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The Empath
Bonnie Vanak


Every werewolf needs a mate… Nicolas was the strongest and fiercest of the Draicon, until he was banished. Now the werewolf has only one path to redemption: find the Draicon’s long-lost empath, the woman who will save the pack – and Nicolas himself – from terrible danger. Maggie is a vet, dedicated to healing.She has no idea of her true nature, the magic waiting in her soul – or the man coming to claim her. The survival of their pack depends on them finding each other, on their ability to become one. But their enemies have also found Maggie and will kill to stop her surrendering to an all-consuming passion…










“You ran because your instinct told you I’m your best damn chance of keeping safe. And I am.”

Nicolas angled his head toward her. “Because I will keep you safe, to my last dying breath. You and I, Maggie, are destined to be together. It’s not sexual chemistry, not the typical male-female kind. It’s deeper, more important and lasting. So relax and stop questioning everything. In time, it will all make sense.”

Maggie closed her eyes, trying to understand what seemed like utter nonsense.

She didn’t believe in karma, the tooth fairy or soul mates. What she believed in right now was self-preservation. Having escaped one dangerous situation, she now had to get herself out of another one. Was Nicolas a knight to the rescue, or a dark night of the soul?


Dear Reader,

Imagine working as a veterinarian, oblivious about possessing a healing power that could save the animals you love. You yearn for something more, but are afraid to face the truth—you are not human, but a wild beast who craves the night. And your destined mate is hunting you down to make you his own and bring you back to the pack to save your people. This is Maggie, my gentle-natured heroine for The Empath. She is desperate to find a cure for the mysterious disease killing her beloved dog. It will take Nicolas, the pack’s fiercest warrior, to bring the truth to light and force Maggie to realize their own destinies.

The Empath is truly a book of my heart. Though I’m multi-published, this is the first story evolving from a real-life experience. I began writing the book shortly after my husband and I were told our beloved Shih Tzu was dying from liver cancer. The story became my balm during those months when I knew we would eventually lose her. For eleven years, Tia had been my constant companion who always rested her head on my laptop while I wrote. Tia passed away in December 2006, but she will always live on in this book and in our memories and hearts.

I hope you enjoy Maggie and Nicolas’s journey of strength, courage and passion. Maggie does embrace her incredible power to heal, but discovers the greatest power of all lies in the ability to love unconditionally.

Bonnie Vanak




About the Author


BONNIE VANAK fell in love with romance novels during childhood. While cleaning a hall closet, she discovered her mother’s cache of paperbacks, and started reading. Thus began a passion for romance and a lifelong dislike of housework. After years of newspaper reporting, Bonnie became a writer for a major international charity that took her to destitute countries such as Haiti and Guatemala to write about famine, disease and other issues affecting the poor. When the emotional strain of her job demanded a diversion, she turned to writing romance novels. Bonnie lives in Florida, with her husband and two dogs, where she happily writes books amid an ever-growing population of dust bunnies. She loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at www. bonnievanak.com or e-mail her at bonnievanak@aol.com.


The Empath

Bonnie Vanak






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my beloved Tia, our loyal friend for eleven years. You will always live on in our hearts.

Special thanks to my friend Julie Sloan and the Rebs;

Pamela Clare, Jan Zimlich, Alice Duncan, Alice

Gaines, Mimi Riser and especially Norah Wilson, who kept urging me to write this book.

And a very special thanks to my wonderful husband

Frank, and our vet, Dr James Grubb, who loves animals as much as we do.




Chapter 1


Death with fangs and long talons stalked him.

The enemy hunted him. Nicolas, the powerful warrior. The pack’s best fighter. The ostracized.

Nicolas Keenan lifted his muzzle, sniffed the wind. Caught his pack leader’s scent marking a nearby oak tree. His wolf form stiffened with longing. Pack. Home. Family.

But he no longer had a family. Even though he continued to quietly patrol their territory, protecting his people, and even though his loyalty would never die, he’d been banished from the pack.

He was Draicon, werewolves who once used their magick to learn of the earth and its wonders. Now, hunted by the more powerful Morphs, they used their powers in a desperate attempt to survive.

Morphs. The very word made his hackles rise. They had been Draicon like him. Draicon who willingly embraced evil, entering the ranks of the Morphs by killing one of their own. Nicolas had spent nearly his whole life destroying Morphs. When some in his pack turned, he’d been forced to kill them as well.

He would always be Draicon, Nicolas silently promised, remembering the tiny mark on his neck. He would never surrender to the Morphs’ alluring power.

He felt a cooling breeze stir, rustling the leaves and chilling the air. In this part of northern New Mexico, fall draped the trees in vivid colors. Thirty minutes ago, after he’d left his ranch to take a walk in the woods, he’d sensed danger. The familiar warrior instinct surfaced. He’d shifted to lure the enemy away from the pack’s homes and hearths.

New scents filled his nostrils. He went absolutely still, smelling evil.

Nicolas caught a faint whiff of rotting seaweed mixed with raw sewage. Enemy. Danger.

Ah, Maggie, what am I dragging you into? What if they find you as well?

He reached out, silently slipped into her thoughts. Mitosis. Carcinogenic cells. She was studying a sample under the microscope. He slipped out, not wanting to jar her concentration. Margaret Sinclair, the pack’s long-lost empath. The Draicon foretold to destroy the Morph leader, she was the pack’s last hope and Nicolas’s destined mate. She was safe. For now.

In the branches of a sprawling oak, a brown deer sat cloaked from view. A shaft of moonlight dappled dying oak and maple leaves with silver. Dead undergrowth soaked in the evening dew. In the distance, a doe crashed through brush. His ears pricked forward.

They were coming. Once solitary, the enemy had combined their numbers. Nicolas didn’t dare shift. Not now. His change left trace elements of magick, clear as muddied paw prints to his enemies.

Standing still, he inhaled the air. The scent grew fainter. A new smell filled his senses. Body odor. Fake deer scent. Stale beer. Humans. Loud, obnoxious voices crashed through the woods.

“There! Did you see that wolf? Let’s get him!”

The humans who had spotted him earlier had taken chase. Out to bag anything tonight. Such as Wolf de la Nicolas.

No choice now. Had to risk it. Nicolas shifted, muscles bulging, stretching, bones lengthening. Fur melted away. Wolfskin vanished, replaced by bronzed human flesh.

Naked man meets eager hunters with loaded rifles. Not good. Summoning clothing by magick would show his presence to the enemy like a lighthouse beacon. He didn’t have to use his power this time. Instead, he dove for the rotting tree trunk and the clothing stockpiled beneath the sprawling roots. Damian had laid similar caches all over pack territory for emergencies like this. He dressed, grabbed the whiskey bottle, gave a liberal splash over his bright orange clothing.

Nicolas sank down against the tree and waited. He chuckled, glancing at the half-filled amber bottle. “I never drink anything less than twelve-year-old scotch, Damian, you cheapskate.”

Shouting victoriously, the hunters crashed through the woods like clumsy oxen. He smelled cruelty heaving with every excited breath.

They entered the clearing. Pale silver light from the full moon struck their camouflage outfits. Nicolas hiccupped loudly. He raised the bottle in a drunken salute.

“Here’s to my shooting a twelve-point rack today!”

Disbelief flashed over their faces. The men shifted their rifles, narrowed their gazes. “Get lost,” the shorter one in plaid asserted. “We paid good money to hunt on this land.”

Ignoring them, Nicolas pretended to belt a few swallows.

The fat one snorted, shifted his rifle. His potbelly sagged over olive trousers like jowls. “Listen mister, you’re trespassing. Get out, before we toss you out. We’re on the tail of a lone wolf.”

Grinning at them, he dropped the whiskey and made to leave. And then the scent slammed into him like a locomotive.

They were coming straight in his direction.

He went absolutely still. Hair rose along the back of his neck. He flexed his muscles and stood. “Leave,” he growled. “They’re coming.”

But the hunters simply gawked. “What the hell is wrong with your voice?” one demanded.

“Run,” Nicolas warned.

Too late. They entered the tiny glen, not bothering to cloak their numbers. Shuffling forward, they advanced, disguised as human beings. The enemy resembled young women, sullen teenagers, elderly people and businessmen in suits. But for their scent, they looked perfectly normal. The scent of rotting seaweed and raw sewage slammed into him. Damn. Hordes of them. Too many to fight alone. His mind strategized. Surprise remained his best defense. Magick would give him away. Silently he cursed, wishing for his daggers.

If he remained blended with the hunters, perhaps the enemy would not see him.

The human hunters turned, saw them. One tipped back his cap, scratched his forehead. “What the hell is this, a party?”

He pointed to a stooped gray-haired man wearing round glasses, leaning on a wood cane. “You lost, Gramps? Nursing home is that way. It’s way past your bedtime.”

The elderly one lifted his head. Smiled. Gleaming white teeth flashed. Crocodile teeth, sharp, pointed.

“Jesus,” whispered the fat hunter. “What the hell is that?”

“Early Halloween party,” his friend joked, his voice cracking. “Or cheap dentures?”

Nicolas smelled the men’s fear. He knew his enemy smelled it, too. It stank like sour sweat.

“Enough,” the elderly mage said softly. He signaled.

They advanced as one unit, like a column of army ants. One by one they shape-shifted, clothing vanishing from their human forms, fur erupting on their bodies. Their magick, dark and powerful, transformed them far easier than Nicolas’s powers.

Silent as fog, eyes glowing like hot coals, they prowled forward on four legs. One blinked slowly. Night vision registered the eyes turning black as empty pits.

The eyes, always the eyes, told their true nature, no matter what their form.

Wolf in him rose up, thirsting for blood, action. Caught between revealing himself to outsiders, and needing wolf to attack, he hesitated. Instinct urged him to run, wait for better odds. Humans had caused this evil. Still, he felt a flickering compassion for the hunters. He scanned the approaching enemy for the weak link.

The humans’ fear turned to terror. “Holy mother of God,” the taller one screamed. “Wolves!”

They fired.

Gunfire crackled. Bullets fell before meeting their target. Jaws agape, the humans stared. Identical masks of fear tightened their faces. The pungent odor of helpless urine filled the air.

In that instant, the Morphs attacked.

Now. Daggers materialized in his hands as he sprang forward to engage them. Six Morphs jumped him. Razor-sharp teeth sank into his neck; claws swiped his legs and torso. Cloth shredded like thin paper. He grunted and swung out with the knives, stabbing their hearts. They died, screaming. He sliced, stabbed again, wincing as their acid blood splashed over him.

Again. No use. Each time he struck one down, another materialized. Cloning themselves.

A damn animal army.

Warmth dribbled down his throat. Nicolas ignored the burning pain, struggled with his clothing to shift. The hell with the mortals. They were dead already.

