The night was quickly fading, but she saw him more clearly. More clearly than she wanted to see him at this close range. He was as black as midnight. But his eyes-she swore they were blue. She blinked, and in an instant he was gone.

Lying perfectly still, she tried to control the racing of her heart, the ragged sound of her breathing. For all she knew, the animal hadn't gone. He could be watching. Waiting to pounce. It seemed as if an eternity pa.s.sed, although Stephanie imagined it hadn't been long.

Slowly she rolled to her side and sat up. She glanced around the area. Nothing. How had the animal managed to run away, injured as he was? He wouldn't get far, that much she knew. The drugs would take him down. When she tried to rise, pain shot through her wrist. She stood and tried to look at her injury. The light wasn't strong enough. Her campsite wasn't far. Stephanie planned to return, disinfect and bandage the wound, then gather the supplies needed to nurse the wolf.

She followed a trail she'd created with a package of tissues back to camp. It was dark inside her tent. Without wasting time to light the lantern, she fumbled through her supplies, disinfected her wrist, then wrapped a bandage around the wound. It stung like h.e.l.l. After gathering the supplies she needed, Stephanie hurried out. She retrieved a flashlight from her Jeep, annoyed she hadn't thought of s.n.a.t.c.hing it after she'd heard the gunshots, and before she'd run unthinking into the night. Poaching was a serious problem all over the world. Her response earlier had been automatic. She'd a.s.sumed that whatever was being hunted, it was probably illegal. She'd been right.

The trail of tissues she'd marked had been easy to follow. Locating a trail of bloodstains from the wounded wolf was not as simple. Once she did, Stephanie expected to find the sedated animal quickly. The sun had completely risen by the time the trail led her to a small clearing, and to a house-a cabinlike structure with animal pens in the back and the front door standing wide open.

A sign outside the cabin read "Rick Donavon, DVM." She followed the bloodstains up the creaky steps. Pulling her gun from her jacket pocket, she stepped inside the cabin.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary. There were no immediate signs of human life, or of the animal. On the floor she saw bloodstains leading to a hallway, where she heard the sound of running water.

She found two rooms off the hallway, an unoccupied bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom door stood cracked an inch. She pushed it open, stepping inside. Hot steam curled around her. Through the haze, she spotted another bloodstain, on the floor in front of the shower door.

The shower door suddenly burst open. A man stepped out, reached inside and shut off the water. He turned. His gaze locked with hers. His eyes widened a fraction, then lowered to the weapon trained on him. Stephanie stood stunned, unable to form complete sentences in her head, much less speak them.

It wasn't as if she'd expected the big bad wolf to climb out of the shower. But she hadn't seen a man as finely put together as this one in a long time. He stood at least six foot three, and his hair was darker than pitch. His eyes were blue in contrast to his thick dark lashes. Her gaze lowered of its own accord. She swallowed loudly. He was magnificent. All muscle and smooth, tawny flesh.

"Can I help you?"

Her gaze shot up to his face. "Oh yeah," she breathed, then realized she'd been staring at parts of him she had no business seeing. "I-I mean, I'm looking for a wolf."

His brows rose. "Four-legged or two?"

Real cute, she thought. The sarcastic remark and the man. Stephanie tugged at her jacket collar. The bathroom felt hotter than before, which didn't make sense since the open doorway had allowed most of the steam to escape.

"Four," she answered dryly. "I've been tracking an injured wolf all morning. A trail of bloodstains led me inside your cabin."

"You don't plan to shoot me, do you?"

Realizing she still held the gun trained on him, she lowered the weapon. "Sorry. Your front door was open. The wolf must have come inside. There's a bloodstain on the floor in front of the shower."

The man looked down. Stephanie used his distraction to run her gaze over him again.

"Excuse me?"

She glanced up. "I-I thought the blood might be yours. That you might have hurt yourself."

"Do I look injured?"

He'd as good as invited her to examine him to her heart's content. The man obviously had no issues with modesty. "Shouldn't you get a towel or something?" she asked, tugging at her jacket collar again.

