Big Bad Wolfe: Marriage & Mayhem!, #2

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All characters portrayed are of legal age of consent for sex – i.e. over 18.

Copyright © 2013 Diana Ball Duncan

First electronic printing July 2013

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Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe edged away from the encroaching sunshine and deeper into the shadowed grove. Listening intently over the thrum of the Pacific Ocean, he watched the ethereal-looking blonde tiptoe furtively down the driveway across the street.

About damned time.

Surveillance—hours of teeth-grinding monotony for a five minute payoff.

Barefoot, and dressed in a sleeveless coral tank top and ragged denim cutoffs that exposed mile-long legs, his quarry carried herself as elegantly as if she were wearing an evening gown. Tousled, shoulder-length hair shone like Kansas wheat in the summer sun as her honey-colored brows slanted into a frown.

Aragorn! she warned in a low, melodic voice that reminded him of Grace Kelly in the old movies his mom had loved. His gut clenched. He’d had a secret jones for cool, sophisticated Grace. "You get back in here right now, or I’m going to confiscate your nuts!"

Zane winced. So maybe less Grace Kelly and more Kelly Osbourne.

He stayed hidden, watching her through his portable hi-def binoculars. Over the past five months, she’d left dozens of messages demanding he get in touch ASAP. He’d been buried undercover in a desert hellhole half a world away and hadn’t received them until last night. He’d phoned her from D.C., but she’d insisted he fly to Oregon to speak to her in person. Immediately.

The lady was very persuasive.

How about a little cooperation here, Aragorn? I have your favorite treat. She fished in her pocket and pulled out a package of salted peanuts. Waving it, she crouched beside a Pepto pink older Mini Cooper convertible. The wrapper crackled enticingly in the mellow warmth of the late August afternoon. Look, baby, peanuts.

A huge, hairy white paw crept out and stealthily patted the asphalt.

The blonde’s husky chuckle did funky things to Zane’s blood pressure. Oh, no you don’t. You know you have to go in the house first.

The biggest cat Zane had ever seen skulked out from under the car. A cat that eats peanuts? Man, now I’ve seen everything.

There’s my good boy, the woman crooned.

The white behemoth stared snootily at his mistress before sticking his nose in the air and ambling across the lawn. Feathered tail twitching, he pranced inside the open screen door of the yellow two-story Cape Cod.

Heaving a relieved sigh, the woman followed the beast inside. Zane did not look at her luscious ass. Much. She closed the screen, but left the front door ajar.

Ingrained caution held Zane immobile as he scanned the perimeter for signs of an ambush. During the last two hours, a skateboarding kid cruising past, an elderly man mowing a lawn four houses down, and the blonde were the only people he’d seen.

A junior D.C. field office assistant had compiled a hasty dossier on the woman and tossed it to Zane on his way out to catch his flight. Jillian Kathleen Ramsay, age twenty-five, had grown up in the medium-sized coastal town of Cape Hope, Oregon. She was the assistant director at Hope Community Center, a facility that offered programs for disadvantaged and high-risk children from preschool through high school. Her mother had died of an aneurysm when Jillian was eleven, her father Dean was a contractor. She had three older brothers, all Navy SEALS, all shipped out on active duty. The Ramsay clan looked squeaky clean.

Zane frowned. What the hell did she want from him?

Her summons probably wasn’t a setup. But working for the FBI, he’d met his share of wackos. He hadn’t survived a brutal childhood and a decade with the Bureau making inaccurate risk assessments.

As throbbing music drifted out the screen door—seriously, disco?—he again cased the grounds. Although he’d refused to pick up his drawing pencil or paints for a decade, he’d never been able to squelch his artistic vision. An enormous pine tree guarded the grassy expanse. Rioting flowerbeds flanked both sides, and a trellis crowned with crimson roses arched across the front walk. Baskets of cheerful pink flowers dangled off the front porch railing and more tall orange blooms in pots splashed both sides of the doorway with hot color.