As he tore off his clothing, they fell on him, shifting once more. Fur erupted on their bodies; claws grew, shifting yet again. He cursed their ability to change into any animal form. Enormous brown bears roared. Four slammed him against the tree trunk. Pinned, his arms and legs useless, Nicolas could not summon his magick.

“Good God Almighty,” one hunter screamed.

Struggling in the Morphs’ grip, Nicolas felt blood drain, bones ache.

The others turned to the human prey. Nicolas struggled harder, wanting to save the hunters’ sorry asses. Knowing it was too late.

Jaws yawning open, saliva dripping from their yellowed fangs, the pack converged on the hapless men. Screams mingled with the sounds of tearing flesh. Blood splattered on the oaks, dripping viscous black. The hunters were all dead.

The Morphs shifted into their true shapes. Bent over, skin sagging on bone, more animal than human. Wisps of hair clung to fleshy scalps. Pointed, sharp teeth grinned. Their fetid stench filled the air. They whined, drew in deep breaths.

Absorbing their victims’ terror and dying breaths, the Morphs fed on their energy. The Morphs holding him back loosened their grip on his arms. Taking advantage of their distraction, he broke free and shifted. Wolf greeted them, eager for the fight, desperate to carve his claws into them. Surprised, his captors drew back. He lashed out with razor-sharp canines, snarling. He downed one, as the others came for him silently.

There were too many. He had lost too much blood.

“Stop,” an authoritative voice ordered. “Leave him be.”

Blood trickled down his flanks, warm in the chilly air. Nicolas ignored the stinging pain and the burning in his side. He steadily regarded the Morphs’ secret weapon. Confident. Arrogant. Jamie presented a greater threat than the Morphs themselves.

He snarled. Instantly the Morphs closed ranks around Jamie. They’d die protecting the human who’d formed them into an army. The mortal whose blood manufactured disease and death.

He would not die as wolf. Nicolas shifted back into his human form to address the mortal. Because of Jamie, Damian was dying.

Naked, vulnerable, he refused to cower. “Jamie,” he uttered. “Your time will come.”

Low, amused laughter rippled through the air. Jamie pushed past the glowering bodyguards. “You can barely stand. We’ll destroy your leader, Nicolas. We already have, thanks to your help.”

Nicolas remained silent. Disobeying pack rules, he’d taught Jamie magick and she used it to join the Morphs and increase her powers. From her blood, they’d manufactured a disease that was killing his leader.

Another Morph shifted back into human form. Greasy brown hair, empty eyes, cruel twist to his mouth. Kane. The leader. Saliva dripped from Kane’s parted lips. Talons grew from his fingernails.

Nicolas tensed as Kane approached.

“Nicolas,” the Morph leader drawled. “Join us. You know you want to.”

“I’ll die first,” he growled.

“I have powers you’ll never have as a Draicon, Nicolas. Join us and see.” The Morph spread his long, thin arms. “I can take to the air as an eagle, swim the seas as a shark, race through the jungle as a jaguar. Can you do the same?”

Nicolas steeled his spine. “And you smell like the bottom of a garbage can. No thanks. I’d rather be a corpse. Then again, you are a corpse. No, something less pleasant.” He added colorful verbiage comparing Kane to a natural bodily function.

But Kane only laughed. “Words can’t hurt me. But you can. Do you dare?”

Nicolas remained silent, hands clenched into fists.

“Let’s kill him,” one Morph suggested.

“No,” Kane countered. “Do not touch him. We need him alive for Margaret, if she is the true empath. He’ll reawaken her powers when he seeks her to mate.”

Dread clawed at Nicolas’s chest. He had not feared them, even faced with death. He feared now for Maggie. “You’ll never find her. I’ll die fighting before you get your claws on her.”

Kane flashed an obscene grin. “We already found her, Nicolas. We infected her dog with our new disease. And you can’t stay away. The mating urge is claiming you even now. You can’t fight your nature.”

A mocking snort came from the Morph leader. Nicolas steeled himself against reaching out to strangle Kane. The Morph leader gave a thin, mocking smile.

“Leave the bodies. The law will blame the Draicon. Again.” Kane laughed.

Clever twist. More ammunition to hunt wolves, destroy his dwindling pack. Pain racked him. Slumping against the oak tree familiar with his scent and Damian’s, he watched the Morphs vanish into the forest. They would continue growing in power and strength, continuing their assaults. He couldn’t stop them.

He needed Maggie. Margaret, the empath prophesied to become the force capable of eliminating the Morph leader. His destined mate, who didn’t realize she was Draicon.

Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet. He waited until their stench no longer fouled his nostrils. On the wind, silent laughter followed his noiseless crawling out of the glen.

An hour later, his wounds healed, Nicolas hid beneath the recesses of an overhanging rock. He rested, staring at his beloved moon, listening to wind rustle the branches and stir the dead leaves. Hunger scraped his insides. Power he’d lost needed replenishing either by ingesting food, or sharing his body with a woman and absorbing the rich energy emitted during sex.

He needed to hunt. Too weak to change, he ignored the growling of his empty stomach. Must think of other matters. Focus. Softly, he began singing, in desperate hope of easing the agonizing hunger. It didn’t work. He switched his thoughts to Maggie.

Sweet, lovely Maggie. His draicara, his destined mate. Naked in the shower when he’d sunk into her mind yesterday.

A wave of desire rocked him as he remembered. Slender figure, full, rounded breasts and that mouth … ah, made for kissing. Nicolas felt his body tighten, thinking of the delicious things her mouth could do. Those legs, slightly padded with muscle, curved, silky smooth. He’d felt the brisk, impersonal glide of her hand as she’d soaped one thigh, bubbles frothing and popping. In her indifferent eyes he’d seen the thatch of dark red curls hiding her cleft, and he’d gone wild.

Nicolas had howled with lust, driven by the fierce need to claim her. Running his hands over her silky flesh, cupping her breasts, watching the nipples harden and peak. Gently parting her female flesh, testing her readiness, feeling that wetness as he slid a finger into her tight sheath. Then spreading those silky thighs wide open, mounting her, her yielding body pressed beneath his hard one, sinking into her wet, waiting flesh …

Hunger abated, replaced by lust as he focused on Margaret. Seeping into her mind like water percolating into the ground.

New agony assailed him. He raised his nose. Wolf inside him silently whined. Lust vanished. Thousands of miles away, he felt her stabbing pain as if it sank into his own chest.

She was crying over the dog again.

Last week, after years of searching, he’d found Maggie by pure accident. He’d been baling hay on his ranch when a wave of grief suddenly slammed into him, sharp as the pitchfork tines. Nicolas had sunk to his knees and moaned.

When he recovered from the initial shock, he’d sorted out the thoughts invading his mind. And realized he’d found his mate. Under extreme duress, a female draicara sometimes subconsciously projected emotions onto her intended mate, as if to summon him to her side at last. When he’d explored the mental trail she’d sent out, he realized who it was.

Margaret, the pack’s missing empath.

Nicolas drew in a deep breath, struggling to maintain his identity even as he now sank fully into hers. Absorbing her, sinking into every cell. Her breath as his. Her heart thudding rapidly, increasing his heart rate.

Her emotions his own.

Sweat erupted on his brow. His inner wolf whimpered, anxious to calm the spreading agony, human emotions twining with raw animal pain. So alone, as if all the world were oblivious.

He didn’t like feeling like this—open, vulnerable and exposed. Nicolas reminded himself it was Maggie, not him. Unlike his draicara, he could guard his emotions.

She perched over the sink, clasping it with whitened knuckles. Tension strained the heart-shaped face reflected in the wavy mirror. Her full, pouty mouth thinned with pain. Nicolas felt as if poison had seeped into his very bones.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Trying to hold them back—oh, she tried—so as not to upset the animal she carefully tended. But the grief, it washed over her in cresting waves. She hung her head over the sink and sobbed.

Nicolas struggled to hold back his own tears.

Finally she splashed cold water on her face, and dried it. Forced a wobbly smile on her face, and went out to tend to her patient. The little brown dog lifted her head.

Across the white tile floor of Maggie’s kitchen, a small brown cockroach scurried, then went still. He tensed, for the roach might be a Morph in disguise come to kill her. But it did not show any signs of shifting. After a minute he relaxed. Just an ordinary insect.

Nicolas felt Maggie’s natural disgust. He figured she’d scream, slam down the broom. Instead, he felt her stride over to the loathsome insect. She fumbled for a jar on the counter, trapped it, turned the jar over. Just as quickly, she released the roach outside. Through Maggie’s eyes, Nicolas watched it crawl over the white beach sands.

His jaw went slack.

From its fluffy pillow, he heard the dog she’d named Misha bark weakly in protest. Damn straight, dog, Nicolas agreed. I’d kill it, too.

“You know the rules, Misha. Everything lives,” Maggie said softly. “Even roaches. I swore never to hurt another living thing. Ever.”

Damn. This was going to be far harder than he’d ever imagined. How the hell could he turn this woman into a cocked weapon ready to kill Morphs when she was rescuing bugs?

Nicolas drew in another deep breath, severed the connection so cleanly he could almost hear the snap. He dropped his head into the thick cushion of dead leaves and moss.

He didn’t want to break away. Part of him wanted to remain. Comfort her. Enfold her in his strong embrace and never let go.

Those emotions were his own, he thought grimly. Dangerous emotions but natural. Every male Draicon was born with the instinct to protect his mate. Even though his particular mate had no idea of his existence or that of his people. Their people.

Minutes passed. Or was it hours? A familiar scent approached noiselessly. Moonlight gilded a pair of polished brown boots. Naked and vulnerable, he sat up to face his leader.

“You look like crap,” Damian observed. The soft New Orleans drawl he’d acquired from a childhood in the bayou accented his words. “They came for you again because you were protecting us. Why do you insist on staying when you know you’re banished?”

Nicolas made no reply. He knew Damian had smelled the death, heard the screams. He had sensed what happened.

“Nicolas … one day one will kill you. If you stay,” Damian said gently.

“I won’t abandon you, Dai. You need me. The pack needs me.” He grated out the words, locking gazes with the older male.

As Damian’s beta, Nicolas was responsible for carrying out the leader’s orders. He was the pack’s best hunter. When the pack had been in danger of being eliminated by the Morphs, Nicolas had stepped in and taught them the best way to destroy the enemy. He had studied the Morphs’ weak spots and succeeded in destroying hundreds. Nicolas, the killing machine.

He knew nothing else.

Pale green eyes observed him silently. Damian waved his hands. A covered metal plate materialized on the ground before Nicolas. Nicolas sprang forward as Damian winced.

“Dammit, you shouldn’t be doing this. Not in your condition. Don’t waste your energy.”

His leader offered a rueful smile, dragged in a breath. Sweat glistened on his brow. With the flair of a gourmet chef, Damian whipped off the plate’s cover.

“Voila. I knew you needed food. Or sex.” The pack leader regarded Nicolas with a level look. “But you know the rules.”

