Untitled Read online

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this

  book via the Internet or via any other means

  without the permission of the publisher is illegal,

  and punishable by law. Please purchase only

  authorized electronic editions, and do not

  participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of

  copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's

  rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Moon Illusion: The Moore Werewolves Copyright  2005 amy o'connor

  ISBN: 978-1-55410-998-2

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

  Look for us online at

  www.extasybooks.com

  Chapter One

  Gina took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

  The scene was the same. The deserted road, the fresh scent of pine needles, the brisk breeze of late fall. And the wrecked car leaning drunkenly against a tree; every panel dented, every window smashed.

  She shook her head, still hoping she'd somehow wake up to find she'd been dreaming.

  Didn't seem as if that was going to happen.

  Mesmerized by the sight of the car, she clutched her sweater closer. Within seconds of the front tire blowing she'd lost control, skidding across the rainslick bitumen. She'd wrapped herself around the steering wheel—her knuckles were still sore from the strength of her desperate clutch—and watched the world spin sluggishly as the car rolled down the embankment and landed up against the tree with a bone-jarring thunk.

  Then she was standing out here, cold and damp in the drizzling rain, with no memory of scrambling from the vehicle and scurrying to safety.

  She glanced around again, but still no one had come running. Okay, so it was the middle of the forest, she counseled herself, but that wasn't how it happened in the movies. Someone always came to the rescue. And there was no way the heroine would ever be left standing in the rain.

  Alone.

  Not a good thought, that one. Dusk had fallen early, and it was at least five miles back to town. If she was going to walk, she'd better get started.

  She flinched at a rustle deep within the trees. Her hair was plastered to her neck, and she yanked it off her skin. This was not the time to start thinking about all those half-remembered tales of werewolves in the forest. Bigfoot too, she mused. Or was it called Sasquatch around here?

  Another crash, louder this time, and closer. Just a branch falling, she assured herself. There's no such thing as werewolves. Or monsters. Or mad, chainsaw murderers…

  She hugged herself tight, giggling a little hysterically, and turned towards the road. Definitely past time to start walking.

  The rumble of an approaching car, its headlights cutting a bright swathe through the looming trees, was the sweetest sound. With the way her imagination was acting right now, she'd have considered accepting a lift with Jack the Ripper. Anything to get out of the forest that seemed to be pressing closer every minute she stood here.

  * * * *

  A stranger was standing on her front porch. No, on looking closer, she could see the stranger was pacing on her front porch. Who the hell…?

  Gina stared at him for a few seconds longer.

  "This is your house, isn't it, honey?" Mrs. Chapman sounded worried. She was an elderly lady and had clearly been upset both by coming across the accident and having to drive at night in the rain. Gina wasn't quite sure which one was worse—she'd heard plenty about both on the ride home.

  She forced a smile. "Yes, thank you. I was just wondering about the man on the porch."

  Mrs. Chapman squinted near-sightedly across the yard. It was little wonder she didn't like driving after dark when her vision was so bad.

  "It's Nathaniel Moore." She nodded amiably back towards Gina. "Jack Moore's son," she added.

  "Umm…"

  "The realtor. You know, Moore Property."

  "Oh." The realtor? Oh, God. She'd forgotten…The realtor!

  "Oh, yes. He only moved back to town a few months ago when Jack retired. He comes along to bingo at the church hall every Wednesday now, and…"

  "Thank you so much, Mrs. Chapman. But I really have to run. I'd forgotten I had a rental inspection booked in for this afternoon." Gina paused as an odd thought struck her. "Nathaniel Moore goes to bingo every Wednesday?"

  "No, silly! Jack does." She jabbed her with a sharp elbow. "You should look smart there, girl. Nathaniel's quite a catch."

  Gina slid across the seat, wincing as the damp fabric of her skirt caught on the vinyl. She hesitated before closing the door, then simply smiled and waved as the car pulled out onto the street. It didn't look like Mr. Quite-A-Catch Moore was in the mood for watching any more social chit chat.

  At least he'd stopped pacing but, now she was closer, she could see the tension in his shoulders and just how tightly his pen was gripped in his hand. His very large hand. She could also see why he was considered such a catch.

  Early thirties, maybe? A good six feet tall, thick brown hair that looked softer than the fur on her favorite old teddy bear, and deep brown eyes. Cranky deep brown eyes, she had to admit, but they'd surely be the color of melted chocolate when he smiled. Or thick, rich treacle. It was hard to tell.

  Gina pulled herself together. Well, it didn't matter in the slightest if he happened to smile at her or not. He was here to do her annual rental inspection. She was only—she glanced at her watch—half an hour late. She screwed her eyes closed in embarrassment. She was never late for anything. But half an hour, and he was still waiting?