Zane breathed in sweet-scented air and glanced up at the cloudless cerulean sky. The weather was ideal, the small suburban neighborhood peaceful. A bright community of happy families. Something he’d always wanted, but never had.

Could never have.

His chest constricted. He knew better than anyone things weren’t what they seemed. Perfect façades often concealed ugly secrets. Nasty skeletons dangled in his own closet.

Everyone had something to hide.

What was Jillian Ramsay hiding?

High time to find out. He pocketed his binoculars, broke cover and strode across the lawn. The sun’s heat seeped through his suit jacket, chasing away the shaded grove’s chill. His shoulders tensed. Lurking in the shadows was much more comfortable. Bright sunlight exposed every detail, left a man no privacy.

Above all else, Zane cherished his privacy.

As he approached, the music swelled in volume. By the time he hit the front porch, Donna Summer was yodeling the virtues of Hot Stuff so loudly, his eardrums threatened to implode. He pounded on the door frame, but Ms. Ramsay didn’t appear. No surprise. With that racket, she wouldn’t have heard an armored personnel carrier jolting through a minefield.

Zane swung the door open and hollered, Hey! Ms. Ramsay?

No answer. Obviously, the music drowned him out. But she had begged him to come. In spite of appearances to the contrary, had something happened? Was she in some kind of trouble? Ms. Ramsay, this is Special Agent Zane Wolfe. Are you okay in there?

No response.

He eased inside and scoped out the first floor. The interior, decorated in restful nature colors of green, blue and tan, was as cheerful and neat as the outside. His right hand on the Beretta tucked into his shoulder holster beneath his jacket, senses on red alert, he followed Donna Summer’s disco din and the sharp smell of paint fumes down the hall. Both grew stronger as he loped to the second floor.

He paused in the hallway outside an open doorway. Jillian had her back to him. Enthusiastically dabbing brown blotches onto the light blue wall, she sang off-key at the top of her lungs in a throaty contralto and wiggled that fabulous ass to the pulsing disco beat.

A bullet of lust streaked down his spine and ricocheted to his dick. Zane dropped his hand from his weapon and sucked in a sharp breath.

Holy shit.

He cleared the sudden thickness from his throat. Excuse me, he shouted. Ms. Ramsay?

Jillian whirled, jerked backward, then overcorrected and stumbled forward.

He lunged, barely catching her. Her brush slapped his cheek, trailed a wet streak across his nose. Holding her securely against him, he swiped at his face. His fingers came away brown and sticky. I didn’t mean to scare you, he said into her ear. I knocked, but...

Smelling enticingly of patchouli, she froze in his arms. Beneath his palm splayed across her ribs, her heartbeat fluttered wildly.

Ms. Ramsay? You all right? You didn’t hurt yourself?

No. A slight shiver wracked her before she twisted out of his hold. She strode to the vintage boom box in the corner and hit the button. Blessed silence descended. Her eyes widened as she studied him.

Ms. Ramsay, I’m—

You can’t be anyone other than Zane Wolfe. What are you doing inside my house?

How did the woman know who he was? They’d never met. He wouldn’t have forgotten her. Caught, he stared into her eyes. Lavender-blue irises conjured a startling memory of fragrant violets hidden in sun-dappled hollows beside the creek where he and his youngest brother had played as boys. A secret retreat where he and Trevor had escaped their father’s merciless campaign to mold them into men.

The wooded hideaway discovery had come too late for Zane’s oldest brother Brent. By then, Brent had already caught the fast track to destruction.

Jillian waved the paintbrush at him. Hello?

Zane jerked back to the present. He hadn’t revisited that nightmare for years. And Jesus, he’d stood there gawking at her like a geek getting an eyeful of his first triple-X website. Yes, I’m FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe. On auto-pilot, he slid out his I.D. and flipped open the wallet. I knocked, but with the concert at ninety decibels, I guess you didn’t hear me.

Her cheeks flushed as scarlet as the roses outside. I latched my screen. How did you get in?

