Gradually surprise turned to anger. Obviously Earl’s story had put some doubts in Roarke’s mind and he’d decided to investigate, after all, but damn it, why couldn’t he have said so this morning? An admission that he was rethinking his position on Bigfoot would have meant the world to Grandpa Earl. Apparently Roarke was too proud to make it, and the sexy professor instantly dropped several notches in her estimation.
Focusing on him again, she took a couple of pictures. Maybe she’d print them up and present them to him over another drink at Flannigan’s. So, Dr. Arrogant Bastard, if you don’t believe a word my grandfather said, what were you doing prowling around in his woods, hmmm? Is this or is this not you, Dr. Pompous Hypocrite?
She would do exactly that. He deserved to be found out, and she was just the woman to do it. She snapped off a couple more pictures for good measure. What a prince. And she’d thought he might be worth pursuing. Ha. He was . . . he was taking off his clothes?
That made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Abby stopped clicking the shutter. Roarke was quickly going from hot prospect to strange weirdo. He could be a nudist, but he’d have to be one totally dedicated nudist to strip down in a cold drizzle.
Apparently he expected to put his clothes on again, though, because he was stuffing them into a nylon backpack as if he wanted to keep them dry. Through the zoom lens, Abby could see . . . everything. Too bad he was a total nutjob, because he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever had the privilege of viewing nak*d.
Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt this guy. A girl didn’t usually see this kind of muscle definition in a college professor. True, Abby had dated only one of those in her life, but he’d been sort of soft in the middle.
Roarke was the exact opposite of soft. He turned his back to her, and her mouth went dry. She hadn’t meant to take a picture, but her finger had a mind of its own. It pushed the button. Now, whether she wanted it or not, she had a shot of his powerful back, narrow hips, and tight buns. Oh, darn.
Hey, what the hell. She’d make sure her grandfather never saw these pictures. But his legs were concealed behind some foliage, so she still didn’t have the complete man preserved for later viewing.
Then he moved away from the foliage and she snapped another shot of his muscled thighs and strong calves. Yes, she was acting like a voyeur, but no woman in America would blame her. She willed him to turn around. She wasn’t planning to take a full-frontal picture, but she wasn’t above using the zoom to get a better look.
Then he turned, but he’d shifted his position so that a fern became a very effective fig leaf. Damn. She held her breath and waited. Step away from the fern. Step away from the fern.
Which he eventually did. Omigod. Now that was a package. If she’d been shivery and cold before, she imagined steam coming off her now. What a shame that such a well-endowed man was several slices shy of a loaf.
As she congratulated herself on making the best of what had previously been a boring afternoon, Roarke surprised her once again. Zipping the backpack containing his clothes, he got to his knees and then stretched out on the carpet of wet leaves and pine needles.
Whew.Anybody who would decide to sleep nak*d in the woods in the rain was seriously in need of a shrink. Maybe she should call 911. A loony appeared to be on the loose.
Except Roarke wasn’t sleeping. Something was happening to him. When she began to understand what that something might be, she pinched herself hard. The pinch hurt, but that might not mean anything. She could still be in the middle of a nightmare.
She had one way to know for sure. She’d keep taking pictures. If she was dreaming, she’d wake up. If she wasn’t, she’d have proof of what her eyes couldn’t believe was happening—Roarke, esteemed NYU professor of anthropology, was becoming a wolf.
And not just any wolf, either. She’d seen this animal from the granite outcropping yesterday, its pale blond coat glowing in the early-morning light as it prowled the Gentry estate. She’d known then it was no dog.
She began to shiver and had to concentrate on holding the camera still. Assuming she was awake, the pictures she was taking now would change everything.
Belatedly she realized that she could be in danger, assuming this was real. If she remembered her mythology correctly, a man who could change into a wolf was called a werewolf. Werewolves didn’t have a very good reputation. In movies they ran around biting people and generally causing problems.
She had her pictures, and she might want to leave now, before the wolf caught her scent. In fact, it was strange that it hadn’t done so yet. The breeze might have something to do with that. She could feel it on her face, which meant it was blowing toward her, carrying her scent away from the wolf.
