Dependable and stalwart are attributes you look for in a dog, not a lover. And then things change, the world stops making sense, and suddenly dependable starts looking incredibly sexy.

Chapter 7

She’d had her hands on him . . . and she still couldn’t picture him naked.

At the moment, however, all thoughts of whatever wolf might be lying in wait beneath that double-breasted jacket of his—naked or otherwise—had vanished. Replaced by a few simple words.

You’re beautiful. And soon, very soon, you will be mine. All mine.

How could a handful of words strike such terror in a person’s heart? She forced a sip of champagne, determined not to give away how shaken she was. Where was he? Was he still in this room? She restrained the urge to wildly scan every face in the crowded ballroom. It was an impossible task anyway.

Leaving, however, was not.

She placed her long-stemmed glass overly carefully on the table, then folded her hands in her lap. On top of the folded note that had been waiting for her after her dance with Riley. Which she’d been deliciously anticipating analyzing even before the song had ended. Only now she couldn’t remember a second of it. All she could see were those scrawled words, a black slash of ink on white paper. So innocent, yet so menacing. Very soon. She shivered. What in the hell did that mean? Not the words of an obsessed fan willing to accept the limitations of easily deleted email. Instead they were words that put her stupid sheep/wolf theory, this dance, her fantasies about Riley, and even her column in relative perspective.

SoulM8 had just crossed the line from Extreme Fan . . . to stalker.

“Um,” she began, then wet her lips and pulled herself together. With a bright, hopefully not too bright, smile, she leaned over and said, “I’ve got an early call in the morning, radio show. I think we’ve done our official duty. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to say our good-byes and head home.”

Riley nodded, looking vastly relieved, and instantly stood and moved behind her chair to assist her. Any other time she’d have felt that twin reaction that was becoming all the more typical when she was around him. Intrigued, even flattered, by his constant gentlemanly manners. And frustrated that there didn’t seem to be any depth to his oh-so-still waters. One minute he appeared to be completely disinterested . . . and uninteresting. The next, she’d swear there was this spark arcing between them. Sexual spark. Any other time, she’d have been fighting the urge to reach up and tug those glasses off, look straight into his dark eyes, and see for herself, once and for all, what, if anything, lay beneath.

But at the moment, all she wanted to do was get the hell out of there with the least amount of notice.

She stood as Riley slid out her chair, and nodded to the guests who had filtered back to the table. She managed gracious good-byes to the organizer of the event and the few other board members she could easily locate, before mercifully heading to the nearest exit. She hoped Riley was keeping up with her, because nothing was going to stop her.

Then his hand came to the small of her back as they navigated the edges of the crowded dance floor. His chest, somehow broad and reassuring, was right at her back; his breath, warm and steady, fanned the curve of her neck. If she hadn’t been so intent on getting the hell out of there, she might have wasted a moment or two wondering why he made her feel safer. Wasn’t that an alpha trait? Of course, at the moment, any warm body at her back would probably make her feel somewhat safer.

Still, even knowing he was right there with her, her heart was pounding, and she wished desperately it were in anticipation of getting him inside the dark and intimate interior of their limo. Instead she was surreptitiously checking out every person they passed. Was that man smiling overly familiarly? Was there a psycho gleam in that waiter’s eyes? Did the doorman stare at her too intently? She searched for a friendly face. Where was Marty when she needed him anyway? Not that she’d confide in him even if he did magically appear in front of her. He was here to enjoy himself. Even if his wife was not. No point in ruining what was left of his evening.

Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the celebrity safety lecture. He was overprotective enough as it was, even more so lately with all the attention her new column’s tangent was getting. Another empty-nest kickback, most likely. But she could handle this herself. She just needed to get out of here and as far away from whoever put that note on her table as possible.

She all but gulped the night air as they finally pushed through the doors to the wide front steps. Limos lined the curb and Tanzy was tempted to leap into the first one.

The gentle but firm pressure of Riley’s hand on her back steered her down the line instead, until Millicent’s driver appeared like a savior.

