"It would certainly be a damn better place to start than calling me a whore, or using threats." I blew out a breath. "Like the song says, 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun.'"

The somewhat disdainful look he gave me suggested he wasn't a fan of old-time pop music—or maybe he'd simply cruised through that era with earmuffs on, and had no idea what I was on about. I added, "Look, I offered the agreement, and I'll stick to it if you're going to get nasty about it. But just don't go expecting anything more serious than a good time. I won't play us one on one, Quinn. I can't afford to."

"All I'm expecting is the chance."

"Then you have it. But I'm warning you now—you try and force me into anything and that will be the end of us. I'll find a way around that order of yours, and I'll walk away. I will not be abused like that. I'm a wolf, not a whore."

"It is not abuse—"

"Then what else do you call forcing someone to do something against their will?"

"In this case, common sense."

"Force is force, regardless of the reason. Don't ever try it on me, Quinn. Not ever."

He didn't answer, and I just got the hell out of the room.

Chapter Eleven

Dusk had come and gone, and the night was cold. The wind blustered around me, its touch icy, as if it had come directly from the Antarctic. Shivering, I rubbed my arms, and wished I'd put on something warmer than a long-sleeved cotton top. At least I could be thankful I'd chosen jeans and sneakers rather than the skirt and sandals I'd originally intended. But what I wasn't thankful for was the premonition that had told me I'd need something tougher—that a skirt and sandals wasn't up to what I had to do tonight.

I didn't want another psychic talent—especially one that popped in whenever it pleased. But that same intuition said my choice in this mattered as little as my choice in other areas of my life. I was becoming something more than just a dhampire. What that something was, not even a blossoming new talent could tell. One thing was certain—I wasn't about to let Jack know. Not until I was totally sure this clairvoyance thing was a developing talent, and not some weird mutation of the fear that sat like a weight in my gut.

The restaurant came into sight across the other side of the road. I paused, gaze raking the old, Victorian-style building, searching for a glimpse of my quarry in the corner windows. Only one woman sat alone, and she was positioned at the far end of the building.

After looking around to ensure no one was near or watching, I wrapped myself in shadows and moved toward the foreshore. Streetlights cast pools of yellow across the empty pavement, and the headlights of passing cars ran across the nearby darkness, threatening to tear the shadows from my side. I stashed my clothes and shifted shape, released the veil of darkness, and in wolf form wove my way through the scrubby tea trees until I was directly opposite the window in which the lone woman sat.

She was nothing special—dark hair cut into a severe bob, a roman nose that was accentuated by a gold ring, and a large, almost manly chin. Her hands, clasped in front of her on the table, also looked more male than female. The man who'd been Mrs. Hunt hadn't been the image of female perfection, either. Was that a telltale sign of shifters who could take either male or female form?

I sat on my haunches, and wondered what the time was. It had been close to eight when I'd parked the car, and it had probably taken me five minutes or so to walk here. But if the woman at that table was worried by Roberta Whitby's lateness, it wasn't showing yet.

The wind shook the branches of the trees around me, showering the ground and me with tiny gray-green leaves. I was about to shake them from my fur when I caught two sounds—the first, a twig snapping lightly. The second, the brush of nylon against sharp leaves.

Someone was sneaking through the trees, headed my way.

I flicked my ears forward, but otherwise didn't move. Given the darkness and the gnarled trunks that surrounded me, it was unlikely that even the red of my coat would be seen. Besides, whoever was sneaking up ahead was human—or at least, in human form—and most humans took no notice of a dog, especially if it wasn't moving or threatening. Even if it was a wolf up ahead, the wind was in my favor, carrying my scent toward the ocean rather than the stranger.

Oddly enough, it didn't offer me the stranger's scent, carrying no more than the night, the ocean, and the multiple layers that spoke of the nearby restaurants, shops, and exhaust fumes.

If he was so close that I could hear him, I should certainly have been able to smell him. Unless, of course, he had no scent.

Hackles rose at the thought. Everyone had a scent—unless it had been deliberately erased.

No more careless sounds rode the wind. The man up ahead—though why I was so sure it was a man I had no idea—had either stopped moving or disappeared. Why was he sneaking through these trees? Was he spying, surveying the area like me, or were his intentions all together darker?

I wanted to move, but with all the crap on the ground, he'd hear me. But if I wanted to find out what was going on, what he was doing, then I might have to take the chance.

Sound whispered along the wind, cutting off the thought. Something scraped lightly against nylon again, and a second later, the unmistakable click of a safety coming off a gun.

The fear in my gut crystallized.

The woman waiting for Roberta Whitby was about to get shot. I leapt to all fours, but it was already far too late to do anything to save that woman.

A muffled report rode the wind. My gaze shot to the window. It shattered. The woman with the roman nose jerked, then slumped forward onto the table.

Dead.

And so was my chance at answers if I didn't move right away.

But as much as I wanted to charge in and attack, I knew such actions would earn me nothing more than a bullet. I had no idea who—or what—was ahead, but the mere fact he had no scent suggested that he was either a professional hit man or another of those creatures from the labs.

I looked ahead, judging the length of spring needed to clear all the clutter under the trees. Then I crouched and launched forward, clearing the undergrowth with inches to spare.

I'd barely landed when the sense of someone approaching had the hackles along the back of my neck rising. I looked over my shoulder. Only cars could be seen moving through the night—yet something unseen was there, crossing the road, approaching faster than the wind itself.

A vampire.

Jack had said he'd have people here, so it was more than likely a guardian.

And if that guardian saw me and reported my presence back to Jack, I'd be in deep shit. But I resisted the urge to throw my shields to full and disappear into shadow. That would only be asking for a deeper inspection. The approaching vampire had to believe I was nothing more than a wolfy-looking dog, and to achieve that, I had to let him skim surface thoughts.

So I blanked everything from my mind, lowered a shield, and thought of nothing more than the thrill of hunting the scent of cat, then stuck my nose to the ground and sniffed around. After a second or two, I actually did catch the spoor of a cat, and my wolf soul stirred excitedly. I trotted along, following the trail while keeping an eye in the shooter's general direction.

Heat touched my mind, a needle-sharp probe that got no further than surface thoughts. It snapped away quickly, moving on, searching the night. A second later, air ran past my nose, filled with the scent of pine, underlain with the richness of sage.

It was Jared, one of the newer recruits to guardian ranks.

He moved on, running for the end of the trees. Nose to the ground, I padded along after him.