Hour of the Lion by Cherise Sinclair (reading a book txt) 📕

'I‘d rather not say, sir. I don‘t want to betray a confidence.'

Silence. She knew what he was thinking. Duty to your country outweighed any other loyalty, including what you owed to your friends. But she‘d made a promise to Lachlan. Unless the shifters were dangerous, she wouldn‘t put them in Wells‘ sights.

'All right, Sergeant. I‘m not in-country, but I‘ll look into it when I return.'

In spite of the pain, she grinned. Getting Wells onboard was siccing a pit bull on a poodle.

'Thank you, sir. I‘ll be in touch. Good—'

The line clicked. Wells never said goodbye. He thought it sounded like a curse, so he saved his farewells for his enemies.

'Goodbye, Swane,' she said cheerfully. 'Bye-bye, Mr. Asshole-Suit. ‗Parting is such sweet sorrow‘.'

Yeah, if anyone could find these guys, Wells could. The first time she‘d seen him, she‘d been doing sit-ups to burn off her anger at being turned down for combat duty. She looked up at this man. Older than her father. Sharp nose, icy clear blue eyes, tailored clothing like some English aristocrat. He‘d watched her for a minute, before giving her a thin smile. 'I hear you want to join the fighting in Iraq.'

She‘d frozen halfway through a sit-up as he said, 'If you don‘t mind wearing civilian clothes, I can promise you all the danger you‘ll ever want, and that your work will make a difference.' He‘d won her over with his final words. 'I need you, Morgan.'

He‘d kept his promise then and always. She could safely leave the kidnappers to him.

Time to go shopping. But when she rose from the table, her headache went ballistic. Then dizziness hit, a riptide sucking at her consciousness. Dropping back on the chair, she shook her head. Oh, this wasn‘t good at all. Fucking-A, was she going to die like that old woman?

As she staggered into the living room, sweat broke out on her skin like she was in the fucking desert. But her legs crumbled under her, and she hit the floor hard. God! Everything hurt so bad she didn‘t know what to hold first. Just shoot me now.

'Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.

There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.

His bones are full of an old disease—his torments run and increase.

Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!'

After a minute of not moving, she groaned and tried to push to her feet. Her stomach turned over, bile flooding her mouth. Werecat bites—not for the faint of heart.

Chapter Three

Well, well, well, Alec thought as he strolled down Main Street. Here"s an unanticipated gift.

In front of the bookstore was the pretty woman he‘d almost managed to arrest last week. Not being in any particular hurry, Alec stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against a wrought-iron streetlight to enjoy the view. Seemed like that long, wavy brown hair was just begging for a man to bury his fingers in it. The silky strands rippled against her tightly rounded butt, something else that would fill his hands nicely.

The same breeze ruffling her hair brought him the scent of illness, a tad acrid, yet sweet. So she had been sick. He‘d wondered...

He‘d driven by her house now and then over the past few days. Leaves had built up on the hood of her car. If the lights inside hadn‘t moved from room to room, he‘d have worried she‘d died in there, so it was a relief to see her, not only alive, but out and about.

Yet, even as she innocently perused the bookstore display, she made his instincts twitch like a mouse scenting a wolf in the underbrush. He‘d even run her name last week, but no priors had popped up. Hell, nothing had come up. So if she‘d been beaten up by a husband or a mugging, she hadn‘t reported it.

Then, again, maybe she wasn‘t innocently perusing, maybe she was casing the joint, planning to break in. Make off with all of Thorson‘s cherished classics, or even the steamy romances favored by ninety-year-old Miss Evangeline.

Couldn‘t allow that kind of crime in his quiet town. As a dedicated officer of the law, I must take action immediately. Pushing off the pole, he wandered closer, still enjoying the sight of her backside, at least until he looked up.

She was studying his reflection in the bookstore window. Herne help him. How long had she watched him ogle her ass? Maybe she‘d just caught sight of him?

She turned and the decidedly unfriendly expression on her face killed that hope.

Brazen it out? Good afternoon and I couldn"t help admiring your ass? Unfortunately, she didn‘t seem to be a female who‘d appreciate that type of honesty. He held his hand out instead.

'We meet again, Ms. Waverly. How have you been?'

She didn‘t look any more thrilled this time than she had the last time they‘d met. This outright dislike could give a man a complex.

'Good afternoon, Sheriff.' She didn‘t answer his question, obviously hoping to stop the conversation dead. Now, that might work...if he was anyone but Alec McGregor, renowned for never being at a loss for words.

He tilted his head slightly. 'It‘s good you didn‘t say, ‗I‘ve been fine‘, since you don‘t seem like you‘ve been fine at all.' And that wasn‘t bullshit. She looked like hell. Her pallor had turned her dusky complexion almost yellow. She had dark circles under her eyes. Lost a few pounds too, leaving her high cheekbones standing out like boulders in a meadow. 'Have you been ill?'

Despite the annoyance in her eyes, she gave an inaudible sigh and answered, 'I apparently picked up some flu bug. This is my first day out of bed.'

'Now, that‘s a shame. New to the town and you probably didn‘t have anyone you could call to help you out.' He‘d seen no other cars in front of the rental house.

'I managed,' she said, briefly and added an insincere, 'Thank you.' She turned her gaze