A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by Deborah MacGillivray

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Chapter Five
    “ Go ask Alice…I think she’ll know… “
    It struck Trev as humorous that the band was playing the old Jefferson Airplane song, since Raven clearly lacked any clue as to what had just occurred. The poor lass stood poleaxed, as though he’d dropped, wings unfurled, through the skylight. Her face was beautiful, enchanting, endlessly kissable, but she had no poker face, that was for bloody sure. Mmm. Images of playing strip poker with Raven flashed through his brain. He swallowed hard, heat crawling up the back of his neck, flames of desire licking at his mind.
    The last notes faded away to be replaced by strains of “Thief of My Heart”—and a more perfect cue he couldn’t ask for. Never one to pass up an opening, he seized the change in tunes as an excuse to lure Raven away from family and friends…and some nonfriends. Feeling like Sir Galahad rescuing a damsel in distress, he flashed Raven a smile and took her wrist to drag her toward the dance floor before her lack of guile gave the whole game away. With a wink he tossed over his shoulder to the staring group, “Pardon us, I hate to miss a rumba with Raven.”
    Raven followed docilely enough; only, when they reached the center of the hardwood floor she just looked up at him with unblinking brown eyes. Like a doe in the headlights. Drawing her close, Trev slowly placed her hand on his right shoulder then reached for her other and curled it around his neck. He liked the way their bodies fit.
    “The rumba is a dance of love,” he said. “You’re supposed to look at me as if you love me.” When she simply stared at him, dumbstruck, he asked, “You do know how to rumba, don’t you?”
    She nodded.
    “Good.” Trev chuckled at her bemusement, then warned, “If you don’t stop gaping at me they’ll wonder what’s going on. Or worse…cause me to do this.”
    He stepped closer and brushed his lips lightly against her surprised mouth. She gave a breathy gasp. Adrenaline hit his blood in reply; the response zinged along his nerve net, causing a reaction on par with having stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. He shouldn’t have, but he was still too damn keyed up after last night to resist, so he deepened the kiss. Not much. Not like he wanted. Just enough so that he could savor soft lips that tasted like Moët Champagne, a hint of Brie cheese, and Raven—a potent blend that went straight to his head and groin.
    And maybe my heart.
    Startled by the thought, Trev mentally shook it aside. Likely, the feeling was merely a touch of indigestion; he hadn’t eaten supper this evening, too wired with anticipation.
    When he pulled back, he had to fight against kissing her again. Typically male, he had never been fixated on kissing but rather had other aims when he took a woman in his arms. Men learned in their teens that a kiss was a tool to befuddle the female brain, ensuring an easier surrender. Yet he could barely recall that they stood in the midst of a crowded dance floor, so much did he crave kissing her again…and again.
    “Who are you?” she finally whispered, her lower lip trembling.
    Trev gave a small tilt of his head. “Your knight in shining armor, my lady.”
    “Chivalry is long dead, Mr. Sinclair, and you aren’t wearing armor,” she countered.
    “Ah, times force change. I no longer don heavy mail and plate, nor carry a clanking sword, and my charger isn’t a mighty destrier but a Lamborghini—true. Even so, such minor details would never stop me from riding to the rescue of a damsel in need.” He was teasing, hoping to get her to relax.
    Her eyes lit, and the change was amazing. Those russet eyes were suddenly alive with intelligence, sparkling shards of amber, and their power was hypnotic. Trev felt as though he’d taken a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus. He couldn’t even draw air. Everything nearby shifted focus; everything faded but Raven. Was the woman a bloody witch?
    She offered him a Mona Lisa smile.