White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul Read Free

scowled at Doc G., who grinned like a beaver, showing the perfect smile that dazzled all the over-forty females in Mackinac County, even the happily married ones.
    “I said I need Doc G. right away.” Sheriff Pincer had the voice of a radio announcer—smooth, silky, and creepy-crawly. To Melanie, anyway. “Jump to it, girl. This is an emergency.”
    Melanie choked back the need to shove the word girl down Pincer’s throat and handed the phone to Doc G. “Pincer.”
    Glad for any excuse to get out of Mike’s presence, she hurried to the examination room. Stooping, she took a deep breath, then opened the cabinet in front of her and removed a lab coat and a box of gloves. She smelled him the minute he entered the room, and choked back a groan. Why had he followed her?
    Trying to ignore the tantalizing scent of Mike’s I’m-fantastic-in-bed-and-will-give-you-screaming-multiple-orgasms aftershave, she stood, reached for the duffel bag on the counter, and placed the supplies inside. He crowded her, so big, and so, so—so much man, damn it.
    Lean and rangy and made of whipcord, irresistible testosterone, that was Mike Dorland. To all women. She tiptoed to get a couple extra bottles of alcohol. Not that they needed them—Doc G.’s truck was more than amply supplied—but to give her nervous fingers something to do and to keep her brain from fast-forwarding into full-fledged panic.
    “I’ll get that.”
    Mike’s breath, warm and feathery, sailed across her exposed nape. Oh hell, he was right behind her. The urge to relax into his chest, to arch her neck, and invite a bite—a claiming bite—had her seeing stars. Melanie dug both elbows into his belly and winced when she encountered steel instead of mere flesh. Those ridges had to form a six-pack, maybe even an eight. Her mouth watered, and she went so wet down there that her cheeks ignited in embarrassment. Thank the Lord Mike Dorland didn’t have X-ray vision or a wolf’s heightened sense of smell. “I…don’t…need… your …help.”
    “Oh yeah you do. You just don’t know it yet.” His low rumble had a fudge-velvet edge. Her favorite fantasy—him painting her body with smooth, warm chocolate and then licking her clean—had her nipples on fire. “You’re creaming for me.”
    A bucket of frigid water couldn’t have pulled her back from the brink better. How could he have known?
    She peeked at Doc G. talking on the reception desk phone, and had to lock her knees so as not to crumple. The vet hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Though the rooms were separate, with the door open, sound carried. But Doc G. wore a frown, and he had his gaze fixed on the desk.
    Why was Mike Dorland trying to flirt with her? After putting a ring on another woman’s finger? The news of his engagement had been a Mack Truck hit.
    Her birthday resolution—five months earlier—had been to get on with her life. Forget dreams of a future with Mike. Forget the stupid notion that he was the only man she’d ever love. Forget the past and live in the present. She’d made a ritual out of it—gone to the cabin that the Dorlands owned, sat in the middle of the fairy-tale gazebo overlooking the lake, and sobbed her heart out.
    Well, heck, he was engaged, and she was so going to get over him.
    Melanie pivoted, crossed her arms, and met his stare, refusing to be intimidated by the fact that if he leaned a mere inch closer, his rib cage would brush her saluting-at-attention nipples. “How’s Valérie? Heard she’s sporting a rock the size of Fiesta Square.”
    He rolled a shoulder and set his hands on the counter, caging her in. “Not interested. It’s not my ring she’s wearing.”
    Melanie glanced down and studied the floor tiles, noting a brown stain that hadn’t been there before.
    How could that be?
    Valérie had flaunted the ring not three nights ago when she’d been dilly-dallying over a slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee at the Caboose. Not once in the eight