No sex with pack females. Not for Nicolas, the banished. What irony. Damian often joked about Nicolas’s “harem,” the unmated, sexually experienced pack females eager to copulate with him. After a Morph fight, he’d pace before those presenting themselves to him. Dark eyes brooding, his muscular body tense and aggressive, he’d select one for the night. Then he’d claim her, using her sexual heat to restore his lost energy.

Now no pack female could touch him.

Salivating, Nicolas eyed the bloodied, raw meat. He shot a worried glance at Damian’s pale face, the flash of pain in his green eyes.

“Wolf it down,” Damian advised, a half smile touching his mouth at the old joke.

His hunger a live, writhing need, Nicolas hesitated. Trying to disguise his weakness before his leader, he couldn’t hold back his howling need for energy. Damian delicately turned his back. Grateful, Nicolas abandoned any pretense. Picking up the elk steak with his hands, he ripped into the meat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he then replaced the cover. It clanged against the metal plate.

“Thank you,” Nicolas managed to say.

Stronger now, he used his magick to cover his nudity with jeans, a black T-shirt and boots. Damian turned. He sat on his haunches, silent.

“Dai, you’re getting worse.” The matter-of-fact statement cloaked his concern.

“I have time.” Damian’s cocky grin seemed forced. “Two months, maybe, at the rate my body is deteriorating….” He shrugged, glancing away.

Two months and Damian would be dead? After the agony, the cancerlike disease racking his body with pain ate its way through his internal organs. Nicolas clenched his fists. Dammit. He had to find Maggie. Fast.

“Dai …” His throat closed with emotion. Nicolas clamped a lid on his feelings and arranged a blank look on his face.

Damian seemed to understand, for he waved a hand, dismissing the topic. Never one to complain, more concerned about the pack.

“Tell me about Margaret.” The name slipped out in a soft slur. Mah-gah-rhett. “You made contact with her again. I can tell by your tears. Her emotions are yours, Nicolas. She was crying.” His sharp green gaze focused on dried tears streaking Nicolas’s cheeks.

Nicolas scrubbed his face with a clenched fist. “The dog is dying.” Always the dog, as Maggie sought a logical solution to a problem caused by something not logical in the human world. Then, in private, the tears would flow, because she could not heal the animal she loved.

“Ah. Her pet. Difficult.”

“A friend. Not a pet. She can’t cure Misha. She’s trying to find the mutation in the cells. The Morphs infected the dog.”

Damian rubbed the back of his neck absently. “A test of Margaret’s powers to draw her out. They’ve found her.”

Nicolas drew in another breath, feeling his lungs expand with clean, pure air. The dog had been Maggie’s constant companion for five years. Serving as canine nurse, she also helped her calm the animals she treated.

Now Misha was dying, succumbing to a new disease that baffled Maggie.

The very same disease eating away at Damian’s insides.

He felt an ache reverberate down to his very soul, his spirit crying out to be with hers. He threw back his head, feeling the beast emerge, the wolf howling to be released, and allowed to run. To avoid the pain. Find a dark place and seek comfort.

He could not, just as he could not sever the tie between himself and Maggie.

“She’s unaware of her true identity.” Nicolas stated it as fact. “I discovered that much by mind-bonding with her. Something happened when her parents died, and she blocked out all prior memories. She thinks she’s mortal, not Draicon. Convincing her will be difficult.”

“You know your duty, Nicolas. You must mate with her soon and bring her home. Before the Morphs destroy her.”

Damian stood, leaning his six-foot-tall body against a tree. Beneath the casual air lurked coiled tension, power. Ready to spring into action, if necessary. Their leader never released his guard. Or trusted easily, outside of his pack.

“I know. I know the risks.” To him and to Maggie. “But if it means saving you …”

“Forget me.” Damian made a slashing gesture. “It’s too late. But if she can heal our people when the Morphs infect them, that’s all that matters.”

“I’ll get her here in time,” Nicolas said fiercely. “Don’t doubt it. Trust me.”

Emotion flared in Damian’s eyes. “It’s not good for you to face this alone. You need our people.”

Nicolas lifted his head, regarding him calmly. “You know that’s impossible. They blame me for what happened to Jamie. As they should. When I get Maggie, then I’ll return. Until then …”

The casual lift of his shoulders hid his pain. For the good of the pack, Damian had banished him. Maggie was his way back to acceptance, back to the warmth and comfort of his family.

Maggie was much more. Maggie was the weapon destined to vanquish Kane. Her healing touch could cure the dying Damian.

“Do it,” Damian said softly. “Make her yours.” He watched Nicolas stand, and went to embrace him in the usual brotherly fashion, then pulled back.

“I can’t touch you,” he said thickly.

“I know,” Nicolas agreed. His scent would mark Damian, whose word was law, but the pack would question. Whisper. Worry.

“May the moon spirit guide and protect you on your journey,” his leader said in the formal blessing. “Stay safe, stay strong.”

A thick lump rose in his throat. “Up yours,” Nicolas said cheerfully, hiding his emotions.

Damian flashed another half grin. More pain knifed through Nicolas as he watched his friend slip into the woods, heading back home.

Home for him no longer.

He drew in another breath, began softly singing to himself and trotted in the opposite direction. Maggie, Maggie. He needed to get to Florida.

Every day the danger of Maggie being exposed intensified. Visits to her veterinarian clinic resulted in calmer animals. Maggie had a special healing ability, like a horse whisperer. Only it wasn’t her voice.

But her hands, her soothing touch.

Maggie was an empath, born once every 100 years. She was their last hope. She belonged with the pack, her family.

He’d mate with her, his hard male flesh sinking into her female softness, his warrior’s aggression sinking into her gentleness. Male and female, exchanging powers, becoming one. He’d perform his duty, then mold her into the warrior they needed to fight their enemy. And bring her home, even if she fought and kicked and screamed the whole way.

She had no choice.

Just like him.




Chapter 2


Maggie Sinclair forced herself to concentrate as she stared into the microscope for what seemed like the thousandth time.

Still there. The ugly reality met her weary eyes. Blink, and the cells did not change. A physical impossibility, yet, she could not deny it. The cell samples were black, misshapen like oblong ink blotches.

She had no idea what was killing her beloved Misha. All the academic research proved useless.

X-rays had revealed a large mass in Misha’s stomach. Blood samples showed cell mutation similar to cancer. Yet not cancer.

Maggie rubbed her reddened eyes, trying to contain the tears.

Misha had been her true companion for five years. The long bouts of loneliness she’d felt vanished when she’d adopted the dog from a shelter. Misha had been an abused puppy, and came to her snarling and suspicious. Maggie won her trust and now the dog offered unconditional love and trust. Misha curled up on her lap after a tough day at the office, and licked her face. She was more than a pet. She was a friend.

Twenty-four hours without sleep didn’t help. Last night Misha was restless. Maggie stayed up, stroking her whimpering pet. As with other animals she’d treated, her touch soothed.

She’d dozed off, then awakened to the feeling of someone pounding a rail spike into her body. The pain subsided then vanished. Always seemed to happen after a difficult case. Since real sleep proved impossible, Maggie resigned herself to downing a fresh pot of Blue Mountain, and went back to work.

Three weeks without answers. Three weeks of leaving her lucrative practice on the mainland to her partner, Mark Anderson, and holing up in the beach house on Estero Island like a sand hermit.

Three weeks of drawing blood, testing samples, consulting journals, articles, Internet Web sites. Nothing. Not a clue.

She didn’t dare show her findings to colleagues. This was too weird. Too … Witchy.

I don’t believe in witches. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

She believed in science, pure and simple. Logic. Nothing else.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed into the improvised lab on the house’s second floor. Papers, charts and notes littered a long white table, along with beakers, syringes, test tubes and slides. On the cool tile floor, Misha slept fitfully.

Maggie stared out the window. Sun-worshippers strolled at the gulf’s edge. Coconut palms ringing her beachfront home rustled in the wind. The burning blue sky promised another balmy afternoon in southwest Florida.

Momentary envy filled her. Mindless of the air-conditioning, she slid open the window to inhale the brine. She longed to be as insouciant as the tourists, nothing more to worry about than ruining their Birkenstocks in the saltwater.

She couldn’t be insouciant. Whatever was killing Misha could kill other animals, maybe even humans. Maggie suspected she had discovered a new, dreadful disease. She couldn’t risk it spreading to others, or turning Misha over to become a lab experiment by others. So she had quarantined her pet in the beach house, determined to find answers for herself.

Enough daydreaming. Back to work.

She removed the slide from the microscope. Maggie took a drop of blood obtained from a healthy shih tzu at her practice. Using a Beral pipette, she added the blood to a fresh slide containing Misha’s infected cells. Maggie covered the slide, placed it under the microscope.

Maggie fumbled for a tape recorder, clicked the record button as she bent over to peer into the microscope again.

“The tumor lies in the submucosa, infiltrating the lamina propria. Cellular morphology not characteristic of known tumors. The nuclei are indistinguishable. No nestlike appearance as in the fibrovascular stroma.”

A clatter sounded as Maggie dropped the instrument onto the scarred tabletop. The tape whirled, silently continuing to record her next words.

“Oh my God!”

Misha lifted her head, whined at the loud outburst. Maggie stepped back. Rubbed her eyes again. Oh God. It couldn’t be … surely she was exhausted, seeing things.

Dread surfaced as she forced herself to examine the clump of cells. Bracing her hands on the table, she studied the sample.

Blackened cells that had been separate, like individual drops of ink, bonded together as if pulled by invisible magnets. They surrounded the single drop of healthy blood, corralling it. Then absorbed it, sucking it into their mass. And grew.

They spread, forming a giant singular cell. As her shocked gaze watched, the singular cell divided. And again.

Cloning itself.

Cells taken from Misha’s stomach tumor were growing exponentially and forming a new organism. Growing, spreading to the edges of the slide.

It couldn’t be. Not happening. Somatic cells, even those mutated by cancer, couldn’t do this. Yet here it was, dividing and multiplying and growing to form … living tissue.

With a cry of disgust, she grabbed the slide, dropped it into a beaker of alcohol. Maggie stared, watching the now clearly demarcated black mass sink down into the liquid.

A sharp buzz made her cry out in alarm. Get a grip, Mags. Maggie sucked down a trembling breath. She covered the beaker with a towel and pasted on a shaky smile. Her sneakers thumped on the staircase as she headed for the door.

It had better not be Mark. He had agreed to take over the whole caseload while she begged off six week’s leave. But he’d phoned, whining about the work piling up.

Mark must never know how ill Misha was or he would insist on taking her pet and quarantining Misha at the office. She had to find answers herself. Misha would not be turned into a living experiment, poked and prodded by fascinated colleagues.

Maggie looked out the door’s scope. A blond little girl in a pink shorts set clutched the handle of a small red wagon. The wagon held a steel cage containing a rabbit.