The door was open.

No, I’m positive ... She shook her head. Aragorn the escape artist strikes again. Well ... You and I have something important to discuss. She glanced at his face and her flush deepened. Hang on, I’ll be right back. She hurried out of the room.

Zane stashed his wallet and perused the mural. Some sort of wildlife scene? Ms. Ramsay obviously had more ambition than talent.

His fingers itched to pick up the brush and add the strokes that would bring the picture to life. But he couldn’t draw or paint anymore. Not since Trevor had died.

He turned his back to the wall, shutting down his feelings with long-practiced expertise. The past was gone. Dead and buried.

Like his little brother.

Jillian returned and handed him a damp washcloth. Sorry about your face. As he scrubbed away the paint, she gestured at the mural. What do you think?

Uh ... that’s a tall ... groundhog. Very lifelike, he lied.

Her expressive mouth drooped. He’s supposed to be a Wookie.

It looked like a mutant squirrel on steroids. He bit his tongue against the urge to smile. A Wookie?

"Chewbacca. From Star Wars."

I know what a Wookie is. Cheeks aching from corralling his grin, he tilted his head. Ah ... sure, I can see it now.

Here, you missed a spot. She took the washcloth from him and gently dabbed his temple. As the warmth of her fingers penetrated the damp terrycloth, another stampede of desire charged through him, and he flinched.

Accustomed to being in total command of his body and emotions, the loss of control threw him. Zane needed to be in control. Couldn’t function any other way. You a Jedi groupie?

She wrinkled her nose and mischief danced across her face. "If this were my room, Champ, I’d be painting up a life-sized yummy blond elf with a great big ... bow and arrow. Planet Endor wasn’t my idea. Humor fled and her irises clouded with pain, and something that looked like fear. Let’s go downstairs."

Uh oh. His pulse kicked. Show time.

The subtle feminine sway of her hips as she led him downstairs revved his pulse up another hundred BPMs, and he inhaled sharply. He’d just wrapped up a tense, bloody, five-month overseas op. Since he never allowed any distractions—including women—on the job, he was suffering from self-imposed drought. His dick obviously thought he was way overdue for R&R. You should keep your front door shut and locked. A latched screen won’t keep anybody out.

I usually do, but the paint fumes were making me dizzy. She gave him a nervous smile and gestured at the living room sofa. Sit, please.

Instead, he chose an overstuffed chair opposite the sofa, where he had his back to the wall and a clear view of the staircase and front door. So what’s the emergency summons?

Um ... just give me a minute. Jillian retreated into the kitchen.

For a woman who’d relentlessly harassed the D.C. field office to contact him, Jillian suddenly didn’t seem in a big hurry to chat. He examined the bookcases flanking the fireplace. Fairytales, legends, and fantasy romance novels lined the shelves, some collectors’ editions. Added to the Star Wars tribute upstairs and the Legolas worship, the evidence was clear. The lady lived in la-la land.

He groaned. What wild fantasy had she cooked up? In his years with the Bureau, he’d heard them all, from insane conspiracy theories to lurid the aliens probed me abductions.

Yup, Jillian Ramsay was looking like one beautiful, sexy package of crazy.

Muscles taut, senses buzzing, Zane catalogued the comfortable, welcoming room. The warm sunny atmosphere was so different from his somber black and chrome high-rise, it might ordinarily have appealed to him. But his instincts were screaming.

Zane never ignored his instincts.

The big white cat strutted into the room, tail twitching. He stopped in front of Zane’s chair, slanted green eyes suspicious.

Hey, Aragorn. How’re the nuts?

The beast swelled to twice his normal size. His fur spiked, and a rumbling growl erupted from his throat. Hissing, he swiped at Zane’s calf.

Whoa! Zane jerked his leg back, only his lightning reflexes thwarting a trip to the ER. Sorry I asked.

