Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1)

“Hell,” he growled weakly, even as he shifted slightly to wrap his arms around one of Carly’s pillows and bury his nose in it. He inhaled deeply, his tired mind awash in images of a small blond pixie bearing sweets.

Moments later, his snore reverberating through the quiet house, Gideon was peacefully, thoroughly asleep.

t t t

“Tell me something, Carly. Does this look like the Sav-Mart to you?”

Carly barely paused to look at her friend before returning her attention to Regan’s enormous fridge, a good portion of the contents of which she was busy emptying into the biggest paper bag she’d been able to find. She knew from experience that Regan’s tone was more intrigued than disgruntled, so she felt no compunction about raiding her kitchen whatsoever.

And as for Regan’s intrigue … well, she was just going to have to stay that way for the time being, because as close as they were, there was no way she could spill all of the details about what was going on without sounding like she needed to be heavily medicated. And maybe she did, Carly thought as she dropped a package of bacon into the bag along with the rest of her ill-gotten goods. God knew even she hadn’t quite wrapped her brain around the situation yet, and the werewolf in question was currently holed up in her house.

Werewolf. At her house. Carly stopped for a moment, shook her head, then reached for one of Regan’s multiple cartons of eggs. If her house was empty when she got back, she decided, she was taking herself directly to the nearest psych ward. Even if she had to walk.

“You have enough food to feed a damn army, Regan,” Carly pointed out from the depths of the refrigerator. “And I’ll pay you back anyway, which you know.” Regan’s heavy sigh had her pulling her head out to look at her. “What?”

Regan—maddeningly put together even at this early hour in loose jeans, a tunic-length sweater in vibrant purple, and, Carly had already noted with little surprise, bare toenails painted exactly the same shade—frowned at her from where she relaxed against part of the vast expanse of granite countertop that encircled her kitchen. Some half-stirred concoction that would probably, at some point in the future, make Regan a pretty profit sat forgotten beside her, and Carly knew with certainty that she’d already been up for hours puttering around her kitchen. Regan was an excellent baker, and never had been able to sit very well. It seemed to work, as most things did, to her advantage.

“I’m not worried about the food,” she began, “although the word blizzard often sends people out to the store a couple of days prior for extra supplies. You do know the meaning of the word, right? Lots of snow, high winds, no unnecessary leaving your damn house. This system is stalled out over half the state, messing things up to one degree or another. No one knows what it’s going to do anymore.”

She hadn’t known that, actually, but Carly wasn’t about to admit it. “I had … a few things.”

Regan snorted. “Tell me you’ve at least gotten rid of that pathetic orange and given it a decent burial. Please.”

Carly pretended to be extremely interested in a container of yogurt. “Mmm.”

Regan sighed dramatically. “As I suspected. You’re still living off of takeout and air. And flat soda, probably, but I can’t handle thinking about that right now. Still,” she continued, sauntering over to peer with interest into the nearly full bag at Carly’s feet and plucking something from it with long, thin fingers painted the exact shade of her toes, “I have never known you to get so hungry that you suddenly decided you needed an economy-sized package of chicken breast.”

Carly straightened, huffed an errant strand of hair out of her face, and tried to project indignation. Of course, she decided with a sinking feeling, that might be easier if she didn’t always have to look up at Regan.

And if she hadn’t been one of the world’s worst liars

to begin with.

“What are you trying to insinuate here, huh?”

Regan was immediately triumphant. “Aha!” she crowed. “You are hiding something!”

Shit, thought Carly, she really should have known better. Somehow, on her face, righteous indignation always looked a lot more like guilt. Resigned now, she watched Regan close the refrigerator, nudge the bag aside with her foot, and waggle her index finger at the table and chairs tucked into the breakfast nook.

“I’m afraid it’ll be details for food this morning. Have a seat, Miss Silver.”

Carly made a face, but she did as instructed and took a seat. She’d been around long enough to know that where Regan O’Meara was concerned, resistance was futile. “I don’t have to wear a dunce cap, do I?”

“Oh,” Regan said as she slid gracefully into the seat opposite her, “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Once she was situated, her gaze sharpened. “Now come on, Carlotta. You’re never secretive about anything.”

