Hour of the Lion

dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.

A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.

And she’d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn’t survive long if they found her. The suit had shown no remorse over what he’d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.

She turned off the ancient Jeep-the only decent car in the cheapo car lot-and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She’d lost too much blood, taken too much damage. Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn’t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.

Come to think of it, she wouldn’t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn’t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.

God, she’d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O’Flannagan’s parents had? Or be like Shanna’s. Her best friend’s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic’s words.

Why did people have to die?

At the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant’s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.

On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.

Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open-just calling to her. Really.

She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven’t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?

Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and-dammit-her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A. She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.

Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?

Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.

It’d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum’s bar…which he did about once a month.

At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.

He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He’d noticed-being as how he was a guy-what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.

And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal’s front side to see what else the evening might hold.

Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body. Since she was too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He’d heard the more-than-a- mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.

Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.

He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes-for the report and all.

“My jail is empty today,” he remarked sociably. “In case you wondered.”

She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he’d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.

The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she’d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop-I’m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed…and wasn’t that a damned shame?

“Oh, hell,” the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn’t right. “Listen, I’m really just-”

He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. “It’s called breaking and entering,” he offered helpfully.

Her mouth dropped open. “No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and-.”

“Um-hmm. It’s good you’ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.”

The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. “I am not a burglar, dammit. I’m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.”

He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor’s name right-’course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.

A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. “You’re bleeding.”

She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.

“I’m bleeding?”

Herne help him, but she really was lovely-and he shouldn’t let that pretty face suck him in. She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.

Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he’d never understood the attraction.

He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. “Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season’s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.”

Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles-the female must work out regularly-and he lifted her up.

She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders-just like that-as he slid inside her, filled her.

He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?

Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.

“Um. Thank you.” Her voice was husky.

“My pleasure.” After all, honesty was the best policy, and he’d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but…she was scared of him?

On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. “Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I’m sorry I’m late. I got hung up at the title company.”