Alex assumed a hangdog expression. Looking guilty, he pulled the coat on, his arms four inches longer than the sleeves. It barely closed in front as he tied the belt.
"I suppose you're the real thing? Werewolves by birth, not by bite?" Sam asked.
"That's right. Actually, we're descended from a long line of werewolves. A royal line. Nic's a prince." Recalling Nic's face and hauteur, Sam could have kicked herself for not surmising so sooner. "How could I have forgotten? Russia used to be overrun with princes before the Revolution. So, why should I be surprised?" Glaring at Alex disgustedly, Sam gave up. This dog had fleas, even if he was the wrong dog.
"Come on, let's go. I've got a wolfman to see."
Alex hesitated. "What about the woman Nero attacked? What happened to her? I lost sight of her during the battle."
"She's okay. She ran off in the opposite direction."
"Just think," Alex remarked, his chest puffed out with pride. "I ran the gorgon off!"
"Get a grip. It wasn't just you; it was the odds. Two against one."
"Well, it certainly wasn't your swordplay," Alex riposted.
"I never claimed to be the Highlander."
"And I guess I can live without any pats on the head for saving that girl's life and yours," Alex groused.
."Be thankful I don't make Nic take you to obedience school. You deserve it, you know." She looked down and smoothed out her clothing.
"Touchy, touchy, aren't you? If you weren't that good at sword fighting, why didn't you practice before this?" Alex asked. He knew Sam was a professional and professionals usually didn't slip up like that.
"Who says I didn't?" Sam said.
Alex's eyes widened. "You practiced today?"
"Most of it. I just didn't get much better."
Eyeing her up and down, Alex exclaimed, "That's hard to believe. I thought you were good at everything you do."
"Not fencing." Sheepishly, she admitted, "I flunked it in college."
Alex snorted, amused.
"Twice."
He broke into laughter. "Wait until I tell my big brother!"
"Wait until I tell him that you were sniffing my crotch. He'll rip off your nose and lower parts best left unmentioned."
Alex actually shuddered. "You're just no fun, Sam. What ever does my hardheaded brother see in you?" Grabbing her arm, he hurried her off into the foggy night, their footsteps ringing on the pavement. Their voices became echoes.
"Bossy wench."
"Dog breath!"
The Laws of Attraction Between a Werewolf and a Woman
Sam sought Nic in his room at the Transylvania Hotel, leaving Alex to explain to Prince Varinski and the rest of the group what had transpired at the Statue of Liberty. Pounding on his door, she tapped her foot impatiently while waiting for Nic to answer, which he did in a pair of jeans and nothing else.
Shoving her way past, Sam searched the room. With relief she saw that Nic was totally alone.
"Where's that Irish potato biter?" Sam snapped, her back to Nic. She had plenty to say, but as she turned and saw his hard muscular chest, and the thin line of dark hair disappearing into his low-slung jeans, her mouth had a mind of its own. She wasn't made of stone. Although, if Nero had his way…
"Forest is down on six, with Petroff and the others in my cousin's room. Why? Did you think she'd be up here with me?"
"Where else? She's all over you like a fungus."
Nic laughed. He moved closer, and his laughter died as he saw her beat-up face and the blood in her hair. She looked like death wanned over, and by someone who didn't know how to cook.
He tenderly touched the cut on her forehead, where a purple knot was forming. "You're hurt."
"A lot you care," Sam retorted. She wasn't sure why she was acting so hostile.
"But I do. If you only knew. You're like some kind of disease I didn't want to catch, but I can't shake the bug now that I have it," he said. He smoothed a strand of lose hair behind her ear.
Sam batted his hand away. "Oh, great! I make you sick, is that what you're saying?"
"That's not what I mean and you know it. Now, what happened? How'd you get into trouble? If you didn't go to the Statue of Liberty—"
Stabbing a finger down at her muddy and ripped jeans, Sam interrupted, "I did. And, Mr. Know-It-All Nic, guess where Nero was tonight?" He had made light of her hunch, but her hunch had been right on the mark. He should have backed it.
Nic started cussing in Russian, German, and maybe Chinese—Sam wasn't sure, not being a scholar of Asian languages.
"I can't believe it. The one place I felt sure you'd be reasonably safe, and you got attacked!"
Glaring at him, hands on hips, she said caustically, "Poor you, being wrong. All things considered, I would have preferred being at American Gothic with you and Ms. Pining-for-You Forest. It's lots more fun standing around than being tossed on my head by some snake-haired man."
Nic felt a blast of terror. "What happened? Is Alex alright?"
Observing the worry in his eyes, Sam quickly explained what had occurred outside the Statue of Liberty; she didn't want him to fear for his brother. She could wait to blast him for his wolfish secret, since everything was relative.
Taking things from the beginning, she led Nic through the night's events, telling him all that had happened, with a few minor exceptions: She left out her seeing Alex naked and Alex's head in her crotch.
As Nic listened, his fists clenched and unclenched in anger, and the muscle in his jaw began to tick. The two of them might have been stoned tonight! He was furious; but then, so was Sam. And to be honest, Sam didn't seem nearly as angry about almost being made a rock woman and losing her quarry as she was about Alex turning into a werewolf. Suddenly a thought struck him, hard, smack-dab and dead center, and he was aware of just how mad Sam really was. And why. She knew he was a werewolf.
A little late, Nic tried to gather Sam into his arms. She backed away, shouting, "You secretive sneak! You four-footed beast! You impersonating impostor! You're a wolf in creep's clothing and you didn't bother to mention it!"
She'd called him worse, Nic realized. There was yet hope. He had a lot riding on what he said next, and he needed to proceed with caution to take the bite out of his words.
Hands on hips, eyes flashing, she snarled, "You… Marxist werewolf, you!"
Nic shook his head like a dog shakes off water. Of all the names she could have shouted, he wasn't expeering that. "I've been called names before, but never that. I'll have to give you an A for originality." He laughed.
"You cold-blooded Russian werewolf! You royal coldblooded Russian werewolf! What other secrets are you keeping? Do you have a wife somewhere? Do you moonlight as a spook? Do you wear women's underwear? Were you alive during the Russian Revolution? Do you get dipped for fleas once a month?"
Nic addressed the second to last question; the others were not deserving of an answer. "I was a young boy during the Revolution, yes."
Sam's mouth opened to continue her rant—she was just getting started—but his words stopped her dead in her tracks. He'd been a boy in 1918, which made him really old. "You… look younger," she muttered finally. Was he too old for her?
Nic stared at her, as if reading her mind. "For an expert about these things, you really aren't using your head. You know we age slower than humans—about a year to your three."
Now it was Sam's turn to shake her head—like a dog, even though she wasn't related to any. Nic was too old for her; decades too old. He'd probably fought in World War II and knew Stalin personally. He'd actually had to live behind the iron curtain—not a pleasant situation for a werewolf, as they were allergic to iron. Yep, this man was old. If only he weren't also such a rugged, virile, magnificent male. "I hate your lying werewolf guts," she snapped.