“Watch it with the name-calling,” Carly returned with a warning look. “And I’m never secretive, due to a reason I like to call My Life Is Boring.”

Regan only waved the comment away with her hand. “More like you have an aversion to adventure. And we can argue about that later.”

“We usually do.”

Regan paused long enough to give Carly a pointed glare, then leaned forward intently. “Something is up. The question you get to answer is, what? And please don’t tell me it’s something boring, even if you have to make it up, because my life really is about as exciting as watching paint dry right now.”

Carly laughed reluctantly and shook her head. Regan was nothing if not predictable as the Queen of Drama. “If you’re going for vicarious thrills from me, you are desperate.” When Regan simply continued to stare at her, waiting, Carly groaned and thought quickly. Lying, she sucked at. Some doctoring, however … that she could probably do.

“Fine. I seem to have gotten myself an, um, unexpected houseguest.” She tossed the statement out there and watched, with more than a little apprehension, as Regan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully while she absorbed this.

“Unexpected.”

“Mmm.” Carly fought not to fidget. “Tourist. His car broke down last night as the storm was coming in. He came knocking on my door and, well, stayed.” She pursed her lips in frustration as she watched Regan’s eyebrows lift until they were just shy of her hairline. “Honestly, Regan! Remove brain from gutter, okay? He slept in the other bedroom. Alone.”

“Oh.” And leave it to Regan, Carly thought, completely exasperated, to look disappointed about that. “But he is male,” Regan finally said hopefully.

Carly sighed. “Unless I’m missing something.”

“Hot?”

“Regan.”

“Oh, come on!” cried Regan, tossing her hands up. “I’ll be so sad if you’re just putting up some big ugly fat guy!”

Carly gave her a long-suffering look, beginning to suspect that Regan’s membership in the Bodice Ripper Book Babes was not all due to loyalty to her. Somewhere in the romantic cynic, there appeared to lurk a lover’s heart. Or some reasonable facsimile, anyway, Carly amended. Something that could also encompass a great deal of soft porn.

“Gideon is … attractive,” she finally allowed. Regan’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Gideon? Ooh. Nice.”

You have no idea, Carly thought, but out loud she tried to be more pragmatic. “Yes, nice. And also on his way back to Scotland as soon as the weather breaks.”

“Hot and Scottish?”

Carly winced as Regan leaped from her seat. “Regan. Babe. You’re yelling now. I think my ear is bleeding.”

“I can’t believe this!” Regan howled, ignoring her. The internal switch had obviously flipped right to overdrive, Carly saw. Her friend was just about vibrating.

“You,” Regan continued, pointing an accusatory finger, “you came over to get food for some gorgeous, stranded, Scottish … and you weren’t even going to tell me?”

“Regan,” Carly said evenly, wanting to nip the hurt feelings she saw starting in the bud, “it really isn’t any big deal. And I would have told you at some point.”

“Only because you can’t lie for shit,” Regan sniffed.

“But I just didn’t want you to get all worked up about it. Which, I might point out, is exactly what you’re doing.”

“Maybe because the gods have finally seen fit to drop a big, handsome gift in your lap and you’re doing what you always do! Jesus, Carly.” Regan ran an agitated hand through her hair, making the short black crop stand up in spikes. “How can you always be so calm? This is not business as usual, for God’s sake! Live a little!”

Carly’s jaw tightened. “Your definition of ‘living a little’ always seems to involve me having sex with random men on my kitchen floor.”

Regan glared at her. “It probably wouldn’t hurt you to emerge from the fantasy once in a while, you know. It’s not like you haven’t done enough research, considering what you do for a living.”

“That’s not me, and you know it. I wish you would just accept it.” Carly stood, shoving her chair back a little more abruptly than she’d wanted to. She wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to get back out into the stupid snowstorm that had caused her all of these problems in the first place and cool off. She needed comfort, not criticism, and the last thing she needed at this point was a fight with her best friend. Before this became one, she needed to go. Because her nerves, Carly knew, were already shot. Futile though it was, Carly wished for a nice warm hole to crawl into and hide until she was fully functional again.

As she bent to pick up her bag, Carly felt Regan come up behind her. She kept moving, but more slowly. She didn’t want to leave angry unless she had to.

“You know I don’t really want you to have sex with strangers on your kitchen floor.”