Tammy Whittaker, seven, from next door. Tammy’s mother was a fussy, carefully groomed woman who insisted on calling Maggie “Miss Sinclair” instead of “Doctor.” Vets weren’t real doctors, she had said, sniffing that she couldn’t understand why anyone with a medical inclination would choose to treat filthy animals.

Dropping the curtain, Maggie felt a flutter of alarm. She only wanted to be left alone to muse over this latest frightening find.

The trilling buzz sounded again. With a sigh, she opened the door. Tammy Whittaker looked up at Maggie. Hope flickered in her huge brown eyes. “Hi, Dr. Sinclair. This is Herman, my rabbit.”

“Honey, I’m awfully busy….”

Tammy’s face screwed up. Her mouth wobbled precariously. “Herman’s hurt. Please, Dr. Sinclair, can you fix him? I have ten dollars I saved from my allowance. My mother says she won’t waste money on a stupid rabbit.”

The little girl’s woeful expression twisted Maggie’s heart. She went outside and picked up the cage containing the chocolate-colored rabbit.

“Come on, Tammy. Let’s see what’s wrong with Herman.”

Inside the spacious living room, Maggie set down the cage. She removed the large French lop from the cage and set him on the tiled floor. Herman weakly hopped. His back left leg flopped. Broken, probably.

A terrible suspicion crested over Maggie. “Tammy, how did this happen?”

Her gaze flicked away. “I forget to lock the door sometimes. He got out. Mom said he got his leg caught.”

Maggie gnawed at her lower lip. Outside of her own dog, she hadn’t examined an animal in over two months. Doing so caused odd images to flash through her mind, as if she could envision the source of the animal’s injury. Feel its past and pain.

Just an overactive imagination. It was only her great desire to heal, causing her to envision the injury’s source.

Yet the fledgling ability had grown stronger over the past six months. Maggie had solved the problem by leaving the initial exams to Mark, in exchange for doing the clinic’s paperwork.

“I thought your mother didn’t like animals.”

Sniffling, Tammy explained her friend Bobby had given her Herman when his family moved away. “It was either me or Sally. Sally has a big yard with a fence, but she’s got a hamster. Mom didn’t want him, but Dad said I could keep him if Herman stayed in the cage. Please, can you make him better? He’s hurting.”

Maggie gently stroked the quivering rabbit. Images poured through her mind like movie screen captions: Fear. Pain. Cage door open. Freedom. Good smells. Food nearby. White grass. Urge to void. Tall human. Screams. Pointed shoe. Hurt. Fear. Hide.

Tammy’s mother had kicked it in a rage for the droppings on her immaculate white wool rug.

Biting back a startled cry, she jerked her hand away. Maggie turned, hiding her reaction from Tammy.

“Is Herman going to be okay?” Tammy asked.

“He’ll be fine. I need to get the medicine to fix him.”

Maggie pushed a weary hand through her hair as she went upstairs to her office. She headed for a locked white cabinet and combed through it for the necessary supplies.

The odd ability to envision the source of an animal’s pain hadn’t vanished. It was growing stronger.

No. She hadn’t felt the animal’s pain, nor seen what happened. Besides, Iona Whittaker was fastidious, but cruel …? Ridiculous. Herman probably broke his leg …

Falling down the stairs, a deep male voice asked.

Maggie gasped, nearly dropping a box of bandages. First hallucinations, now voices? Definitely, too little sleep.

Science, not speculation. Cell mitosis. She formed images of cells, dividing, new life growing. Her mind processed the information at hand. Rabbit, broken foot caused probably by angry woman with a ruined carpet. Yes, Iona Whittaker could be cruel. People were.

Businesslike, she stacked emergency medical supplies on a tray. Splint, bandages, tape, medicine, syringe, needle, medication, prescription pad.

Downstairs, she injected Herman with a mild sedative, asked Tammy questions about school to divert the girl’s worries. Very gently, she bound the rabbit’s broken leg. Maggie settled Herman back into his cage. She inhaled the scent of fresh cedar shavings and gave the bunny a reassuring pat.

“Such a pretty chocolate color,” Maggie murmured.

Tammy brightened. “Herman’s like an Easter bunny.”

Easter bunny. Delicious, biting into a chocolate bunny.

Rabbit. Fresh. Tasty. Raw, bloodied meat. Dinner. Energy.

Shocked, she analyzed her thoughts. Where did that come from? One minute, daydreaming about a sugar rush, the next, salivating over meat.

“I’ll give you some pills.” She scribbled instructions on the pad. Herman. Injured rabbit. Sweet little rabbit.

Prey. Thrill of the kill, snapping bones, sinking fangs into fresh, delicious meat …

Maggie shoved aside the hungry thoughts. Giving Tammy instructions on how to administer the medication, she smiled.

“Herman has been well cared for. He has good muscle tone,” she noted, trying not to think of meat. Good meat, not tough, just right. Laced with tasty fat …

Maggie hastily stood, grabbed the cage. Sweat beaded on her brow. I’m going insane. First feeling images and pain, then hearing voices, and now, thinking of pet rabbits as dinner?

At the door, Maggie gently pushed aside

Tammy’s offering of crumbled dollar bills. “Instead of paying me, I need a favor. Herman looks a little cramped in his cage. I bet he’d love a nice, big yard. Why don’t you give him to Sally? You can visit him, and it will make your mother happy.” And keep that bitch from hurting him again.

Tammy’s lips curled up, then she glanced down at Herman. “All right, Dr. Sinclair. I guess it’s only fair to share him.”

“Yes, it is.”

Placing the cage on her little red wagon, Tammy turned. Her brow wrinkled. “Are you okay, Dr. Sinclair? You look funny.”

I bet. “I’m fine. Go home, call Sally.”

Maggie waved, closed the door then fled upstairs to grab sleep before she imagined anything else.

She fell asleep upstairs on her king-sized bed, dreaming of warm breath against the nape of her neck, hard muscles holding her fast.

White teeth erotically scraping her flesh, followed by a long, slow lick. Wetness pooled between her legs. She stirred. Maggie moaned as two large hands, dark hair dusting the backs, slid over her trembling thighs. Sliding them open. Dark eyes staring at wet female flesh.

You want my tongue. There.

Her vagina clenched, aching. Empty. Needing. Hot. Please.

What do you want?

You. Inside me. Please. Fill me. Forever.

I’ll give you everything you want. And more. My Maggie.

She jerked awake with a start, clutching the sheet. Sweat dampened her lace panties, the ribbed lilac sleep shirt. He had been inside her, again. Her dream lover.

His presence lingered, like the slow stroke of a man’s hand upon a woman’s naked skin. Tender as a lover’s caress, edged with desire. Demanding. Hot. Broad shoulders, hard muscles, crisp stubble abrading the soft skin of her throat as he kissed his way down her body.

Maggie stood on wobbly legs. She ran a hand through her curls. Two hours’ sleep gave no rest. She’d been tormented with edgy, erotic dreams, leaving her restless and yearning.

Late afternoon sun streamed through the sliding glass windows as she went downstairs. Maggie headed for the adjoining kitchen. Misha lay on the cool tile. With a false smile and a cheeriness she did not feel, she stooped down to pet her dog.

“Hey there, Misha, babe. Feel like eating a little dinner?”

A brown tail thumped madly against the floor. Hope rose, fed by desperation. From the fridge, Maggie fished out chicken livers. She cooked them over the electric range, chattering the whole time, filling empty space with words the dog did not understand, but were soothing.

Maggie set the dish on the floor. Misha sniffed, licked a piece. Hope rose. It sank as Misha walked away.

No appetite. Maggie, acquainted with the dying process, could not deny what her heart, and her mind, knew. Misha looked at her with mournful brown eyes as if to apologize. Maggie shoved the liver into the fridge.

She patted her friend’s head. “It’s okay, baby, I never did like liver, either. Yuck.”

The long brown tail thumped weakly against the tile. Misha reached up, licked her face.

Fighting tears, Maggie washed the few dishes in the sink. Routine dulled the raw pain in her chest, allowed her to pretend everything was normal.

The sun began setting, turning the brilliant blue sky to flame-red and orange. Maggie pulled open the large glass slider. Warm currents of air drifted inside, scented with brine. She stared at the expanse of white sugary sand stretching before her, the blue gulf beyond.

Laughter rippled from the Tiki Bar down the beach. Tourists and natives gathered there for traditional sunset drinks, and to watch the spectacular vista of sunset sinking into the water. Maggie disliked crowds and socializing, preferring to remain alone. Besides, she couldn’t afford to waste Misha’s remaining time.

Being alone didn’t bother her these past weeks. She needed privacy. Yet lately, when the night stole over the sky, and the moon rose high, she itched. To run wild and free.

She stared out onto the sugar sands in utter desolation. A raging restlessness seized her. This time of night seemed hers, the darkness falling, the wind blowing.

Palm tree fronds rustled in secret communication with each other. Raucous laughter from the Tiki Bar drifted over the sands. It sounded like fun. I’m so damn alone.

You are not alone.

Maggie whipped her head around. Wind tossed her hair as she searched into the gathering twilight. Nothing but wind and distant laughter. But someone was here.

“Get a grip, Mags,” she whispered. Too much time alone, then the erotic dream, stirred her imagination.

But she could smell him? Pine, earth, a woodsy pleasing scent tugged her in a nostalgic way.

I’m here, the same, deep voice assured in her mind. Quiet, nonthreatening. Maggie wrapped her arms about herself. Maybe I’m insane.

Only those of us craving absolute power turn, losing their minds, what’s left of their souls.

A subtle note of warning threaded through it. She shivered.

Do you smell that? Be careful.

This was too weird. Maggie went to cut off her imaginary friend by thinking of cell mitosis. She stopped. The heels of the wind brought a faint but foul odor.

Like rotting seaweed at low tide mixed with raw sewage. Except this stench carried nothing natural about it. Maggie fingered the chunky turquoise bracelet on her wrist. Grappling with control, she decided to indulge this voice, a fragment left over from her dream. A strong male presence, wanting to protect her.

You’re wearing turquoise. Good.

Turquoise fends off evil seaweed?

No. But it fends off an evil werewolf. For a while.

Maybe I should wear silver as well. Fend off rotting seaweed and werewolves.

Silver? That doesn’t stop them. I’ve tried.

Fear spilled through her like ice water. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck saluted the air.

You’ve nothing to fear. I’m here now. But don’t remove the bracelet.

The quiet, masculine voice settled her raging nerves. Maggie rubbed her arms, reasoning this internal monologue was a stress reliever.

Superman saves the day. And turquoise is the kryptonite to fend off the Big Bad …

Wolf.

Ridiculous. Wolves in Florida? Only in bars. Her imagination was running amok, result of being alone too long.