“Wainwright, there you are.” Too breathless, calm down. “I hope you can get us out of here with minimal trouble.” She was still rushing her words, clenching her purse too tightly as he nodded and smoothly opened the door for her.

Finally they were both inside, with the door shutting them in . . . and shutting immediate danger out. She let out a long, unsteady breath.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” she said, knowing her skin was flushed and she likely looked anything but. Now that they were heading home, she was starting to feel a little silly for her headlong flight. Did she think she was starring in a James Bond movie? She’d had too much champagne and too little of the pasty chicken and rubber beans, was what it was. One little note, probably from some harmless sixteen-year-old or something, and she’d gone completely around the bend. “I’m not much for those kinds of functions.”

“You’d never suspect it.”

She looked at him now, surprised by the personal, non-Riley-like observation. But then, he’d been surprising her all night. She found him gazing out the window at the passing lights. Not looking at her. Again, the yin and yang of Riley. Attentive, yet aloof. It was maddening.

“Thank you,” she said, still studying him. “You looked pretty relieved to be getting out of there yourself.”

He glanced at her, a small smile hinting at his lips. “I’m not much for those functions, either.”

“You’d never suspect it,” she responded in kind, and just as sincerely. “I want to thank you again for doing this for me. I know it’s not in your job description.”

“I didn’t mind.” He shifted his gaze away again and she found herself wishing he hadn’t.

They rode in silence for another couple of minutes. Her fingers began a restless tapping on her handbag and her thoughts returned again to what lay inside. A joke, she told herself. Just a sick joke from someone with way too much time on his hands. Probably had a good laugh over her white-faced reaction and was even now typing some message to a fan bulletin board somewhere, crowing about it. She wished like hell she could believe that was all it was.

The events that had led to her finding the note played through her mind. She remembered Riley looking like he wanted to kiss her—again—leaning toward her. It had taken all her will to step away, ending her own little fantasy before he could dump cold water on it by whispering some other totally mood-killing thing in her ear. My feet are killing me. Jesus, had she really been so deep into her little obsession with him that she’d misread the signals that badly? Twice?

They’d left the dance floor then, Tanzy thinking Riley’s feet must really be killing him, as he all but dumped her into her chair. Then she’d looked over her shoulder, half tempted to make some pithy, smart-ass remark, only to see him disappear back into the throng, pumping the hand of some older, shorter man. Still trying to figure him out, she’d absently reached for her glass, and discovered the note propped against it, instantly forgetting all about Riley, their dance, and his newfound acquaintance.

Only now, on rethinking the sequence of events, she found herself wondering if the older man had purposely pulled Riley away. Did he have something to do with the prank? It had to be a prank. Sick, twisted, and totally unfunny, but people could be all those things and still not be dangerous.

Keeping that thought uppermost in her mind, she asked, “Did you run into someone you knew? At the dance?” At his blank look, she added, “I saw you talking to someone.”

“Oh. Yes, I did.”

“Who was he?”

“Just someone who recognized me from some previous work I’ve done.”

“Oh,” she said, relieved. It had nothing to do with her, then. Good.

“He said to tell you hello.”

She stiffened, her thoughts scattering, and was only vaguely aware of the way Riley’s attention sharpened. “That’s . . . nice. What was his name?”

“Sam Dupree. Said his daughters read your column.” His gaze grew more intent. “Do you know him?”

“No, no, I don’t.” Now she looked out the window. She finally had his focused attention, just when she wanted it the least. “Probably just another person who thinks they know me from reading my column.”

“Sort of like the person who left you that note?”

She hoped her flinch wasn’t too apparent. If it was a prank, it was a damn good one, as it had certainly done the job. Of course, the prankster couldn’t know about the emails, about SoulM8. He’d just gotten lucky. “It happens,” was all she said.

“Does it happen often?”

She shook her head. It was all she could manage without giving away her state of mind. Which was rapidly moving back to the James Bond scenario. Because things like this didn’t happen all the time. Or any of the time, really. Sure, people acted overly familiar with her on occasion, feeling that they knew her because of the intimate details of her life she shared with them on a biweekly basis. But those people, while occasionally obnoxious, were harmless. Or had been, anyway.

