“I’ve been known to be.”
She gulped, unable to come up with a single snappy comeback.
“See you tomorrow.”
Her heart racing, she turned to watch him walk away.
Oh, baby
.
Chapter 3
Although technically the Gentrys lived next door to the Dooleys, it was a couple of miles on the main road from the Gentry mansion to Dooley’s General Store, so the next morning Roarke drove his rented Corvette. There was enough misty rain to need the wipers every couple of seconds and the asphalt was shiny and wet. So far this week the convertible top had been a waste. He had yet to see a sunny day.
Still, the Corvette was a sweet car to drive on a temporary basis. He’d always prefer his Ferrari, but the Corvette hugged the curves and purred like a contented cat. Growing up he’d longed to be a race car driver, but drivers spent too much time in crowds and on camera. A Were needed a certain amount of privacy because sometimes, shift happened.
Ha, ha.
As he neared the general store, he thought about his phone message yesterday afternoon, which had turned out to be a text from his brother, Aidan, announcing that Emma was pregnant. So Roarke had spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with Aidan, Emma, and his parents as they all celebrated the news. Although it was too soon to tell whether the baby would be a boy or girl, Roarke doubted that was the question on everyone’s mind.
Instead of mating with a Were as he’d been expected to do, Aidan had mated with Emma, a human. Would their kid be Were or human? Nobody knew. The baby would look like a human child until puberty, so the family would have to wait for the verdict until then. At puberty a Were child began showing signs of being able to shift.
Aidan’s choice had rocked the Wallace family to its foundation, and although Roarke liked Emma, even loved her as a sister-in-law, he still didn’t approve of Aidan’s decision. Weres mated with Weres, and that’s what Roarke would do. He hadn’t found anyone yet, but he wouldn’t turn thirty until next year. Aidan hadn’t married until he was thirty-two. Roarke had time.
His immediate concern regarding females, Were or human, was what to do about Abby Winchell, who made him think of cool sheets and hot sex. She was here visiting and so was he, which made for a potential fling, a shipboard romance minus the ship.
Except, as he’d determined yesterday, he didn’t have the time. He sighed as he pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of Dooley’s General Store. Maybe he’d luck out and find the Bigfoot pair this afternoon, arrange for their relocation before dinner, and be free to party with Abby tonight.
Dream on, Wallace.
Climbing out of the low-slung car, he took a deep breath of pungent, rain-soaked earth before surveying the store in front of him. Yes, it was a little run-down, the gray siding a tad bit weathered, but Roarke felt welcomed by the covered front porch complete with four rocking chairs. True, the chairs were wet with rain that had blown in. But if Portland ever had a sunny day—and Roarke had been assured there were many sunny days in Portland—those chairs would provide a relaxing spot to watch the world go by.
A row of stained-glass sun catchers hung in each window on either side of the door. Roarke wondered if anyone ever bought them or if the display was evidence of wishful thinking. Personally Roarke didn’t mind the constant light rain, which created such beautiful and werewolf-concealing foliage and washed away incriminating wolf tracks. But he did miss being able to drive with the top down.
A mechanical bird twittered as he opened the front door and stepped inside. True to its label of “general store,” Dooley’s seemed to stock a little bit of everything. Roarke smelled coffee brewing, wood smoke, and the musty odor of canvas. A quick scan of the shelves revealed camping gear, groceries, fishing tackle, kids’ toys, and Portland souvenirs.
At first Roarke thought the place was empty, but then his Were senses picked up Abby’s distinctive aroma. A second later she appeared from the back room and walked toward him. Today she looked more like the woman he’d seen on the outcropping than the one who had appeared at the Rotary meeting. She’d pulled her bright hair up into a ponytail and she wore jeans and a green
Kiss me, I’m Irish
sweatshirt.
The sentiment on the sweatshirt made him wonder if she was throwing out hints. No need for that. He’d be happy to kiss her whatever nationality she was. But he didn’t have time. Damn.
She looked him over with an impish smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your vest and bow tie.”
He glanced down at his jeans and black sweatshirt with the NYU bobcat mascot on it. “You’re disappointed. I should have known the vest and bow tie were a turn-on.”
“Oh, yeah. Especially the vest.” She laughed and glanced out the window. “Is that your red Corvette out there?”
“It’s my rental.”
“I see.” She pursed her lips and gazed at him. “So who’s the real Roarke Wallace? The geeky professor or the laid-back guy driving a red ragtop?”
“Geeky? I’ll have you know that’s my Henry Jones Jr. look.”
“So you did that on purpose! I wondered.”
“I’m an anthropology professor. I recognize the value of costume.”
Humor flashed in her blue eyes. “So is this your indolent rich boy costume?”
“Something like that. I’m a man of many parts.” Boy, wasn’t that the truth. If she knew about his third costume, she’d freak.
“And a man of your word,” she said quietly. “I appreciate this, Roarke. Grandpa Earl will be out in a few minutes. He didn’t want to appear too eager, so he’s dawdling around back there pretending to be very busy.”
“Just so he’s not very busy loading a shotgun.”
Abby shook her head, which made her ponytail dance. “I think he’s secretly flattered that you want to meet with him. We have a little area in the far corner of the store with a pot-bellied stove and a couple of wooden armchairs. Why don’t you wait for him over there?”
“That’s fine.” Roarke followed her down a store aisle and caught himself enjoying the way her jeans fit her backside as she walked. He should look away. He didn’t.
From the corner of his eye he noticed a small display of condoms on a top shelf, out of reach of little kids. So Dooley’s General Store helped promote safe sex. Good to know. Except buying condoms from her grandfather might not be the smoothest move he’d ever made.