He smiled. "Shouldn't you wait in the other room while I do?"

"Oh, right." Stephanie turned and left the bathroom. Even fl.u.s.tered by the sight of a sinfully gorgeous naked man, she maintained the clarity of thought to move slowly into the living area. The kitchen was part of the room, separated by a long bar. Dart gun trained, she moved around the bar. She didn't see a wolf, but she spotted a coffeepot. Digging inside the cabinets, she found a can of coffee and some filters. The coffee had just started to brew when she heard the front door close.

Stephanie moved around the bar. The man from the shower now stood at the door. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a flannel shirt, unb.u.t.toned, which called attention to his broad, masculine chest. He leaned against the closed door, staring at her.

The hairs at the back of her neck bristled. She supposed he had every right to close his own door, but the sight of him leaning casually against it made her feel nervous. Trapped.

"I-I made some coffee," she said. "I hope you don't mind."

"You don't have trouble barging into a man's lair and making yourself at home, do you?" His voice was low, deep, and sensual despite the slight irritation she read in his tone.

To the contrary of what he'd said, Stephanie usually felt ill at ease in someone else's home. She had a problem with walls, which was what had led her into wildlife research. Lots of wide-open s.p.a.ces. Had he said lair?

"I'm sorry. I didn't get any sleep last night. Coffee seemed like a good idea."

He sighed and pushed away from the door. "I'm sorry, too. I don't get much company. A farmer with a sick animal once in a while. I've forgotten how to be hospitable."

She recalled the sign out front. "You must be Dr. Donavon."

The man stopped before her. "Any woman who has seen me naked should call me by my first name. I'm Rick."

Her face flushed. "I apologize for that, too."

He moved past her into the kitchen. "The part where you barged in on my shower? Or the part where you held a tranquilizer gun aimed at me?"

"Both." She followed him into the kitchen, then drew up short. "How did you know the gun wasn't a real one?"

Reaching into the cabinet to remove two coffee cups, he answered. "I'm a vet, remember? I've seen dart guns before."

That made sense. "Well, anyway, I'm sorry for doing both. Like I told you, I was tracking an injured wolf."

When he handed her a cup, his hand shook. His skin had an unhealthy sheen, as well. Maybe he hadn't dried off, she thought. His hair was still wet and slicked back from his face. And it was a very handsome face.

"It's fortunate your wife isn't home," she found herself saying. "She might have barged in on a scene that didn't look very innocent."

A smile that really wasn't one hovered around his mouth. Stephanie wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h the ridiculous words back. She wasn't the type to worm out information concerning a man's marital status. Regardless of how good he looked naked.

"I don't have a wife," he said, brushing against her sleeve while reaching for the coffeepot. His glance toward her left ring finger didn't go unnoticed. She held out the cup. He tried to pour, but his hands shook badly.

"Maybe you'd better get your own. I'm not feeling well this morning."

She stared into his eyes. A sense of deja vu washed over her, as if she'd looked into those eyes before, another time besides this morning. "You don't look well, either." She lifted a hand to his forehead.

He flinched. "Are you a doctor?"

She was beginning to wonder if she hadn't managed to tranquilize herself. "No. I just thought you might have a fever. You look hot."

Deliberately, his gaze moved over her. "Likewise."

His statement and the warmth of his eyes couldn't be mistaken, but she wasn't in the mood to play games with him. "It does feel warm in here," she said, purposely misinterpreting his compliment. "I should be going." She set her cup down and walked toward the door. Rick Donavon moved quicker than any animal she had seen. He blocked her exit.

"You didn't tell me what you're doing here."

The fight-or-flee instinct gripped her again. "I did tell you. I was-"

"I didn't mean what you're doing in my cabin. What are you doing in a sleepy

little Montana mountain community?"

She kept willing him to move from the door. He didn't. "I'm researching a lead. The organization I work for heard rumors that a pack of Yellowstone wolves had migrated to this area. I'm supposed to uncover the truth, which I have obviously done. Now I'm going to take some pictures and do some filming so we can identify the group. I need to find out how many are in the pack. How or if they're adjusting to the terrain. Things like that."

