Dangerous Games (Riley Jenson Guardian 4)

His scent also told me he was a wolf, though not a were. Every species had its own particular scent - a base, if you like, that personal odors were built upon. Male werewolves tended to have sharper basic aroma than males of other species. Or maybe it just seemed that way to us females because we were more attuned to them. Werewolves might spend a lot of time enjoying sex, but there was a serious purpose to all the fun - no matter what other races might think. The desire to find out soul mate was patterned into our DNA, and few wolves settled down until this aim was accomplished. And playing around with other species certainly wasn't going to accomplish anything - except, perhaps, fun. But no wolf could survive on fun forever.

No matter what my brother thought.

The shifter's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Dunleavy before coming to rest on mine. Surprise briefly overran the caution in his pale blue eyes. "Agent Jensen?"

I nodded. "Not what you expected, huh?"

His sudden grin crinkled the corners of his eyes, making his timeworn face a lot more attractive than I'd initially figured. "Not in the least. Never knew we'd gained a werewolf guardian."

Two other men crowded into the doorway behind him. One of them swore lightly as his gaze fell on Dunleavy. The other didn't react at all. Both of them, like Cole, were shifters. One had a cat scent, the other was a bird of some kind. Neither tickled my hormones in the least. Which was a good thing - there was nothing worse than a moon heat that lusted after everything with a dick. Especially when there was work to be done.

Cole motioned with his chin to the body. "What happened?"

"He was skinned."

Cole studied me for a moment, the brief spark of amusement gone. "By you?"

"Hell, yeah. And after that, we danced a tango down the hall."

He raised an eyebrow, like he wasn't entirely believing. But then, if he'd worked with guardians for any length of time, he'd know full well what they were capable of.

And given I'd identified myself as one of their number, I guess he had a right to be wary.

"Some guardians do like their torture."

"I'm a werewolf," I said dryly. "I think I could come up with a better means of getting information from a suspect than using torture."

He looked me up and down, but in a purely nonsexual way. Much to my hormones' disappointment. "I bet you could."

If four seemingly innocent words could state an opinion, then his certainly had. He might not have called me whore straight out, but his tone had certainly implied it. If I'd been in wolf form, the hackles around my neck would be bristling right about now.

I clamped down on the rising tide of my temper, and said, as mildly as I could, "You know, werewolves get enough attitude from humans. We certainly don't need it from our own kind as well."

He stepped forward to allow the two other men entry into the room, then said, "I am not your kind. I'm a shifter."

Thank God.

The unspoken words practically hung in the air and flashed like a neon sign. I flexed my fingers. "You're wolf, so therefore kin, whether you like it or not. And shifters of all kinds have a high sex drive, so don't try and get all high and mighty with me."

I glanced at the vid-phone, suddenly remembering it was on and recording. Great. A permanent record of unprofessional touchiness. Not that that would surprise anyone back at the Directorate. I blew out a breath and retrieved my phone. Cole's two assistants were setting up their own recording device, so I no longer had to bother. Of course, this brought me quite a few steps closer to Cole, and his scent spun around me, warm and tantalizing.

"If you're going to investigate the remainder of the house," he said, nostrils flaring - like he was catching a scent that both attracted and repelled - "I need to set up the mobile record units."

"Then do it quickly." I pushed past him and walked down the hall. If footsteps could sound angry, mine certainly did.

Dammit, I didn't need an attraction to a man who hated what I was. I had enough of that with Quinn. Of course, the moon heat didn't give a damn about those sort of things. It just saw a craggy-faced candy it wanted to taste.

Luckily for me, the moon fever had yet to fully begin.

I stopped when I reached the living room doorway and did a sweep of the room with my still-recording phone. There had definitely been a fight in this room - furniture was upturned, the TV and glass coffee table were smashed, and books and magazines scattered everywhere. So, if Dunleavy had fought for his life, why were there no marks on his body? Or could I simply not see them because he was lying on them?

Would I even see bruises on skin that had been stripped off?

The stench of shit was stronger here than anywhere else, but again, it was more human-based than the scent I associated with Gautier. Though that was here as well, just not as strong or as fresh. As I scanned the floor, looking for the source, I saw the feet.

Female feet, to be precise. Even from where I stood, I could see the pink nail polish on some of her toes. The rest of her body was covered by the upturned couch and several layers of book and magazine wreckage.

I glanced over my shoulder. Cole was kneeling beside an opened bag, setting up the mobile recording device. Though why they called it mobile when it didn't actually move anywhere, just hung from a ceiling and recorded a three-sixty view of the room, was anyone's guess.