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Lust warred with surge of possessiveness and the unexpected urge to protect. When she licked her lips, his jeans grew tighter. He clamped down on his emotions, exerting iron control over his wayward body. Last thing he needed was a hard-on in the middle of an art opening.
She squared her shoulders and made her way toward him. His wolf whined, wanting to rub against her, mark her with his scent. Ignoring the creature, he focused on the woman. There might be gray strands in her hair, but her skin was smooth and unlined. Her lips glistened, not with lipstick but with what seemed to be some kind of gloss. He sniffed. Cherry, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He had a sudden craving for the sweet fruit.
“What do you think of the painting?” Her soft, lyrical voice skated over his skin like a caress. He barely kept from shuddering. He was acting like a teenager with his first woman, not a hundred-year-old immortal werewolf. He’d seen more beautiful women. Hell, he’d bedded them. But right here and now, he could bring none of their faces to mind, all of them eclipsed by the loveliness of the one before him.
Magic, he reminded himself. His emotions were being manipulated. Devlin had warned that the attraction would be immediate, that he’d feel as though she belonged to him on aninstinctive level. Not that it would be like a punch to the gut.
Her head tilted to one side, and her brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” What had she asked him? Right, the painting. “It’s well executed.”
At his lack of enthusiasm, her beautiful eyes shuttered and her lips tightened. “If the style or subject matter doesn’t appeal, we have various others you might enjoy.”
“I want to buy it.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. When she smiled, it was as though the heavens smiled. Christ, he was getting downright poetic.
“Yes.” His voice was gruffer than he intended, but he was fighting off this unwanted attraction and trying to yank his attention back to the reason he was here. “But I want to meet the artist or no deal.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip and then stuck out a hand. “I’m Luna West. The artist in question.”
…
It was rude, but Luna couldn’t stop staring at the man. Rough around the edges with his scruffy jaw and leather jacket, he should have looked completely out of place. Instead, everyone around him faded into the background, paling in comparison.
Towering over her, she estimated he stood at least six-and-a-half feet, maybe slightly more. His hair was a pale, foggy gray that fell in thick strands to his broad shoulders. It was an unusual shade, better suited to an older man, but there was nothing elderly about him. This was a man in his prime. There were no signs of dark roots, either. Maybe it was natural, like the two thick locks she had on either side of her face. She pegged him to be in his thirties, mostly because of the air of confidence surrounding him.
Her hand hovered in the air. Feeling silly, she began to lower it when his snapped out and caught it. Strong, tanned fingers closed around hers, surrounding them in warmth.
“Kade Alvarez.” His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine and tingles to more intimate spots that hadn’t tingled in a very long time. “You painted this?”
“Yes.” Long seconds passed. He continued to hold her hand while she stared at him, unable to look away. God, I’m being an idiot, mooning over a potential client.If Chelsea caught her, she’d be in big trouble.
Tugging her hand back, she surreptitiously rubbed it against her dress. It was impossible to think with him touching her. She focused on the one painting her boss had allowed her to hang, and that was because one of the featured artists had come up short. It wasn’t something the gallery would normally display—something else Chelsea had repeatedly informed her—but Luna was proud of her work.
“Why the gray wolf?” The way he worded his question had her glancing sharply his way. His profile was strong, his jaw firm. Her fingers itched to capture his profile on paper. He gave the impression of a man holding himself under tight control.
“I’ve always had a fascination with wolves.” Most children had stuffed teddy bears or dolls. She’d gravitated to a plush wolf one of her parents’ friends had given her, dragging it everywhere. As she’d grown, so had her interest until it had become an obsession. When she’d begun to draw, they’d been her favorite subject.
He angled his big body so he was facing her, blocking her view of the room and creating an intimate oasis. The intensity in his eyes, the flex of a muscle in his jaw had her backing up a step.
“Ah, I should get my boss. I work for the gallery.” She clamped her lips together, aware she was babbling. It was unlike her. She was known for her poise, the ease with which she dealt with clients. It was what made her good at her job.
Physical attraction aside, something about Kade triggered all her warning bells. She’d grown up surrounded by manipulative, self-centered, narcissistic people. Had learned how to sort them into two categories—harmless and dangerous. While she had no idea about his overall personality, he definitely fell into the second one.
This was a man used to getting what he wanted. For a man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, he had the confidence of a man with money or power or both. When she went to go around him, he stepped in front of her, blocking her escape. “Answer my question. Whythisparticular gray wolf?”
Her chin went up, and she glared. Not that it did any good. His expression was implacable, his determination like steel. “If you must know, I dream about him.”
It sounded stupid to admit something like that out loud, but she’d been dreaming about the gray wolf most of her life. The animal had been a comfort and friend when she was younger. Lately, something had changed between them when she entered the realm of sleep. He’d as likely run away from her as to her. The conflicting vibes had left her bewildered and melancholic. Rather than go to therapy—she’d had enough of that as a child—she did what she always had when life got to be too much. She painted.
Until recently, she’d only sketched her childhood imaginary friend. Their relationship was too personal to share, but his defection had caused her to start painting him. Some unknown impulse—one she was currently regretting—had driven her to bring this particular canvas for the showing tonight.
“You dream about him,” he repeated her words back to her.
“Yes.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she all but dared him to make something of it. “It’s unconventional but not unusual for a creative person to have vivid dreams.” The damn therapist her parents had hired had assured her of that more than once. She wasn’t crazy. She had an active imagination. One she’d put to good use.
