Karen Kelley - The Wolf Prince

“I’m not sure about that particular flower. Ralph takes care of the garden, so you would have to ask him. I know some of the names, but mostly I just enjoy their smell and how pretty they are.” She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Most men would never admit they liked flowers.”

“Why?” he asked.

Again with the whys. She shrugged. “Too feminine, I guess.”

“But you enjoy this place.” He waved his arm in front of him.

“I find solace out here.” She strolled farther down the pea gravel path. He walked beside her. “Dad had the fountain put in because Mother loves the water. They have a beach house on the coast, too.” She was rambling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. How could she tell Surlock that she might not discover anything about him?

“Your father must earn a lot of money.”

Startled, she looked at him, but didn’t see the usual calculating gleam. That was another thing about her boyfriends: Most of them liked the idea that her parents were wealthy. Did Surlock fit into that category?

She continued to study him for a moment, then dismissed that idea. Surlock had stated it more as a fact, rather than anything else. She breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered why she should care. Okay, so maybe she was attracted to him just a little—or a lot.

“Dad has his own business,” she told him. “That, and my parents inherited from their parents. They’ve also made wise investments over the years.”

“But you’re not happy?”

She stopped at a bench and sat on the flowered cushion. Surlock chose a chair angled slightly toward the bench. Wisteria grew thick over the arbor, creating a shady canopy. In the spring, large, grapelike clusters of flowers would hang from the branches.

“I have everything I could ever want,” she finally told him. And she did. Her parents had always given her anything she desired.

“That’s not what I asked. Sometimes material possessions can only give short-term gratification.”

She studied him. “Maybe you’re a monk.”

“A monk?”

“Yes, a priest. They don’t put much stock in worldly goods, but rather in life.” She brushed strands of loose hair behind her ear and shifted to a more comfortable position on the cushions.

He nodded. “Then maybe that is who I am.”

“They’re also celibate.” When he didn’t seem to recognize the word, she explained, “They have taken a vow of chastity. No sex.”

Good Lord, could she have knocked a monk out cold? Maybe he’d been on a pilgrimage, giving up all worldly possessions, including his clothes. She was pretty sure lusting after a priest would get her a ticket to hell.

Surlock’s eyes widened. “Why would they do something so crazy as to give up mating?”

“Because of their religious beliefs,” she explained. Okay, he probably wasn’t a monk. Thank God.

“I’m not a monk.” He squared his shoulders and sat straighter.

“No, I didn’t really think you were.” Not the way he kissed. But who was he? “Let me see your hands.”

He stuck them out and she took one. It was warm. His heat quickly transferred to her body. He had strong hands. Darcy could almost feel them caressing her, stroking.

She cleared her throat and her thoughts. She was here to help him, not pounce on his body. It was a sexy body, though.

She ran her hands over his, trying to act like a professional. They were a little rough in places, but the nails were manicured, smooth. His other hand was the same.

“You weren’t raised by wolves,” she murmured.

“Why would you think that?”

When she looked up, she forgot what he had asked. For a moment, she lost herself in his warm whiskey eyes. The gold flecks sparkled in the sunlight. Very unusual. She mentally shook her head.

What had he asked? Oh, yes, why she would think he was raised by wolves. “Because you were with a wolf. At least, there was one in the area when you stepped out from behind the tree. You also look sort of rugged.” In a very sexy way. “You didn’t have any clothes on, either, and you ate with your hands, and you growl at people.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Because you were eating with your hands.” His frown darkened. “I don’t growl at people.”

“The doctor? The tailor?”

“I don’t like being probed, nor did I like the way the tailor measured. Maybe I did growl a few times,” he conceded.

She chuckled. “You can see how I might come to that conclusion,” she said. “All the facts pointed in that direction.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You play the piano beautifully. If you had been raised by wolves, you wouldn’t have learned how to play. Besides, your nails are manicured, and it looks like a professional did them.” She let go of his hands and leaned back against the bench.

“But I still don’t have a clue to who I am.”

“You remember nothing?” When he hesitated, she knew he wasn’t telling her something. She leaned forward, willing him to meet her gaze, and he did, eventually. “How can I discover who you are or where you come from, if you don’t tell me everything?”

“It’s not that I have anything solid. It’s more like a feeling.”

“What?” Still, he didn’t say anything. “It won’t go any further than me.”

He clasped his hands. “I think there’s someone I’m supposed to protect.”

“And?”

“I’m supposed to keep my identity a secret. But I can’t continue from day to day not knowing who I am.”

She sat forward again. “Wow, that sounds very James Bond.”

His eyes widened. “You have already discovered my identity? Is that who I am? This James Bond?”

“I’m sorry,” she quickly told him. “James Bond is a fictional spy, but there are people like him—secret agents. Maybe that’s what you are.”

She studied him for a moment. It actually did make sense. He had the build, the muscles. That was probably why he remembered that he would need to keep his identity a secret. She was pretty sure secret agents had that drilled into them. And, he’d said he needed to protect someone. Definitely secret-agent stuff.

A thrill of excitement swept through her. Her very own sexy secret agent living in the guest house. She wondered if he had all of James Bond’s bedroom moves.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Heat flooded her face. She really had to stop fantasizing. But it was such a good fantasy. She regretfully brought her attention back to the present. “I think we might have just discovered what you do for a living.”

“But I still don’t know what a secret agent is.”

She jumped up and grabbed his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you. My dad is a big Bond fan. He has a media room full of his movies. If that’s what you are, maybe it’ll jog your memory.”

Her father’s addiction to Bond had probably sparked Darcy’s dream of becoming a private investigator. She’d watched every Bond movie at least twice with her father. They’d bonded over Bond.

She was really losing it.

They went into the house and upstairs. When they walked inside the media room, she realized she still held his hand. She quickly dropped it, and went to the DVD player. Holding his hand had felt nice, though. Too nice. The relationship had to stay platonic, professional. Her gaze landed on him and lingered for a moment. At least platonic until she knew his background.

The media room could seat up to twenty people in chocolate-suede covered, oversized recliners. The screen filled one entire wall. There was even a popcorn machine at the back and a small bar where you could get a soda or alcoholic beverage. Not that she had been allowed alcohol until she turned twenty-one, and by then she discovered she preferred soda.