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“It’s all right, Ataniq.” George came down the steps. “I have other helmets.”
“I meant the snowmobile,” Barlow said drily.
“Oh!” The boy glanced at Alex, and his cheeks reddened. She wasn’t sure why.
He smiled at her shyly, and she smiled back, which only made him blush all the more.
Barlow cleared his throat, and George’s clear blue gaze flicked from Alex to Barlow; then he straightened as if he might click his heels together and bow.
The incongruity of that image—the Indian boy with the long flowing hair, bowing like a European underling to a lord—almost made Alex laugh again, but she managed not to. Poor George would think she was laughing at him.
“There’s no need, Ataniq. I can fix it.”
“You’ve always been good at that.” Barlow beckoned Alex, and with a small shrug in lieu of good-bye, she moved toward the house.
Barlow’s eyes suddenly narrowed, and Alex glanced behind her, concerned, only to find George’s gaze on her ass.
“Go,” Barlow ordered in a voice so icy she got shivers. Then he watched until the snowmobile had left town as quickly as it had entered.
“You scared him,” Alex said.
“Good.” He flicked her an unreadable gaze and disappeared inside.
Alex followed, shutting the door behind her. “He’s just a kid.”
Barlow, who’d sat in what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden chair in the hall and begun to pull off his wet socks, tilted his head to look at her. “Are you a kid?”
“What? No.” She didn’t think she’d ever been a kid.
“He’s your age, Alex.” He stood and carried the dripping socks into the kitchen. “Or close enough.”
Alex remained in the hall. He was probably right. George was her age, maybe even a year older. But he’d seemed so damn young.
“Hey!” she called, striding down the hall, then pausing when her ridiculous rubber boots slid as the ice on the bottoms melted all over the polished wood floor. Alex cursed, yanked them off, and left them on the mat near the door. “You got any paper—” She stopped just inside the entryway, mouth half open as she stared at the most gorgeous kitchen she’d ever seen.
The sun spilled through a skylight, illuminating the honey shade of the wooden beams and walls. The countertops were blinding white and the appliances chrome. But what she really liked were the huge natural stones that decorated both the center island and the fireplace in the attached dining area.
“Got any paper what?” Julian asked as he came out of a tiny room to the rear. Alex caught a glimpse of a washing machine before he shut the door.
“Towels,” she managed, still staring.
Julian noticed and glanced around. “What?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I—uh—” He shrugged. “Like to cook.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Why not?”
“I just, well I never…have.”
“I suppose not,” he said quietly, and for an instant she could have sworn she heard sympathy, or pity, in his voice. Which made her anger flare and she lashed out.
“I figured you’d eat everything raw. Like the wise woman.”
She’d been staring at his face, waiting for a flicker of…what? Guilt? Could a werewolf feel guilt?