She needed company. The pull of human laughter from the Tiki Bar tugged at her like a siren song. Maggie glanced at the dog lying drowsily on the tile. “I’m going out for a bit, Misha. Just a drink and sunset. Stay here and guard the house. And if any burglars break in, try not to lick them to death, deal?”

The dog raised her brown head, then slumped back to the tile. A lump clogged Maggie’s throat. She locked the sliders, went to the bathroom and brushed her hair. Dark purple shadows lined deep hollows beneath her eyes. She thought about cosmetics, decided she wasn’t getting married today. Giving a cursory glance at the turquoise bracelet, she sniffed.

No more imaginary voices. Unhooking the clasp, she let it fall to the counter with a clatter. For a moment, a heavy sigh echoed in her mind.

Ridiculous.

After changing into white linen shorts, a turquoise sleeveless blouse and Birkenstocks, she set off down the beach.

Sand sank into her toes. Maggie slipped out of her sandals, wriggled her toes with delight. Sandals swinging from one hand, she ambled toward the trilling laughter and clinking glasses.

Minutes later, she stood before the thatched hut bar. Buxom women in tight shorts and tighter T-shirts clustered about the bar like bees around a honeycomb. Younger men in wild tropical prints and khaki shorts buzzed around them. Some grizzled salty types downed beer and roared at off-color jokes. She recognized only one person. John, a client, was engaged in serious conversation with a taller man.

Doubts assailed her. What was she doing here? She didn’t drink. But something propelled her forward. Reasoning too many solitary days and nights isolated in her grief caused this yearning, she opted for the company. Maggie shouldered her resolve, slipped into her sandals again and approached.

The bar was elbow to elbow, people sitting on the wood benches, smoking, talking, laughing. Maggie sauntered to the counter with more confidence than she felt. Had she been so alone all this time she’d forgotten how to order a drink?

Then he caught her eye. Maggie’s heart hammered out an erratic beat. She stared.

A black T-shirt stretched taut over broad, muscled shoulders. Faded denim jeans hugged lean hips, molded to muscular thighs the size of tree trunks. Dark bristles shadowed his taut jawline. He had arresting features, a strong nose, firm, sensual mouth and silky black brows. A hank of inky hair hung over his forehead, spilled down past his collar. But his eyes, oh, they commanded her attention. Expressive and dark brown, they were soulful and deep. They observed the bar scene a little sadly, and he held himself aloof.

As if he, too, did not truly belong here.

Biceps bulged as he lifted his beer and drank. Fascinated, she watched his throat muscles work. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

His gaze swung around, captured hers. For a moment Maggie forgot to breathe. Her hand fled to her throat. Arousal, sharp and deep, flooded her. A deep throb began between her legs.

You’re pathetic. Getting all hot and bothered over a stranger at a bar.

Maggie jerked her gaze away, shouldered her way to the bar. Trying to squish between the bodies crowding the bar, she barely managed to push through. Why the hell was she here, anyway? Ready to flee for the safety of home and hearth, she started to turn when a deep male voice interjected.

“Room here.”

Tall, dark and gorgeous gestured to the empty seat beside him. She hesitated.

“Grab it before it, or the sunset, is gone.”

His mouth, chiseled and full, quirked in a charming half smile. Maggie mustered a smile and joined him. What the hell. She needed this.

“Drink?” he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, the burn of whiskey sliding down a parched throat.

She didn’t like strangers buying drinks for her. The man arched a silky black brow. “You buy. I get the bartender’s attention. Deal?”

Fair enough. “Pinot noir.”

“Good choice,” he murmured. The stranger signaled. A bartender floated over as if jerked by invisible strings and a minute later, a rounded glass of ruby liquid sat before Maggie.

The stranger lifted his glass. “Here’s to the beauty of nature,” he murmured.

They clinked, drank. Maggie savored the rich taste on her tongue. Awkwardness came over her. So long since she’d conversed with a total stranger other than clients. And such a gorgeous one. She struggled for conversational openers. Cell mitosis wouldn’t do.

“I usually don’t like crowds of strangers, but the scenery in my room was boring. How many times can you watch hurricane storm stories on the Weather Channel without wanting to drown yourself in the bathtub?” the man said.

Maggie gave a reluctant smile. “I tried drowning myself in the bathtub once after watching one, but I had just returned from the hairdresser and had a good hair day for once.”

He laughed. “Here’s to good hair days.”

Maggie clinked glasses. She took another brief swallow. Here we go again, what do you do, do you come here often …

“Baths are overrated. Too much water, unless you share.”

Maggie stole another glance at his firm chin and the delicious sprinkling of stubble. His mouth was full and sensual. Most striking were the eyes, dark brown with swirls of caramel. Enticing. Hypnotic.

He tipped his glass toward her. “Nicolas Keenan, here by way of New Mexico.”

Maggie smiled. “Maggie Sinclair, here by way of the beach.”

She stuck out a palm to shake. Businesslike, how’s it going? But he picked up her hand instead. His palm was warm, a little calloused and swallowed hers.

Electricity shot through her, pure current that sizzled. Never had she felt such deep, primitive emotion. Dark eyes met hers as Nicolas brought her hand to his mouth.

He brushed his lips against her knuckles. A brief, but intoxicating kiss. Maggie fought a wave of sudden lust. Her body tingled pleasantly. He let her hand rest in his, then released it. Wordlessly, she sipped more wine. For a long minute, she felt as if they were alone, two strangers sharing space and more.

“Are you here vacationing?”

Nicolas gave a slow smile. “Out to see a friend. She doesn’t know I’m coming.” White teeth flashed. “It’s a surprise.”

Lucky girl, Maggie thought with an odd pang of jealousy. “Just a friend?”

His steady gaze burned into hers. “And we will be more than friends before the night ends. I’m a very determined man.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

“Always,” he hinted softly.

Maggie wished someone would want her. She pushed back at her unruly curls. “I’m usually persistent at what I want, but some things are beyond my control.” She lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “But that’s life.”

“Sometimes what we think is beyond our control isn’t. We just need a little help,” he observed.

She had the oddest feeling they’d met before. Kismet. Maggie sipped more wine. “Lovely sunset.”

Nicolas nodded. “There is such power and energy on this earth. Only now are most people beginning to understand their world, and live in harmony with the elements.”

“You sound like one of those snotty hybrid drivers who has solar panels and cooks with his own methane emissions.”

Horrified, Maggie bit her lip. But Nicolas laughed. “I drive a truck,” he countered, warm brown eyes twinkling. “I have a ranch in northern New Mexico and hybrids can’t carry bales of hay. I do have solar panels on the roof, only because I hate paying for electricity. And I never fart. Ever.”

He winked. Maggie laughed her first real laugh in weeks.

“But I do host lovely candlelight dinners … when I meet a special lady.”

Tension eased, replaced with something more intense and far more sexual. Wine made her bold. “I bet you even seduce by candlelight. To save power and be romantic at the same time.”

“Not all women. But there’s one special one I would definitely seduce by candlelight,” he said softly.

Daringly, she set her wineglass down, met his smoldering gaze. “And how would you do it? Seduce her? What if she didn’t want to be seduced?” she challenged.

“It wouldn’t matter. Because when I set my eye on something I want, I can be quite ruthless. I would pursue her endlessly, until she surrendered to me.”

She saw in the swirling depths of his dark eyes his determination—the relentless energy of the hunter pursuing what he wanted. A little shiver snaked down her spine.

“And once you caught her? Why should she surrender?”

“I would tell her she’s the only woman in the world for me, someone special sent just for me. That I would die unless I made love to her, and how perfect she is, how absolutely lovely. I would coax a smile to her sad face, kiss away her fears and whisper to her that there was nothing to fear. I would take very, very good care of her,” he murmured.

This man, he sounded so familiar. Must be her alcohol-doused brain. Maggie moistened her mouth, tossed her hair. Flirting couldn’t hurt. When was the last time she’d flirted?

“How good?” Maggie challenged. “Because you’d have to be good. Very, very good.”

He leaned closer, until she could count the black bristles shadowing his jaw. His smoke-and-whiskey voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Trust me. I would be good. Very, very good.”

Heat coursed through her. Maggie sank into his liquid gaze, the dark vortex pulling her down. He looked at her as if she were that woman, and he wanted to love her all over until she sobbed for mercy.

She drained her wine, focused on the crimson-gold sun swallowed by the horizon. “It’s so beautiful. So right. I love this time of night. Dusk.”

“The edge of night filled with promise.” His hooded eyes regarded her. “There’s one sight in nature I find more stirring than a spectacular sunset.”

“That is?”

“A full moon.”

She nodded. “Yes, a full moon can be quite inspiring, can’t it?”

A soft laugh rumbled from his deep chest. “Yes,” he said, gazing at her intently. “Indeed, it can be quite … inspiring.”




Chapter 3


Her delectable aroma drove Nicolas mindless.

Primitive lust coursed through him. Her scent hovered on his tongue. Female, musky, aroused. Exciting. Nicolas picked up the brown bottle of beer, took a long swig. The icy liquid slid down his throat but did not cool.

Liquor would not quench his thirst. Only Maggie would now. Sweet, delicious Maggie, the taste of her flooding his senses.

He’d heard of the driving relentlessness of the mating urge when werewolves found their draicara. “When you find her, watch out. Catching her scent turns you totally animal. You forget everything. You just want to rip her clothes off and mount her,” one of the newly mated pack males had said.

Nicolas had always scoffed at such mindless loss of control. As the pack’s fiercest warrior, he prided himself on his restraint. All those times he’d bedded scores of women after a hunt, releasing savage energy built from fighting Morphs, he’d never lost control.

Now he knew the other male hadn’t exaggerated. He’d expected his draicara to be attractive. The chemistry strong, but not this explosive. Not as if the entire world had faded, and the sun’s last rays shone exclusively on her.

A nimbus of silky dark red curls framed her heart-shaped face, pert nose and soft, rosy cheeks. Her large, expressive eyes were the blue of a quiet lake. Her mouth, ah, her mouth! Full, soft and inviting.

Maggie stole a glance at him. Smiled. She tossed her head and moistened her lips. Desire darkened her eyes.

Oh, yes. She was feeling it, too.

Nicolas’s body tightened pleasantly as he imagined the things he could teach her to do with that lovely mouth.

Shorter than he’d envisioned, Maggie barely cleared his chin. Her figure was a bit too thin, her cheeks slightly hollow. He’d fatten her up, personally hunt her fresh game. His gaze flicked to her full breasts. He imagined cupping them in his eager palms, testing their heavy weight. Enjoying her little moans of excitement as he gently stroked his thumbs over the pearling nipples. Then bending his head to taste, he’d swirl his tongue over one. Oh, yes.

Maggie frowned. Two lines, facial punctuation marks, formed between her silky dark brows. Nicolas was utterly charmed.

“Be right back,” his sexual fantasy murmured.