  She bounded up the three shallow steps until she was on a level with him. She held out her hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Moore. I'm Gina Longmire. Sorry to have kept you waiting."

  "I was about to leave." He grasped her outstretched hand and shook it brusquely. "Well, we might as well…"

  His mouth dropped. As close as they were standing, even in the fading light he had to have noticed just how soggy she was. Gina fumbled for her keys, refusing to look up. Until right that moment, she hadn't realized she'd left her sweater in Mrs. Chapman's car. Then, when he ran his eyes idly over her body—probably running a quick calculation on the value of her clothes, she thought—she saw with dismay just how indiscreet her lightweight skirt and blouse had become.

  Okay, so they were practically see-through. And clinging to every curve. Thank goodness she'd worn a lacy bra this morning because, if he cared to look, he could see it clearly. And going by his stunned reaction, he had noticed that particular fact.

  "What the hell happened to you? And why aren't you wearing a coat? It's got to be close to freezing out here!"

  The door finally swung open, and she slammed it irritably behind him. A small puddle formed on the timber floor as she stood there, already steaming gently in the centrally heated warmth. One more thing to clean up, she noted before meeting his stare.

  "If you must know, my car just went off the road in the Oldham Forest. It's raining, I'm wet." Gina smiled sweetly. "So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pop upstairs and get changed." She nodded towards the clipboard he held under his arm. "Feel free to get started and I'll be down shortly."

  She spun on her heel and stalked across the small entry towards the twisting staircase. It wasn't e
asy to appear so completely unconcerned by his scrutiny when every movement set off a new cascade of drips. "Oh, and my coat? I daresay it's still in the car."

  Gina flung her hair back and headed upstairs, just catching the adorably confused expression on his face. She shook her head at her own thoughts, groaning. Adorably confused? Puh-leeze.

  She looked like something the cat had just dredged up from the bottom of a slime-filled swamp and he was, as Mrs. Chapman had so neatly put it, quite a catch. Understatement of the millennium! He was drop-dead gorgeous, and the sparks that had shot up across her palm when he'd shaken her hand had contained enough heat to warm her through despite the soggy clothing.

  But in a town this small, he was sure to be taken— no matter what the bingo gossip insisted. And even if he wasn't, well, why would he be interested in her? New to town. A boring middle manager at the executive retreat down the road. Oh, and new to town. Polite as everyone was, in the twelve months she'd been here, she'd noticed that the locals kept to themselves.

  She snorted as she stripped off her sodden clothes. Besides, he was a realtor. That made him overconfident, way too sharp, and possibly dishonest. How would he see her? She glanced at the usually modest navy skirt and blouse lying in a damp heap on the bathroom floor. Conservative? Boring?

  Probably.

  But, damn, he was cute.

  * * * *

  Surprisingly uncomfortable, Nate flipped through the pages on the entry report for her house and started the inspection. Odd really, he thought. He'd never felt at all awkward poking through someone's house before. It was his job. And it wasn't like he was ferreting through her cupboards or anything. Still… There was something about her. The way she'd

  stood there, as good as naked in front of him, totally unselfconscious, and coolly told him to get on with it. Any other woman with that body would have stood there preening, making sure he got an eyeful of every luscious curve.

  For the first time in an age, he felt his cock stir— uninvited. Sure, he bedded plenty of women—why not, when they practically threw themselves at him— but he was actually interested in her. There was something fascinating about that slightly distant hauteur, that attitude of 'look if you want; I don't really care.'

  He almost growled at the thought. He'd make her care, all right!

  Whoa boy! She was a client, not a bitch in heat to be taken by whichever wolf was closest. And it was way too close to the full moon to be having thoughts like those. Now wasn't a good time to be testing his self-control.

  Wolf. Yeah. He grimaced. It wasn't like he wanted to try explaining that to her anyway. Last time he'd attempted to date someone from outside the werewolf community, she'd run screaming. And not in the way he liked to make a woman scream, either. Oh, yeah, he'd like to see Ms. Conservative Longmire naked and screaming his name in orgasm.

  The kitchen, he'd start in the kitchen. He smiled at his own imagination. It was so easy to visualize her standing right here in that tantalizing—clinging—wet fabric. Maybe making her lose some of that steely control of hers. The kitchen was so much less personal.

  Or maybe not. Even here she'd stamped her own personality—but in a non-permanent way, the realtor in him noted approvingly. Conservative dark blue curtains, a healthy row of potted violets on the windowsill, and a cheerful checked tablecloth held in place with timber salt and pepper cellars. He made a note on his clipboard then hunkered down to look in the oven.

