Davidson, Mary Janice - Wyndham Werewolves 03 Jared's Wolf

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Jared's Wolf
by MaryJanice Davidson
Copyright © 2002 by MaryJanice Davidson
From Red Sage Publishing'sSecrets, Volume 8
ISBN 0-9648942-8-9
To my reader:
When I wroteLove's Prisoner forSecrets VI and introduced Michael and Jeannie Wyndham, I was
overwhelmed by your response. All your wonderful letters and phone calls boiled down to one request:
more Wyndham werewolves! Your wish is my command. I hope you like Moira and Jared as much as
you liked Jeannie and Michael.
Chapter One
Moira smelled him before she saw him.
She had been strolling through the rose garden, which sounded nice but was actually chilly and
miserable, being mid-winter on Cape Cod. She shivered among bare branches, because she couldn't
bear to watch her pack leader nuzzle his mate for another second. Which made her feel like a jealous
cow. Which only contributed to her misery.
She was a werewolf. A good one, in fact, but that didn't mean she didn't get lonesome just like a regular
person. It wasn't that she didn't adore Michael and Jeannie Wyndham. She would have killed for them.
Shehad killed for them. They were her sun and moon and, like lovers, they established her world. She
accorded her pack leaders the respect due an alpha male and female, but more than that, she loved them
as friends.
But she was alone and likely always would be. Her mother had mated with a human and it had brought
her nothing but pain. She had wanted more for her daughter. Moira had promised her mother she would
settle only for absolute happiness in a mate. Fine and good, except it pretty much doomed Moira to a
solitary life. Which, for a werewolf, was usually a disaster.
It was one thing when Michael had been a loner, too. Once Jeannie arrived (or, as Jeannie put it, "was
kidnapped"), things were exciting for several months. Helping the new non-werewolf alpha female settle
in had been one surprise after another. There had been no time to be lonesome.
Now Jeannie had given the pack a marvelous girl-child, had made her home with the werewolves, and
never gave a thought to her old life. No conflict in that time, while good for the pack, meant there'd been
nothing to distract Moira from her troubles.
Michael's utter happiness with his mate only made Moira more acutely aware of her own loneliness. She
loved them, but could watch them snuggling, smell their lust, only so long before she needed to walk, or
snivel in self-pity.
The pack, Moira thought grimly, was no place for loners. Werewolves were enormously social and
tended to mate for life as soon as possible. Loners got into trouble, and a loner who got into too much
trouble went rogue. Rogue was bad.
Very bad.
She shivered, remembering Gerald. He was the only rogue male she had ever run across and, by God,
he was enough. Gerald was on her mind because his estranged eldest, Geraldine, had just left Wyndham
manor after a brief visit.
After Gerald had been driven out, Geraldine had remained loyal to the worthless bundle of fur. Since no
pack would welcome a rogue, the two had wandered the country for years. Admirable loyalty, but the
price the poor girl had paid! Her father had been dead a year and Geraldine still roamed.
No, a werewolf alone did more harm than good, and she had no business begrudging Michael and
Jeannie their happiness. Better to leave the house and take her poor attitude with her. Thus, the rose
garden in February. Thus, she would probably catch a cold from skulking in the sparse snow—and serve
her right! Thus, there was a stranger on the grounds.
Her thoughts derailed in sudden confusion as she sniffed and caught the scent again. Stranger, yes. Male.
Not pack. Probably a reporter; Michael Wyndham was a charismatic, handsome billionaire frequently
courted for interviews. Now that he'd married and had a daughter, "journalists" (her lip curled) constantly
tried to get a picture of the baby forPeople magazine.
She would find the man and escort him off the grounds; the Wyndham estate was private property. Her
woes aside, there was, as always, duty. She turned to search and saw the stranger about fifteen yards
away.
She was suddenly furious with herself because he wouldn't have crept up on her, downwind or not, if
she hadn't been busy drowning herself in an ocean of pity. And she was also amazed, because he looked
. . . well, amazing.
