It was long dark when they got home. West took her coat and had her sit in the receiving room while he went to fix them some drinks. It was too late for any of the help to be there.

He could hear her playing the piano. When he came back out with two Boulevardiers, she was well into Mozart’s Turkish March.

“Lovely,” he said, leaving the drinks on the coffee table and sitting next to her on the bench. “You’re not as out of practice as you said.”

“Well, I think it’s mostly muscle memory,” she said modestly. “I had to play it so many times as a kid that it’s stuck in my hands now. Afterschool music stuff.”

“Do you like Mozart, or was he forced on you?” West asked, enjoying sitting so close to her.

“I don’t know. I like some of his work. I like my music a bit more modern, I guess, like Glass or something, but some of his pieces are beautiful.” She turned to look at him, and the blue of her eyes was all he could see. “You play, don’t you? Will you play something for me?”

“You want me to?”

“Yes!” She smiled at him. “Something classical. Show off.”

“I’m out of practice, too,” he warned, but he thought about it for a moment and then started Fantasia No. 3 in D Minor. It sounded better than he’d expected.

“That’s Mozart, too, isn’t it?” she asked, watching his hands.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where did you learn?”

“Weekend lessons. During college.”

“Really? Not as a child?”

“No, not as a child. No piano.” He was a third of the way through the piece now. “It was something I wanted to learn as an adult.”

She gazed at him. “You’re a very driven man, West.”

He glanced at her. “I am.”

She listened in silence, seemingly enjoying his playing. He liked having her so close to him, the heat of her warming his shoulder, the honeyed scent of her all he could smell. She was a beautiful girl, and intriguing.

“West, can I ask you something?” she asked when he’d finished the piece.

“Of course.”

“Why . . . why did you use a matchmaking service?” she asked slowly.

“Why did you?”

She laughed. “Well, I mean . . . there was no one interested in me back home.”

“Really?” He found that hard to believe. Human men could be stupid, though, valuing the wrong things in women. “Then the men back home are foolish.”

Her cheeks turned slightly pink. “You think so?” she asked, very quietly.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I do. I think you’re enchanting.”

“Enchanting,” she repeated with a little laugh. “Well . . . thank you.”

He shouldn’t have said that. He was just leading her on, saying things like that. They’d never be together. She was human. Only a shifter woman could pair with him. Only a shifter woman could fully understand him.

Under the skin, deep inside, he felt the bear stirring, proof of this truth. The girl’s soft, hot skin, her shining blonde hair, her smoked-honey smell all tempted him. The animal he really was wanted so very, very powerfully to throw reason to the wind and claim her. No one could take her if he would only . . . only take her himself, only . . . Damn!

Make her yours, the bear was urging. Mount her. Bite her. Mark her.

He cleared his throat. “It’s late. I must work tomorrow, just in the morning. Won’t you have a cocktail with me before bed?”

She unpinned her hair, and suddenly, there was a bright tumble of waves on her shoulders. The feminine scent of it almost made him slam on the keys in frustration.

“Yes, of course. Are those Boulevardiers?” she asked happily. “That’s so fancy!”

They drank the cocktails—he drank quickly—and then said goodnight. He tried not to rush into his room, but he had to get away from her. Resisting her, now that it was dark and late and they were alone, was almost impossible. He had to shut his door and will his animal away.