The Black Wolf. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Chapter 32

       Chapter 33

       Chapter 34

       Chapter 35

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

      Hot Miami nights in September were the bane of tourists and locals alike...but they suited Rafe Landau just fine.

      Werewolves seldom reacted to heat the same way humans did. With body temperatures so elevated most of the time, a few degrees one way or the other didn’t matter. And humidity was Rafe’s friend. Sultry nights like this one were perfect for keeping criminals inside in front of their air conditioners. Or so he hoped. A detective’s job didn’t involve much downtime in a city this big. Having a night off from the usual chaos was a blessing.

      Rafe sipped his soft drink on the narrow balcony of his semi-affordable oceanfront apartment, where the crash of waves almost completely masked the more invasive city sounds. Behind him, the blonde he planned to share a couple of hours on a mattress with shuffled toward him on bare feet.

      “Got anything to drink in your bachelor pad besides sodas?”

      Her voice was grittier than her looks. Rafe liked his temporary bed partners natural, without medically enhanced curves, dyed hair or overdone makeup. His preferences could have been a throwback to the times when wolves ran naked in the wild and nature ruled, but the fact was that he liked to see, taste and feel the women he dated with nothing artificial in his way.

      Tonight’s date had already discarded most of her clothes; she was down to flimsy green lingerie that looked good on her. Her shoulder-length hair was tousled, her lips pouty. And her current state of undress made her invitation perfectly clear.

      “Cupboard by the sink,” Rafe said, directing her to the stash of wine people had given him on various occasions, which he never drank. Other than a few swigs of beer on social occasions, the acuteness of his Were sense of taste and smell made alcohol off-limits.

      “Wine?” she called out from the small kitchen, and followed that up with, “Warm wine?”

      “I wasn’t expecting company” was Rafe’s standard reply in situations like this. He liked his women to feel special. This one was extraordinarily beautiful and probably damn good in bed, but she wasn’t the first he had invited home this month.

      He supposed that he had been compensating for the painful memories, finding comfort in random companionship.

      He had started feeling sorry for every woman who had caught his eye lately, believing him to be trustworthy because of his detective status and hoping that he might be available. The main thing he needed from a human female partner, however, was something none of them had been able to provide. Not that any of them could help being human. Although he could pass among them most of the time, he wasn’t really like them, and he had a secret to guard.

      The fact that he was one of more than two dozen werewolves in a tightly knit Miami pack wasn’t exactly something he could be open about, and it kept him from any real connection.

      He glanced over his shoulder. Hell, he was fairly sure he remembered this woman’s name. Brenda? Brandi? Something starting with a B.

      Maybe he was wrong about the B. Randi? Candy?

      He might call her again sometime when he was lonely, even though they had nothing in common, really. It was dangerous for Weres to fraternize for too long or become regularly intimate with a species outside their own.

      But available she-wolves were a rarity in Miami and tricky to be around due to that little phenomenon known as imprinting. A lingering meeting of the eyes, Were-to-Were, or one outstanding sexual climax between them, and a werewolf was as good as engaged.

      “Do you want some?” his date asked, clinking glasses on the counter.

      “No,” Rafe said. “You go ahead.”

      A breeze had come off the ocean to ruffle his hair—hair that was too long for a cop and too short for Rafe’s taste. It was a good wind. Felt nice.

      He closed his eyes.

      The scent of lilac perfume preceded his date onto the balcony. “Nice view,” she observed.

      “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m damn lucky to have it.”

      He took in the long lines of towering hotels perched along the beach. Lights glistened on the water. Colorful umbrellas dotted the scene during the day. His place was the only remaining small, privately owned building among those multistoried stucco behemoths. A holdout. His refuge. The manager liked having a cop around.

      “How