The stranger, who was rapidly approaching, had dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was
quite tall, easily a head taller than she was, dressed in jeans so faded they were nearly white, and a black
duster which swept past his knees. And his eyes . . . his eyes were the color of the ocean on the first day
of winter, dark blue and filled with restrained fury. She caught his scent again: clean and crisp, like freshly
ironed linen. Male linen. Incredibly gorgeous, highly masculine linen. Linen she could wrap herself in, sink
her teeth into . . .
Her mouth popped open, both at the man's sudden appearance and his exceptional good looks. He was
the handsomest non-pack member she'd ever seen. Too bad she had to kick him off their property.
He opened his mouth and she spoke, too; they said in unison, "You can't be here."
They reacted in unison, too: "Ican't be here?"
Moira stared at him, almost afraid to speak, and heard him say, "I'm really sorry. It's incredibly
dangerous here. I'll try not to hurt you."
His unbelievable speed so shocked her, she let him hit her. He struck her with the flat of his hand, just
below her chin, hard enough to knock her back into the frozen ground, hard enough to render a human
unconscious.
Instantly, he was lifting her into his arms, carrying her away like a demented bridegroom. Demented and
blind—he hadn't noticed she hadn't been knocked out.
Outraged, she seized his nose and twisted. He howled and dropped her; her butt thudded into the dirt.
He clapped both hands to his face, but not before she saw she had given him a nosebleed. Good.
"That hurt." She flipped to her feet and growled, literally growled. She could feel the fine hairs on the
back of her neck come to stiff attention. If she'd been in her wolf form, her fur would have been standing
out in bristly spikes. "You're an interloper, a trespasser, a creep, and this is private property."
"This is a derrible blace," he warned nasally, still clutching his nose. "You cad be here." He seized her
elbow with a bloody hand and tugged. She set her feet and didn't move. He pulled harder. She kicked
his ankle and heard the 'crack' and his groan at the same moment. "Lady, for Christ's sake, I'b drying do
save your life here!"
"My life doesn't need saving, moron, idiot, twit. Get your degenerate hands off me or I'll snap your
spine."
"Fuck it," he muttered. He let go of her so abruptly she staggered. Then he stepped back, pulled out a
gun, and shot her in the throat.
***
Jared watched the gorgeous blonde topple over and had to fight a sigh of relief. Cripes, what a balls-up!
He hadn't thought she'd ever go down. His own damned fault—he was so worried about really hurting
her he'd gone too easy. Hadn't had the heart to give her a really firm slam. And he'd paid the price: his
nose was still streaming blood. The tranquilizer had worked (thank goodness for the Boy Scout motto!),
but now what?
After years of research, of greasing palms, of knocking skulls together, of doing anything to get the
information he needed, finally,finally, he had the murdering bastards cornered. His reconnaissance trip
had instantly been cut short when he'd run across the woman. He'd been watching the Wyndhams for
weeks and had their routine memorized . . . this was the time of day when the grounds were usually
deserted. But there she was—obviously she hadn't read his recon notes—right in the line of fire, looking
at him with those big eyes, probably getting ready to inflate those pipes and screech like a banshee.
Who would have thought a five foot nothing girl with eyes the color of pale violets would be so hard to
knock out? Who would have thought she'd pack such a wallop?
Who would have thought he wouldn't be able to stop staring at her?
He knelt, pulled the tranquilizer dart out of her throat, and checked her pulse. Nice and strong. Weirdly
strong. It was as if she was in a light sleep, not a drugged unconsciousness. If he didn't know for a fact
that werewolves were all men, he'd wonder . . .
He picked her up, surprised again at how light she was. His dirty laundry weighed more. Now what to
do with her? He couldn't leave such a delectable morsel lying around for anyone to nibble. Besides, if she
had the freedom to wander Wyndham's grounds, she was probably a source of information. Perhaps a
slave to the werewolves.
Anger swelled at the thought of this little sweetie at the beck and call of those monsters. Well, he could
help her, and she could certainly help him. When she woke up, he'd pump her for whatever info she
could provide.
The thought of pumping the blonde brought a surge of heat to his groin, which annoyed the hell out of
him. You've got a dirty mind, buddy, he told himself. Just because you haven't gotten laid in a while . . .
