Page 37 of Marked By Moonlight

Fed up, she strode over to it and flung it in the top drawer, out of sight. But not out of mind.

Claire stayed in her room most of the following day. Availing herself of the computer on the rolltop desk, she searched for any reference to lycans or werewolves. Instead of giving her a clearer picture, her head ached from trying to sort through a myriad of myths.

Gideon didn’t show himself. She heard the back door slam early that morning and watched as he jogged off down the street. She noted his return an hour and a half later, drenched in sweat, muscled biceps gleaming in the morning sun. The sight made her breasts tighten against her shirt.

At eight o’clock she headed downstairs. A quick survey revealedthe living room and kitchen empty. No sight of Gideon anywhere. She inspected the fridge. Typical bachelor fare. All the drinks she could want: orange juice, Gatorade, Diet Coke, beer, beer—she pushed aside a carton of expired milk—more beer. Aside from a box of baking soda there wasn’t anything to eat.

Hands on her hips, she called out, “Gideon?”

“In here,” came a muffled reply.

She followed his voice, opening the door that led to the garage. No vehicles occupied its stifling confines. A large fan whirred in the corner, the only thing circulating air in the enclosed space. The scent of freshly cut cedar and oak assailed her. Suddenly she knew why he always smelled of wood.

The garage teemed with machinery: a table saw, drills, and other tools she didn’t know the names for. A large workbench scattered with various hand tools lined one side of the garage. Two rocking chairs, one large bookcase, and a dresser filled most of the remaining space.

Gideon sat on a stool, chest bare and glistening with perspiration as he sanded one of the rocking chairs. Her mouth dried as she watched his biceps flex and ripple in a fascinating dance of muscle and sinew. Her palms itched to touch that tanned skin. Instead, she rubbed her hands together to stop from reaching out.

“Hey.” He leaned back on the stool and wiped the back of his hand across his brow, revealing the slightly paler underside of his muscled bicep.

Oh God.She swallowed. The skin would be soft as velvet there. Her gaze roamed the faint pattern of blue veins, wanting to trace them with her fingers.

His gaze flickered over her, and she held her breath, waiting for his reaction. She wore a shimmering turquoise halter top that dipped low and loose between her breasts. Shocking attire for a woman who never once wore a bikini at the beach. Her low-riseblack jeans hugged her hips. The entire ensemble made her feel bold, sexy, and a little bit like the teenage girls in her class who flaunted their bodies and twisted boys into knots.

Not that she hoped to twist Gideon into knots. She was only following orders. Still, it would have been nice if he noticed, if he showed a hint of reaction. Instead, he returned his attention to the chair, not giving her a second glance. Apparently, if she was waiting for his approval, she had a long wait ahead.

Stepping nearer, she stroked one of the chair’s curved arms. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “So, this is what you do when you’re not hunting werewolves?”

He paused without looking up, his jaw flexing. “Lycans,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. “Semantics.”

He resumed sanding, the rhythmic scratching sound filling the air. “My grandmother owns an antique shop in Rosenberg. She sells my work out of her store.”

Claire moved to inspect the mahogany dresser, marveling at the intricate carving on each of the drawers. “You’re an artist,” she mused.

He snorted, sanding away vigorously, his dark blond hair, brown with sweat, falling in a sweep over his forehead. “Hardly. My dad was a craftsman, a true artisan. People from all over the country wanted his work.”

She rubbed the smooth surface of the dresser as if easing the pain she sensed inside him. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a stab of envy. Even in his few words, she knew he’d had the kind of relationship with his father she never would have with hers.

“And he taught you everything he knew, right?” Because she knew that’s what fathers did. Good fathers anyway. The only thing her father had taught her was that invisibility was safer.

“Yes.”

“And your mother?” she asked, wincing the moment the question slipped out.

His mouth tightened. His movements became more vigorous. She felt his tension, palpable as waves of heat radiating on the air.

“My mother was a music teacher. In her free time, she was the choir director for our church. She was a good Catholic. Fish on Fridays—and not just during Lent. No excuses. We were front pew every Sunday. Christ,” he snorted, “she didn’t exactly lead the type of life that attracted lycans.” His bottle green gaze cut to her. “She never took a stroll down a dark alley.”

Claire stiffened. “Are you saying I brought this on myself?”

His well-carved mouth twisted almost cruelly. “I’m not saying anything, Claire.”

Disliking the implication that she had brought this on herself, she suggested, “I thought we could get something to eat before we go out.”

He grunted.

“What?” she asked—then remembered.

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