She was downwind of the wolf. The term hadn’t been anything she’d needed to use before, but it was important in this case because it might give her a brief reprieve.
She’d been standing partially hidden behind a large pine. Slowly she backed away, stepping carefully so she didn’t trip and make noise. Inch by torturous inch, she put distance between herself and the wolf.
Oddly enough, it didn’t seem to be aware of her. In fact, it turned in the other direction. She paused to see what it would do.
Fortune smiled on her as the wolf sniffed the air and began trotting away. Apparently it had caught the scent of something upwind. Or rather he had caught the scent of something. She needed to remember that the wolf was Roarke. And Roarke was a wolf. A werewolf.
At least she needed to remember it for the length of this dream. She still wondered if she was sound asleep in the spare room at Grandpa Earl’s place. The smell of coffee brewing would rouse her and she’d laugh about her overactive imagination.
Turning, she started for home, pausing every few yards to glance over her shoulder and make sure a wolf wasn’t stalking her. Any minute now she might wake up, but even in dreams she liked to make it home safely.
The trip home seemed to take forever, but finally she could see the back door of Dooley’s General Store. Grandpa Earl’s pickup was parked under the overhang beside the store, and smoke from the potbellied stove curled into the evening sky.
Everything looked perfectly normal and not the least bit dreamlike. She stood gazing at the familiar scene and thought about Grandpa Earl waiting inside for a report on her adventures. Of all the people she knew, he might be the only one who would believe her if she described what she’d encountered.
And yet . . . now that she was in sight of a safe haven and was beginning to accept that what she’d seen was real, the ramifications became clear. A werewolf was as much of a mythical creature as Bigfoot. Therefore, if a werewolf had just appeared in front of her eyes, the other was no longer in doubt.
And Roarke was out there looking. If that was the scent he’d picked up, he might have already found the mated pair that Grandpa Earl had seen. But why would he want to find them? Did the Gentrys know they’d hired a werewolf or was she the only person in Portland with that information?
Come to think of it, she might be one of the few adults in Portland who could accept the fact that a man had transformed himself into a wolf. Someone else might offer a rational explanation having to do with shadows and poor eyesight. But she’d believed in fantastical creatures as a child, and judging from her instant recognition of a werewolf, she still believed in them.
Still, she had no idea what she’d stumbled onto. Maybe she should find out before involving Grandpa Earl. For one thing, he’d never allow her to confront a werewolf alone, and yet she didn’t want to expose him to potential danger, either.
She clutched his camera, protected under her jacket. The camera was old, but not so old that it used film. Her grandfather had loved the idea of digital cameras and had bought one soon after they’d come out. When her grandfather went to bed, she’d be able to download the pictures and print them on his aging printer.
Then she could arrange to meet Roarke in broad daylight in a public place. Lunch at Flannigan’s would be perfect. She’d take it slow and rely on her instincts as to whether he would harm her if she revealed what she knew.
He didn’t strike her as a violent kind of person, but he wasn’t a person, exactly. She wasn’t sure how he’d react when he found out she wanted him to take her on the hunt for the Bigfoot pair. She’d use her pictures as leverage. It was the one sure way to prove her grandfather was right, so he’d move to Arizona.
The plan wasn’t without risk, which was why she had to do it without telling Grandpa Earl. But she hadn’t been this excited about anything in years. Essentially, she hoped to blackmail a werewolf into giving her the evidence she needed to vindicate her grandfather. Cool.
Chapter 5
Roarke had hoped finding the Sasquatch pair would be easier, but they must have been spooked by the recent large number of hikers in the area searching for them. If they would simply leave the area permanently, that would solve the Gentrys’ problem. But Roarke wasn’t convinced they’d cooperate.
Assuming the female was pregnant, she might be returning to her place of birth to have her baby. That theory had been advanced many times, although the evidence was scanty. Roarke couldn’t ignore the possibility that the pair could move in the other direction for a while and then turn around and come back.
