The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf (Naked Werewolf 2)

“We’re in a bar,” I pointed out again.

“She’s a smart kid. She’s going to start repeating everything she hears any day now,” Cooper said. “If her first word is ‘goddamn,’ her mom will blame one of us. And I’m not above letting you take the fall.”

“You are so whipped.”

>I pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, wondering how long I would be apologizing for this latest misstep.

“Cooper wanted to know if you could drop by the Glacier in the morning.”

“Why not the house?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

“Well, there’s someone he wants you to meet, or at least see.”

I groaned at Mo. “Mo, please tell me he isn’t going to try to set me up on some lame blind date.”

“Not quite. There’s a guy who’s been coming around the saloon asking questions about the attacks last year. Cooper thinks he’s some sort of investigator. Nicholas Thatcher, PhDs. As in, he has more than one. He’s not your typical Paranormal State wacko. There’s not a dowsing crystal in sight. He seems to be doing actual scientific research. Since you’re alpha, Cooper wants you to come by and get a look at him, see what you think.”

I quirked my lips at her. “That was low.”

She grinned at me. I was the youngest leader in our pack’s history and eager to prove my mettle. I’d inherited the job under less than ideal circumstances from our previous alpha, creepy-ass—and by no coincidence thoroughly dead—Eli, who took over the job for my self-exiled brother.

It’s a long story.

I took my job as pack leader seriously, and Mo knew the best way to get to me was to appeal to my position. She could be a conniving, sneaky wench, our Mo . . . hence my being the tiniest bit fond of her.

“Why the big discussion? Let’s just get rid of him. Run him back to the lower forty-eight. Or we could go with a slightly less pleasant, but bloody and satisfying, second option.”

“Cooper and I think you should meet him before you jump to any conclusions.”

“Fine, I’ll meet him, and then maybe his tires develop problems while he’s in the saloon, and he ends up careening into a ditch, never to be heard from again.”

“You’re a werewolf, not a hit man.”

“It’ll look like an accident.”

My mother shot me a sharp look, snatching the kettle from the stove with a clatter. “How many family conversations are going to be interrupted by me telling you, no, you can’t kill someone and make it look like an accident? Now, would you two please sit down and drink this tea before it gets cold?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we chorused sheepishly, taking seats at the table.

“Way to go, you got us into trouble,” I grumbled.

“I wasn’t the one planning the cold-blooded murder of a complete stranger,” Mo stage-whispered.

“No, you only plan cold-blooded murders when someone takes the last chocolate chess square without asking.”

“A girl’s got to have her priorities,” Mo insisted.

2

I’m a Loser, Baby . . .

BY THE TIME I arrived at the Glacier, I’d worked up a pretty good head of steam.

I’d done a little bit of research on Dr. Nicholas J. Thatcher, and my Google results were disturbing. Mo was right. Thatcher wasn’t your typical lonely tech geek who fancied himself a paranormal investigator. He was calling himself a “zoological anthropologist.” He’d already decided that werewolves existed; now he just wanted to know how we came to be, how we lived. This was just the type of guy who would blindly stumble into proof of our existence, sell it to National Geographic, and send my whole family running away from scientists bearing tranq guns and skull saws.

Here’s the thing. I loved being a werewolf. I couldn’t imagine living in just one skin. And I was lucky to be able to turn into such a cool animal. I could have been stuck as a were-skunk or something equally lame. (They do exist. Poor bastards.) Werewolves changed day or night and had the most complete, dependable changes. And we had the stable pack structure, led by an alpha male mated to the female of his choice, who becomes the alpha female. Unless the alpha male handed his office over to, say, his much cooler and wiser younger sister.

And don’t believe all that crap Hollywood tries to peddle about being bitten and cursed by the full moon. You had to be born into our little club. No matter how many times we bit someone, that person would not go furry. They’d probably bleed a lot, though, and maybe get an infection.