He started back toward his truck. Wyndham and his pack of murdering dogs weren't going anywhere.
His sister had been waiting too long in her grave for vengeance. He'd get the information he needed, see
blondie on her way, and come back to avenge his sister.
God help anyone who got in his way.
Chapter Two
Moira opened her eyes and said, "I'm going to rip off your skin for that."
Beside her, the idiot-twit-jerkoff who'd shot her jumped in surprise. She heard the 'thump' of his book
hitting the floor, and sat up.
Andnearly fell herself, as a wave of dizziness slammed into her. She quickly shut her eyes, and groped
for the edge of the bed. "As soon as I get my hands on you. Death. Agony. Screaming. I foresee all of
these happening to you. Perhaps several times."
He had picked up his book, and now she felt cool hands on her, easing her back. "Take it easy, cutie.
The trank packs a punch."
"Believe me, schmuck, putz, moron," she said. "You don't know what a punch is."
"You shouldn't even be awake yet," he soothed.
She seized his wrist, twisted, ready to crush the bone into splinters, already hearing his screams . . .
"Cut that out, it tickles."
"Dammit! How long am I going to have the strength of a newborn?" She had meant to shout
thunderously. Instead what came out was a pitiful wheeze.
"Probably for the rest of the day." And did the lout have the gall, the temerity, thenerve to sound
apologetic? After punching her and shooting her and trespassing?
"Why were you trespassing?"
She opened her eyes and took in the room at a glance and a sniff: cream and white bedroom,
south-facing window, double bed, wool blankets, hardwood floors in dire need of a waxing, mothballs in
the closet, cedar lined wardrobe. Andhim , sitting on the lone chair, holding his book(Vengeance for
Dummies) and looking at her with honest interest. His dark blue eyes were thoughtful, and bracketed
with laugh lines. As if he ever laughed. His hair was down from the ponytail; the sandy strands brushed
his shoulders.
"I'm glad you asked," he said. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten the question. "That's a bad place. Do you
work there? Do they force you? It doesn't matter. You don't have to go back, sweetie."
"Thanks,sweetie. " Ugh. Had this oaf been sent to warn the Wyndhams about something? Alarm pierced
the fog produced by the drug. "Is Michael in danger? Or Jeannie?"
His face didn't change, but his lips went white. And his scent . . . it shifted so quickly it nearly burned her
nostrils. Acrid smoke. The smell of danger, the smell of hate. "How long have you known him?" he asked
slowly, pleasantly. "Wyndham?"
Be careful, Moira."Forever," she said shortly. "He's my boss."And a whole host of other things you'll
never, never understand. "And if he's in trouble, you've got to tell me. And if you're bringing trouble to
him or his, I'll kill you."
"God, you're beautiful," he said softly, which was not the usual response to a death threat. "You should
see how fierce you look. He's not worth that kind of loyalty. If you knew what he was . . ."
If you knew whatIam . . . She was starting to get really, really angry. Oh, for a full moon right about
now! It wasn't just the humiliation of being snatched practically from her front yard. It was that he was an
ordinary man, nothing special at all, and he had made it lookeasy. "Who are you?" she practically
snapped.
"The UPS guy. But we were talking about you, cutie."
"We were not." She felt like leaping from the bed and throttling the information out of him. "And you
haven't answered my question."
"Well," he said with maddening reason, "you haven't, either."
Like that, is it? Think you can outsmart me, monkey boy? We'll see.
"My jaw," she said, "hurts like hell." She made her eyes go big; blinked pathetically. "Why'd you hit me?
I wasn't doing anything."
Monkey boy had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't want you to raise the
alarm. Besides, you don't want to be there, anyway, hon. It's a bad place. It's going to get a lot worse,
too."
Moira wasn't listening anymore. Her head was clearing, though her body still felt as limp as overcooked
pasta. An alarming series of facts was ripping through her brain.
Fact: this man managed to get on the grounds without anyone spotting him until he was on top of her.
Fact: he knew how to fight.
Fact: he had come armed.
Fact: he had drugged her, taken her away, and no one knew, and no one had stopped him.
Fact: he didn't like Michael.
Fact: he seemed to like her.
