained in crisp tones, dropping her suitcase on a couch in a small, wood-paneled room. She moved to the window and parted the curtains with one hand, looking down at the front yard, its grass rippling in the late-night breeze.

“The sheets are already on. I'll bring you a blanket.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, her gaze following the streak of light on the wood floor to its source. The moon sat high overhead, beyond half full. It wouldn't be long before it was completely full.

“We don't have much time left. Eight days,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

Eight days?
His words struck her like a blow. Struggling for breath, she let the curtains fall back in place. “Where do we go from here?”

“It's late. Get some sleep. We'll start tomorrow by going back to the bar where I first saw Lenny.” He paused at the door. “You'll need to dress the part.” Gesturing to her person, he seemed to struggle for the appropriate words. “Look, you know…done up.”

Done up?

“Okay,” she answered slowly, uncertainly.

He left, his footsteps thudding down the hall.

Alone, she glanced around the room, noticing the rolltop desk in the corner. A computer much newer than her own sat on top of the worn walnut surface. She stepped closer. Personal papers littered the desk, a few bills, a book. A very worn, dog-eared book. She picked it up and read the title:
Man's Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs
.

The skin at her nape prickled.

Curious, she opened the book, her gaze falling on the inscription inside the cover.

Gideon, welcome aboard. May this book aid you as it has me.

It was signed
Cooper
.

Stomach in knots, she carefully set it back on the desk.
A dog book.
She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, afraid that she was going to be sick. Her changing behavior could be studied and learned from a dog manual? It was galling, it was degrading…it scared the hell out of her. She jerked her hand from her mouth and flipped the book over on the desk, hiding its cover.

More determined than ever to win back her life, she unzipped her suitcase and began rifling through clothes, searching for an outfit that qualified as “done up.” Still, her gaze kept straying to the book, a taunting reminder of the lycan blood coursing through her. It didn't matter that she couldn't see the cover. She could see the book lying there, read the title in her mind.

Fed up, she strode over to it and flung it in the top drawer, out of sight. But not out of mind.

Claire stayed in her room most of the following day. Availing herself of the computer on the rolltop desk, she searched for any reference to lycans or werewolves. Instead of giving her a clearer picture, her head ached from trying to sort through a myriad of myths.

Gideon didn't show himself. She heard the back door slam early that morning and watched as he jogged off down the street. She noted his return an hour and a half later, drenched in sweat, muscled biceps gleaming in the morning sun. The sight made her breasts tighten against her shirt.

At eight o'clock she headed downstairs. A quick survey revealed the living room and kitchen empty. No sight of Gideon anywhere. She inspected the fridge. Typical bachelor fare. All the drinks she could want: orange juice, Gatorade, Diet Coke, beer, beer—she pushed aside a carton of expired milk—more beer. Aside from a box of baking soda there wasn't anything to eat.

Hands on her hips, she called out, “Gideon?”

“In here,” came a muffled reply.

She followed his voice, opening the door that led to the garage. No vehicles occupied its stifling confines. A large fan whirred in the corner, the only thing circulating air in the enclosed space. The scent of freshly cut cedar and oak assailed her. Suddenly she knew she knew why he always smelled of wood.

The garage teemed with machinery: a table saw, drills, and other tools she didn't know the names for. A large workbench scattered with various hand tools lined one side of the garage. Two rocking chairs, one large bookcase, and a dresser filled most of the remaining space.

Gideon sat on a stool, chest bare and glistening with perspiration as he sanded one of the rocking chairs. Her mouth dried as she watched his biceps flex and ripple in a fascinating dance of muscle and sinew. Her palms itched to touch that tanned skin. Instead, she rubbed her hands together to stop from reaching out.

“Hey.” He leaned back on the stool and wiped the back of his hand across his brow, revealing the slightly paler underside of his muscled bicep.

Oh God
. She swallowed. The skin would be soft as velvet there. Her gaze roamed the faint pattern of blue veins, wanting to trace them with her fingers.

His gaze flickered over her, and she held her breath, waiting for his reaction. She wore a shimmering turquoise halter top that dipped low and loose between her breasts. Shocking attire for a woman who never once wore a bikini at the beach. Her low-rise black slacks hugged her hips. The entire ensemble made her feel bold, sexy, and a little bit like the teenage girls in her class who flaunted their bodies so they could twist boys into knots.