Jillian reentered, carrying a tray that held two mugs brimming with steaming coffee and a matching plate piled with cookies. She handed Zane a warm cup. I see you two are getting acquainted. Isn’t Aragorn a darling?

Oh yeah. The feline from hell blinked at him with exaggerated innocence and bared his fangs. Zane moved his leg farther out of reach. A real prince.

She set the tray on the coffee table and fidgeted with the cookie platter. A king, actually. I named him after Aragorn, because he’s so noble and regal.

She should have named the psycho Jack, as in, The Ripper. Look, lady, I didn’t fly three thousand miles for a tea party. Whatever you have to say, just spit it out.

You must be tired and hungry after your long trip. At least have a cookie to fortify you before we talk.

He stared at the offering. Cookies, just like mom never made. Freshly baked chunky oatmeal raisin, dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Not dainty morsels that teased a guy’s taste buds and left him wanting more, these were fist-sized, to satisfy a man’s appetite. His mouth watered. But he wasn’t here for refreshments. He strictly separated his work and his private life, rejecting anything that blurred the boundaries.

Whatever you have to say isn’t going to be shoved down my throat any sweeter with a cookie. Cut to the chase, Ms. Ramsay. What do you want from me?

Call me Jillian. She perched on the edge of the sofa opposite him, clutching her coffee cup in trembling hands. All right. First, I need to make absolutely certain I have the correct man. You are FBI Special Agent Zane Kintan Wolfe? You grew up in a suburb of Wichita, Kansas, and attended the University of Texas at Arlington where you played both football and baseball, and pitched the Mavericks to four straight championships?

He scowled. How the fuck did she know all that? Yes.

Your middle name means ‘royal’ in Cherokee according to the online baby name book where I looked it up. Your mom was half Native American, and you go by her last name, right?

He went rigid. For a woman he’d never met before, she was way too interested in his personal life. What game was she running? What does my heritage have to do with this?

Her cup wobbled in her grasp, and her fingers whitened. I— Agent Wolfe, do you remember a woman named Deb Stuart?

Deb Stuart. He and Deb had met in college, where she’d trailed him all over campus. Deb had been a preppy, fresh-faced innocent back then, and he’d stayed far out of her grasp. They didn’t make flak gear strong enough to protect him from collateral damage caused by starry-eyed dreamers.

Those kind of women wanted promises and commitment. He didn’t do commitment.

Then about six or so years ago, a chance meeting with the older, well-versed Deb in D.C. had resulted in a brief weekend fling. Deb had never mentioned Jillian. But then neither of them had done much talking. He took a swallow of coffee to moisten his dry mouth. I remember her. Why?

Jillian’s face softened. When Deb moved here from the East Coast six years ago, she took a job at the Hope Center and we instantly meshed. She was my closest friend. Tears welled in her eyes, threatened to spill over, and Zane’s gut tightened. Seven months ago, she ... died.

I’m sorry to hear that, he said with genuine regret.

Jillian straightened and blinked back her tears. The quietly courageous gesture grabbed Zane by the throat. She was the sister I always wanted growing up, the sister of my heart.

His fingers clenched around his cup, fighting the crazy urge to wrap his arms around this woman and hold her close. I’m very sorry for your loss. But I’m not sure why you called me. Was she murdered?

Hands trembling harder, she carefully put down her cup and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. There are questionable circumstances about her death. And Deb left behind a little boy named Casey.

I see. Is he in some kind of danger?

I don’t— First, you need to— Jillian leaned forward and grasped his hand in both of her warm, soft ones, making every muscle in his body tighten. Zane ... The grave concern on her face overrode his need to tug away. Just before she moved here, you and Deb— You spent a weekend together in Washington D.C.

Yeah. Listen, I appreciate you personally breaking the news about her death, but we weren’t in a relationship.

Casey is five-and-a-half years old. She sucked in a deep breath, slowly released it. Zane, he’s your son.

Blood rushed from his head, roared in his ears. The walls zoomed out, then closed in, smothering him. He was dimly aware he’d dropped his cup as hot coffee scalded his thigh.

