How to Run with a Naked Werewol(36)

Red-burn was going to be so pissed at me when I told her I didn't need that ID after all.

Whooping, Caleb dragged me down to the floor and kissed me. He nuzzled at the place on my neck where he'd bitten me all those months ago, and it tingled a bit. I pulled away, rubbing at my former hickey. Caleb noticed the gesture and pulled himself back up to a sitting position. "So you know how things work with us, right? The mating thing? The claiming bite?" I nodded. "Well, I hope that's something you're willing to consider."

"Are you sure we know enough about each other to be mated?"

"I know that you're strong, you're adaptable, and you're smart, all qualities that make for a fantastic mate."

Somehow I was both touched and slightly insulted that he hadn't mentioned me being at all pretty.

"But I won't put the claiming bite on you until you've finished your business with Glenn. Divorced, separated by church and state, lock, stock, and barrel."

My mouth dropped open. "But that could take years."

He shrugged. "I'll wait."

"Is this some sort of bizarre stall tactic?"

"No, this is about you getting closure before we start something new. I think it's important for you to finish this on your own terms. And frankly, I'd like to put your real legal name on our marriage certificate, not an alias. That means that you can't be married to someone else when we file it. Werewolves don't file a lot of legitimate government paperwork. We take the marriage licenses pretty seriously."

"This is the worst proposal I've ever heard."

"Not true. That honor belongs to my cousin Maggie, whose mating and proposal involved accidentally biting her mate on the ass."

"You're right," I conceded, remembering the number of stitches required to sew up Nick's butt cheek. "That was worse."

"This is important," he told me. "It's something you need to do for yourself, not for me. I can be patient. You can take all the time you need."

I sighed, peering up at him through my lashes. "You're right. I thought the answer was to just keep moving around, but that hasn't worked so far. I have to change tactics. And I would feel a lot better not lying to people every time I open my mouth."

He fluttered his hand over his heart. "A nonromantic response to a nonromantic proposal."

I laughed, whacking him with a pillow, wrestling with him until I pinned him to the floor and pressed a kiss against his throat. I was fairly certain he let me win. "I'll start the paperwork just as soon as we get back to the valley," I promised. "If nothing else, I have to come home with you so I can see the look on Maggie's face when she realizes I might end up her in-law."





13


Pandora Was a Total Idiot





We were leaving. I'd never looked forward to traveling like this. Usually, departures meant distress. Now I was going home.

We would be leaving for the valley in a few days. Caleb was working diligently to close up whichever of his pending cases he could close and to send progress reports to his clients on those still open. Since I was able to type more than five angrily pecked words per minute, I ended up sending out most of them while Caleb dictated.                       
       
           



       

"I don't suppose you would give up typing for the day and get naked with me?"

"Do you want to leave town without any pesky paperwork hanging over your head?" I asked.

"Hmm, my desire for sex loses out to my hatred of paperwork. Well played, woman." He sighed, hauling himself out of bed. "I need to get the tires checked for our trip and run to the grocery anyway. Surprise, surprise, we're out of condoms again. And those little packs of raisins."

"How about some juice boxes?" I suggested cheekily.

"Well, they might come in handy," he said, considering.

"My big bad wolf." I sighed, rolling my eyes. I kissed him again. "If people only knew."

He swatted my butt good-naturedly. "You're just happy you don't have to buy the condoms."

I pursed my lips, remembering exactly how hot my cheeks got when the clerk at the Ready-Mart gave me the I know what you've been doing look over my box of extra-large, ribbed-for-her-pleasure protection. "You're not wrong."

I worked steadily for an hour, doing a little dance when I finished the last report and hit "Send" on the e-mail program.

All I had left to do was pack. I was really looking forward to returning to the valley. I knew I would have to do quite a bit of groveling, but eventually, the pack would accept me again.