“What does your editor think about things like that? Do they ever provide security for you when you’re out and about?”

“Oh, believe me, if it were up to Martin, he’d be escorting me personally to every taping and radio show. Which is why I don’t go to him with things like this. It was just an innocent little note from a fan. No sense in letting him make a big deal over it.”

“Can I ask you what it said?”

She darted a look at him, suddenly suspicious. He was awfully interested in this, which was odd for a guy who, up till now, didn’t seem interested in anything having to do with her. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “No reason. I suppose I’m a bit starstruck. I don’t meet too many celebrities.”

Now she laughed. “Yeah, right. You? Starstruck?”

He looked offended. At least, she thought he did. Those damn glasses muted everything. And the dim glow of the tiny recessed running lights inside the limo did little to help.

“Is that so odd?” he asked, quietly sincere.

God, he was an enigma. Oh-so-formal-and-smooth, bordering on bland, and yet there would be these glimpses of . . . something else. “I guess not,” she answered, though she wasn’t really entirely sure. Of anything. “You just don’t strike me as a guy who cares about that sort of thing.”

“What makes you say that?”

Good question, she thought. She slid her purse to the seat beside her, thankful to put both literal and figurative distance between herself and the note. “You seem very . . . self-contained.”

He seemed to think about that, then nodded. “That’s a fair assessment. But that doesn’t make me immune to the out-of-the-ordinary.”

She grinned, on far more familiar ground now that he was responding to her, talking to her. Flirting she understood, even if she didn’t understand the man she was flirting with. Yet. “Are you saying I’m unusual? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not.”

That smile flirted with those lips again. Chiseled, she thought, so unsheeplike. And that voice of his. Perfect for the intimate depths of a limo ride through the night. If she closed her eyes and just listened to him, she could imagine all sorts of carnal scenarios.

“You don’t strike me as a woman who worries overly much about flattery.”

Her eyes snapped open before the first wicked visual could take shape. Dammit. “What is that supposed to mean? Celebrity or not, I’m still human. I like flattery as much as the next person. As long as it’s sincere, anyway.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t. What I said was that you don’t strike me as a woman who places undue value or importance on it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you don’t define yourself by how others perceive you. Your columns make that clear enough.”

She grinned. “You read my columns?”

She wasn’t sure, due to the lighting, but she swore his cheeks flushed. “Surely I’m not the only one of my gender who finds what you have to say entertaining.”

“You do read them!” She crossed her legs, folded her arms, feeling somehow smug, as if she’d proven something by snagging his attention. Even if it was her words, not her personally, that had done the job. It was still part of her. Maybe the most important part. Certainly the most revealing. “So, tell me what you think. Honest assessment. I can take it.”

He didn’t respond immediately, didn’t look at her, either. She was thinking of something outrageous to say, to provoke him, when he shifted his gaze . . . and neatly pinned her to her seat with one thick-lensed glance.

“Honestly? I think you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish. Or both.”

Tanzy was momentarily taken aback. She’d been equally lauded and panned in her brief career, so that wasn’t it. It was that he’d summed up both sides of the argument so neatly. “I imagine you’re right,” she said, baldly honest. “I’m probably both.” She laughed. “A brave fool.”

That surprised a smile out of him. Or as much of one as he’d ever graced her with.

His lower lip in particular snagged her wayward attention. Sharply defined, yet not at all lean or thin. What would he do if she leaned forward and just pulled that lip between her teeth and tugged a little? If she slid her lips over his. Slid her tongue into his mouth and—

“We’re here,” he announced somewhat abruptly.

Ending her little fantasy. And just before the juicy parts, dammit.

He slid out first, not waiting for Wainwright, then leaned down and extended a hand.

She paused for a moment before taking it. Just a few hours ago, she’d hoped for just this opportunity. Since then, they’d danced together, talked, laughed. Well, she’d laughed anyway. He still needed a little work in that department. Her purse and the note forgotten, she took what he offered. And while he didn’t drag her from the car, then press her up against it, his grip was anything but limp.