Zane! Jillian dabbed at his pants leg with a napkin. Are you burned?

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t swallow.

Zane? She tossed aside the napkin and rubbed his arms. You went bone white. Are you all right?

Impossible, he whispered.

But it wasn’t. Vivid images flashed through his mind like a horror movie on fast forward. A broken condom. Deb’s shrug of acceptance. His own rioting fear. Deb had assured him later there’d been no consequences.

Had Deb lied to him?

Or had she lied to Jillian?

I know it’s a shock. Jillian’s gentle voice quivered with compassion. It’s the truth, Zane. Deb left a letter in a safe-deposit box for me in the event anything happened to her, naming you Casey’s father.

That doesn’t prove a thing, he forced through stiff, numb lips.

Casey looks just like you.

Reeling, he pushed her hands away. But he couldn’t so easily shove aside her words. There are millions of dark-haired, dark-eyed kids.

The instant I saw you, I knew Casey was yours. He has the same lean athlete’s build, same thick, straight black hair, same dark melted-chocolate eyes. He even wears your intensely focused expression on his face a lot of the time.

Zane fought to control his too-rapid breaths. What do you expect from me? Money? Is that it?

No! she gasped. Of course not! You need to know about him. And Casey needs his father.

Shaking uncontrollably, he rocketed to his feet. I don’t want him.

How can you say that? You haven’t even met him yet. She rose and grasped his forearm. He’s a terrific little boy.

He wrenched free. The kid is better off without me. Blinded by pain, he stalked across the room. See to it he has everything he needs. Send me the bills. Zane flung open the front door.

And came face to face with the kid.

In ten shell-shocked seconds Zane absorbed every detail.

Jillian was right. The boy had his build, his hair, his eyes, and the same sober expression he saw in the mirror every morning.

Casey looked like him, all right. But Zane didn’t see himself in the child staring up at him. He saw his brother.

Oh, God, Trevor.

Zane’s heart splintered, and he staggered back from the door.

Hi, mister, the little boy chirped. Who are you?

The innocent, childish question sliced through Zane like a chainsaw.

Unable to speak, he brushed past the kid and the buxom redheaded woman accompanying him and tore outside. He made it to the sheltered grove across the street before his legs buckled.

He dropped to his knees in the bushes, sweaty and shaking.

For that child’s sake, he had to get as far away as possible.

And never come back.

Chapter 2

By the time Jillian skirted Casey and Brooke and hurried onto the front porch, Zane had already disappeared. Her throat tightened. He was stunned and upset, and shouldn’t be alone, much less driving. Where had he gone?

When his deep, smoky voice had startled her into a spin and she’d seen him standing in front of her, his eyes had immediately drawn her in. Shadowed. Secretive. Haunted. Veiling his soul from the world. And the wariness bracketing those sensual lips implied a vulnerability she’d bet he’d die before admitting. Her first impulse had been to hug him, hold on tight and assure him he’d be okay.

However, trying to hold a deeply shadowed man would be as risky as picking up a live wire. Not only was the contact guaranteed to hurt, it could be deadly.

Her pulse stuttered. But then the instant he’d touched her, every sense had glittered alive, heat and need rocketing through her bloodstream.

Her second impulse had been to strip his clothes off and run her hands all over that long, lean-muscled bronze body. Followed by her tongue.

She’d never nearly body-licked a guy at first sight.

And although Mr. Sexy Macho FBI Agent strove to appear stoic and invincible, somewhere along the line he’d been hurt enough to leave scars on his soul.

Her news-bomb had just wounded him again.

She pasted on a wobbly smile to hide her worry, turned and swept Casey into a hug. Hi, kiddo. I missed you.

Casey returned her hug with gusto. I missed you lots, too, Aunt Jelly.

Did you have a good time with Aunt Brooke and Uncle Richard?

I s’pose. Casey scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the entry mat. Uncle Richard didn’t come again today. Who was that man?

