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

too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He‘d heard the more-than-a-mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.

Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.

He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes—for the report and all.

'My jail is empty today,' he remarked sociably. 'In case you wondered.'

She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he‘d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.

The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she‘d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop—

I"m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed...and wasn‘t that a damned shame?

'Oh, hell,' the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn‘t right. 'Listen, I‘m really just—'

He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. 'It‘s called breaking and entering,' he offered helpfully.

Her mouth dropped open. 'No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and—.'

'Um-hmm. It‘s good you‘ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.'

The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. 'I am not a burglar, dammit. I‘m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.'

He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor‘s name right—‘course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.

A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. 'You‘re bleeding.'

She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.

'I‘m bleeding?'

Herne help him, but she really was lovely—and he shouldn‘t let that pretty face suck him in.

She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.

Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he‘d never understood the attraction.

He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. 'Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season‘s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.'

Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles—the female must work out regularly—and he lifted her up.

She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders—just like that—as he slid inside her, filled her.

He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?

Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.

'Um. Thank you.' Her voice was husky.

'My pleasure.' After all, honesty was the best policy, and he‘d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but...she was scared of him?

On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. 'Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I‘m sorry I‘m late. I got hung up at the title company.'

'That‘s all right. I‘ve been kept entertained,' his ex-burglar said dryly.

'Well, damn, guess I have to let you go.' And she would have decorated his jail cell so nicely too.

She shot him a nasty look, her appealingly full lips tightly compressed.

When she started to move, Alec tucked a finger under her belt to halt her. 'Let‘s make sure you aren‘t hurt too bad,' he said. 'Nails can be nasty.'

As he leaned forward, he realized the faint scent of blood wasn‘t just from the nail; it came from multiple places. She had dark red-brown spots on the back of her T-shirt. The gasp when he‘d lifted her from the windowsill—had that been from surprise or pain?

He studied her closer. Meticulously applied makeup covered a bruise on the side of her face.

There was maybe a lumpy dressing on her shoulder under the T-shirt, and something more than a bra wrapped around her sides.

Now, all that damage might be from a car accident. But that wouldn‘t explain why she was scared of him, the most likable fellow on this planet. So. He could be wrong—frequently was—

but he picked the most logical explanation.

Someone had beaten the hell out of her.

'Where else are you hurt?'

Why would the big sheriff ask that? Vic wondered, feeling a chill. She‘d covered the blood and bruises adequately. Had her description and injuries been on an APB?

Dammit, he‘d already given her one scare. For a nasty moment, she‘d thought Swane had hired him until it became obvious he was just a small-town cop having himself a good time.

'Don‘t be silly,' she said, deliberately misunderstanding. 'A little nail scrape doesn‘t warrant all this concern.'

Nudging his arm away, she shook hands with the realtor. 'Ms. Golden, nice to meet you.'

'Just call me Amanda.' Tall, blonde, wearing silky black pants with matching jacket, she was the epitome of a refined style that Vic had never mastered. After giving Vic‘s hand a firm shake, the realtor frowned at the cop. 'Is there a problem?'

'You got here just in time,' Vic said. 'Your policeman was about to