Lauren peeked through the torn curtains of the cruddy motel room. The asphalt pavement glistened haphazardly between the mist and the patchwork of security lights circling the parking lot like a committee of vultures. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that her throat had not been cut—at least not yet—and therefore food should be moving from her mouth to her innards ASAP. A roadhouse shared the block with the motel and she heard the clink of beer bottles above the tinny sound of the jukebox through the thin walls of her room. She did not want to walk into that place.

Did she have a choice? Not really. Oh, she could curl up on the bed—because there wasn’t an icicle’s chance in Hades that she’d touch those sheets—and pretend she wasn’t hungry. The ice machine didn’t work, and the vending machine next to it had a pack of brownies that looked to be at least as old as she was, a bag of chips with an expiration date of 1-1-2007, and a couple of candy bars that she’d never heard of before. The drink machine on the other side ate a five dollar bill and gave her nothing in return.

Despite all her “book learning,” Lauren was a lamb in the middle of a pack of wolves. She didn’t know how to run away. She’d never been the kid who wanted to join the circus. She got lost in books, not life. It hadn’t occurred to her that her car, phone, and debit card could be traced. She’d sure learned that in a hurry when some black hat shot out her car window. Thank God she was clumsy and bent over just as he fired.

Since that terrifying night, she’d learned. The hard way. Still, she’d managed to empty her bank account, charge her credit cards to the limit, dump her car, and stay one step ahead of whoever was chasing her. She suspected the men were from the corporation whose name she’d discovered in the same file with Hannah Jackson McIntire’s. Somebody didn’t want that info to see the light of day, and she was fairly certain their goal was to make sure she didn’t either.

Her stomach growled again. She was stuck in this crossroads until late tomorrow morning when the bus came. She had no choice. She packed everything in her backpack, having learned from experience not to leave anything behind. She carried several of fake IDs—and they weren’t too bad even if she said so herself. She’d managed them with a library computer and printer and a sheet of plastic business cards from a business supply store. Lauren picked one and looked it over. It looked a little worn but was still clear enough to be read. It would do. Lily Day. She could remember that. Which was why she’d picked that name in the first place. She shoved the other IDs into her pack.

Grabbing the key, she looked around one last time, just in case. Nope. Nothing there to betray her. She pulled down the sleeve of her sweatshirt so it covered her hand and touched the door knob. Absolutely nothing left behind—not even fingerprints. Sticking to the shadows, she flitted around the perimeter of the parking lot and sidled along the front wall of the roadhouse. The door opened, and two men stumbled out. She flattened against the rough wood at her back. They ignored her, arguing about sports.

Her nose twitched. Food. Lauren worked up a mouthful of saliva and swallowed, hoping to preclude the next complaint her stomach made. It didn’t matter. The door slammed open again, this time spitting out a giggling woman and a drunk biker. No one would have heard her grumbles over the brittle laughter. Using the couple as cover, she slipped past them and stepped to the side. She peered around the room, getting her bearings. There was a shadowed booth in the back corner that looked unoccupied. Good. She could sit there. Eat. Drink a soda. Or two. And eat bar food. Out of sight, out of mind. And it was close to a dark hallway that, with luck, would lead to the bathrooms and a rear exit if she needed to escape. She had a plan. All was well.

****

Tait sat in the far corner of the last booth watching the room. The place was the only thing open in town. Even the lights in the motel office across the way were turned off, despite the flickering neon sign that read “VAC N Y.” In addition to being unobtrusive, the booth also had a view, albeit through a grime-encrusted window, of the motel. A stir in the shadows across the parking lot caught his attention, and he’d watched the obviously feminine figure scurry toward the roadhouse. He couldn’t be positive, but he’d lay even odds that his prey was about to walk into range. About damn time. He’d been on her tail for two weeks now.

All the patrons but him ignored the activity at the door. When the woman slipped inside and plastered her very fine ass against the wall, Tait felt things stirring inside him—things best left dead. His wolf crouched, watching and waiting, curious as to what their quarry would do next.

The last thing either he or the wolf expected was for the woman to walk straight toward them. What the hell? He glanced around. The bathrooms were located in the hallway several tables to his right. She was probably headed there.

The woman cleared the dance floor, though not without some trouble. Maan and wolf both were gritting their teeth by the time she extricated herself from the drunken guy wearing a Mack Truck ball cap. The front doors banged open and four men stood silhouetted by high-beam lights coming from some big-ass SUV in the parking lot. The woman ducked behind the much larger drunk, dropped to the floor, and scuttled under the nearest table.

Tait’s attention returned to the four men. Hired muscle, if he had to guess. Mercenaries. They wore black combat pants and boots, long-sleeved T-shirts with a logo on the chest, and they were stupid enough to flaunt open-carry laws with the semi-automatic pistols holstered on their belts. These were hard men, from the looks of them, but he wasn’t impressed.

Shaking so hard she could barely breathe, Lauren watched the men’s feet through the tangle of legs between her and the door. If she could stay on the floor, she might be able to make it to the hallway and escape. But where would she go then? She had no transportation. The bus wasn’t due until noon. Was it hard to hot-wire a car? She had no idea. She was a historian—an archivist for goodness sake. She wasn’t trained for escape and evasion. What did the military call it? She tried to focus her brain to keep from totally freaking out. SERE. That was it. Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape. She’d managed to survive but she was doing a darn poor job of evading. She chanced another quick glance, realized the men hadn’t moved, so she darted to the next table and then another one, putting her that much closer to the hallway.