Fact: she had to stop this man.
Fact: she couldn't do shit until she had her strength back.
Fact: she couldn't let himleave until she had her strength back. More, she wouldn't leave, not until she
better understood exactly what he represented for her pack.
Conclusion? Nakedness was in her future. Possibly quite a lot of it. He was a man and she had, quite
frankly, a nice rack. He'd take one look at her tits and forget everything except his name. She'd buy
recovery time and pump him for all the information she could.
It was annoying: she could count on one hand how many times she'd gotten laid in the last two years; she
was extremely selective. Or, as her friend Derik put it, "weirdly frigid." Now she had to expend precious
energy to seduce this human.
Moira was not a promiscuous woman by any means . . . not, in fact, strictly a woman at all. A pack
animal first and forever, everything she was, did, and said was shaped by that knowledge, that identity.
When the leader was in danger, the pack was in danger.
When the pack was in danger, she'd do whatever it took.
"My head," she whispered, breath-soft.
"What?" the idiot said, bending closer.
Fighting the urge to shriek, "Gotcha!" , she put her mouth right near the cup of his ear and murmured,
"My head hurts soooooo much . . . may I please have a glass of water?"
"Oh. Sure. I'm sorry, I should have . . ." Moron Boy moved away, and she couldn't help staring at the
exceptional way his butt filled out the seat of his jeans. Yes indeedy, the world-class ass had a
world-class ass. She wrenched her thoughts back on a more business-like track . . . then remembered
his butt sort ofwas the business at hand, at least until her metabolism blasted the last of that hateful trank
out of her system.
The idiot came back with a glass of water, which she promptly spilled all over her blouse. "Oh, it's cold!"
she squealed, inwardly groaning—Derik would be laughing his head off if he could see this—and
outwardly shuddering as her nipples came to stiff attention. What's-his-face had been helping her sit up,
and nearly dropped her back into the pillows. "Do you have a shirt I can borrow?" She fumbled at the
buttons of her soaked blouse.
Jared blinked, taking in Moira's smooth, pale skin as she stripped the wet fabric away. He wondered if
she had a fever. He wondered ifhe had a fever. He knew who this little cookie was. He'd taken her prints
while she'd been unconscious, scanned them into his laptop, and found out her name over an hour ago.
Technology was swell.
Moira Wolfbauer, place of residence: Wyndham Manor. Place of business: Wyndham Manor.
Employer: Michael Wyndham. But she'd tried her hand at social work just out of college, lucky for him,
and thus her prints were on file. Mother deceased, father unknown. He'd pretended to know none of
this, of course, and began a gentle interrogation, and hadn't been pleased to hear how protective she was
toward the Wyndhams.
Obviously fond of the asshole, what was she up to? She'd threatened to kill him, had assaulted him, and
was pulling off her blouse and—yep, there went the bra—a frothy, lilac-colored concoction that exactly
matched her eyes.
All right.
It would take more than a wet blouse to distract him.
He was Jared Rocke and he would have his vengeance. He was Jared Rocke and she had the nicest
rack he'd ever seen, all creamy white skin with nipples the color of wild roses. He was Jared . . . uh . . .
Rocke . . . and . . .
"Aren't you cold?" he asked hoarsely.
"Extremely," she whispered, her hands on his shoulders, pulling him down, her mouth by his ear, her
small white teeth sinking into his earlobe, and the sensation shot straight from his ear to his groin.
He groped, seeking a blanket to cover her, and instead his hands found the delicious firmness of her
breasts. She arched against him, her tongue in his ear, and his mouth found her throat. She wriggled
delightfully, tugged at him, and then his shirt was sliding off his shoulders and floating to the floor.
Her wriggling had been to good effect; she was nude, he was nude, their clothes a tumbled heap on the
floor. Her soft skin made for an erotic contrast against the wool blankets, and for a moment all he could
do was stare. Her violet eyes were huge, dominating her face, the arched golden brows above them
making her look sweetly surprised. Her short hair was a delightful muss of tumbled blonde curls, curls so
light they were almost silver, and her limbs were slim but strong-looking. Her nails were short, almost
brutally so, and he had time for a quick, analytic thought: They're short because she bites them all the
time. He wondered what a cookie this cute had to worry about. Men probably fell over themselves trying
to take care of her.
