"You're worried one of them will bite me?" She kept her voice calm, deliberately reasonable, unworried, in contrast to his violent emotions. His anger, coupled with fear for her, burned her nostrils. He was worried about her. She was annoyed and pleased at the same time.

"You might wind up . . . I don't know . . ."

"I do know. The biting thing is an old wives' tale. You're a werewolf or you're not. It's a whole different species, Jared, not the measles. Not something you catch."

He digested that, and she could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind. Could see the thought on his face: Why would she lie? No reason, ergo it must be the truth. She couldn't help but be warmed at this sign of trust between them. Never mind why would she lie . . . why should he believe her? And yet he did.

"A hundred years of bad movies are wrong?"

"Not to mention a thousand years of folk lore." Moira suddenly remembered the time she and Derik were kids and had gone to see An American Werewolf in London. They had laughed so hard they were kicked out not forty-five minutes into the movie. "The truth is always much more boring than the fable it grew from."

"What if one of them kills you?"

"Never, ever happen."

"Bullshit. Put down that piece of toast, it's mine."

"You left your plate," she protested.

He threw up his hands. "Can we stay on track, please? One of them has killed, you don't deny that, right?"

"Right. But tell me why you think Michael knows who killed your sister."

Jared blinked, surprised at the abrupt question, but answered readily enough. "Everything traces back to Wyndham manor, to your boss. Ev-er-ee-thing. The police even had a suspect, but the guy got away clean. He worked there, lived there, probably even had a family there. Then I got close, and he was smoke. Wyndham told the cops he didn't know a thing about it, which was just about the biggest lie since

'this won't hurt a bit'. The suspect worked for Wyndham practically his whole life."

"Was this . . . about a year ago?"

"How'd you know?"

"I'm just trying to figure out the timeline."

"The name I had was Gerald somebody," Jared confirmed.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. She strove to look thoughtful, rather than horrified. This was good news and bad. Good news because Gerald was dead, and thus unlikely to be murdering anyone else's sister now that he was so much meat in the ground. Bad because Jeannie, Michael's wife, had shot Gerald. Multiple times.

Of course Michael had denied knowledge of Gerald's whereabouts. He couldn't very well tell the police the truth: that Gerald was beneath the White Ivy rosebushes on the south lawn and, oh by the way, officers, would you like some tea before you haul my mate away in chains? She's pregnant, so make sure she takes her pre-natal vitamins in prison.

"I think I can help you," Moira said slowly. She had no idea what to do. Tell Jared everything and trust him to keep Wyndham secrets? Ha.

Tell him nothing and neutralize him? Hit him when his guard was down and bite the back of his neck until his strong heart stopped beating and his gorgeous eyes closed forever?

I've got a crush on the idiot.

Moira knew her limitations. She was intelligent—okay, that wasn't a limitation—but numbers were her game. She had no gift for leadership or strategy. That was Michael's job. She was a foot soldier, plain and simple.

Jared needed to hear about Gerald, but not from her. From Michael and Jeannie, and no one else.

Would Jared follow her to Wyndham manor, unquestioning? Just trot right on over to what he assumed was the belly of the beast?

Ha.

"There's something on the back of your neck," she said sweetly.

"What?" He brought his hand up, brushed ineffectually. She put her hand on his shoulder, gently turned him around, and punched him at the base of his skull with her knuckle. Jared obligingly dropped without a sound, and she caught him on the way down.

I'm going to hear about this one for a while, she thought grimly, slinging him over her shoulder like a sack of toys.

Chapter Nine

He opened his eyes and saw he was surrounded by monsters, in a living room or den of some sort.

Michael Wyndham, Moira, and Wyndham's hottie wife, Jeannie, were all bending over him, their faces like concerned moons. He was lying on a couch, and could hear the cheerful crackle of a fire nearby.

"You . . . bitch!" He sat bolt upright, then clutched the back of his neck, which was incredibly stiff.

"Aarrgghh! What'd you hit me with, a piano?"

"I'm sorry, Jared." Moira-the-Judas had the nerve to look abashed. She blinked her big purple eyes at him and spread her hands helplessly. "I had to bring you here—we have things to tell you—but I didn't think you'd come if I asked."

"So you coshed me over the head with an iron and kidnapped me?" His hand slid down and around, but his holster was empty.

