Terry Spear - A SEAL in Wolf's Clothing

“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.

White tile walls and fluorescent lights bathed the room in brightness, while the red floor masked any bloodstains. With a little more pressure on her elbow, Finn encouraged her to keep walking toward the sheet-covered body, where a police officer, Wes Caruthers—one of her pack, although a red wolf—and an attendant greeted her. She couldn’t help the way her whole body tensed in anticipation of seeing Joe dead. And because of her concern that innocent and unsuspecting Joe had been murdered instead of her or Finn.

“I’m sorry I had to call you to identify the body, Meara. If you want to step outside, I’m sure Mr. Emerson would be able to ID him and you won’t have to.”

She shook her head, hating to see Joe in death, but it was her pack, and the man had had business with her, not Finn. But when the attendant pulled the sheet aside, she stared at an unfamiliar angular face, cold gray eyes, bushy red brows, and wet red-blond hair. A chill raced down her spine.

“This man isn’t Joe.” She meant to sound firm in her statement, but the words came out in a rushed whisper of shocked surprise.

Then again, maybe this was Joe.

“Not the man we met at your place, in any event,” Finn said, shaking his head at Caruthers but confirming what she’d suspected—that the dead man had been Joe, and the other had been an imposter. “Did he have any picture ID?” Finn asked, pulling out his phone and taking a picture of the man.

“No, sir. Just the return plane ticket and the note with Meara’s phone number and address on it.” Caruthers shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Finn and acting as though he was trying to decide whether to question Finn or remain silent. Caruthers had been a police officer up north, but when he’d learned that Hunter needed a couple of officers to help police his werewolves and others trickling into the area, Caruthers had jumped at the chance to bring his mate and join the force.

Some of the reason had to do with their werewolf longevity. As Caruthers put it, he’d been a Texas Ranger early on and then had moved farther west. He’d retired a few times and had had to die sometimes to avoid anyone becoming suspicious that he didn’t grow old very fast and had lived so many years. He and his mate had been in the Portland area long enough when they left.

Finn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. She’d seen him do it before, deep in concentration, when Hunter had talked secretly to him about a mission, right before he’d ask her brother another question.