A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing (Heart of the Wolf #9)

A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing (Heart of the Wolf #9) Page 8

Rourke had been glad when Chris left to take care of business for a couple of days. He was hoping that the sub-leader would be gone a lot longer, leaving someone else to watch over Rourke, but fat chance of that. Late last night, Chris had come back again.

Chris’s phone rang, startling him out of his reading. He set the paper aside, then answered his phone. “Meara,” he said, sounding more than surprised. “Hell, no.”

Rourke was dying to know what was being said between the two. Even though Hunter had long ago set Chris and Dave up as sub-leaders to watch the pack while he was away on missions, Meara, being his sister and an alpha, was always asked for input on anything that would have warranted Hunter’s attention, had he been available.

But as far as Rourke knew, neither of the sub-leaders could tell her what to do and expect her to do it. Unless she was in agreement.

What was going on? Trying not to attract Chris’s attention, because Rourke was afraid Chris would leave the office if he did, Rourke strained to hear Meara’s voice over the phone. At times, she spoke so loudly that he heard bits and pieces. But nothing much that he could make sense of.

As controlled as his emotions were normally, Chris was livid, his face red and his breathing hard. He was incensed, which made Rourke even more curious about what was happening.

Rourke suspected that Chris had more than casual feelings for Meara. But Meara didn’t seem to notice, and Chris was afraid to pursue it. Or maybe he thought Hunter wouldn’t approve. Rourke liked Meara, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance with her. Not when he was newly turned and she was a royal, having few human roots in her bloodline. She had only tolerated him in the pack, not disliking him but not really accepting him. For whatever reason, Rourke wanted her acceptance and respect. So he was glad Chris didn’t seem to have what it took to get on her good side, either.

“Have you okayed this with Hunter first?” A hint of threat was in Chris’s tone of voice. If she did whatever she planned to do—and Chris was sorely angered about it—Hunter would be furious if she hadn’t discussed it with him first.

That worried Rourke. He hoped Chris was making a big deal out of nothing, but Rourke had never seen him so riled up with Meara before, and that concerned him.

Chris ground his teeth while he waited as she said something further, and then he said, “Damn it, Meara, you can’t leave with him until Hunter okays it.”

A potential mate? She was always looking for one, and now Rourke suspected Chris was so riled because he was still interested in her. As for himself, Rourke wanted a much more subdued woman than Meara. The woman needed someone who could match her fiery personality.

“Damn it to hell,” Chris said, staring at his phone.

Meara had hung up on him.

Chris quickly punched buttons to make a call, and for a moment, Rourke thought he was calling Meara back to try and talk some sense into her, but instead he said, “I need you to run over to Meara’s place and rent the rental units.” He scowled. “Hell, I know that! Don’t you think I would know that? Meara’s going to be gone for a little while. So you have the task of running the resort. Just get out there.” He hung up.

Now that was odd that Meara would give up managing the units, since everyone in the pack knew how much she was looking forward to running them while Hunter was gone. Rumor had it that all the guests for the next two weeks were alpha male bachelors, and she intended to find herself a mate.

After Chris finished his call, he stuck the phone in the pouch at his belt. He cleared his throat, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the floor for a moment as if deep in thought. He must have realized Rourke was watching him because he looked up with an annoyed expression. “You should be glad things are quiet around here for a change.”

It didn’t seem so quiet any longer—at least where Meara was concerned. Rourke sure would like to learn what that was all about. “Quiet doesn’t sell newspapers.”

Chris shrugged. “Make something up.”

Rourke stared at him blankly. “Reporting the news means reporting the truth.”

“Ah hell, that’s a crock of…”

Chris’s cell phone rang, and Rourke wondered, What now?

Chris slipped the phone off his belt. “Yeah?” His eyes narrowed as he shifted his gaze from the floor to Rourke.

What had Rourke done wrong this time? He’d really thought he had this werewolf business down fairly well, but he felt like he was living undercover and he was always afraid he’d blow his cover.

“Yeah.” Chris looked at the floor again. “All right. I’ll ask him. Thanks.” He pocketed the phone and looked grimmer than Rourke had ever seen him.

“What’s wrong?” Rourke asked.

“Nothing to write home about. In other words, nothing to report in your newspaper. But we’ve got a problem.”