  "Nice ass," her voice drawled from the open door behind him. My God! Had she really just said that? Surely he was imagining things.

  He jerked upright, favoring her with the slow, sexy smile he knew was guaranteed to turn any woman to instant mush.

  Maybe the smile had been overkill… She was already beet-red, her hand was clamped over her mouth, and her eyes were wide with horror. It seemed she'd been just as surprised by the comment as he was.

  Nate couldn't help it—he grinned. Gina Longmire sure was cute when she was embarrassed. His let his gaze trace over her face. There was a faint shadow under one eye and, somewhat belatedly, his mind kicked into gear.

  Shit! She'd just been in a car accident and, no matter how minor, she had to have been shaken up by it. The last thing she needed was to have him teasing her. With conscious effort, he smiled again; a nice friendly smile, the sort you'd expect from a neighbor—or your friendly neighborhood realtor.

  "I'm sorry, did you say something?" It wasn't easy, but Nate managed to look faintly quizzical.

  "Huh?" She dropped her hand and straightened, instantly grasping the metaphorical lifeline he'd

  thrown. "No, I don't think so."

  There, problem all smoothed over.

  He smiled again, waving towards the oven. "I was just checking the oven."

  Nate could have kicked himself. That was a really dumb opening line in a seduction. There were so many other, better ways to start out.

  Hang on… Seduction? Hadn't he just told himself she was off-limits? He was sure he had. Obviously not all of him had been listening because seeing her again, even covered from head to toe in worn old jeans and a football sweater, his cock had sprung to life, demanding he do something about her. To her.

  He winced as his cock swelled. Wet and nearnaked had been nice, but now he was having fantasies about fucking the neat and wholesome girl-next-door! Oh, no. He shook his head gently. He'd always preferred his women tall and polished. Slick makeup, expensive hair, gym-toned bodies. And now he couldn't drag his eyes away from what was almost the opposite. There was something… different—no, special—about her.

  Nate tried to figure out what it was, but it kept eluding him. Gina was average height and comfortably slender with nice hips and breasts. His cock strained against his jocks and he hurriedly looked higher. Nothing notable there either. Her eyes were a pretty standard shade of hazel, her light brown hair shoulder length and tied back in a functional ponytail.

  "It works."

  "What does?" He had to hold in a groan. How long had he been standing there staring like some love

  struck college boy?

  "The oven." Her voice sounded strained. Small wonder, after everything that had happened this afternoon.

  Nate put on his best professional voice, thanking the stars for all the years of practice at pretending to be something he wasn't—after all, who wanted to know they had a werewolf for a next-door neighbor?

  "Of course." He made a small note on his clipboard, "but it's part of the routine to check for cleanliness."

  And I passed?" Her single raised eyebrow was the only hint of displeasure.

  "Never thought you wouldn't," he assured her. "It's all just routine."

  He looked down at the paperwork again, hoping like hell she wouldn't notice the very suspicious bulge in his trousers. Even when she was looking at him like that, he wanted her. And, considering she had the same thoughtful gleam in her eyes that he imagined she'd have if she was considering how best to squash a spider, that was saying something. He was obviously quite desperate.

  When he turned back, he found she'd perched herself on the edge of the table, legs dangling, watching him. Damn. His randy imagination had instantly stripped her, suggesting how easily he could push her onto her back and take her right there. Right now. He could bury himself to the balls in her pussy and watch her eyes cloud as the orgasm took her.

  He shook his head again, and the image faded. She was still on the table and still fully clothed. Definitely not lying back on her elbows, legs enticingly spread to show a cunt wet with desire. It was a shame, really…

  Okay, that did it. He was going to ask her on a date, hopefully get invited back afterwards, and get her out of his system. Otherwise, the continual hardon was going to kill him. Either that, or he'd go mad as his brain kept slotting her into the starring role in each of his favorite fantasies.

  He'd just opened his mouth to speak when the front door swung open with a gust of icy air, and a short female barreled into the kitchen. At least
he thought she was female. It was kind of hard to tell under all those clothes.

  Gina looked up and squealed in delight. "Megan. I'm so glad you're here!"

  "Gina-honey-I-just-heard-are-you-all-right-Mrs.Chapman-said-your-car's-been-written-off-you'renot-hurt-are-you?"

  The newcomer didn't pause for breath or an answer, but pulled Gina off the table and into a giant bear-hug. Small as her friend was, Gina was swamped, and she had to tug quite hard to get released.

  Gina smiled. "I'm fine, hon. Just a few little scratches and bruises"

  She wrote off her car? God! The way she'd behaved he'd assumed she'd just skidded off the road on the ice or something…Was that little bruise her only injury? Geez, she'd been lucky. He stared at her with newfound admiration.