Then she opened her arms and he fell into her embrace, and that was the end of his analysis. For the first
time in years, thoughts of vengeance fled his mind as he buried himself in her creamy softness.
Moira braced herself for the oaf's full weight, but to her surprise he caught himself on his hands and
came into her gently, almost carefully. His hand caressed her messy hair, and then his mouth came down
on hers, his tongue skimming across her teeth and, when she obligingly parted her lips, probing her
mouth. His taste overwhelmed her, all smoky masculine heat, and she gasped.
She'd never mated with someone who wasn't pack. This was partly out of self-imposed obligation to her
mother and partly out of pure concern. She had always, in some part of her subconscious, worried about
hurting an ordinary man. And really, wasn't that her problem? She had promised her mother she wouldn't
mate into the pack . . . but couldn't bring herself to mate with an ordinary human. Now here she was,
buying time, and he didn't seem so ordinary, this man, and his hands, what his hands were doing, that
didn't seem all that ordinary eitherrrrrrrrrrr . . .
"Oh!" Her hips bucked. He moved, kneeling beside her, and his thumb settled back atop her clitoris, his
fingers spread and resting against her thighs, barely touching, almostnot touching, but moving so slowly
and delicately that she could almost . . . feel it . . . and it was driving her crazy. Meanwhile, he had
reached for her breast, was pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to almost
hurt. Between the throbbing of her nipple and the light, delicate, feathery touch between her legs, she was
halfway to a climax. Ridiculous! He'd been touching her for less than a minute. She wasn't a goddamned
windup doll. She didn't evenlike him. She didn't even . . . she didn't . . . she . . . she felt a flood of heat
between her legs and reached out.
She found him, hard and hot and long, and squeezed, and his eyes tipped up and he stared blindly at the
ceiling, the muscles in his neck standing out in rigid relief. He turned his hand and his thumb was now
wiggling inside her.
Moira reached for him again but he kept that maddening distance, almost as if he were afraid to be too
close to her. She opened her eyes wide, and in the afternoon light had a postcard-perfect look at him, at
the way the light bathed him, made him seem more tan than he was. She could see the muscles moving
beneath his taut flesh and, reaching up, felt the tension in his abdomen. He was holding himself back,
rigidly so, and she wondered why. She could smell his urgent lust and it kindled her own; she knew he
wanted to shove her down and bury himself inside her until they were both screaming. So why did he
hold back?
More, she wondered how she could have gotten caught up so quickly in what had started out as a
stalling technique, an act she had been prepared to dislike, or at least find dull.
He smiled at her, reached for her, cupped her chin in his hand. They stared at each other and Moira
forgot to breathe, so amazed that there could be such a tender, perfect moment between strangers.
Then he eased her over, onto her stomach, and nudged her thighs apart with his knee. She could feel his
thumbs on either side of her spine, pressing, soothing, and instinctively arched into his touch. Then she felt
a silky firmness, and realized he was dragging the tip of his cock down her spine, between the cleft of her
buttocks, and pausing at the opening of her vagina. She waited expectantly, but he paused. Bent.
Murmured.
"I'm Jared."
She said nothing, just surged toward him.
"And you're Moira."
The bare tip of him was teasing her nether mouth, almost easing inside but not quite, and she swallowed
a groan. His fingers were on her, spreading her wide for him, but still he didn't enter, still he lingered.
"Say it, Moira."
"Jared." The word was nearly wrenched from her. "You're Jared."
He chuckled, deep in his throat, almost a purr. "Nice to meet you."
He pushed forward and was almost—almost!—inside her, but not quite. She began to shake. Had she
imagined she'd have the upper hand in this seduction? Had she really?
"Please . . ."
"Moira, we're going to have a nice long talk when I'm finished." Coming inside her now, the full,
engorged head pushing, pushing. "About you . . ." Another inch, "the company you keep . . ." Another.