More than the one he’d just had with Meara? “What?”

“A man just washed up on one of the more isolated beaches, dead. He’s one of us.”

Rourke closed his gaping mouth. “But I can’t report it.”

“He’s one of us… our kind,” Chris said in a tone that sounded as if he was relaying the information to a two-year-old. But Chris was angry, too, his face red, his fingers curled into fists, his jaw clenched.

“I understand that. But no one can verify he’s one of us, so what difference would it make if I reported it?” But Rourke could see from the hostile expression on Chris’s face that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Who found him?”

“One of our teens was searching for sea life on the rocks. She realized he was one of our kind right away and reported it to Dave. He wanted to know if you might recognize the man.”

“How would I know—”

Chris raised his hand to stop Rourke from asking anything further. “He had newspaper credentials. His name was Joe Matheson.”

“Joe…” Rourke shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

Chris frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Well, sure I’m sure. If he’s from a community around here, I’d probably know him unless he was brand new on the job. If he’s from somewhere else, that’s another story. How did he die?”

“Fell from the cliffs. Even though we have pretty good healing abilities, a fall on the rocks at low tide could kill anyone.”

“Was he pushed, did he commit suicide, or did he just accidentally fall?”

“Our police officer is looking into it. But he wants you to look at the man, just in case you might have known him, being that he’s supposed to be in your line of work.”

Rourke would have jumped at the chance if it meant a news story. But now it was just a viewing to ID the poor slob when he was sure he wouldn’t recognize him and wouldn’t be able to help the pack. Then his instincts for investigative reporting gave him pause. “The isolated beach where he was found wouldn’t be near Meara’s cabin, would it?”

Watching the fowl bake was like the old adage about observing a teakettle boil, Finn thought as he waited while Meara packed her bags. He was dishing out the finally cooked chicken when he heard Meara’s phone ring.

A significant pause followed, and then she said, “Joe Matheson?” Her voice shook with unease.

Wondering what the hell had happened now, Finn turned off the oven, deposited the empty baking dish on the stove top, and then hurried to join her in the master bedroom.

Her face was pale and her knuckles white as she gripped the phone. He took the phone from her, and her mouth gaped as she stared at him in surprise. Then her surprise turned to a scowl, and she grabbed for the phone.

Finn deflected her grasping hand, determined to hear firsthand what the trouble was. “What’s wrong?” he asked the caller.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Finn Emerson. Is this Dave? I talked to you earlier about sending a man after Hunter. What the hell’s going on now?”

“I was just on my way to Meara’s place. A Joe Matheson was found dead at the bottom of some cliffs north of Meara’s cabin. He was carrying a card with her phone number on it, so I figured he was renting one of the cabins. He had a return plane ticket for Asheville, North Carolina, scheduled for a week from today.”

Hell. “Have you retrieved the body?”

“Yeah. He’s at the morgue. Can Meara ID him?”

If it was the assassin’s work, why had the man killed Joe, not Finn, and not taken Meara hostage?

“We both can ID him. We’ll be right there to check it out.” Finn handed the phone to Meara, not liking where this was headed. “Where’s the morgue? We have a body to ID.”

Meara still couldn’t believe the news about Joe Matheson. He’d been her first alpha-mate prospect and cabin renter. And now he was dead. She felt sick knowing that and now was certain all he’d said was true. He’d been Hunter’s friend several years back, and she hadn’t trusted him.

Her stomach roiling, she and Finn entered the morgue.

The mingling smells assaulted her—the strong odors of blood and decay and bleach. Even humans would have noticed the odors, but her finely tuned wolf’s sense of smell made them worse. It didn’t matter that she had hardly known Joe; she felt horrible that she’d thought ill of him and now he was dead.

She balked at going further into the room. Finn’s steadying hand remained at her elbow, and she appreciated his strength. She would never have thought she’d need someone to help her confront something like this.

“You don’t have to see him, Meara,” Finn said. “I can ID him.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” Although she felt anything but. She’d had to kill to save others before, so she’d seen dead bodies, but this was different. She had liked the guy and felt it was her fault that she’d encouraged him to come to her resort—for what? Relaxation, maybe a wolf mate? Not to be murdered.