Page 15 of What a Wolf Demands

Lily’s heart skipped a beat, and the hair on her nape lifted. Like an arrow whistling toward a target, a single word shot through her mind.

Run.

Gaze locked on the stranger, she gave her head a little shake. Hunters always worked in pairs. Always. There was no need to run.

She was being paranoid.

With their backs to the entrance, Phil and Gaspar seemed oblivious to the new arrival. They kept up their chatter, their voices good-natured.

“You wouldn’t know interesting if it walked up and tapped you on the shoulder,” Gaspar told Phil.

Phil caught Lily’s eye. “I’m gonna need another round to deal with this couyon.” Idiot.

She nodded. “Coming right up.” Was that a slight quaver in her voice? Fortunately, the men were too engrossed in their banter to notice. The clean glasses were on a mirrored shelf behind the bar. She turned around, then watched in the mirror as the mystery man stepped past Harry and wove a path through the tables. A few patrons glanced up as he passed, but no one gave him a second look.

There. Nothing to worry about. She released a shaky breath.

In the mirror, the man approached. With the string of lights blazing overhead, it was impossible to make out his features. His clothing was dark. A hooded sweatshirt covered his hair and threw his face into shadow.

She took down a glass and faced the bar.

The man stopped behind Gaspar and Phil, his head canted down. The hood flopped over his forehead, but the lower half of his face was all hard angles and chiseled jaw. Up close, he was even bigger than he’d appeared in the doorway.

Head still lowered, he tapped Phil on the shoulder.

Phil jumped, then swiveled around. He craned his head back.

In one movement, the man lifted his chin and tugged his hood down.

Lily caught her breath. He was gorgeous.

Except that wasn’t quite right. He was seductive. Provocative . . . with high cheekbones and full lips that were almost too pretty for a man. The thick, black brows and aquiline nose were undeniably masculine, though. His black hair and olive skin gave him the look of a fallen angel who enjoyed dabbling in sin.

Danger. Danger. Danger. Whoever he was—whatever he was—he was dangerous. Her heart pounded.

He spoke, his voice a low, rich rumble. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Do either of you drive a red Ford pickup truck with a trailer hitch?”

Gaspar sat up straighter. “I do.”

“Someone slashed your tires.”

“What!” Gaspar heaved himself off the stool and hurried toward the door, outrage in his strides. Phil followed, muttering about “goddamn tourists” and “punk kids.” People at the tables jumped up as they passed, curiosity on their faces. Harry stood and held the door. In a blink, the bar emptied, and the door swung shut.

Lily stared at the deserted dining area. What the hell just happened? She looked at the mystery man.

He returned her stare.

Her heart skipped a beat.

He slipped between the stools Gaspar and Phil had vacated, then leaned against the bar. His piercing blue gaze ran over her face, lingering on her hair for a moment. He had to be at least a couple inches over six feet, and the broad span of his shoulders promised plenty of muscle beneath his leather jacket.

She swallowed. “Who are you?”

For a second, his eyes shifted, the human blue glowing like someone flipped a light switch inside his skull.

Well, shit.

She set the glass on the bar. “A name would be nice.” Always a good idea to get better acquainted with one’s jailer.

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