Jillian frowned at Deb’s sister-in-law, Brooke. Where was Richard?

He had to work. The choke-a-horse diamond on Brooke’s hand glittered as she gave a dismissive wave. "Ever since he was named one of the top ten plastic surgeons in the Northwest, his practice has become very popular."

Jillian ruffled the little boy’s dark hair. Case, there’s a plate of cookies on the coffee table. Why don’t you take one into the kitchen and get a juice box?

"‘Kay. But who was that man, Aunt Jelly? He looked green. Like Robbie Ray when he ate a whole bag of gummy worms last week. Robbie Ray barfed all over the playground, remember? Red and yellow and blue—"

Ugh! Don’t remind me. We’ll talk about the man later. Go have your snack.

As the child scooped up a cookie and headed for the kitchen, Brooke stopped him. Casey, what do you say to me?

Oh. Uh, thanks.

Thank you for a lovely time, Brooke enunciated sharply.

Thank-you-for-a-lovely-time, Casey parroted with zero sincerity as he trotted out.

The redhead arched perfectly plucked brows at Jillian. Did I interrupt something? Your delicious ‘friend’ left in quite a hurry.

Delicious didn’t do tall, dark and taciturn Zane Wolfe justice. But no matter how yummy, the inscrutable, dangerous FBI Agent was not her type. It was a business meeting. You know I wouldn’t bring a man here right now. Casey is still adjusting to all the changes.

Saint Jillian. Brooke smirked. Even before you got saddled with the tot, your social life was pathetic.

Jillian smothered rising temper. She’d dated enough losers to discover she’d rather be alone than spend time with some howling Cro-Magnon. She wanted an easy-going, sensitive poet. A family man who loved children. If Orlando Bloom knocked on her door—and wasn’t married—she’d take him in a hot second.

Sure, that would happen. I thought you planned to keep Casey all day.

I need spa time. I can hardly get ready for my party at the club tonight with a grubby little kid underfoot. Besides, his nose kept running. Brooke shuddered. "And he wiped it on his sleeve."

I’ve told you before, he has allergies, it’s not contagious. Did you give him his medicine?

Brooke looked blank. I forgot. He was so cranky, I dreaded bumping into any of the fundraising committee at the art museum. I thought it best to return him.

Your nephew isn’t a DVD rental. When the show stops being amusing, you can’t just dump him back into the slot. Jillian scowled. A posh art museum is your idea of fun for a five year-old? No wonder he was cranky.

"It’s never too early for a child to learn culture. You should do more of that with him instead of finger painting and baseball. He has appalling manners, which is why he needs Richard as a role model."

Right ... if Casey wanted to grow up to be an arrogant, heartless shark. Why did Richard demand visitation if he’s not going to bother to see Casey?

He’s a successful plastic surgeon. Brooke’s scornful gaze raked Jillian’s paint-splattered shorts and bare feet. He can’t waltz in and out of the OR whenever he wants, like a daycare nanny.

Jillian bit back a barbed retort about manners. If Richard can’t manage to see his nephew more than twice in the past three months, why is he contesting Deb’s will and suing me for custody? Jillian’s voice rose, and she forced it down again. You’ve also got a full schedule, with your country club, charity, and social events. Neither of you seem to realize that raising a child is a huge commitment of time and energy.

Richard has been working non-stop. If Casey were ours, he’d get to see him every day. Brooke smiled, baring flawless capped teeth. "Besides, Casey should be living with his real family. Bloodlines matter, which is why we don’t want to adopt just any stray."

Jillian’s heart sank. Richard the Ruthless was not only loaded, he had powerful connections. He ensured his wife stayed happy and off his back by giving her everything she wanted. And she wanted Casey.

Jillian swung the door open. Don’t let me keep you from your busy afternoon at the spa.

Richard will be calling you ... soon. After a hasty glance at her jewel-encrusted watch, Brooke glided out.

Jillian waited for the purr of Brooke’s charcoal BMW to fade before she surrendered to the urge to slam the door.

