Heather Graham - Night of the Wolves

She needed to turn away.

To go inside, to lock the door.

To close away these feelings.

But even as the thought gained a foothold in her mind, the shadows continued touching her, their touch palpable, sensuous. It was as if they had substance, as if they could take her and whisk her away into the night. The shadows were taking form, as if they were giant birds, or even bats, as if they had talons and could pluck her up from where she stood and fly with her, their prisoner, into the night.

Into true darkness.

A scream froze in her throat. The dream had become a nightmare. She reminded herself that she was strong, that she knew how to fight, how to shoot. But she had no weapon, and even if she did, shooting a shadow would be of no avail, and fighting the wind was a futile task.

And then he was there.

Just as suddenly as he had appeared that day. The tall man in the railroad duster and the hat dipping low over golden eyes.

He stood straight and firm against the wind, defying the darkness.

He closed his arms around her and swept her close, and she was uncomfortably aware of the intense way he was looking down at her. His eyes, which in reality were hazel, were glowing with a true golden splendor against the night. It was like being touched by the sun, and heat coursed through her, warming her face, her limbs, and stirring an arousal she’d never experienced before.

He walked with her into her room and gently set her down on the bed. Then he touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her catch her breath, but when she would have stroked his face and drawn him to her, he rose.

“Always fight the shadows, and never listen to the wind,” he whispered. “And don’t worry. I’ll be here,” he added, as if it were a vow.

Despite the words, though, he stepped away from her and stood at the foot of her bed. “Never open your door. Believe me as you believe in God, Miss Gordon, and do not open your door,” he warned her.

She wanted to speak.

She wanted to draw him back to her.

She wanted to forget that her father had been killed, that there had ever been a past and would ever be a future.

She wanted him back.

But she couldn’t form words. It was a dream, of course. A dream turned nightmare, turned dream again. Because she was safe, and she knew it.

Because he was there.

“Sleep now, Miss Gordon.”

“Alex,” she managed to say.

“Sleep, Alex.”

And so she did.

WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes, she was alone.

Of course.

And yet she could remember every detail of the dream.

In the cold light of day, she groaned aloud, wishing she didn’t remember with quite so much clarity.

She rose impatiently and turned toward the doors to the balcony. They were closed, the curtains drawn. And it was the light of day seeping in, not moonlight punctuated by dancing shadows.

Then she noticed the door that connected her room to the one beyond. Once that room had been the nursery, but it had long ago been converted to a guest room.

She hesitated, her heart thundering, then set her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.

The door was unlocked.

She pushed it open.

The bed was unmade, as if awaiting the maid’s attention. And lying on the bench at the foot of the bed were saddlebags. Saddlebags engraved with a name. Cody Fox, M.D.

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