"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 02 - Jared's Wolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

It was one thing when Michael had been a loner, too. Once Jeannie arrived (or, as Jeannie put it, "was
kidnapped"), things were exciting for several months. Helping the new non-werewolf alpha female settle
in had been one surprise after another. There had been no time to be lonesome.

Now Jeannie had given the pack a marvelous girl-child, had made her home with the werewolves, and
never gave a thought to her old life. No conflict in that time, while good for the pack, meant there'd been
nothing to distract Moira from her troubles.

Michael's utter happiness with his mate only made Moira more acutely aware of her own loneliness. She
loved them, but could watch them snuggling, smell their lust, only so long before she needed to walk, or
snivel in self-pity.

The pack, Moira thought grimly, was no place for loners. Werewolves were enormously social and
tended to mate for life as soon as possible. Loners got into trouble, and a loner who got into too much
trouble went rogue. Rogue was bad.

Very bad.

She shivered, remembering Gerald. He was the only rogue male she had ever run across and, by God,
he was enough. Gerald was on her mind because his estranged eldest, Geraldine, had just left Wyndham
manor after a brief visit.

After Gerald had been driven out, Geraldine had remained loyal to the worthless bundle of fur. Since no
pack would welcome a rogue, the two had wandered the country for years. Admirable loyalty, but the
price the poor girl had paid! Her father had been dead a year and Geraldine still roamed.

No, a werewolf alone did more harm than good, and she had no business begrudging Michael and
Jeannie their happiness. Better to leave the house and take her poor attitude with her. Thus, the rose
garden in February. Thus, she would probably catch a cold from skulking in the sparse snowтАФand serve
her right! Thus, there was a stranger on the grounds.

Her thoughts derailed in sudden confusion as she sniffed and caught the scent again. Stranger, yes. Male.
Not pack. Probably a reporter; Michael Wyndham was a charismatic, handsome billionaire frequently
courted for interviews. Now that he'd married and had a daughter, "journalists" (her lip curled) constantly
tried to get a picture of the baby forPeople magazine.

She would find the man and escort him off the grounds; the Wyndham estate was private property. Her
woes aside, there was, as always, duty. She turned to search and saw the stranger about fifteen yards
away.
 She was suddenly furious with herself because he wouldn't have crept up on her, downwind or not, if
she hadn't been busy drowning herself in an ocean of pity. And she was also amazed, because he looked
. . . well, amazing.

The stranger, who was rapidly approaching, had dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was
quite tall, easily a head taller than she was, dressed in jeans so faded they were nearly white, and a black
duster which swept past his knees. And his eyes . . . his eyes were the color of the ocean on the first day
of winter, dark blue and filled with restrained fury. She caught his scent again: clean and crisp, like freshly
ironed linen. Male linen. Incredibly gorgeous, highly masculine linen. Linen she could wrap herself in, sink
her teeth into . . .