They hadn’t done so yet, however. Roarke had followed several faint trails that led nowhere and had finally given up for the night, shifted back to human form, and dressed in the clothes he’d left stashed in his backpack.
Shifting out in the woods wasn’t his idea of fun, but he’d been in a hurry to leave the Gentry mansion and hadn’t wanted to linger even long enough to shift. Cameron Gentry was fast becoming a pain in the ass. He’d discovered late in the day that Roarke had canceled his last two talks, and Cameron had taken that as a slap in the face.
The Gentry alpha’s ego knew no bounds. Roarke had tried to explain, without revealing anything Abby had confided in him, that the talks were having the opposite effect Cameron had hoped. After being attacked, Earl Dooley wasn’t cowed at all. He was more determined to stand his ground and prove his case.
Cameron didn’t get it. He’d launched a campaign to humiliate Dooley and he intended to keep up the pressure until he succeeded. He had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The discussion had eventually turned into a heated argument, and Roarke had decided to leave before he said something he’d regret. After all, his parents were good friends with Cameron’s parents. He was supposed to be out here on a goodwill mission, not to stir up controversy.
If he could find the Sasquatch pair, then he could relocate them and leave Cameron to stew in his juices. Roarke hadn’t promised to deliver Earl Dooley’s head on a platter, and he’d be damned if he’d continue that campaign. But the Sasquatch needed protection, maybe even from Cameron Gentry.
Too bad he hadn’t found them tonight. But they were large and able to cover quite a bit of ground in a day. These two seemed to be diurnal instead of nocturnal. That was another misconception about Sasquatch—that they were all nocturnal. Like humans, some were night owls and some were larks. These two apparently moved around during the day, which was why Earl had spotted them in the first place.
Hungry and frustrated by his lack of success, Roarke didn’t notice the message on his BlackBerry until he was back in his room at the mansion. Abby. She wanted to meet him for lunch at noon at Flannigan’s.
Despite knowing that he shouldn’t have anything more to do with her, he texted an acceptance. Lunch in the city would break up his day and cut down on the number of hours he could spend looking for the Sasquatch pair, but Abby was the only bright spot so far on his Portland trip. A simple little lunch wouldn’t compromise the whole program.
It was a testament to his eagerness that he arrived at Flannigan’s early the next day. But that meant he could watch her walk toward the booth where he was sitting. He soaked up every second of that experience.
Her outfit was urban chic—gray slacks with those strappy high-heeled sandals guaranteed to drive men crazy, and a roomy black jacket worn over a tight white T-shirt. She’d piled her red hair on top of her head and added some large silver hoop earrings to the mix. He wanted to eat her up.
Her color was high as she slid into the booth opposite him. “Thanks for meeting me on short notice.”
“Happy to.” In fact, happy was too mild for the emotion he was feeling at seeing her. And smelling her. Once again, her scent grabbed him by the gonads. The two of them were meant to be lovers—but when?
That sort of thing took time to develop, at least in his estimation. He couldn’t just invite her to join him in one of the hotel rooms conveniently located above them and expect her to go along with that. Any woman worth having was worth the trouble of wooing with a long, slow seduction. But he didn’t have that luxury.
She asked how he’d been as they both consulted the menu. He gave the automatic response that he’d been fine, but busy. Then he continued the conversational tennis match by asking how she’d been. Fine, but busy. He smiled at her response.
Eventually she’d tell him why she asked him to lunch. He wouldn’t push. His ego wanted to believe that she was as intrigued by him as he was by her. She was aware they didn’t have much time together in Portland, but maybe she wanted to make the most of what time they had. He wasn’t free to do that, but it would be nice to have her say it.
After they ordered—steak sandwich for him and a bowl of vegetable soup for her—she leaned forward, as if not wanting to be overheard. He took that as a sign that she had something intimate to discuss. He mirrored her by leaning forward, too.
Her eyes really were incredibly blue. He could gaze into them for hours. Her scent surrounded him, and his groin tightened.
She moistened her full lips with her tongue. “I saw you in the woods late yesterday afternoon.”