A Werewolf in Manhattan Read online

  “Sorry about that.” Aidan returned to his seat. “Family stuff.” He seemed quiet.

  “Do we need to leave? I mean, if there’s something you should take care of, I certainly understand.”

  “No, no. Roarke just had some things to tell me.” Yet he definitely seemed subdued by the conversation.

  She was curious, but she couldn’t start quizzing him. She didn’t know him well and didn’t know his family at all. “I’m afraid I started without you. The coffee martini’s great.”

  His smile returned. “Glad you like it.” He took a drink of his and nodded. “Frederick does a good job at the bar.”

  “Does Frederick ever give out his recipes?”

  Aidan shook his head. “No recipes. The guy mixes drinks instinctively now, and he probably couldn’t tell you how to make this even if he wanted to.”

  “Then it’s Google time for me, but guaranteed it won’t be the same.”

  “Sorry.”

  The silence that followed that single-word response told her all she needed to know. That would have been his cue to mention bringing her back again sometime, and he hadn’t said a word. She knew about Doug, but Aidan didn’t, so something else was stopping him from pursuing the relationship.

  Imagining what that might be was too depressing, so she wouldn’t think about it. “The music’s nice, too.”

  He studied her for a moment. “Would you like to dance?”

  The question startled her, especially after she’d concluded that he had no interest in her whatsoever, other than her writing ability. “I wasn’t dropping hints. You invited me for a drink, and that’s what we’re having. Please don’t feel obligated to dance with me because I mentioned the music.”

  “I didn’t ask because I feel obligated.”

  She checked his expression for sincerity. His light brown eyes were warm, and that cute little half smile had reappeared. Talk about your mixed signals. Now he did seem interested.

  She had a horrible thought. What if he was the kind of man who was into conquests? She knew absolutely nothing about his personal life or his track record with women. He certainly had the physique and charisma to be a Don Juan. What if he planned to seduce her tonight and then mark her off a master list he kept in his head? Bestselling author: check.

  Well, she had a built-in braking system for that kind of man. “I’m seeing someone.”

  “I figured you must be.” His eyes glowed with good humor.

  Now she felt gauche and unsophisticated. People danced all the time without heading straight for a bedroom afterward. He did have beautiful eyes. “Not that I think you meant anything by asking me to dance. I just thought you should know.”

  “So you don’t want to dance?”

  That was the problem. She’d love to dance with this man, who might or might not be trying to take advantage of her. If he had sex in mind, she wouldn’t let things go that far. And it was only a dance.

  And yet telling Doug that she’d had a drink with a fan after the signing was one thing. She wouldn’t even have to mention that the fan was male, actually. But if she admitted that she’d also danced with said fan, the man-fan thing would become known and the incident would begin to look suspicious.

  But the evening would never be repeated, either. She knew that because he hadn’t offered to bring her back sometime for another coffee martini. So this would be her one and only opportunity to have a close encounter of the rhythmic kind with Aidan Wallace. Chickening out might make her feel less guilty about Doug, but she’d regret missing the experience of dancing with this hot guy.

  Research. She’d nearly forgotten that she’d decided to make tonight all about research. What if the heroine in her next book decided to go dancing with the hunky hero? Sure, Emma could put her imagination to work as to how that would feel, but firsthand knowledge would definitely help.

  “I’d love to dance,” she said.

  “Good.” Standing, he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He was even more magnificent without the jacket, which had somewhat disguised his pecs. The gray silk dress shirt, open at the collar, fit him like a dream.

  She gulped a little more of her martini for courage before standing and walking ahead of him to the dance floor. Once there, she turned, prepared to be swept into his strong arms.

  Or not. The band switched numbers, launching into a tune with a fast, driving beat. Emma glanced at Aidan, who shrugged and smiled. Then he stepped onto the floor and initiated the sexiest hip action she’d seen outside of Dancing with the Stars.

  Adrenaline pumped through her system as she followed suit with a grin of delight. She had a few moves of her own, and recently they’d been confined to the privacy of her apartment. Back in the day, she’d enjoyed the club scene, but her intense career didn’t give her the time to party. Besides, she didn’t have the right partner. Doug was willing to dance, but his sense of timing left something to be desired.

  Aidan had the rhythm of a born athlete. If he made love the way he danced—Uh-oh, better not go there, girl. She quickly pulled herself back from the edge of that perilous cliff of supposition. Instead of picturing Aidan naked in tangled sheets, which she would not do, she channeled her sexual energy into her dancing.

  It was a decent plan, but ultimately a flawed one. She couldn’t dance without watching Aidan or she was liable to bump into him. She already felt less coordinated than he was, and turning the dance floor into a mosh pit wouldn’t be cool.

  Therefore she became aware of each swivel of his hips, each thrust of his pelvis. She found herself mirroring him in the same way she might if they were horizontal on an innerspring. They weren’t touching, and yet she felt his heat burning all the way to the forbidden zone, the place she was supposed to keep safe and warm for Doug.

  Nothing was safe from a man like Aidan. She’d naively thought she could control the situation tonight. Fat chance. If this kept up, somebody would have to turn a fire hose on them.

