Page 17 of In Control

“Will you now? After all, we’re practically old friends.”

“And you felt up my ankle.”

“Exactly. Only polite I know your name.”

“Sophia.”

“Sophia,” he repeats. “And is there any particular reason you were tumbling down hills in the dark, Sophia?”

“Are you telling me that you find that unusual?”

“It’s not every evening I come across young ladies sprawled out on the path in front of me.” He hesitates. “Unfortunately,” he adds darkly.

“I’d have to dispute your version of events. I certainly wasn’t sprawled.”

“If you don’t mind though, it’s how I will be telling the story to my pack.”

I halt. “Pack?”

“Pack.”

I study him. Packs are still an unusual and unconventional way of living for alphas, although they are becoming more popular, especially among younger men. But this man is in his forties. I’ve never heard of older alphas choosing to live that way. Then again perhaps the other members of his pack are younger.

“You often swap stories about your encounters with women with your packmates?”

“It’s one of the bonuses of being in a pack,” he says with only a hint of a jibe.

We edge closer to the party. There are other people clustered on the path talking quietly and the soft music weaves its way to us.

“I’d ask you to dance, Sophia. But I think you ought to rest your ankle.”

“Perhaps you’d like to ask me on a date instead.”

He halts and I stop beside him. He manoeuvres me around so I’m facing him. “I’m much older than you.”

I tilt my head and examine his face. “Ten, fifteen years I’m guessing.”

“Yes, I think you may be right.”

“It’s terribly ageist of you not to take me on a date because of my age.”

One side of his mouth rises in that earth shattering half-smile of his. “Terribly rude. You’re absolutely right.” He takes a step nearer, his hand rests on my waist. “I’d like to take you on a date.”

I swing my gaze around the party, catching the eye of the mayor talking to a group of old men. “How about now?”

“Now?” The alpha’s eyebrows leap up his forehead in amusement.

I lean in closer. “It’s a little old here for me.”

He laughs, his hand squeezing my waist ever so slightly.

“Come on then. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

He drives a Porsche.Of course he does. What surgeon doesn’t drive some kind of jazzy sports car? Not that I’m complaining. It’s a silver that gleams in the moonlight and the interior smells of the alpha’s scent, the leather seats soft against my spine.

As I run my fingertips over the dashboard and all its gadgets, he reaches across my body and fastens my seatbelt.

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