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 naked 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
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 naked 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
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