Was Tait a real SOB for enjoying the view? Probably. Did he care? Not even a little bit. Watching her scramble across the floor on all fours put some very interesting ideas into his head—ideas that didn’t necessarily require a bed or breakfast. He could picture doing very wicked things to her in that position. Too bad he wasn’t the only one hunting her. He’d have to deal with the four mercs before he could scoop up his prize.

Tait’s mouse scurried into the hallway and was swallowed by the shadows lurking there. He hoped she had enough sense to stay inside the building. These four weren’t quite to the level of Darwin award candidates, so they likely had the back door covered. Then the lead merc snapped his fingers, and the guy on his left marched to the jukebox and kicked it into silence. Tait reassessed his appraisal of the competition. They might look big and bad and have holstered weapons, but this was a roadhouse sitting on a rural crossroads. The merc’s action was met by stone-cold silence—followed a heartbeat later by the racking of a Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun and about 30 pistols being drawn, aimed, and cocked. God, but he loved the locals in places like this.

That was his cue to exit stage right, grab the girl, and get the hell gone. Sticking to his own set of shadows, Tait slipped out of the booth—he’d already paid and tipped his waitress, who, he noticed, held a fucking Colt .45 revolver with a barrel that looked as long as her arm—and ducked into the hall. He let the wolf out just enough to hunt. He tested the air, separating out burned grease, stale beer, old piss and other bar-centric odors. He stopped dead. What the hell? Blueberry muffins? His stomach rumbled. His little mouse smelled like blueberry muffins. He bit back a laugh and tracked the elusive scent to the back door. He listened. Yeah, two mercs waiting outside for anyone who made a break.

He backed up. Not the bathrooms. Not the office. Not the kitchen. Time was running out. He ducked into the office. There. Yeah…blueberries. He padded to a door partially hidden by an overflowing file cabinet. Tait grinned as his wolf gloated. In one smooth motion, he opened the closet door, snagged the startled woman, and dragged her out. She flailed at him, mostly ineffectually. Memo to self, teach her some self-defense. She also hissed at him, demanding he put her down. Without breaking stride, he hitched her up under one arm and headed for the door to the hallway. His ears picked up boots clomping toward the exit.

Pressing the woman up against the wall behind the door, he shut her up in a way his wolf totally agreed with. He kissed her. The door creaked, and Tait’s Beretta was in his hand. He kept his mouth on the woman’s and waited.

Lauren stiffened. And stopped struggling, her instincts screaming at her to hide. Breathing wasn’t an option, though just a moment before she’d been fighting for air as the big man’s mouth covered hers. Breathing was loud and noisy and would give her away. Right? Of course, not breathing did not explain her insane desire to wrap around this stranger. She would not contemplate her physical reaction to the man, or the kiss. Currently, she was too focused on survival.

“Empty,” a voice snapped.

“Keep looking. Karl’ll be pissed if she gives us the slip again.”

She dragged a shallow breath in through her nose. Those scary men in black gear had been looking for her. But who was the guy who currently held her against the wall, her feet dangling a long way from the floor?

Tilting his head, Tait listened. Two sets of footsteps faded. The two who’d been covering the rear must have come inside to search while the rest of their hunting party was stalled out in the bar. “Stay still,” Tait whispered against her lips.

“Let me go,” she whispered back.

“In a minute.” Or an hour. He’d backed her into a virtual corner but didn’t feel guilty. For reasons he couldn’t decipher, this woman drove his wolf to distraction and the damn thing might as well be chasing his tail in dizzying circles. Focus. He desperately needed some. Despite the delicious fragrance of blueberry muffins and the sweet taste of her mouth.

“Put me down,” she spat.

He eased the door closed with the toe of his boot before complying. He stepped back to get a better look at her, ignoring her ineffectual shove against his chest.

“Stay away from me.”

Bravado. She had it, despite the terror quaking her insides. He liked that. He didn’t like the stink of ammonia hovering just beneath her natural fragrance. That’s how he knew she was scared. He also picked up a whiff of cinnamon that made him want to grin. She wanted him. Always a good thing since his dick was so hard it wanted to pop the buttons off his fly. Focus. They weren’t out of the fire yet. Once he got her away and undercover, he fully planned to explore the desire flaring between them.

“You are Lauren Reilly, yeah?” He watched her eyes dilate even as she shook her head in the negative. “I’m not going to hurt you. People call me Shooter.” He wasn’t ready to reveal his real identity. Not yet.

Lauren stared, almost afraid to blink. His nickname was Shooter. And that was supposed to make her feel better? He was just as scary as those other men, but he hadn’t hurt her. Yet. “Why are you hunting me?”

“Someone is worried about your safety. Someone I owe a favor.” Hell, he owed Mac McIntire his life. “You need a place to hide and someone to look after you until the people chasing you are dealt with.”

She locked her knees to remain standing. He knew? How could he? She needed to get away. “You can’t. You don’t understand who’s—” She swallowed hard. “If you did, you wouldn’t keep me safe.”

“I will if you give me a chance.” He was well aware of who was on her tail and why. This whole deal would be so much simpler if his damn wolf relaxed and let the man work his magic. “Black Root.”

His words fell like a boulder in a quiet pool, the resulting ripples of fear washing all the starch out of her backbone. She slid down, huddling in the corner. He crouched in front of her. Touched her cheek with his warm palm.

“See? I do know. I will keep you safe.” And he would. He’d also keep her close, like in-his-bed close because that kiss? It went straight to his dick and no one was going to be happy until he was buried deep inside her. The wolf brushed against his insides, wanting to come out and play, liking the idea of this woman in their bed. Tait liked women. A lot of women—lot being the operative word. At the moment, though, his other half was adamant. It was this woman or none. Damn wolf. This was all his fault.