Nalini Singh - The Magical Christmas Cat

Lucas took a pull. "Not bad—for something that looks like it glows in the dark."

Zach grinned. "So, why the camouflage?"

"I had a meeting with a Psy group today."

"New deal?" DarkRiver had recently completed its second major construction project for Psy Councilor Nikita Duncan. The success of the venture had been so dramatic, they'd attracted considerable interest from other Psy businesses.

"Signed and sealed." Lucas's grin was very feline in its satisfac­tion. "I wanted to talk to you about some of the land you cover dur­ing your duties as ranger."

Zach nodded. "Is there a problem?"

"Shouldn't be, but I want you to keep an extra sharp eye out. Psy don't usually venture anywhere near our territory, but they've been changing the rules recently."

"You think they might be trying to use the land to familiarize themselves with the forest," Zach guessed. Psy weren't, as a rule, comfortable in wide-open spaces. They preferred the cities, with their towers of glass and steel. But as Lucas's mate, Sascha, showed, the psychic race was supremely adaptable.

"I don't think it's happened yet, but there's a possibility it might-—we'd be fools if we didn't prepare for the unexpected."

"I'll keep you updated." He put down his empty bottle beside the one Lucas had just finished. "You didn't really come here for that." Lucas's caution was something Zach was a senior-enough sol­dier to figure out for himself.

Lucas shrugged, the clawlike markings on the right side of his face standing out in vivid relief. "I was passing through to talk to Tammy about the Christmas celebrations, decided to drop in, touch base."

Since Tammy and Nate were Zach's closest neighbors, that made sense. "Tell Nate I saw his cubs chasing a dog yesterday." Lucas grinned.

"Sounds about right."

"Can I ask you a question?" Lucas raised an eyebrow and waited.

"How fragile are humans?" He'd had human lovers before, but he'd never wanted any woman, human or changeling, with the raw fury that colored his hunger for Annie. It worried him that he might hurt her in passion. "How much do I have to hold back?"

"They're not as breakable as we tend to think," Lucas said, and Zach knew he was speaking from experience. Physically, Psy were even weaker than humans, yet Lucas was very happily mated to Sascha. "Just don't use the same force on her that you'd use on me or one of the other males and you'll be fine."

"Who said there's a 'her'?"

"There's always a her."

"Her name is Annie, and I'm bringing her to the picnic to-

morrow."

Lucas's eyes gleamed cat green. "You're introducing her to the pack? When did you meet her?"

"Today."

"Well, hell." Lucas rocked back on his heels. "She have any idea what that means?"

"She's a little wary, but she likes me," he said, thinking of how her eyes had drunk him up. A man could get used to being looked at that way. Especially when the woman doing the looking was someone he'd like to eat up in small, delicious bites. "I'm going to court her first." But he already considered her his—because not only did Annie Kildaire arouse his most primal instincts, she was his mate . . . and he was a possessive kind of cat.

Annie was ready by eight the next morning. Feeling jumpy and overexcited, she checked her clothing in the mirror one more time. She'd taken Zach's advice and layered it up, beginning with a plain white tee and a thin V-necked cashmere-blend sweater that felt divine on her skin . On the bottom, she'd worn her favorite jeans, along with a pair of hiking boots, in case the drive turned into a walk. Completing her outfit was an insulated puffy jacket.

"I look like an egg." Caroline had made her buy the cheerful yellow garment, insisting it brightened her face. Annie had agreed because it looked sunny. But it wasn't exactly flattering. Oh well, she thought, peeling it off and putting it on the little backpack that held her camera and water, it wasn't as if this was a date. Sweet dreams.

The memory of Zach's voice sent desire skittering through her veins. All she could think about was what it would be like to have that voice whisper in her ear while those strong hands touched her with bold confidence. "Oh, man." She pressed a hand flat to her stomach. "Calm, Annie. Calm." It was difficult to listen to her own advice when she'd spent the whole night dreaming about him. The tattoo she'd glimpsed on his biceps fascinated her—in her dreams, she'd stroked her fingers over the exotic lines of it, pressed her lips to that muscled flesh . . . and then touched another, harder part of his body.

"A whole day" she almost moaned, and went to shove a hand through her hair before realizing she'd pulled it back into a ponytail. Now she glanced into the mirror and made a face. She'd eschewed makeup—who went to a forest with makeup on?—but had given in to the urge to slick on some gloss. It plumped up her lips . . . except that her lips were already plump. "Argh." Too late, she remembered why she never used gloss. She was searching for a tissue to wipe it off when the doorbell rang. "Who on earth?" Run­ning to the door, she pulled it open.

A leopard in human skin stood on the other side. "I was hop­ing to wake you," he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. "But you're all dressed." He tried to look sad, but the wicked lights dancing in his eyes made that .impossible.

"You're early," she said, unable to stop staring at him. He was wear­ing a pair of faded blue jeans, hiking boots and a soft gray sweatshirt stamped with the San Francisco Giants emblem. Casual clothes, but his hair was still damp from the shower and his jaw freshly shaven.

It was all she could do not to run her fingertips over that smooth skin and nuzzle the masculine scent of him into her lungs.

"I woke up early—had somewhere I wanted to be." He smiled at her, slow and persuasive. "Are you going to invite me in?" Raising a hand, he showed her a brown paper bag bearing the logo of a nearby bakery. "I brought breakfast."

She knew she shouldn't let him get his own way so very easily, but stepped aside in welcome. "What did you bring?"

"Come and see." He waited for her to close the door, then fol­lowed as she led the way into the kitchen through the living room of her apartment. "You like to read."

She saw him glance at the paperbacks on the shelves, stacked on the coffee table, placed face down on the arm of her sofa. "Yes."

"Me, too." He put the bag on the counter and slid onto a stool. "Why are you standing over there?"

She looked at him from the other side of the counter. "I thought I'd make coffee."

"Okay." He kept the bag closed. "But you're not seeing what's in here until you come around to this side."

He was definitely flirting. And she was definitely playing with fire by allowing it to go on. Because if there was one thing she knew about predatory changeling men, it was that they were quite ferally possessive—and belonging to anyone was simply not on her agenda. Of course, she was also getting way ahead of herself. He was only flirting. It wasn't as if he planned to drag her off to the chapel. "What do you read?" she asked, telling herself it was okay to try to flirt back, that this pull she felt toward him was nothing more than sexual attraction.

"Thrillers, some nonfiction." He looked around her open-plan kitchen and living room. "It's a small place."

"For you, maybe." He was so big, so unashamedly male, he took over the space . . . threatened to take her over, too.

He glanced at her, expression shifting to something darker and infinitely more dangerous. "Hmm, you're right. You're a bit smaller than me."

She tried to control her erratic breathing as she finished put­ting on the coffee. He just sat there and watched her with a feline patience that had her nerves sparking in reaction.