She hadn’t started this fight. But she would damned well finish it. For good.

* * *

Zane checked the clock on the airport terminal wall for the tenth time in ten minutes. Over an hour before his flight would begin to board. He slumped in the hard chair in a deserted corner near the departure lounge.

Hi, Mister. Who are you? He could still hear the small, earnest voice ringing in his ears, see the child’s intelligent brown eyes staring up at him.

Why hadn’t Deb told him about Casey? He would have willingly paid child support.

His hands fisted. He knew why. His horror over the broken condom had been obvious. As were his panicked questions about her cycle and timing.

Deb had run in Zane’s circle in college. She’d heard his vehement statements about parental responsibility, his vows never to marry or father children.

However, fate had intervened. Leaving the child alone in the world.

He rubbed his forehead. No, Casey had Jillian.

Zane’s instincts made him damned good at his job ... and those instincts assured him the intelligent, tenacious, tenderhearted Ms. Ramsay would be an excellent mother.

Or maybe he was rationalizing.

Acid bitterness stung his mouth. Because the kid was better off with her than with him.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he jerked his gaze sideways to see Jillian striding up the concourse toward him. She’d changed into a candy-apple red sundress that flattered her smooth-as-cream complexion and rosy cheeks. She looked stubbornly determined. She looked furious.

She looked irresistible.

His stomach twisted, every muscle in his body tensed. Goddammit, how had she found him? He’d made his position more than plain. Why didn’t the woman get it?

She stopped in front of his chair, folded her arms across lush breasts and tapped a red-and-white polka-dot sandal. Her toenails sported glittery ruby polish. You left before we finished our conversation.

He stood. Moved closer, towering over her. Deliberately crowding her. His body’s leap of awareness surged into an instant hard-on. Shit.

He lasered her with the stare that had intimidated even the most brutal offenders. The unspoken warning had made men twice his size cower. "We are finished."

She didn’t even blink. Think again. Her index finger stabbed his sternum, stayed there. I have more to say, and you’re going to listen, Champ.

Well hell. Big bad alpha wolf didn’t faze Ms. Jillian Ramsay. He took another step closer. She held her ground. Why didn’t she surrender, step back?

The heat from her skin taunted his senses, surrounded him with the exotic scent of patchouli and warm, willing woman. The remaining blood drained out of his head, rushing south. Concise objections knotted up. Instead of setting her straight, he stood there more tongue-tied than a pimply freshman nerd star-struck by the head cheerleader.

Her hand relaxed on his chest, his heartbeat drumming wildly beneath her warm palm. Zane?

He shook his head, attempting to force his blitzed brain back on track. Meeting Casey must have knocked him farther off balance than he’d realized. His concentration wasn’t easily flushed down the crapper. It had happened maybe twice in ten years.

Never over a woman.

It’s okay. Her voice went tender. I know finding out about Deb and Casey upset you. Honest emotions are nothing to be ashamed of.

Those dangerous emotions had been drilled out of him before he’d hit puberty. Lust had him twisted into a pretzel, that’s all.

He stared into Jillian’s eyes. High-voltage awareness crackled across the scant inches separating their bodies. His heart leapt under the compelling heat from her hand.

Surely she could feel the super-charged atoms colliding between them.

Needing to know, he covered her hand resting on his chest, enfolded her fingers in his. He slid his thumb across her palm and up over her wrist. Her breath caught, and under his thumb, her pulse rabbited.

Yeah. She felt it, all right.

Ensnared in her gaze, his ability to make rational decisions fled. His hand refused his brain’s order to let her go.

Those remarkable violet irises darkened as her pupils dilated. Her whispered breath feathered over his mouth, mere inches away. Zane’s attention riveted on her lips. Pink. Plump. So soft, so temptingly sweet—sweeter than the cookies he’d longed to try but had denied himself.

Obeying the dark, primal need, he tugged her closer. Their bodies brushed, the whisper