"And your boss." Abruptly he was gone from her, and she could have cried. His finger replaced his cock,
dipping, teasing, feeling her slippery wetness, and then he was stroking the tight bloom of her anus, gently
rubbing the rich core of nerve endings there. She made a surprised sound which escalated to a muffled
shriek as he slowly pushed his finger past that tight muscular ring.
"Easy."
"Don't." She tried to scramble away—she had never, no one hadever —but he nudged her again and
she couldn't get the leverage she needed. When he was up to the first knuckle she felt his cock at the
mouth of her vagina, and there was no gentle easing this time, this time he was instantly inside her, while
his finger slid around slowly, out just a touch and then back in, no big dramatic strokes, just an overall
pressure and gentle wriggling. She could feel him everywhere, filling her up, taking everything . . .
"Yes, we'll have a nice long talk," he said, his voice so gritty she could scarcely understand him. He
pulled out and his finger stilled; she was reasonably certain her heart would stop. "About your unfortunate
choice of associates." He slammed all the way in.
She screamed.
She screamed into the pillow as he thrust, rocked, as he took her again and again, one hand on the small
of her back, one hand . . . doing things inside her, doing things no man had ever . . . and always his cock,
throbbing and huge and a terrible thing, doing his bidding, ignoring her pleas, her cries, just shoving and
thrusting, and it was a terrible thing, a terriblewonderful thing, because somehow the tables had turned,
she wasn't using him, he was using her.
She would kill him. She would kill him for making her scream. She would kill him if he stopped.
"Moira," he groaned. He wouldn't let her move, wouldn't listen to her cries, but his hands on her were
gentle. "Moira, ah,God. " His tempo increased, he slammed into her, the bed moved, she braced herself
and shoved back as hard as she could, because she could sense it, feel it, her orgasm was on the horizon,
was almost there, and another finger joined the first inside her, stretching her, and that was enough, that
tipped her over.
She tried to throw back her head and howl, but all that escaped was a wild groan as she bucked against
him. She felt him clench behind her, felt his seed pour into her, could actually feel the temperature change
as he heated her up from the inside, and came again, so quickly and fiercely that white spots danced on
the edge of her vision.
He pulled out of her, away from her, and she collapsed, alone, on the bed. She lay on her stomach for
long moments, shaking from the aftereffects of the most cataclysmic sex(with a human! a human!) she'd
ever had, then finally rolled over and looked at him.
To her surprise, he'd pulled on his jeans, had sat down in the chair and was watching her with hungry
interest, the way a wolf watches a limping fawn. She could still smell the musk they had made. Could
smell herself, on him.
"Now," he said, smiling, and she didn't much care for that smile, not at all, "let's talk about your boss."
Chapter Three
Moira sucked in her breath in a startled, hurt gasp. "You . . . you were using me."
He blinked. "Well, you were using me first. In fact, you sort of gave me the idea."
She glared. She felt like a fool—where did she get off, accusing him of anything? She sounded like a
brat. Well, she couldn't help it. Right now, shefelt like a brat. He was right, but that didn't make
accepting it easier . . . or lessen the hurt. However, she would eat her own eyeballs before letting him see
how she felt. "Yes, that's true, I did start things," she said slowly. "It's just as well, since you apparently
enjoy forcing women to get them to do what you want."
Score! Bright color jumped into his cheeks. Suddenly she felt a bit better. It was hard to feel triumphant,
though, when her thighs were still throbbing from what he'd been doing to her. For a while—a teeny, tiny
while—she'd forgotten all about the pack, about this man being a threat to her leaders. It just . . . just
went completely out of her head. She could count how often this had happened on one finger. Yesterday,
she would have been able to count it on no fingers.
Jared cleared his throat, obviously piqued to see her interest was elsewhere. "Now . . . where were we?
摘要：

   Jared'sWolf byMaryJaniceDavidson  Copyright©2002byMaryJaniceDavidsonFromRedSagePublishing'sSecrets,Volume8ISBN0-9648942-8-9  Tomyreader: WhenIwroteLove'sPrisonerforSecretsVIandintroducedMichaelandJeannieWyndham,Iwasoverwhelmedbyyourresponse.Allyourwonderfullettersandphonecallsboileddowntoonereque...

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