Wolf Moon Rising (Beaux Rêve Coven 3)

“I can see that,” he said calm as could be. “Need a lift?”

“I need a tow. And probably repairs. The engine took on water.”

“Get in. I’m heading into Bayou Noir. Henri’s gas station isn’t open this late, but you can get a room at the motel for the night and figure things out in the mornin’.”

She nodded, hesitated for a second, hoping he wasn’t a rapist posing as a cop, and then opened the door to slide onto the bench seat. When she closed the door, she turned to get a better look at her savior. Her mouth dried in an instant.

Even shadowed, she could tell he was handsome. Strong, rugged features, a blunt nose and square chin. A full head of dark hair, cut short and with a slight curl.

Probably married. Nothing that delicious wouldn’t have been wrestled to the altar long ago.

He studied her while she stared back, his dark gaze flicking over her hair, and she lifted her hand to comb through it, suddenly self-conscious. Then her mind began to click as she inventoried the person beside her, thinking she couldn’t have found a better hero for her next novel. “I’m DiDi Devereux,” she said, holding out her hand.

&n

bsp; “Sheriff Mason Breaux.” He gave her a quick, impersonal clasp. “Anything you need from your car?”

Her palm burned from the handshake. Not a flicker of recognition had glinted in his eyes at the mention of her name. Good. “Um…my suitcase. It’s in the trunk.”

He put the squad car in park. “Give me your keys, and I’ll get it for you.”

Handsome and a gentleman. Mmmm. “I left them in the ignition.”

He nodded, let himself out of the car.

Leaning into the window opening, she watched as he plunged down the bank. Things were indeed looking up. Already her fingers were itching to tap on keys and capture her first impressions of her backwoods cop. Her mind leapt back to the cause of her current dilemma—the large animal that had stood defiantly in the center of the road.

If she hadn’t known the situation was impossible, she would have sworn the animal was a panther. A black panther. But they didn’t exist in North America outside of folktales, and tawny Florida panthers no longer roamed this part of the south.

No, what she’d spied was far more likely a large dog. Her imagination had simply traded one prosaic image for the fantasy her artist’s soul craved. She angled her head on the padded rest. But what would be the harm in creating a story, wrapped around the tale of a stranded tourist who found a strange enchanted land deep in a Louisiana bayou where black panthers roamed?

Mason cursed as his boots sank into muck. Damn tourists. The sooner he dropped her at the motel, the better.

He hadn’t liked how his body had reacted to the stranger—pulled, his groin heavy and surging. Almost like the instant, inevitable attraction between two soul mates. Not that he believed that old wives’ tale.

Likely he’d just been drawn by all that gold hair, curling wildly around her head. By the wide blue eyes that had stared avidly at him. She didn’t act like most women who hid their curiosity beneath the coy sweep of lowered eyelashes. Her gaze had scoured him from his head to where his legs disappeared into the shadows.

He wondered if she’d be that curious, that meticulous, when studying a naked man’s body. A snort escaped. Not that he’d ever get the chance to know.

She was just passing through. And it was a good thing too. The full moon was only a couple of days away. Outsiders weren’t welcome in Bayou Noir during a full moon. Add a lunar eclipse, and he and his deputy would have their hands full keeping order in their sleepy little town.

He inserted the key into the trunk lock and twisted it. The latch popped. Inside, he found her suitcase and a smaller computer bag. He hoisted up both, slammed down the trunk, and scrambled up the bank.

He opened the passenger back door, slid the larger case across the seat, and then started to place the smaller one on the floor.

“Could I have that one please?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

That sexy, husky voice raked right down his spine like the claws of she-cat. “Sure,” he muttered, annoyed with his inappropriate attraction.

And he began to worry. Her car was indeed sunk deep in the mud. Henri might winch it up and tow it to his garage tomorrow, but Mason seriously doubted the mechanic could have it fixed before the full moon.

He’d suggest that Henri haul it to Destiny, just down the road a safe distance from the insanity that was poised to explode in his own little parish. Henri might bemoan the loss of revenue, but no one would want a single human female here. Not the way she smelled.

Ripe, musky, spicy.

He ground his teeth, handed her the bag and walked around the car, hoping like hell she hadn’t noticed the erection thickening alongside his thigh.

Once inside, he slammed the car into gear and pressed on the gas, taking it a little fast, but he knew the road. The cats knew the sound of his engine. No one would burst out to see who was coming.