She slid from the car, keeping his hand in hers as she stepped out and straightened. It was as close to him as she’d been, other than on the dance floor. Only they weren’t dancing now.

His gaze was steady, but completely nonthreatening, noninvasive. So why did she feel her stomach muscles flutter, why did she want to press her thighs together against the little twinge of need that sprung to life between them? It made absolutely no sense. There was no wolf beneath the kind manners and polite attentiveness.

And she found she didn’t care. Her world, once so orderly and amusing, was no longer so clearly defined. Her circle of friends, though she loved them dearly and knew the feeling was reciprocated, had now formed a club to which she had no membership card and wasn’t prepared to sign a lifetime contract to obtain one. Her great-aunt and the work she did suddenly called to something inside her, something she needed to explore, decide if she wanted to delve into . . . along with all the attendant family issues that would arise if she did. And now her work as a columnist, her one safe place, the thing she controlled above all else, her conduit to helping make sense of the things life threw at her, had thrown her way an obsessive person who might or might not mean her harm.

And then there was Riley. An amusing sidebar, column fodder, an intriguing diversion. She’d thought of him as a specimen to be analyzed. Only now she realized he’d come to represent the calm at the center of a storm. Dependable. Unflappable. Riley.

“Miss?”

Wainwright’s understated voice penetrated her thoughts. He was holding her purse, but her gaze was quickly drawn back to Riley and her revelation.

Riley took it from him when Tanzy continued to stand there, staring at him.

“Thank you, Wainwright. I’ll see her inside.”

“Have a good evening, then.” He tipped his head.

Tanzy nodded absently, might have lifted a hand, but her gaze was still rooted on Riley. Dependable, intriguing, mysterious Riley.

“Is something the matter?”

She shook her head. Nothing was the matter. In fact, staring at those murky dark eyes behind those lenses, everything finally started to make sense. “Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Sheep Attraction Factor.”

His lips twitched, just a little. And she determined right then and there that she’d get a laugh out of him if it killed her.

“Sheep Attraction Factor?”

She nodded. “You’re more than a mortgage and Special Sex Sundays. You’re the guys who help make sense out of everything when everything stops making sense.”

And then it happened. He smiled. Full-fledged, white teeth gleaming and everything. Her stomach went from fluttering to a full-scale flip and dip. Without thinking, she reached up and slid the glasses from his face.

His smile faded, but she didn’t regret it. He stilled, and for a moment she thought he was going to take them back, or turn away. But he didn’t.

“You have beautiful eyes.” And he did, but it was more than that. It was what she saw in them that pulled at her. Wariness, desire, frustration. A lot of emotions roiling around in there for a guy who rarely showed any.

She lifted a hand, wanting to touch him, just stroke his cheek, anything. But he stepped back then, and he might as well have put his glasses on, as his expression grew completely shuttered.

She sighed, unable to stem the disappointment. He surprised her by catching her hand and lifting it back up. Again she was taken by the gentleness of his touch. Not limp. Gentle. She understood the difference now. And with his eyes on hers, he bent over her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. His lips were warm, soft. How could something so reassuring, so courtly even, be so inherently sexual? But her heart raced . . . and her thighs clenched hard against the insistent ache between them.

“Thank you for the evening out,” he said quietly. Then he let her hand go, slipped his glasses back on, and motioned for her to lead the way to the front door.

She paused beside him, wishing she knew what to say, but for the first time in her life, words failed her.

She made her way to the door, her thoughts and emotions in a jumble. “Night,” she murmured as she passed by him into the house, then made her way up the stairs to her room. She was so lost in trying to figure out what exactly had happened outside that she didn’t feel his gaze at her back. Didn’t know he slid his glasses off and watched her every curve and sway as she negotiated the stairs in her spiky heels and formfitting gown.

Didn’t watch him finally turn away . . . and pull the note out of her purse and unfold it.