Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(15)

“And now you’re back in the van. What happened to that sweet suite?”

She shrugged again. “Didn’t want to stay there while I wrote the next ones.”

He frowned. Didn’t want to stay there because of what she’d done with him? He wasn’t egotistical enough to think that. Or he was, but he didn’t. “You said Angels Rest might be what you need. What is it you need, exactly?”

Her lips twisted in a grimace. “A dozen kick-ass country songs in the next, mmm, two weeks?”

He let out a low whistle. “Sounds intense.”

She stared down at her boot tips. “Sounds like silence at the moment.”

For the first time, he saw her vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been even when spread-eagled on that white bed with her wrists tied in terrycloth. “Look. You’re here now. I found a place you can stay. Let’s get your van and I’ll show it to you. You can see if it’ll do. Unless you need a thousand-dollar-a-night motel room…”

As he suspected, that brought her chin up again along with a scowl.

“I just need my guitar,” she said. Then she added, “Fine”—as if she was doing him a favor—“Let’s go.” She stomped off down the street.

He ambled after her a few steps, admiring the sway of her lush hips in snug, non-sparkly denim, before hustling to catch up. “So you’re Willow Raleigh, country’s naughty darling.” He’d stayed up extra late a night or two listening to the albums he’d downloaded. Although he could’ve just tuned into the radio since Willow Raleigh and the Eagle Boys were in heavy rotation.

She cast him a sidelong glance. “Are you going to rat me out to the tabloids?”

He glared at her. “I didn’t before.”

“You didn’t know who I was then.”

“Wasn’t like you were being particularly careful with that knowledge, what with taking me to your suite and all.” He narrowed his stare. “Like you wanted to get caught or something.”

She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk ahead of her. “Sometimes I think it’d be simpler if I torpedoed it all.”

He took a stumbling step. “Wow. That’s extreme.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. You’ve probably seen real torpedoes. And I’m over here playing my tiny violin.”

“I’ve heard you on the fiddle. You’re not bad.”

She snorted, not quite a laugh. “Polling data said I was more marketable on guitar, so…” She pointed. “There’s my van. Thanks for finding me a place. What’s the address?”

“I’ll show you.”

She frowned. “I think this town is small enough I can find my way.”

“True. But don’t you want an introduction?”

She nibbled at her lower lip. But in the end she unlocked the passenger door. “Fine,” she said again. “Where to?”

He waited until she climbed into the driver’s seat—taking a quick look around the old van, noting the sleeping platform in back and plenty of space for equipment even though only a lone guitar case lay across the back seat—before he pointed down the road. “Thattaway.”

He took her the back way—back way for Angels Rest—down the side street to the last lane before the desert started. A bank of clouds to the west had dimmed the setting sun, and the house lights were coming on, little pools of yellow light like out-of-season fireflies practicing for the coming darkness.

Yellow lines a warning to stop thinking about you.

The back roads of Angels Rest were too small for lines.

Anyway, he wasn’t going to stop thinking about her.

At the last driveway, he gestured for her to turn in. The bungalow was set a little back from the street, a small Fiat to one side of the asphalt parking pad that had been extended wide enough for another vehicle. The VW wagon that was normally there was up on the mesa, Diesel knew, a place for Thunder Cole to nest with the wolves while they planned their battle.

Betsy Rowan, his mate, still had her work as an online psychic and limited experience in strategic assaults, so she spent most days in town, though Diesel knew she fretted and had been reading up on the military histories he’d suggested.

Thunder had been annoyed with him. “She doesn’t need to be part of this shifter war.”

“She’s part of you, so it’s part of her by default,” Diesel had told him. “Anyway, you’re lying to yourself if you think you can stop her.”

That had shut up the other male.

Unfortunately, now Diesel could relate. He didn’t want Willow anywhere in the Four Corners area. But no way could he explain why. So keeping her holed up in this quiet little town, obliviously writing her angsty little country songs, was the next best option, and he’d deal with her when he had some free time.

And no f*ckin’ way was he telling her that either.

She stood beside him at the front door of the bungalow, rocking in her cowboy boots, staring at the display of dried posies hanging from the knocker that said “FlyByNight Broom Company: The Witch is In.”

Betsy opened the door with a smile, not exactly forced but a little wary. He’d texted her as much info as he could without looking too suspicious to Willow. “Hey there, Diesel,” she said. “C’mon in.”