Not that she hoped to twist Gideon into knots. She was only following orders. Still, it would have been nice if he noticed, if he showed a hint of reaction. Instead, he returned his attention to the chair, not giving her a second glance. Apparently, if she was waiting for his approval, she had a long wait ahead.

Stepping nearer, she stroked one of the chair's curved arms. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “So, this is what you do when you're not hunting werewolves?”

He paused without looking up, his jaw flexing. “Lycans,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “Semantics.”

He resumed sanding, the rhythmic scratching sound filling the air. “My grandmother owns an antique shop in Rosenberg. She sells my work out of her store.”

Claire moved to inspect the mahogany dresser, marveling at the intricate carving on each of the drawers. “You're an artist,” she mused.

He snorted, sanding away vigorously, his dark blond hair, brown with sweat, falling in a sweep over his forehead. “Hardly. My dad was a craftsman, a true artisan. People from all over the country wanted his work.”

She rubbed the smooth surface of the dresser as if easing the pain she sensed inside him. Still, she couldn't help feeling a stab of envy. Even in his few words, she knew he'd had the kind of relationship with his father she never would have with hers.

“And he taught you everything he knew, right?” Because she knew that's what fathers did. Good fathers anyway. The only thing her father had taught her was that invisibility was safer.

“Yes.”

“And your mother?” she asked, wincing the moment the question slipped out.

His mouth tightened. His movements became more vigorous. She felt his tension, palpable as waves of heat radiating on the air.

“My mother was a music teacher. In her free time, she was the choir director for our church. She was a good Catholic. Fish on Fridays—and not just during Lent. No excuses. We were front pew every Sunday. Christ,” he snorted, “she didn't exactly lead the type of life that attracted lycans.” His bottle green gaze cut to her. “She never took a stroll down a dark alley.”

Claire stiffened. “Are you saying I brought this on myself?”

His well-carved mouth twisted almost cruelly. “I'm not saying anything, Claire.”

Disliking the implication that she had brought this on herself, she suggested, “I thought we could get something to eat before we go out.”

He grunted.

“What?” she asked—then remembered.

Eating out together, socializing—those were taboos. He didn't want to get too close. No doubt he had avoided her all day for that very reason.

“Sorry to trouble you,” she snapped, hating the pout in her voice, the pang of loneliness in her heart. Turning to leave, she called over her shoulder, “I'll just go and eat the box of Arm and Hammer in your fridge.”

She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her. “What'd you have in mind?”

“Texadelphia,” she replied, salivating at the image of a beefy steak-and-cheese sandwich as big as her arm. She usually avoided them. Too many calories. But who was counting now?

He stood, wiping his hands on his worn jeans. A wave of his scent hit her, sweat and man, and her body sprang into aching awareness.

“Give me a sec to shower.”

She nodded, trying not to imagine his naked body beneath a spray of hot water—or her hands sliding over his large body, lathering soap over every hard inch of him. Her belly clenched and she rushed from the room, desperate for a moment alone to rein in her aberrant yearnings before facing Gideon again.

 

As they sat in a back booth, Kid Rock blasting from the speakers above, Claire eyed the collegiate-looking couple sitting in the booth across from them.

She smiled and nodded her head at them. “First date.”

An arm stretched casually along the back of the booth, Gideon eyed the kids. “How can you tell?”

Her gaze skimmed the little black dress with spaghetti straps the girl wore. “She's way too dressed up for this place.”

A smile twitched at his lips. “You're not one to talk about being overdressed.”

She glanced down at her cleavage. He had noticed after all. Yet nothing in his face showed whether he appreciated her efforts or not.

“This is overdressed?” she asked.

“No. I guess I'd call it
under
dressed.”

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, dark blond hair falling over his brow. “Why do I get the feeling that you, Miss Morgan, never owned an outfit like that before?”

“So maybe I went on a little shopping spree.” She shrugged, sipping her drink.

“And what about your other changes?” His gaze skimmed her face and hair.

His implication was clear. It was nothing he hadn't already said. He chalked up her makeover as a side effect of the curse.

“Give me a break.” Unwilling to admit that he was right, she said, defending herself, “I had the same hair-style since fourth grade. A haircut was long overdue.”

Pride stopped her from conceding that anything other than her own free will brought about the changes in her appearance.

“You're not a very good liar.” Those light green eyes glittered knowingly.

She dropped her gaze and plucked at her paper napkin.

“The new you definitely impressed your boyfriend,” he added in a low voice.