Now for the e-mail I'd put off for the last week. I opened the program to sign out of Caleb's address and sign into the secure server I used to contact Red-burn. Just as I was about to click on "Log Out," a new message alert popped into a folder labeled "Pack" with a ping. I frowned. I knew there were folders in Caleb's account-heck, I'd arranged most of them-but I'd assumed they were for storage. I didn't realize they could receive directed messages.

I opened the folder and had to search around a bit before I found a subfolder marked "Schuna," bolded and blinking with an unread message. I opened it and saw that the messages were from a private investigator in Seattle named Robert Schuna, the same investigator who'd sent us after a guy named Calvin Dodd. In fact, the new message was from Schuna, with the subject line "Progress Report?"

I didn't remember flagging his messages to go into a special folder. But now that I thought about it, I hadn't seen a new message from him in more than a week.

Frowning at the screen, I tapped my fingers on the touch pad. I thought we'd handled all of Schuna's cases. In fact, I'd sent him his last progress report the day before. Maybe there was a problem with the report? I opened the message.

Graham-

I need another progress report on the Bishop ‘missing person' case. The client is getting antsy. Thank God, the guy's in Tennessee, or he'd be camped out in my office, waiting for news. I'd drop his twitchy ass, but he's paying me double. I'm willing to up your stake by twenty percent if you would just find this woman and put us all out of our misery. Send me what you can ASAP, and I'll pass it along to him.

-S.

It took me a moment to realize that the wounded, inhuman sound piercing my eardrums was coming from my mouth. Bishop case? Out of Tennessee? It couldn't be true. It couldn't be my Bishop case. There had to be some sort of funny coincidence to explain this away.

All of the blood seemed to drain from my hands, leaving them cold and shaking as I tapped at the touch pad and opened the rest of the e-mails. They started two months before, around the time Red-burn sent me the red alert. I opened the attachments and found Glenn's official "case report" listing me as a runaway spouse. He'd told Schuna I had a history of mental illness, substance abuse, and filing false police reports. He'd been trying to get me help, he claimed, and when I found out that he was planning to have me committed to special rehab for the mentally ill, I ran. He just wanted to bring me home and get me help, he claimed.

I clicked through the attachments, finding our wedding portrait, credit reports, transcripts, lists of friends, my résumé and work history-which was amazing, really, considering the supposed mental problems and pill addictions Glenn subtly indicated to my coworkers. The final blow was a picture of me on the beach on our second wedding anniversary. It was displayed on a flyer demanding, "Have You Seen This Woman?" I'd always hated that picture. I was giving the camera my happy-on-the-surface smile, and I looked a little tired around the eyes, but that was to be expected when Glenn had kept me up until five that morning, accusing me of flirting with the waiter who served our anniversary dinner.

Caleb had been hired to find me.

I stumbled into the bathroom on watery legs, collapsing in front of the commode just before I tossed the contents of my stomach. Rivers of tears poured down my cheeks as I threw up, over and over. I balanced my head against my crossed arms, sobbing and sniffling. I grabbed a washcloth, still wet from my shower, and swiped at my face. I collapsed back against the tub.

How could I have been so stupid? He'd been lying to me all this time. Everything he'd said and done had been a cold-blooded calculation to lead me back to Glenn. Pretending not to know my name. Pretending not to know about my connection to the pack, not to know I was a doctor. He'd been pretending, training me to trust him, to let him close, like coaxing a stray cat into your house with a can of tuna. I thought I was being so smart, so guarded, and I'd walked right into his trap.

How could the worst liar in the world have tricked me so thoroughly? I'd slept with him! I'd let him see every part of me. I'd told him things I'd been afraid to admit to myself.

I didn't understand why. Was the fancy hotel some sort of trick to make me feel more comfortable or an attempt to soften the blow of betraying me? Or did he just want to screw on soft sheets before giving up his favorite toy? What was his angle? Enjoy one last week with me at this hotel, then pack me up in the truck tomorrow, maybe drug me once I figured out we were driving toward Seattle? Or would he shove a bag over my head and take me to some airplane hangar in the middle of nowhere?