  But the music stopped, leaving them breathing fast and laughing as they gazed at each other. Before Emma could gather her wits, the band eased into a slow number.

  Aidan closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms. The top of her head would have fit under his chin if she’d allowed herself to snuggle in. She resisted the impulse and gazed up at him. “Nice dancing.”

  “Same to you.” He guided her in a lazy waltz, his thighs brushing hers. His touch was steady and gentle as he telegraphed his movements with subtle pressure against the small of her back. As with any talented dancer, he made his partner, aka Emma, look and feel good.

  She’d never danced with such effortless pleasure in her life. He was weaving a spell that was a mixture of blatant sexuality and romantic tenderness. Women probably fell all over themselves to become a notch in this man’s belt. Assuming he was a notches-in-the-belt kind of guy.

  Conversation might help keep her out of trouble, though. “No fair,” she said. “You’ve had lessons.”

  “Not formal lessons.” He brought her a fraction closer, causing her breasts to settle against his firm chest. “I learned at family gatherings.”

  “You dance at family parties?” The idea of a family dancing together enchanted her almost as much as the thought of the party itself. She didn’t have parties with relatives. Her family consisted of her and her mom. An aunt lived out in California, and Emma had some cousins there whom she barely knew. Her dad had left when she was a baby and had never been heard from again.

  “It’s a family tradition to have music at our events, so of course everybody is expected to learn to dance.”

  “That’s nice.” The closer he held her, the less she felt inclined to make conversation. He felt so damn good. Worse yet, he smelled good, too. She still couldn’t identify his cologne, but she desperately wanted to nestle her cheek against his chest and breathe in that heady male fragrance. She longed to be seduced.

  But she’d hate herself in the morning, so she resi
sted the snuggle urge. The alternative wasn’t much better. She was left looking up into his caramel-colored eyes like a lovesick teenager, which was pretty much how she felt. Aidan was rich, handsome, and a terrific dancer. What woman wouldn’t want all that in her bed?

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” The second the words were out, she wanted them back. No doubt her face was turning red. Lovely. “Cancel that. Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  By now they were plastered together from chest to groin. She could feel the steady thump of his heart, and ... yes, his obvious arousal. Easing away from him would be the smart way to handle this. She’d always been a smart girl. But she’d never come up against—literally—the likes of Aidan Wallace. Now that she was in his arms, she never wanted to leave.

  When the music ended, he studied her without loosening his hold. “I suppose you should be getting home.”

  Wanna come with me? “I suppose.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, as if he were wrestling with a problem. Then the sparkle disappeared, and his grip loosened. “I should probably be getting home, too. I’ll call Ralph.”

  So that was that. When he released her, the cool air of reason caressed her heated skin. Whether he was a playboy or not, he’d obviously decided against playing with her. Time to end this encounter, whatever it was. Time for Cinderella to climb into her pumpkin coach and leave the ball.

  Dancing with her had been a bad idea, but Aidan had figured he was about to be pulled off the case and he’d wanted to see her dance in person just once. Fortunately, she’d missed seeing him signal the band to play a fast number. She probably thought that was an accident.

  No, he’d engineered the whole sequence, and now he had only himself to blame for his present sexual frustration, which could lead to some embarrassing and potentially dangerous consequences. As he rode back to her apartment with her in the cozy rear seat of the town car, the backs of his hands prickled and his tailbone itched.

  He’d inherited a rare genetic condition that showed up only every second or third generation. If he happened to be in human form when he was aroused with no prospect of satisfaction, his body strained to shift instead, as a kind of compensation. An orgasm could calm him immediately and stop the process, but that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

  He should have sent Emma home in the town car by herself. He could have called Roarke to come and get him. Then again, maybe not. If Roarke had been driving his Ferrari and using the fuzz buster, he’d probably made it back to the family estate and was enjoying a recreational run through the woods by now.

  Okay, so Roarke might not have been available, but there had been other options for Aidan, like commercial limos. Still, he’d felt the need to see Emma safely home to her apartment. Once they were closed inside the backseat together, though, and his teeth ached with the need to sharpen and grow, he realized he was screwed, and not in a good way.

  Worse yet, his chauffeur must have sensed that the air was thick with unmet sexual needs. Any werewolf would be able to pick up on that. That explained why Ralph kept his eyes on the road ahead and hadn’t attempted conversation. He might have thought coupling was about to happen in the back of the town car.

  Aidan needed a distraction, and he needed it now. He glanced at Emma. “Do you have your phone with you?”

  “My phone?” She seemed startled. “Yes, I do, but I turned it off before the signing and never turned it back on. Why?”

  “Can you access your e-mail on it?” He knew damned well she could, but he wasn’t supposed to know, so he had to play the game and ask.

  “Yes, but—oh, I get it.” She unzipped her purse and pulled out her BlackBerry. “You want to see the e-mail from the creepy guy.”

  “Just to get an idea of how hard it’ll be to trace.” And to keep me from grabbing you and kissing you until you let me do whatever I want right here in the backseat of the town car.