She sprang off the bench, nearly spilling her wine. Drunk with lust, he eyed the white linen shorts hugging the tempting halves of her rounded bottom. His hands itched to squeeze. He imagined feeling the smooth skin of her plump ass caressing him as he mounted her from behind and drove into her in the traditional mating position.

Not the first time. Werewolf sex could be quite rough, too intense and passionate for her first time. Threading through Maggie’s female arousal was the distinct impression of innocence. Sexy, yes. Enticing. Oh, yeah. But experienced. No way. He’d bet a raw steak on her being a virgin.

He imagined gently initiating her in making love. Slow, sensual caresses. Perhaps a hot oil massage, his fingers sliding over her silky skin, caressing and stroking, delving into her secret hollows and making her writhe and plead. Slow for her first time, with lots of orgasms to compensate for taking her virginity. Then finally, igniting her passion and tangling together with her in hot, raw animal sex. He grew hard as granite, thinking about it.

Blood thrummed hotly in his veins. Nicolas hungrily watched Maggie walk toward two men.

What the hell?

Fists clenched, they fumed at each other. One, bristling sharp as the spikes on his crew cut, boasted muscles worthy of a veteran WWE wrestler. The other was leaner, but tall and wiry. They looked ready for a fight.

They were going to fight!

He swiveled, realized the crowd had quieted. They stared at the men, expecting action. He focused on the scowling men. And Maggie, his Maggie, was hurrying up as one drew back his fist.

Nicolas leapt off the bench. He bolted toward them, muscles tensed as he prepared to defend his draicara.

Maggie stepped between the pair snarling like angry dogs. She placed a hand on each man’s arm. Her honey-smooth voice rippled in soothing tones. “Stop it. John, you don’t want to hurt this man. Whatever it is, you can work through it without hitting each other. You don’t want to hurt each other. Listen to me. You’re here for a good time. Calm down. It’s all right.”

Serenity radiated from her. Maggie’s aura of peace extinguished the tension between the hot-tempered men like a bucket of ice water on a campfire. The two looked at each other, tension fading from their bodies. This is silly, their expressions said. Why are we doing this?

Nicolas ground to a halt between the pair. They backed off. “Lay a hand on her and I’ll tear you apart,” he growled.

Not giving them a chance to think it over, he wrapped his fingers firmly about Maggie’s wrist and tugged her back to their seats. Admiration for her courage and spunk filled him. Deep inside she possessed the qualities to battle the Morphs. Nicolas bit back frustration. First though, he must teach her to make war, not peace.

Better yet, make love. Then make war.

“What are you doing?” she protested.

“Saving your sweet little ass.”

He herded her back to the bar, barked an order for another pinot noir to the bartender. Nothing for him. He couldn’t risk another sip. Not if he had to stand ready and protect her from breaking up fights where she could get hurt.

Defiance snapped in her sea-blue eyes as they resumed their seats. The bartender set the wine down.

Nicolas pinned her with a censured look. “What the hell were you doing? They outweigh you by a hundred pounds.”

Maggie lifted her stubborn little chin. “I don’t like violence. John has already been jailed for getting into one fight. And what right do you have to interfere?”

“Same right you do.” Only more, he thought grimly. No way in hell would he allow her to endanger herself needlessly. “I had no desire to see you take a punch in the face.”

Her expression softened. “And I had no desire to see them fight. Fistfights serve no purpose.”

“They serve a great purpose when the fist is headed at your face. A man has to do what he must to protect his own.”

Her lovely mouth wobbled. “Sometimes a man is better off turning and walking away than risking violence. Men can die from a fight.”

“And there are those who seek nothing but a fight. You don’t turn and walk away from them. Because they’ll hunt you down and rip you into pieces while you’re singing the praises of peace and harmony. What would you do then, Maggie?”

Her gaze grew distant. “I’d try to negotiate.

Beg for my life, if necessary. And escape. Run.” Her voice dropped. “Anything … but fight.”

“There is no compromise. No negotiation. Run and they’ll run faster after you. Plead and they’ll ignore you. You must kill. Or be killed. Rules of the jungle, Maggie.”

“This isn’t a jungle.”

“Everywhere is a jungle. The covering is just different.” Nicolas braced his hands on the bar, scanning the crowd. The rose-gold sun had sunk into the gulf. Dark shadows spread over the sand. On the beach, the men playing volleyball laughed as they ceased the game.

Nicolas studied Maggie. Instinct urged him to see inside. Get an idea of her emotions. No. No invasion.

Her hand shook as she picked up the wineglass. Ruby liquid sloshed over the rim. Droplets splattered on the laminated counter, quivered, dark as blood. Nicolas fought a rising premonition. He gently touched her wrist, marveling at the heat sizzling between them.

“Are you okay, Maggie?”

Expression distant, guarded, she gulped down the wine. Nicolas kept quiet. Finally, she took a deep breath. Her voice cracked.

“I shouldn’t have … have come here. I knew this was a mistake. I just wanted … a little diversion. Some company. I’ve been working so hard.”

He didn’t invade her thoughts. Nicolas read her expression instead. It said she wanted to retreat to the safety of her four walls, where she didn’t have to encounter fistfights.

“What kind of work do you do?” He kept his tone casual. Inside, he ached at her wild look, like a cornered animal.

Enthusiasm chased away dark shadows from her eyes. She began talking about her practice as a veterinarian. Nicolas fired one question after another. Kept her talking, distracted her from leaving. He learned she’d been raised by a parade of indifferent foster parents after her mother and father died when she was twelve. Only after she turned fourteen did she finally have affectionate foster parents. Her foster father was a physician and encouraged Maggie’s studies.

“I skipped grades and graduated high school at sixteen and went to college. My foster father wanted me to major in premed and I was desperate to please him because he had been so good to me. It was almost … like having a real father.”

Her tiny sigh pierced him like a dart.

“I thought they both loved me as if I were their real child, until my second year of school when I knew I wanted to become a veterinarian. My foster father threatened to stop paying my tuition if I changed majors. Animal doctors weren’t as skilled as real doctors.”

Maggie’s gaze dropped to the counter. “I couldn’t force myself to comply with his wishes so they cut off all contact with me. It was challenging, but I had a few scholarships and worked through school as a phlebotomist.”

Nicolas steeled himself against the rising urge to take her hand and give it a comforting squeeze. “Your foster father was wrong. It takes a special skill, and empathy to treat animals. Animals don’t talk, and can’t communicate with words as to what’s wrong.” He gave a wry smile. “But in many ways, they’re easier to be around than people.”

A little laugh escaped her. “You think so, too? I had to force myself out to come here. Sometimes I don’t want to be around people, especially men. They can be such wolves.”

Nicolas raised a questioning brow.

“Not you. You don’t have that wolfish demeanor. I like you. No one else would have cared if one of those men hit me. And you’re very cute,” she blurted out.

A radiant flush tinted her cheeks. Nicolas was utterly enchanted.

“I’ve studied wolves, you know,” she confessed.

He raised a dark brow. “Oh?”

“As an undergrad. My major was zoology. I spent a summer out West working with a conservation program relocating wolves. It was fascinating watching them work as a pack. Real teamwork. Did you know that, in a pack, the beta wolf is responsible for ensuring the alpha male’s orders are carried out?”

“I’ve heard something about that,” he murmured.

She cocked her head, looking adorable. “I’m babbling. It’s the wine. I shouldn’t have had that second glass.”

Pulling out a wad of bills from her pocket, she tossed them down on the bar. Maggie stood on wobbly legs, swaying like a palm tree in a head wind. Nicolas stood, laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll take you home.”

Auburn curls flew as she shook her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a short stagger down the beach.”

“Then I’ll stagger with you.” He took her elbow, steadying her as she slogged through the soft sand.

“Besides, I have to keep you safe from the Big Bad Wolf.” Nicolas winked. Maggie laughed. It was a gurgling laugh that reminded him of crystalline streams tumbling over rocks.

Wind combed through her hair. Darkness thickened, draping the beach in ebony. Yellowish light from beachfront homes and towering condominium buildings cast oblong pools on the sand. Above them, a canopy of stars glittered like tiny jewels. A sailboat, blue light bobbing atop its mast, drifted as it headed south for the inlet.

He guided her around an abandoned beach bucket threatening to trip her. Had Maggie ignored her night vision, or did the fact she never experienced the change dim her wolf senses?

Sand kicked up in little eddies as they walked. They wended through a small stand of palms. Maggie paused before a tidy, two-story whitewashed house. “Thank you for seeing me home.”

She leaned against a swaybacked palm trunk, lacing her hands behind her. Clearly in no hurry to say goodbye, leaving him standing in the dark. His night vision showed interest flaring in her deep blue eyes.

She didn’t want to end the evening. Neither did he.

“Been my pleasure, Dr. Maggie.” He sketched a courtly bow. Straightening, he winked. She laughed again, stopped, searching his face.

“It’s odd but I feel like we’ve met before tonight.”

“Perhaps we’re destined to be together,” he said softly, watching her.

Nicolas placed a hand on the trunk, above her head. Leaned just a little closer. Close enough to drink in her delicious aroma. Spice. Something fresh, floral like wildflowers. And the gut-clenching scent of female arousal.

That adorable frown line dented her brow. “You said you came here to visit a friend, and that she’d be more than a friend before the night ends.”

“I did,” he said softly. Nicolas brushed away a lock of silky hair from her cheek. “It’s you, Maggie. I came here to seduce you.”

She drew in a deep breath, blue eyes darkening. “You’re very charming. Are you like this with all woman?”

“Just you. Only you, Maggie.” He cupped her chin, tilted her head up to meet his penetrating gaze. “You’re the only one for me.”

Her lush mouth parted. “It’s odd. I truly do feel like we know each other. As if it’s meant to be. Do you believe in destiny? One person, your missing half, destined to be with you? But what are the chances of it happening?”

“I do. You know what they say. You have to kiss a lot of wolves to find Mr. Right,” he murmured.

“I thought it was kiss a lot of frogs?”

He shot her a cocky grin. “Would you rather kiss a frog?”

“No,” she said, a little breathlessly. Nicolas watched the pulse beat at the base of her throat. Fast. Faster. “I’d rather … kiss you.”

Against the coconut tree’s rough bark, he braced his hands on either side of her, pressing her against the tree. “What do you want, Maggie? This?”

He lowered his head, and his mouth claimed hers.

It felt electric, hot, as if all his nerve endings centered on the contact between their lips. He savored the tangy taste of wine and her innocence. Her mouth was pliant, soft and silky beneath his. Nicolas cupped the back of her head, deepened the kiss. His tongue plunged into her parted mouth, thrust, imitating the sex act. She hesitated, reached out in turn, flicking her tongue over his.

He drank in her essence, her spice, tasting her life, all her hopes, dreams.

Passions.

