Page 11 of Big Bad Wolfe

Jillian smoothed her disheveled hair on the way to unlock the front door. Braced for the worst, Zane stalked inside.

An auburn-haired teenage girl uncurled herself from the sofa and stood. “Hi Jillian. Mom sent Casey home with me so I could put him to bed. You were right about his allergies kicking up. Mom gave him the medicine you brought over. He was playing with Robbie and Donnie, and faded out.”

“Thank you, Danielle.” Jillian pulled a ten and a five from her purse.

“Hey, thanks!” With a wave, the teen departed.

Zane’s knees loosened and he dropped into a chair. He wouldn’t have to deal with the kid tonight.

“Zane, are you hungry? I’ll bet you didn’t have any dinner.”

Come to think of it, he hadn’t. Or lunch, either, unless stale airline peanuts counted. “I could eat.”

“I’ll reheat some leftovers while you take your bag upstairs. The largest guestroom is at the end of the hall. Casey is staying in the smaller guestroom until I’m done redecorating his room. Don’t worry about waking him, he sleeps through almost anything. Especially when he’s had his allergy meds.”

Carry-on and laptop in hand, he strode upstairs. The instant he flicked on the light, Aragorn launched off the bed. Hissing and spitting, the gigantic cat crouched in the doorway, fur on end. Cold fury crackled from slanted green eyes.

Zane retreated to the hall. “Nice kitty.” Hell, he sounded inane. Cautiously, he bent and tried to shift the cat aside.

Fangs and claws bared, the beast lunged.

“Shit!” Zane jumped, narrowly missing having a bloody furrow raked down his forearm.

He backed to the landing. “Jillian,” he called.

She bounded up the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Aragorn won’t let me in the room.” He felt ridiculous admitting acathad thwarted him. He was an FBI agent for fuck’s sake. He’d unblinkingly faced serial killers, terrorists, and compounds of insane, armed-to-the-eyeteeth cults.

“You must have misunderstood.” The monster’s loud purr rumbled like a Harley lowrider as Jillian carried him over to Zane. “Aragorn’s a sweetheart. He loves everybody.”

“Apparently, I’m the exception.”

The demon-spawn proceeded to make a liar out of him by smirking and purring louder.

“Two minutes ago, he was trying to make steak tartare out of my arm—” At Jillian’s disbelieving smile, he broke off. “Never mind. Just get him out of here.”

Crooning to the furry sociopath, she left, and Zane set his bags on the ivory cotton bedspread. Decorated in pleasant beachy tones of sand, ivory, and soft teal, the comfortable room faced the backyard. In the daytime, it would offer a spectacular ocean view.

He used his cell phone to voicemail his supervisor and inform him he was staying longer than planned, but off duty. Since he didn’t have an active case at the moment, and never took vacations, Zane had plenty of available leave time. He then phoned his attorney at home to get instructions about the next step.

On his way downstairs, he paused in front of Jillian’s bedroom. She’d left her door open, and the rising moon gave enough visibility to see warm salmon walls the color of an ocean sunrise and a salmon-and-blue paisley print comforter and curtains. Her alluring scent drifted out.

He thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed the white wicker queen-size bed piled with fluffy pillows. A short, ruffled purple cotton nightgown was draped across the footboard. With her openly fun-loving personality, he’d bet his next paycheck Jillian was an uninhibited, imaginative lover. Did she make little noises of satisfaction when kissed and caressed? Cry out when she climaxed?

His skin tingled hot and tight with arousal, the boner he’d been sporting off and on since meeting her surging back to DEFCON 1. She’d said Casey slept through anything, so the kid wouldn’t hear if they—

Lock it down, Wolfe.

He gritted his teeth. Apparently, months of abstinence had left him hornier than a three-peckered bull. He’d better take that R&R, and soon. He stopped in the bathroom to wash his hands and splash cold water on his face—forgoing the urge to soak his head—before loping downstairs to the kitchen.

Jillian was in the light yellow breakfast nook, arranging silverware beside sturdy multi-colored stoneware plates. The table was loaded with food. “Everything is ready. Have a seat.”

He joined her, automatically choosing a chair with his back to the wall. A platter of fried chicken sat in front of him. A glass bowl heaped with potato salad flanked another filled with green salad. A casserole dish of spicy baked beans, a plate of warm, fragrant biscuits, and frosty iced teas garnished with lemon slices completed the feast. His empty stomach rumbled. “Everything looks and smells great. Leftovers at my place are soggy cartons of takeout Thai.”

She smiled. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but do you mind if I say grace?”

He’d given up talking to the Man Upstairs years ago when He hadn’t answered a young, hurting boy’s pleas for help, but didn’t mind if other people wanted to. “Not at all.”

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