  That was the other part of the equation. Judging from the way she’d danced with him, the slightest bit of effort on his part would make her forget all about Dougie-boy. Knowing she wanted him while he could do nothing about it made the pressure to shift even worse. The beginnings of a pelt rubbed against his silk shirt.

  “Sure. Just a sec.” She turned on the phone and waited for an Internet connection. Seconds later she handed him the phone. “Here it is.”

  He gazed at the small screen and forced himself to concentrate on the words there instead of allowing her scent to pull him into a sensual whirlpool from which there would be no escape. Once they started down that road, they wouldn’t stop until they’d wrung each other out. The dancing had told him that.

  If he’d wanted her a little less, he might chance making love to her tonight. That had been his criterion from his first sexual encounter, at the age of sixteen. He’d indulge only if he knew they could both walk away at the end of the affair. He’d been able to tell his Were lovers he would have to make a political match someday and therefore couldn’t get serious. They’d always understood that.

  For his human lovers, and he’d had a few, he’d chosen women who were too focused on their careers to think about settling down with one guy. They’d been attractive and sexy, but not a single one had affected him the way Emma did. And he hadn’t even taken her to bed yet.

  Yet. The word flashed like a neon sign in his brain. Had he actually thought such a ridiculous thing? The word yet implied that he saw taking her to bed as inevitable. He didn’t. Damn it, he didn’t.

  He could beat this attraction, no matter how strong it seemed now. Just because he wanted to rip that red dress from her body and explore every inch of her soft skin didn’t mean that he would. Just because he longed to stroke her pert breasts until—

  “Can you see it okay?” she asked. “I can make the text bigger if you need me to.”

  “Thanks, but I can see it just fine. I’m thinking.” His eyesight was far better than she would ever know. And he hadn’t lied. He had been thinking, just not about the e-mail in front of him. As a result, his pelt had grown even thicker. When he transformed, his fur was deep brown tipped with silver, and he was afraid that some silver fur might be sticking out of the open neck of his dress shirt already.

  Once again he focused on the e-mail, and this time he was able to actually read the damned thing.

  Hey, babe, I can tell from the way you write about werewolves that you dig them. Girl, you need to get it on with a real werewolf, and I’m the one to show you the ropes. Write back and I’ll meet you whenever and wherever you say. Until then, think of me as always—Ready Fur U

  Aidan growled.

  “Aidan? Are you okay?”

  Shit! He’d growled, and she’d heard him! He made a big production of clearing his throat before he turned to answer her. “I felt like I had something stuck in my throat. It’s gone now.”

  She laughed. “You clearing your throat sounds a lot like a Doberman guarding the front door.”

  She couldn’t know how close she’d come to describing exactly how he felt. Some asshole was trying to make contact with her for the purpose of sex. Aidan no longer cared whether the guy was a werewolf or only pretending to be so he could meet her. Aidan would track him to his lair, wherever that might be, and put him out of commission.

  Emma’s laughter faded. “You’re looking really fierce right now. In fact, you’re scaring me a little.”

  Immediately he offered her his most winning smile and hoped to hell his canines didn’t look too frightening yet. “Sorry. It’s just that I hate guys who use the Internet to harass women.”

  “Do you think you can find out where he is?”

  “Absolutely. And I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to start the process.” As Ralph pulled up in front of her building, Aidan reached inside his suit jacket and took out another card. “If you’ll send the e-mail to that address, I’ll get on it tonight.” Unwittingly he’d created a great cover f
or the fact that his guys were already working on the trace.

  “Now that we’re at my place, why not come up to my loft and use my computer? I’ll make coffee.”

  God, did she have any idea what she was saying? He thought maybe she did. Lust shone in her blue eyes. She knew exactly what she was saying, and Doug had mentally been kicked to the curb.

  He clenched his back teeth together to keep himself from saying yes. ... Yes to the invitation, yes to the coffee, and yes to the sex that would definitely take place if he stepped foot inside her apartment. He might be able to accomplish the deed without her noticing that he’d become unusually hairy.

  But he wouldn’t do it. Roarke was going to be so proud of him. “Thanks, but you need sleep, and I can work better on my own equipment.” Saying that nearly killed him, but he felt noble as hell.

  “But—”

  “Seriously, it’s important to accomplish this, and it’ll all go faster at my place.” Which would be his office instead of his apartment, but she didn’t have to know that. “I’ll e-mail you the results when I’m done so you’ll have the information in the morning and can pass it on to Jenny.”

  “Okay.” The word was drenched in frustration and disappointment.

  Hell, she seriously wanted him to spend the night with her. And he wasn’t going to. Roarke should give him a damned medal.

  “We’ll wait here while you let yourself in and go upstairs,” he said. “Leave your phone on, and if there’s any problem when you get up there, call me.” He pulled his phone out of his jacket and turned it on. “I can be there in no time.”

  She gazed at him. “Sure you won’t come up?”

  His tail was growing and beginning to bush out. “I’m sure.”

  “Then I probably won’t see you again until the next book comes out.”

  “Guess not.” He doubted he’d be at her next signing. He could get a book autographed through Roger Claymore. That would be a safer option.