A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by Deborah MacGillivray Page A

“So you’re the one.”
    “One what?” Trev blinked to shake off the spell. It was a damn potent one.
    The laughter, the music, the clink of glasses being served—all was muted, and the party kaleidoscoped into a swirl of color. He’d had only one drink, wanting a clear head to relish every nuance of this meeting and the chase. Despite that restraint, he hadn’t been this dizzy since Jago and he had gotten plastered after graduating university. While he enjoyed the occasional scotch to unwind, he preferred being in complete control. Life was too bloody sweet to let alcohol fuzzy up its pleasures or oh so delicious victories.
    “The driver of the black Lamborghini. You shouldn’t have trusted my brothers with the keys. Giving them that car is on par with giving a case of Ho Hos to a chocoholic.”
    Trev shrugged. “I know where to come looking for it.”
    “They haven’t returned,” she smirked.
    “As I said—I know just the place to collect it should they lose their way back.” His hands clasped her hips just below her waist and nudged her into dancing. “Rumba, my lady, we’re drawing attention standing here.”
    It didn’t take but a couple shifts and steps before theirbodies began to move in sync. The corner of his mouth lifted as he watched her follow his lead. Raven danced with a fluid, sensual grace that was a test of his libido. Somehow, he’d assumed that when he finally got this close the fascination with her would lessen. What a bloody fool!
    Usually, with any woman, small things quickly began to grate on his nerves: her laugh was irritating, her neck was too short or too long; she was too tall for him or not tall enough. He actively disliked when he had to bend his neck to kiss a woman. Not a problem with Raven. She was just perfect; tall, but not runway model height. Her body was a little thinner than any of her sisters, but still had their trademark voluptuous curves—and displayed in that vivid red dress, he was quickly adjusting his ideas on what was the perfect woman.
    Most redheads couldn’t wear red and carry it off with élan, but Raven did, as if she’d stepped off the cover of Vogue. Before tonight, he’d always favored blue eyes, yet as her luminous amber ones watched him with an enthralled expression, all those baby blues faded until he couldn’t recall why he’d liked them. Or why he’d thought he had.
    “Well, we’re dancing—,” she began.
    For playful aggravation, he cut her off. “And dancing rather prettily, don’t you agree?” His body flexed tightly as he considered how perfectly they moved together, already falling into a pattern of anticipating each other’s steps. It conjured visions of them making love in the half shadows.
    “I prefer to dance with someone I actually know.” Raven gave him a Cheshire cat smile, but he refused to accept that as a reflection of her mood. She was flustered and struggling to cover, was responding to his pheromones: all those little signs of a woman experiencing arousal showed in her breathing as her breasts seemed to rise higher with each inhalation; her luminous eyes widened.
    Though there was a timid, almost melancholy air about Raven, Trev didn’t miss the flash of spirit. That Montgomerie breeding might be tempered in her; nevertheless, it was still present and likely stronger than even she suspected. Perhaps life had beaten down some of her stubborn mien. In spite of that, he figured it wouldn’t take too much to summon that strength back under the proper guidance—and the ravenous urge rose within him to be the man to awaken this sleeping beauty.
    He almost laughed aloud. Wrong fairy tale. He was the Big Bad Wolf and Raven was… My, what big teeth you have, Mr. Wolfie. A spasm wracked him as he considered the wolf’s response.
    “Come, come, you know me. I’m your date for the evening.” He couldn’t resist.
    Raven’s perfect breasts lifted with a deep inhale. “Lying isn’t a good footing to start off being