him.
Chris quickly punched buttons to make a call, and for a moment, Rourke thought he was calling Meara back to try and talk some sense into her, but instead he said, “I need you to run over to Meara’s place and rent the rental units.” He scowled. “Hell, I know that! Don’t you think I would know that? Meara’s going to be gone for a little while. So you have the task of running the resort. Just get out there.” He hung up.
Now that was odd that Meara would give up managing the units, since everyone in the pack knew how much she was looking forward to running them while Hunter was gone. Rumor had it that all the guests for the next two weeks were alpha male bachelors, and she intended to find herself a mate.
After Chris finished his call, he stuck the phone in the pouch at his belt. He cleared his throat, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the floor for a moment as if deep in thought. He must have realized Rourke was watching him because he looked up with an annoyed expression. “You should be glad things are quiet around here for a change.”
It didn’t seem so quiet any longer—at least where Meara was concerned. Rourke sure would like to learn what that was all about. “Quiet doesn’t sell newspapers.”
Chris shrugged. “Make something up.”
Rourke stared at him blankly. “Reporting the news means reporting the truth.”
“Ah hell, that’s a crock of…”
Chris’s cell phone rang, and Rourke wondered, What now?
Chris slipped the phone off his belt. “Yeah?” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze from the floor to Rourke.
What had Rourke done wrong this time? He’d really thought he had this werewolf business down fairly well, but he felt like he was living undercover and he was always afraid he’d blow his cover.
“Yeah.” Chris looked at the floor again. “All right. I’ll ask him. Thanks.” He pocketed the phone and looked grimmer than Rourke had ever seen him.
“What’s wrong?” Rourke asked.
“Nothing to write home about. In other words, nothing to report in your newspaper. But we’ve got a problem.”
More than the one he’d just had with Meara? “What?”
“A man just washed up on one of the more isolated beaches, dead. He’s one of us.”
Rourke closed his gaping mouth. “But I can’t report it.”
“He’s one of us… our kind ,” Chris said in a tone that sounded as if he was relaying the information to a two-year-old. But Chris was angry, too, his face red, his fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenched.
“I understand that. But no one can verify he’s one of us, so what difference would it make if I reported it?” But Rourke could see from the hostile expression on Chris’s face that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Who found him?”
“One of our teens was searching for sea life on the rocks. She realized he was one of our kind right away and reported it to Dave. He wanted to know if you might recognize the man.”
“How would I know—”
Chris raised his hand to stop Rourke from asking anything further. “He had newspaper credentials. His name was Joe Matheson.”
“Joe…” Rourke shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
Chris frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Well, sure I’m sure. If he’s from a community around here, I’d probably know him unless he was brand new on the job. If he’s from somewhere else, that’s another story. How did he die?”
“Fell from the cliffs. Even though we have pretty good healing abilities, a fall on the rocks at low tide could kill anyone.”
“Was he pushed, did he commit suicide, or did he just accidentally fall?”
“Our police officer is looking into it. But he wants you to look at the man, just in case you might have known him, being that he’s supposed to be in your line of work.”
Rourke would have jumped at the chance if it meant a news story. But now it was just a viewing to ID the poor slob when he was sure he wouldn’t recognize him and wouldn’t be able
Chris quickly punched buttons to make a call, and for a moment, Rourke thought he was calling Meara back to try and talk some sense into her, but instead he said, “I need you to run over to Meara’s place and rent the rental units.” He scowled. “Hell, I know that! Don’t you think I would know that? Meara’s going to be gone for a little while. So you have the task of running the resort. Just get out there.” He hung up.
Now that was odd that Meara would give up managing the units, since everyone in the pack knew how much she was looking forward to running them while Hunter was gone. Rumor had it that all the guests for the next two weeks were alpha male bachelors, and she intended to find herself a mate.
After Chris finished his call, he stuck the phone in the pouch at his belt. He cleared his throat, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the floor for a moment as if deep in thought. He must have realized Rourke was watching him because he looked up with an annoyed expression. “You should be glad things are quiet around here for a change.”
It didn’t seem so quiet any longer—at least where Meara was concerned. Rourke sure would like to learn what that was all about. “Quiet doesn’t sell newspapers.”
Chris shrugged. “Make something up.”
Rourke stared at him blankly. “Reporting the news means reporting the truth.”
“Ah hell, that’s a crock of…”
Chris’s cell phone rang, and Rourke wondered, What now?
Chris slipped the phone off his belt. “Yeah?” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze from the floor to Rourke.
What had Rourke done wrong this time? He’d really thought he had this werewolf business down fairly well, but he felt like he was living undercover and he was always afraid he’d blow his cover.
“Yeah.” Chris looked at the floor again. “All right. I’ll ask him. Thanks.” He pocketed the phone and looked grimmer than Rourke had ever seen him.
“What’s wrong?” Rourke asked.
“Nothing to write home about. In other words, nothing to report in your newspaper. But we’ve got a problem.”
More than the one he’d just had with Meara? “What?”
“A man just washed up on one of the more isolated beaches, dead. He’s one of us.”
Rourke closed his gaping mouth. “But I can’t report it.”
“He’s one of us… our kind ,” Chris said in a tone that sounded as if he was relaying the information to a two-year-old. But Chris was angry, too, his face red, his fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenched.
“I understand that. But no one can verify he’s one of us, so what difference would it make if I reported it?” But Rourke could see from the hostile expression on Chris’s face that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Who found him?”
“One of our teens was searching for sea life on the rocks. She realized he was one of our kind right away and reported it to Dave. He wanted to know if you might recognize the man.”
“How would I know—”
Chris raised his hand to stop Rourke from asking anything further. “He had newspaper credentials. His name was Joe Matheson.”
“Joe…” Rourke shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
Chris frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Well, sure I’m sure. If he’s from a community around here, I’d probably know him unless he was brand new on the job. If he’s from somewhere else, that’s another story. How did he die?”
“Fell from the cliffs. Even though we have pretty good healing abilities, a fall on the rocks at low tide could kill anyone.”
“Was he pushed, did he commit suicide, or did he just accidentally fall?”
“Our police officer is looking into it. But he wants you to look at the man, just in case you might have known him, being that he’s supposed to be in your line of work.”
Rourke would have jumped at the chance if it meant a news story. But now it was just a viewing to ID the poor slob when he was sure he wouldn’t recognize him and wouldn’t be able
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