"Don't get too far up on that high horse of yours," Jeannie Wyndham said dryly. "You did the same thing to my friend yesterday." She waved his gun at him. Jared felt alternately nervous and aroused to see such a pretty woman handling his weapon so comfortably. "My best friend. And since you kidnapped my friend and are here in town solely to hurt my husband, you look stupid trying to sound outraged."

"Jeannie," Michael said quietly.

"Well, he does."

"Give him back his gun, please."

"Speaking of stupid." Despite her comment, she popped the clip, ratcheted a bullet out of the chamber, and gave him back all three, absently puffing a hank of blonde hair out of her eyes as she did so. He was so surprised he nearly dropped them on the floor.

"Will you listen?" Wyndham asked quietly. The guy had funny eyes—dark brown, ringed with yellow, dog's eyes, monster's eyes—but his voice was deep and soothing. Too soothing. Jared knew there were people in the world who could make you like them. It was a talent, like being able to raise only one eyebrow. Even knowing all he did about Wyndham, Jared still wanted to shake the guy's hand and hear what he had to say. Watch it, he warned himself. "Mister—ah—Moira?"

Moira cleared her throat. "Sorry. We should have done this right away. Jeannie and Michael Wyndham, this is Jared . . . uh . . ." She flushed. "I never did get your last name."

"And after all we shared," he said mockingly, and was gratified to see her blush deepen.

"Knock it off," Jeannie snapped. "You're still on my shit list, buddy-roo. I don't know why we're all tip-toeing around you. As far as I'm concerned, you're the bad guy." She smirked at him. "And you know what happens to the bad guy in books and movies, right, Jerked?"

"It's Jared," he said, and to his surprise he had to fight a smile. "Jared Rocke."

Jeannie's eyes widened. "Rocke? Your last name is Rocke? Oh my God, that's the silliest name ever."

Wyndham was looking heavenward, as if for divine intervention. "Jeannie . . ."

"Seriously. It's like a bad romance novel. 'Jared Rocke brooded darkly before sweeping Shanna Silverington into his strong, rugged embrace.' Barf. What's your nickname? Rocky? Rocco? Double barf."

Incredibly, Jared could feel himself relaxing. He sensed no menace from any of the three—of course, he hadn't sensed menace from Moira before she'd bashed him with a serving tray, either. Still, Moira was so contrite, and Wyndham so polite, and Mrs. Wyndham so refreshingly rude, it was hard to stay tense.

And what the hell did that mean? That Moira was right? The monsters weren't all bad?

He coughed to cover his confusion. "My nickname in second grade was Jared Poopypants, for an incident I refuse to go into, no matter how long you and your husband torture me. Creditors call me Mr.

Rocke. My friends call me Jared. I don't know what you guys are," he added truthfully.

"Let's find out," Michael said genially. "Something to drink, Mr. Rocke?"

"Barf," Jeannie said again, but went to the wet bar.

"Yeah, I'd love a beer," he admitted. "And a bottle of aspirin."

Wordlessly Moira stepped behind him, and then he felt her kneading his neck with her small, supple fingers. By the time Jeannie handed him an ice-cold, foamy beer, his neck felt much better. "I'm still pissed at you," he muttered.

She bent to whisper in his ear. "I know. You can take it out on me later. At the house. In your room."

Her mouth was hovering outside the cup of his ear and his dick was paying close attention to the conversation. "Do you know any rope tricks?"

". . . your sister."

"Mr. Rocke?"

"Jared," he said automatically, trying to shake off the surge of excitement Moira's words had brought.

Talk about the wrong place and time! "It's Jared."

"Thank you. I'm Michael, and you've met my wife, Jeannie. I was saying how sorry I was to hear about your sister."

"You'll be even sorrier when you hear the stuff I've been able to dig up."

Michael sat across from him holding a tumbler half full of Scotch. Moira declined a drink, staying behind Jared and gently rubbing his neck, and Jeannie sat next to her husband with a glass full of milk. At Jared's stare, she mumbled, "Still breastfeeding."

For some reason that made him laugh out loud. It seemed to emphasize the wholesome attributes of the room they were in, the pleasant people he was talking to. Death had no place here . . . not where women breastfed well-loved babies and potential girlfriends promised bondage games.

"I guess Moira can tell you what's been going on as well as I can," he said, because he wanted to hear what Moira had to say about the situation.

She ruffled his hair in response and started to speak. She spoke for quite a while, finishing with, " . . .

and Jared's been tracking the killer. I think—I'm sure—it's Gerald."