Nicolas felt himself flowing into her, his internal essence trickling like water into her spirit. First contact … prelude to mating, when they’d exchange magick powers, and become fully one. Each lost half joined as in Old Times, before the Draicon split themselves in half to willingly lessen their powers before they became too powerful. Too dark. Too … evil.

Nicolas groaned as she writhed against him, pressing her hips against his. Maggie. His Maggie. His free hand stroked her body, teased, explored.

Sweetness. Spice. His hand delved between her thighs, cupped her in hard possessiveness. Nicolas rubbed, wanting to give her hot pleasure. She whimpered, twisted, ground her hips against him. Maggie pressed closer to him. As if she couldn’t wait to get inside him.

He withdrew his hand, his groin growing hard and heavy. Nicolas brought his fingers up, inhaled her delicious female scent. Bringing his index finger to his mouth, he gave it a long, slow lick. As if licking her.

Her wide gaze held his. Maggie moistened her kiss-swollen lips.

He gazed at her, dark, fierce. Wanting.

In minutes he’d have her, shorts stripped off, panties shredded, her slender legs spread open. Tasting her, bringing her to one shattering climax after another. Then, when she was wet and ready for him, he would sink his hard cock into her, sealing their bond of the flesh.

Every male instinct screamed yes. Nicolas reached for her again.

And caught a scent that rocked him back on his heels. Not delicious, aroused female spice.

Something dark, evil. Like a rotting corpse.

A Morph.

Trembling, Maggie fell back against the palm. One kiss. One soul-stopping press of his warm, wet mouth against hers. Feeling that hard, muscled body mold against her. In that moment, she went from guarded, slightly drunk but distant Maggie to Super Hormonal Woman. Able to leap his male body in a single bound.

She’d never been this sexual. Men interested her, but thought her too intelligent, too unapproachable. Too prudish when she refused to go to bed with them.

Now, dealing with a man she’d met barely an hour ago, her hormones were hopping like water drops on a hot skillet. The guy radiated sexuality like a beacon.

Practical to the bone, Maggie knew it was only nature dousing her with a flood of arousal to make up for the long months she’d avoided men while focusing on her work. Nature versus Overworked Single Businesswoman. Hormones on nature’s side. Score … tonight.

Maggie blinked as Nicolas lifted his head. He appeared to sniff the air. The dim yellow glow from her porch light revealed his expression shifting from fierce desire to wary speculation.

He moved so quickly she had no time to react. Strong fingers laced about her upper arm in an unyielding grip. “Get inside,” he urged, and steered her toward the front entrance.

Whoa. A bit fast. But wasn’t this what she wanted? Maggie, the practical, weighed the consequences of sleeping with Nicolas, a total stranger. Okay, a cute total stranger. Condoms?

She had none. Maybe he had some in his wallet. Right. New ones. She swiped a glance at his bulging crotch.

Her internal traffic light flashed yellow. Caution. Yet everything inside yearned to join with him. She felt caught in the helpless grip of sexual arousal. Why not sleep with him? She was a virgin, not out of moral principle, but sheer disinterest. No man had ever made her feel interested enough. Until now.

What was she waiting for? She’d been a virgin for twenty-seven years. If she waited any longer, they might as well bronze her and slap her on the shelf.

Green light. Go. Go. Go, her body urged.

Maggie gave up, and decided to cave in to her body’s insistent demands. They reached the front door. She fumbled for the key in her shorts pocket.

“Hurry, Maggie,” he ordered.

When the door was unlocked, Nicolas nearly ran inside, dragging her with him. Gently, but firmly, he put her behind him as he shut the door and clicked the dead bolt home.

Maggie flicked on the wall switch. Light splashed over his face, showing ruthless features hard as granite. He studied the living room. Suddenly shy, she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. This seemed so effortless in movies and romance novels.

Nicolas turned back to her. Surprise flared as he watched her slowly part the halves of her blouse, revealing the lacy cups of her bra.

Surprise was not the emotion she’d hoped for. Maggie clapped the blouse shut.

“Ah, Maggie.” His unshaven jaw worked, as if he struggled for control. “Later. When there’s time,” he said softly.

Grim-faced, Nicolas strode over to the sliding glass doors and drew the blinds shut. Maggie followed, totally flummoxed.

Whump! Something launched itself with lightning speed against the slider. A low screech hurt her ears, raking against her nerves like fingernails against slate. Maggie winced, but Nicolas only splayed his hands against the wooden blinds.

“You’ll not get her, evil one,” he mused, nearly to himself. “You’ll have to kill me to get to her now. And Kane will not allow me to die.”

He glanced at her. “Stay away from the windows. They can eventually find a way in, but don’t make yourself a visible target. I’m going outside.” He started for the front door.

They? “Who are they? Nicolas, what’s going on? Nicolas!”

He halted, slowly turned.

“What’s wrong? What was that that hit my sliders?”

“You don’t want to know. Not now.”

Slowly, she understood. He’d dragged her inside to escape … something. But there couldn’t be anything outside. This was too weird. Logic said Nicolas was flaky. Surely he looked a bit dangerous, with that wild, searching look in his dark eyes, the grim set of his mouth.

An old college course in behavioral science surfaced. Maggie studied her would-be lover. “Is there something out there that can hurt me, Nicolas? What is it?”

He glanced right, as if searching in the distance. “It’s not something that can hurt you. It’s something that will hurt you. It can sneak up on you before you take a single step.”

“You’re telling the truth,” she realized. “But Nicolas, if there’s something out there …”

He kissed her lips—a brief, intense kiss. “It’s just a small problem I must take care of. Lock the door behind me. And avoid the windows.”

Maggie put a hand to her spinning head, watching in dumbstruck disbelief as he padded out the front door. She bolted it behind him, her thoughts a maelstrom.

Hormones forgotten, she hugged herself. Odd noises. Threats. Danger. A stranger in a bar who evoked a feeling of déjà vu, whom she wanted to sleep with almost instantly. It made no sense. Yet deep inside, it did.

Memories pushed to the surface, clamoring to be heard. No. I will not, she thought wildly. Cell mitosis. Division. Creation. Life.

Misha, dying.

Maggie went to check on Misha. The dog slept on her pillow in the corner by the china cabinet. She squatted down, stroked her pet. If only I could take away your pain, sweetheart, I would. I’d do anything to make you well again.

Misha’s breathing was labored. Grief gripped Maggie like an iron fist. Soon, she’d have to make the decision. Did she do the humane thing as Mark insisted and euthanize her beloved friend before the pain became too intense? Maggie pressed shaking hands to her temples. She needed more time for research.

Time was a luxury she lacked.

Maggie went into the living room to wait.

In minutes he returned, locking the door behind him. Three long, bloodied gashes furrowed his right cheek as if something with claws had swiped him. Staring, she lurched to her feet.

“Problem solved,” he announced.

“What was it?” Maggie went to him, her stomach lurching at the blood on his face. Blood, except for in her practice, always nauseated her. She could perform surgery on injured animals and treat the worst wounds, but on humans, it had always sickened her.

“Let me take care of this. I have a firstaid kit.”

Nicolas shook his head. “It’s nothing. I heal fast.”

Unable to tear her gaze away from his cheek, she couldn’t fight the sinking feeling something sinister had lurked outside. “What attacked you?”

“Just a little stray problem. I took care of it.”

She worried her bottom lip. “I’ve got questions….”

“And I have answers, which I’ll share, when the time is right.” He smiled, lifting the darkness from his expression.

She lifted her chin, met his gaze head-on. “No, Nicolas. I want answers. Right now.”




Chapter 4


Maggie wanted answers he could not give. Not now. Not in her present inebriated state. He needed her alert. Yet perhaps this was best. Her inhibitions gone, maybe she’d stop clinging to logic and believe. The Morph’s claws had sunk into his cheek, but he’d dispatched the enemy easily. Now the lacerations barely stung. By tomorrow they would vanish.

She folded her arms across her stomach. The move served to thrust her breasts at him in a delectable invitation. His gaze dropped to the inviting valley between the lacy cups.

Nicolas longed to run his tongue there. Chart new territory.

“Nicolas? What was out there?”

He raised his gaze to meet hers. He’d feed her some information, see how she reacted.

“Sit, Maggie.” He steered her over to the plush floral couch. She sat, rather unsteadily.

“What attacked your door, and what I took care of, was a creature called a Morph. A shape-shifter.”

She gave him a blank stare. He pressed on. “It uses dark magick to change into any kind of animal form and seeks to destroy. It feeds off the energy and fear of a dying victim. It needs constant energy to stay alive and work magick. The slower the victim dies, or the more fear the person produces, the richer the food source.”

He paused, studying the disbelief dawning in her eyes.

“It’s after you, Maggie.”

Maggie rubbed her temples. “I must be drunk. Did you say shape-shifters?”

“Morphs. They shift into different animal shapes.”

She laughed. “Shape-shifters who change into animals. Right. And they want me for, what? Free medical care since I’m a vet?”

“They want you because you’re the only one who can defeat and destroy them, Maggie. You’re extraordinary.”

“That’s me. Maggie the Super Destroyer of Shape-shifters!” Her blouse gaped open again, showing a delicious cleft of creamy skin. Nicolas felt his groin grow even heavier. He steeled against it. Control, control. Now was not the time.

“You don’t believe me. But you will, soon enough. Just as you sense we have something between us.” He took her hand, running his thumb lightly over her knuckles. She shivered at his touch. A pulse throbbed in her neck.

“I don’t believe in shape-shifters. Or magic. The sexual chemistry between us? Basic human biology.” Her mouth thinned as she yanked her hand away. “I’m a researcher, a doctor of veterinary medicine. So if you’re trying to convince me of anything as nonsensical as this Morph creature, it defies human logic. I need evidence.”

Nicolas remembered how the Morphs had torn the hunters to pieces. “Don’t underestimate them, Maggie. Morphs are far from nonsensical.”

Maggie, the scientist, the unbeliever. If he revealed more, she’d grow even more wary. She wanted empirical evidence.

He wanted to pick her up, and run off with her. Get her out of danger before the Morphs attacked. Not yet. She was still safe. Since she hadn’t displayed any empath powers, the Morphs lacked proof she was the Draicon destined to destroy them.

He gauged his plan. Tell her to pack now, get the dog in the car and run, and she’d not only balk, but put up such a fuss she’d attract unwanted attention.

She needed to see to believe.

He’d dispatched the Morph scout easily, killing him before he cloned. Scouts worked in pairs. In the morning, when it was supposed to check in, another would appear. After intense study of their patterns, he knew what to expect.

Chances were a Morph wouldn’t appear before morning. But he wouldn’t leave her alone.

He could mate with her now. But their first time together, he wanted all night. Take it long and slow, not fast and hurried, with the threat of a Morph appearing at her door.

Besides, Maggie needed evidence that the Morphs existed. Nicolas smiled grimly.

