Page 9 of Fire on the Moon

“Don’t put it that way.”

“How would you put it?” she challenged.

“That the most important thing right now is to keep those men from killing you.”

Her skin turned a shade paler.

Pressing his advantage, he asked, “What else can you tell me?”

“Let me think about it.”

He clenched his fists at his sides. He’d offered to save her life, and she wasn’t willing to help him? Maybe she was too strung out to think straight. Or maybe she had something to hide. Like was she part of some illegal scheme that had gone bad? He hated to think that was true.

“How about your name,” he tried.

“My name,” she murmured. “Right, I’m Francesca.”

He waited for a last name, but it wasn’t forthcoming.

Trying to make the best of her reticence, he said, “You’ve been through a pretty bad experience. Why don’t you get some sleep? We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He noted her grateful look, but he was pretty sure she wanted to put some distance between them. Because he was coming across as too intense? Or because she was still sorting out her own problems?

“Do you want something to eat first?”

“I don’t think I could.”

It was hard not to press her with more questions—like for example, do you want to call the police? And if not, why not? Instead he led her upstairs and showed her to one of the bedrooms he wasn’t using.

Probably she didn’t want to sleep in her sundress. And if she took it off, was it one of those models where the bra was built in? He yanked his mind away from that train of thought.

“Let me bring you something to sleep in.” He backed away and headed downstairs to the master bedroom. He came back with one of his tee shirts and set it on the dresser. “You can borrow this. There should be toilet articles in the bathroom.”

“I hate to be putting you in this position,” she said, looking relieved that he was going to give her some space.

“I volunteered,” he answered, then waited a beat to see if she’d part with any other information. When she didn’t, he turned and left the room, hearing her shut and lock the door behind him.

He pictured her in there, taking off the sundress. She’d leave her panties on before she pulled his tee shirt over her head. He pictured it falling against her skin, pictured the way her breasts would fill out the front.

With a silent curse, he turned away and started down the stairs again. He had always had an easy time with women. There was something about the animal nature of the werewolf that attracted them. He’d enjoyed a number of relationships, although he’d always made it clear that he wasn’t interested in anything long-term. In his early twenties, he’d figured he had plenty of time before he had to settle down. As he’d approached thirty, he’d felt a certain unease, like he was going to fall into something he wasn’t ready for. Still, he’d told himself he had choices. That had given him a false sense of security, and he hadn’t been prepared for his reaction to this particular damsel in distress.

He was aroused by a woman he couldn’t trust, and that wasn’t doing anything for his mood.

Doggedly he forced himself to focus on practicalities. Probably she’d be hungry by morning. The werewolf diet wasn’t exactly typical breakfast food. He was happiest with meat. But he supposed the house was well enough stocked so that she could find something that worked for her in the morning. He might have gone out to pick up some supplies, but he wasn’t going to leave her alone, in case something else happened—or in case she tried to slip away when his back was turned.

That last thought made his stomach clench.

But she wouldn’t, he told himself. Her uncle had been murdered, just after she’d come to see him. She had no money and no ID. And she definitely had something to hide; otherwise, she would have wanted to call the cops.

Yeah, he thought, a great reason for a woman to stay with him.

He didn’t even know if her real name was Francesca. And she conveniently didn’t have identification.

He’d seen she was in trouble and jumped in to save her. Now he couldn’t help wondering if he was harboring a criminal. Or was he looking for an excuse to keep himself from bonding with her?

Bonding? Was he letting his thoughts carry him that far?

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