Besides, he wasn’t buying any, because he didn’t have time to have sex with her. He would talk with her grandfather and hear his story. Maybe Earl Dooley would tell him something that would help in his own search. In fact, he should have thought of that earlier.
Abby turned and gestured toward the two battered chairs sitting on either side of an old-fashioned woodstove. A fire crackled behind what was probably the original leaded glass in the door. “Can I get you something ? A cup of coffee? Hot chocolate?”
“Coffee would be great, thanks.”
“How do you—”
“Black.”
She nodded. “Coming right up.” She headed for the door leading into the back of the store. “I’ll see if I can move Grandpa Earl along.”
The wooden chair creaked as Roarke settled in. He figured it was an antique, too, and he hoped it could hold a two-hundred-twenty-pound werewolf. Sitting in the chair beside the fire and surrounded by the organized clutter of the store, Roarke wondered if Dooley would be happy retiring to Arizona, after all. A man needed something to do with himself, an identity of some kind. And clearly he had one here.
But that wasn’t for Roarke to worry about. He had plenty on his plate dealing with the Gentry pack’s crisis. That was his ultimate priority, no matter what he thought of Cameron. Exposing one werewolf pack meant all of them were in danger—the Wallaces in New York, the Hendersons in Chicago, the Stillmans in Denver, the Landrys in San Francisco.
Roarke smelled Abby before he saw her come out from the back room holding a steaming mug of coffee. Every whiff of her was more enticing than the last. He’d be wise to limit his exposure.
She was followed by a tall, thin man with a head of thick white hair. He wore glasses, but they didn’t soften his piercing blue gaze a bit. If Roarke had been hoping for a guy with failing eyesight, Earl Dooley wasn’t about to accommodate him.
Roarke stood.
“Here’s your coffee.” Abby handed him the mug.
“Thank you.”
“And here’s my grandfather.” She stood aside. “Dr. Roarke Wallace, meet Dr. Earl Dooley.”
Roarke’s eyebrows rose as he stepped forward to shake Earl’s hand. “I didn’t realize that you—”
“Ah, I never use the title.” Earl’s handshake was firm. “My degree’s in mythology.”
“That explains your interest in Sasquatch.”
“Actually, Sasquatch explains my graduate studies. I’ve been stalking Bigfoot all my life, just like my father did before me.” Earl gestured to the two chairs. “Have a seat. Abby says you’re willing to hear my side of the story, so you might as well get comfortable. Abby, you take the other chair.”
“Let me get your stool first.”
“I’ll get it. You sit.”
“Okay.” Like an obedient child, she sank onto the other wooden chair.
“Be right back. Talk among yourselves. Drink your coffee, Dr. Wallace.” With a chuckle, Earl ambled down the aisle toward the front of the store.
Feeling a little like an obedient child himself, Roarke sipped his coffee. “You could’ve told me he’s a PhD.”
“As he likes to say, it’s window dressing. He got the degree because his father insisted that he have one since he’s so darned smart, but the only thing Grandpa Earl ever wanted was to help run the store and look for Bigfoot.”
“And with all that time spent studying folklore and legends, he never began to doubt?”
She shook her head, and her ponytail swayed again. “Nope. His father saw Bigfoot once, but he didn’t have a camera at the time. The Irish are great storytellers, though, so he described the event in vivid detail to anyone who would listen. Grandpa Earl listened a
lot.
”
“I’m beginning to understand his dedication to the cause.”
Abby smiled. “That was the idea.”
He was also beginning to understand that Abby didn’t do much of anything without a reason, which led him back to the question of why she’d worn a sweatshirt inviting someone to kiss her. It also invited someone—in this case him—to focus on her breasts.
Under different circumstances, Roarke would have been happy to follow up on Abby’s broad hints. Knowing he didn’t dare was making him cranky. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had affected him this much, and what bad luck that he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
So he drank his coffee and tried not to think about kissing Abby.
“Okay, kids.” Earl returned with a tall stool and placed it in front of them before perching on it. “You might think I’m doing this so I’ll have a superior position in the discussion, but my damned knees make low chairs booby traps.”
“This climate must not be helping any,” Roarke said.
Earl’s glance sharpened. “Now, don’t you start in on me. I suppose Abby told you that she wants me to move to Arizona.”
“She mentioned it.”
“Your friends the Gentrys would just love that. I’ve often wondered if they sit over there with a voodoo doll and a box of pins.”
Roarke stared at him. “Surely you don’t believe in voodoo?”
“I do, and don’t call me Shirley.” Earl chuckled again. “Sorry for the cornball joke, but it still makes me laugh. Anyway, I guess you don’t believe in voodoo.”
“I can’t say that I do.” He couldn’t say that he didn’t, either. The power of suggestion had always fascinated him.
“‘ There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ That’s Shakespeare.”
“I know.”
Earl shifted on the stool. “You’re a physical anthropologist, right?”
“Right.”
“And you graduated
magna cum laude
, plus you were asked to take part in the New York Consortium for Evolutionary Primatology.”
Roarke was impressed. “You’ve been reading my online bio.”
“I wanted to know the credentials of the man who planned to shred my Bigfoot evidence. At least you’re brilliant. That helps me deal with the hatchet job.”
Guilt stabbed him as he thought of how arrogant, and how hypocritical, his talks had been. He had no doubt that Earl had seen that mated pair, and regardless of Earl’s evidence, he’d made a terrific scientific discovery. As a reward, his name had been dragged through the mud.
“Hell, I know the evidence is bad. My camera’s old and my arthritic fingers don’t work as well as they used to. But can I give you anecdotal evidence instead?”
“Sure.” Roarke leaned forward and cradled the warm mug in both hands. “I’d love to hear about what you saw.”