She’d see plenty tomorrow morning. He felt certain of it.

Maggie’s swimming head couldn’t process everything. First, the raging desire stripped away all coherent thought, leaving nothing but the urgent need to rub her naked body against this man. Then there was the odd feeling of danger and Nicolas’s mysterious vanishing act.

Now his assertion that a creature stalked her?

It was too fantastic. Yet a tiny part of her warned he told the truth. She ignored that voice. If he were truthful, everything she’d built for herself would collapse into rubble. Her life was ordinary, organized and carefully planned. It allowed no room for the whimsical and mysterious.

No room for childish beliefs such as magic. Magic with a C, not a K, she thought.

Maggie clenched her fists. No, she said silently. It’s not possible. I only believe in what I can control, or accept that which is beyond my control.

Some diseases were beyond her control. Death. Misha, dying.

A small whimpering drew her attention. Maggie jumped from the couch, and staggered into the kitchen. Nicolas followed as she bent down, stroked the newly awakened Misha with a trembling hand. The dog raised her head, regarded Nicolas. Her tail beat the air like a metronome as she licked his hand.

“She doesn’t take well to strangers lately,” Maggie said, her heart leaping for joy. This was the most life Misha had shown in days.

“I’m a dog person,” Nicolas murmured, rubbing behind Misha’s ears.

Maybe now she could finally coax Misha into eating. From the refrigerator, she fished out a plastic tub and tore off the lid. She squatted before the dog, holding out a small piece of cooked chicken. “Look, Misha, your favorite. Please, eat for me. Please, baby. You can do it.”

The dog reached for the chicken. Wild hope arose. Then a strong male hand seized Maggie’s wrist, pulling the food away. Anger flooded her. “What are you doing?”

Nicolas was studying Misha with an intent look.

“Don’t.”

Maggie’s mouth flattened. “She’s very ill. This is the first food she’s shown interest in.”

He stroked Misha’s head. “What are you feeding her?”

What business was it of his? Yet Misha acted animated, continuing to wag her tail as he rubbed behind her ears. Certainly he had a way with animals.

“Protein. The … mass acts like a cancer. Cancer doesn’t feed well on protein, so I have her on a diet of eggs, meat, poultry, white fish, with raw vegetables and …”

“Stop feeding her. It’s not cancer.”

Maggie stared. “What?”

Nicolas leaned forward as Misha licked his hand. “The disease is different. It feeds off energy. Any food provides Misha with energy, which the diseased cells use to multiply and spread. She’s literally starving to death when she eats and feeding her makes the disease spread.”

She slapped the food container on the floor. Misha whined. Nicolas arched a brow.

“Starving to death when I feed her? What do you propose I do, let her not eat and hope that will help? She’s dying, dammit! She’s dying and there’s not a damn thing I can do. All my research has been useless. I’m a vet and I can cure other people’s animals, but not my own dog.”

Maggie pressed a trembling hand to her face. No more tears. The gentle pressure of a hand squeezing her shoulder made her look up. Nicolas’s expression softened.

“Maggie, I’m sure you’ve done everything for her. I can tell how much you love her. Don’t give up. Modern science can’t fight ancient, dark magick. Hasn’t your research shown this disease to behave abnormally, unlike anything you’ve ever seen?”

She remembered how the cells divided when she added a drop of healthy dog blood. How they seemed to almost …

Eat it.

Maggie closed her eyes in disbelief. It made no sense. None. Science demanded logic, answers, evaluation. What Nicolas proposed was pure nonsense.

Her eyes flew open. She jerked away from him and went to the fridge, shoving the container back inside. “If Misha has a new type of disease, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it.”

Nicolas stood and parked a lean hip against the arched doorway. “You trusted I was telling the truth before when the Morph was outside. Trust me now, Maggie. Go with your instincts.”

A bitter laugh escaped. “That wasn’t instinct. It was pure behavioral science. You looked right when I asked you if there was something out there that could hurt me. That indicates you were remembering. If you had looked left, it would have told me you were making up a lie. The eyes reveal more than most people realize.”

“And so does what’s deep inside a person.” Nicolas advanced. “Don’t look to science, Maggie. Look inside. Stop being logical. Logic has nothing to do with it.”

He ran a thumb across her cheek. “Logic has nothing to do with this. These feelings we shared toward each other when we met. I know you have them. Don’t fear them. They’re perfectly natural and expected. Just like your parents shared.”

Maggie studied him, obliquely noticing the lacerations on his face had shrunk. I must be drunk, she rationalized. Wounds didn’t heal that fast. Instead, she focused on the swirling caramel of his brown eyes. Faint memories tugged. Parents. Forest and mountains. Familiar warmth of friends, love, strong bonds. Her father affectionately licking her mother …

Licking?

“It’s plain, simple biology,” she asserted, struggling with her emotions as he swept his thumb over her jawline. “Sexual attraction, nature’s means of propagating the species.”

His eyes darkened. “Have you ever wanted to propagate like this?”

Maggie put a hand to her swimming head. “No,” she admitted. “It’s the wine. Alcohol lowers inhibitions. Which is why women sleep with men they just met.”

Nicolas bent his head toward her. With one hand, he caught her curls, swept them back from her ear. Warm breath feathered over her cheek. Maggie caught his very male, woodsy scent, reminding her of pine forests and wildness. “Is that why you kissed me? Why you began removing your blouse? Two glasses of pinot noir?”

His mouth nuzzled her neck. Maggie moaned as he nipped it, then delivered a soothing lick. Her hands anchored on his shoulders. Thoughts of magic, strange creatures and danger evaporated like raindrops on a hot Florida blacktop.

Nicolas set her back. His gaze burned into hers. “Not wine, Maggie. We both know it.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

Nicolas cupped her face, bent his head as if to kiss her. Then he uttered almost a growl, and jerked away.

“No. Not now,” he muttered.

His dark brows pulled together in a frown. Her body left aching and yearning, Maggie shouldered her pride and buttoned the blouse.

“I think you should go. I’m tired.” Maggie managed to force the words out.

“I think I should stay,” he said quietly, his gaze searching hers. “You shouldn’t be alone now. It’s too dangerous here.”

“From whatever was outside? How do you expect me to believe in something I can’t see?” She collapsed onto the couch.

“Do you think I was lying, Maggie? Do you think something wasn’t trying to get inside?”

The little hairs on the back of her neck rose. “I believe you believe that there are such creatures, Nicolas. But asking me to swallow a story about a magical creature that shape-shifts …? You might as well ask me to believe in something as silly as werewolves. Maybe it’s them I need to fear. It’s nearly a full moon.” She threw back her head, gave a short, fake howl.

One dark brow lifted again. “Not bad,” he drawled. “But in time, you’ll do better.”

He paced over to the door, checked the locks. Next he checked the windows, shut the curtains. Maggie rubbed her arms, her confused, muzzy emotions raging. “Nicolas, what are you doing?”

He shot her a hooded look from beneath long, dark lashes. “I need to secure your house.”

“Against what?”

“Against anything needing to get inside. I’m staying the night, Maggie.”

“You don’t act … interested.”

In answer he cupped her face, drew her toward him. Nicolas kissed her, a warm authoritative kiss. His tongue swept over her lips, danced inside as she opened to him. He groaned and tore himself away. Breathing ragged, eyes dark and wild, he visibly fought to control himself.

Elated, yet confused, she licked her lips and touched his arm. “Then why not?”

“Now isn’t a good time, Maggie.” Nicolas drew in a deep breath. “I want … time. I want to make love to you more than I want my next breath. All night long. When I know it’s safe.”

“I feel perfectly safe.”

He shot her a level look. “You’re also intoxicated.”

Disappointment mingled with newfound respect. Another man would simply take advantage of her being drunk, and happily walk off without caring he might have left behind a package awaiting delivery in nine months.

“Go to sleep, Maggie. I’ll protect you.”

From what? Whatever mythical creature that attacked him? Or against himself?

Maggie curled up with a yawn. Something warm and soft fell over her a minute later. A blanket.

“Good night, Mags,” he murmured. He shot her a faintly exasperated look. “I told you not to remove the bracelet. But you didn’t listen. Perhaps you will now.”

Confusion at his words faded with the tender kiss he pressed against her cheek. Maggie yawned and snuggled into the couch, pulling the blanket over her. Just a minute’s rest, then she’d escort him out. She closed her eyes to the image of Nicolas, silently standing guard by the sliding glass doors, as if keeping watch.

Sunlight speared the white tile floor the next morning as she slowly awakened. Maggie stared at the small clock radio on the bedside table in bleary confusion. How could she have slept until ten o’clock? Jackhammers slammed into her skull. Damn. No wonder she had no inclination to drink. Hangovers were a bitch. She sat up slowly, gritting her teeth against the nausea, then headed for the bathroom.

When she emerged, memories of last night surfaced. A low groan rippled from her lips. What a fool she’d been.

No sign of Nicolas. He must have carried her upstairs and then left. The blinds, closed last night, now were open, the windows uncovered.

Just as well. Never before had she been so edgy, wanting, ready to leap into bed with a stranger. One she’d met at a bar! Maggie rubbed her face, wincing at her aching head. No more alcohol. Not even a thimble of sherry.

Still, she couldn’t erase his strong, impassioned face from her thoughts. He remained embedded there like fingerprints.

She went into the kitchen, checked on Misha. The dog greeted her with a wagging tail and ambled outside as Maggie opened the sliding glass doors. No trouble walking, more energy than she’d exhibited. When Misha returned, she lay down on the cool tile.

Troubled, Maggie measured out coffee and poured it into her automatic coffeemaker. Misha hadn’t eaten yesterday and acted livelier.

Nicolas had warned feeding Misha would spread the disease.

Ridiculous. A disease that fed off the energy produced by food? Maggie headed for the bathroom for a shower to clear her muzzy brain.

To her amazement, Misha followed her up the stairs. The dog wagged her tail, lay down by the bathroom door. Maggie’s spirits lifted.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp and curly. She coaxed Misha into her lab and drew another sample of blood. Misha watched with large brown eyes as Maggie studied the sample underneath the microscope.

There were fewer black cells in the blood sample than the previous day. Maggie glanced down at her dog. “Nicolas can’t be right. This is just a coincidence.”

Misha yawned and laid her head down.

“Okay, sweetie, stay there. I think you deserve a nap after climbing those stairs.”

Downstairs, Maggie poured coffee into a china mug, added sugar and pulled open the sliders. She stepped out onto the patio. The mirrored surface of the gulf rippled sea-blue this morning, reflecting the cloudless sky. On the mile-wide beach, green and royal blue umbrellas blossomed to greet the day. People walked along the surf, some jogging, others ambling or shell hunting.

The air smelled briny. No breeze rustled the spindly palm trees. Musing over last night’s strange events, and the odd findings in Misha’s blood this morning, Maggie stared out at the beach. Something caught her eye.




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