Gwen lowered her legs. “Although nothing quite brightens my day like your presence, Sheriff, I have stuff to do, so . . .”
Tipping his hat slightly, he cursed. “Gwen, the Moores aren’t going to let this go.”
She gave him a hard look. “I hope you’re not about to advise me to give them what they want, because I’d feel compelled to mention that to the council in the interest of full disclosure.”
His eyes flared. “At least call me if Brandt comes back. I’d rather not have to arrest either you or Donnie for shooting him. Too much paperwork.” At that, he turned and jogged down the steps to his car.
As Colt drove away, a male slid out of the passenger seat of the SUV. He was tall, dark, and incredibly masculine. Certainly pretty to look at. And a very nice distraction from Colt’s bullshit.
Always the opportunist, Gwen took a moment to admire the stranger as he prowled to the trunk, grabbed two duffels, and then moved to the driver’s side of the vehicle. That was when a second male slid out; he took a duffel from his friend as he scanned his surroundings.
Hard winter-gray eyes landed on her. No, they locked on her. She swallowed. The other male was hot, but this guy was a whole other level of hot. Like scorching, blistering hot.
He had a lean, toned build that screamed raw power and did plenty of interesting things to her insides. And, damn, that face . . . He had a perfectly sculpted mouth that she would bet curved into a wicked smile. The edge of stubble on his square jaw was a few shades darker than his short, choppy hair the color of a wheat field. A neat scar sliced through the lower part of his eyebrow, and it somehow suited him.
She didn’t usually go for blonds. She’d always preferred males who were more like his friend—dark, broody, and clean shaven. But the blond definitely had her attention right then. His attention, on the other hand, quickly slid away from her. Not that that was a surprise or anything. She wasn’t the kind of girl who would catch the eye of a guy like him.
Oozing dominance and a quiet, supreme confidence, he fluidly stalked toward the house with his friend close behind. Every step they took was predatory and self-assured. Shifters, she sensed.
Her heart began to beat a little faster. She’d always been intrigued by them and the dynamics of packs, prides, flocks, et cetera. She loved their animal grace, the way they seemed to glide rather than walk. And, hello, shifting into an animal had to be cool, right?
The trailer park where she’d lived as a kid had been close to a wolf-pack territory. So many times she’d heard them howling, caught glimpses of them running, and found herself wishing she was one of them—wishing she was surrounded by people who would care for and protect her.
Gwen was also fascinated by the whole true-mate thing. To have someone made specifically for you—someone who would never betray you, never hurt you, and would always cherish you—would be something special. She envied them that.
As they climbed the steps and reached the wraparound porch, she stood with a polite smile. “I’m guessing one of you is Mr. Devlin.” Yeah, she played it cool. The blond might be all her fantasies rolled into one package, but he really didn’t need to know that. Honestly, she wasn’t brought to her knees by looks anyway. She’d grown up around perfection, so she was pretty much used to it. Her foster mother and foster siblings all had that “it” factor. Gwen didn’t.
“That would be me,” the blond rumbled, eyes once again locked on her.
A lesser female might have found that direct, penetrating stare unnerving. Okay, it did unnerve her just a little. Nonetheless, she walked toward the shifters, unable to help admiring the way Zander held himself. He stood tall and still, his solid shoulders back, his head held high and ever so slightly tilted in a gesture that seemed both cool and self-assured.
“I’m Gwen. I work here,” she said, using that distantly polite voice she reserved for guests.
The dark wolf tipped his chin, eyes smiling. “Bracken.”
Zander said nothing, just looked at her with a blank expression. Well, wasn’t he a bag of delight.
“Good to meet you both,” she said. “Your rooms are ready, so let’s get you checked in.”
Zander opened the front door and gestured for her to enter first. With a quick nod of thanks, she walked inside and straight over to the reception desk.
At that moment, her foster mother came out of the kitchen, wearing a wide smile. It would be easy to look at Yvonne’s appearance and jump to the wrong conclusion—to think that the Botox injections, perfect hairstyle, slim figure, and inches of makeup on her dark skin meant she was vain and shallow. With Yvonne, it wasn’t vanity; it was insecurity. Her second husband, now deceased, had trashed her confidence and left her with a false, distorted image of herself.
Gwen and Marlon had shielded her from the Brandt situation as best they could, not wanting her to see how bad things were. Yvonne wasn’t stupid, though. She knew things were much worse than she’d been led to believe, but Yvonne was the master at burying her head in the sand.
“One of you must be Mr. Devlin,” she said with a slight hint of a Caribbean accent.
Zander gave a curt nod.
“I’m Yvonne. I own the place.” Patting her short, dark corkscrew curls, she studied them with a knowing glint in her eye. “You’re shifters, right? I can always tell. Can I ask what kind?”
“Wolves,” said Bracken.
“My Gwen loves wolves. I don’t mean wolf shifters; I mean wolves—she’s always been fascinated by them. Not that I’m saying she doesn’t like wolf shifters, you understand. She’s always liked shifters, always been interested in—”
“Is there a way to make you stop?” Gwen asked, staring at her in consternation. The males were going to think she was a shifter groupie or something.
“I was just explaining—” Yvonne cut off as the phone began to ring. “Excuse me,” she told the wolves and then picked up the phone.
While Yvonne took the call, Gwen put the males through the check-in rigmarole. Finally, she unhooked the keys for rooms four and five and slid them across the desk . . . only to see that Zander was staring at her with an intense focus that almost made her squirm. Sadly, there was no sexual interest there, just curiosity and a hint of . . . suspicion. Huh. Whatever.
He stared at her, and she stared right back, drumming her nails on the reception desk. A strange tension gathered in the air, coiling and thickening with each second, but she’d be damned if she’d look away first and—
Her head whipped to the side as the living-room door slammed shut . . . the empty room. She looked back at Zander, whose eyes were now narrowed on the door.
Ending the call, Yvonne shrugged at the wolves. “The slamming of doors isn’t an uncommon occurrence here.”
Bracken took a key and said with a smile, “So we should expect ghostly activity.”