Wolf at the Door - By MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,16

such thing as a victim.

He also believed no one was innocent. Not past the age of five, anyway.

Another sigh, followed by, “All right. Yes.”

Then she helped him, as he knew she would. Poor dumb bitch . . . didn’t she know the first thing the bad guys always did was get rid of the assassin?

Not his problem.

Whistling, he headed back to his rental car, twirling the key ring around on his index finger and wondering how soon he’d have to kill the next one.

She was wrong. He didn’t enjoy this.

He didn’t.

Ten

Rachael, a creature of instinct and, during certain times of the month, a creature of the moment who did not comprehend the concept of tomorrow or even later, would never be able to remember exactly how they’d ended up kissing.

They had been having a nice let’s-get-acquainted chat. And then she was crying—and shocked! Where did that come from? Has that been in me the whole time? She didn’t know if she should be appalled or sad or pleased or embarrassed.

Scratch that: she should be embarrassed. She was embarrassed.

Then Edward was there, frantically grabbing napkins and handing them to her as fast as he could while making soothing motions with his hands. She got to her feet and sort of stumbled toward the front of the store, and Edward got up and came after her so quickly he smashed his hip against a magazine display hard enough to make it rock.

“Rachael, it’s okay. Don’t leave, okay? Please? Come on, come back and sit down with me some more.”

Anxiety. Concern. Lust.

Not pity, though. No, not that. And he wasn’t embarrassed that a woman he’d just met was sobbing next to a display of Time, Newsweek, and People magazine’s “Most Annoying People.”

That was sort of nice. Sort of wonderful, really.

So she turned back toward him, turned to go back to their little corner table, and he reached for her—probably for her hand, but she would never know for certain—and she reached, too. And for a wonder, her hands were on his face, and his expression mirrored his scent. That was sort of wonderful, too. A lot of non-Pack said one thing while they thought another. Werewolves couldn’t, which is why they tended to keep to themselves.

And then she was pulling him closer, and he was pulling her closer, and their mouths met. Softly at first, almost carefully, and then—

Lust. Concern. Happiness. Lust.

—they were holding each other and his kisses weren’t soft anymore, and she was glad. She was not in a soft mood.

“Aw, jeez.” From very, very far away, Rachael heard one of the clerks calling a manager. It sounded like he was hailing them from the bottom of a well. “Dave, could you get up here? I got another set of geeks making out in the paranormal romance section. And they are not stopping. Repeat, they are not stopping. Code Vlad, repeat, code Vlad!”

Which was how they earned a lifetime ban from Barnes and Noble.

Eleven

“Lifetime ban. A lifetime ban!” Edward was trying to wrap his mind around the astonishing events of the last twenty minutes. “But I’m a member of their discount club! They can’t ban a member of their discount club, right?”

“They did, though.”

Rachael’s voice, low and sweet, also conveyed her extreme amusement. He was glad. Amused was good. Giving him a left cross in the front teeth because she felt molested was not.

And oh my God, her mouth tasted like a Green Tea Frappuccino. And SHE kissed ME!

“Listen, Rachael . . .” He reached for her small warm hand without thinking, realized what he was doing, and let his hand drop back to his side. “I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that—”

“You troll bookstore shelves to pick up babes?” And for a wonder, she reached for his hand, and held it.

I will never wash this hand again, as Jabba is my witness. By all the gods in the Marvel universe, I will never . . . Pay attention, dumb shit! She’s still talking!

“Woe to me, then, the latest victim of your Bookstore Nosh.” She laughed. Rachael had a wonderful laugh, sort of deep and bubbly at the same time. It was a little strange to hear it when he could still see the tear tracks on her cheeks. “Perhaps you’re my victim, Edward. Did you ever think of that?”

“I’ve fantasized about that,” he admitted. He didn’t want to. He absolutely did not. He wouldn’t. Nope.

He peeked at his watch and groaned.

“You have to go.” It wasn’t a question.

“I