"There are twelve in the pack. And what they're doing is killing livestock."

"I don't see how you can be sure of that," she said. "There are also grizzlies and mountain lions in this area."

"It's the wolves. I'm very sure."

Escape momentarily forgotten, she placed her hands on her hips. "Are you aware that the wolves are being illegally hunted?"

He swayed. "We had a bad winter. Not much game in the area. The wolves have been forced to feed on livestock. The farmers are tired of losing sheep to them. No one will blame the men for protecting their herds."

Her opinion greatly differed. "There's a large group of wildlife defendants who would love to argue that matter. Where do you stand on the issue? I'd think being a veterinarian, you wouldn't condone-"

"I don't condone the senseless slaughter of animals," he interrupted. "But this is different. It's survival of the fittest. The way of the wild. You should pack up and leave. You don't want to get caught between the wolves and the sheep farmers."

"I'm already caught in the middle," she said. "If I hadn't intruded on a hunt last night, the wolf I'm tracking would be dead!"

His gaze narrowed. "He might not be all that appreciative that you spared his life."

As if an animal could think in such a way, she thought. "I need to find him before the drugs wear off. He's wounded. I want to see how seriously."

Thinking to force him from his position in front of the door, she reached for the k.n.o.b. He grabbed her shoulders.

"Leave the wolf alone. If he's injured and drugged, he'll also be dangerous. I'm warning you now. Get away from this place. Leave before..."

"Before what?" she demanded.

His eyes were still glazed, and a little wild looking. He seemed to notice that he'd taken hold of her shoulders, and relaxed his grip. "Before it's too late."

Stephanie waited for him to explain, but he stumbled forward, nearly knocking her over in the process. She caught him, slinging his arm around her neck. "You are ill," she said. "I'm taking you to bed."

He made an odd noise. A deep sound that sounded very much like a growl.

"Don't argue with me," she warned. "I won't take no for an answer." She helped him to the bedroom, allowing him to fall on the bed. The bedsprings creaked in protest. "Can you take aspirin? Should I get you to a doctor?"

"No drugs," he mumbled, then closed his eyes. "And no doctor. Just go. I'll be all right."

She had serious doubts that he'd be all right when his teeth started clicking against one another. His body shivered uncontrollably. Chills and fever? That sounded like a dangerous combination to her. She wondered if he'd refused drugs because he couldn't take them, or simply because he'd wanted to get rid of her. His medicine chest should tell her what he could or could not tolerate.

The medicine cabinet was empty. A toothbrush, obviously recently used, and a bottle of mouthwash sat on the counter. She opened a drawer. Toothpaste, floss, but no drugs. Not even Band-Aids. Another cabinet held towels and washcloths. She s.n.a.t.c.hed a washcloth and ran it under cold water.

Rushing back into the bedroom, she sat next to him. He moaned. Her worry increased. Should she contact someone? She hadn't noticed a phone, and she'd left her cell phone in her Jeep. If worse came to worst, she could run back to camp and get her vehicle. The small town she'd driven through last night wasn't far. Surely they had a doctor or a clinic of some kind. She placed the cool cloth against his forehead. He grabbed her wrist.

"Easy," she said, wondering why she used her animal-soothing tone with him. "I'm only trying to help you."

His eyes opened, his brilliant blue gaze locking with hers. In a voice that sounded perfectly lucid, he said, "Then kill me."

Chapter Two.

His hand fell away and his eyes closed. She sat frozen in place. It was probably the fever talking, not him. Still, she couldn't dismiss the look in his eyes when he'd whispered the plea. She'd seen it before. Suffering. The look of an animal in pain; the same look in her father's eyes the last year of his life.

She shuddered, rubbing her arms although she wore her jacket and the room felt uncomfortably warm. It was a nice room, she noticed. Nothing fancy, but the antique furniture and the homemade quilt on the bed gave it a cozy, lived-in look. There were no pictures on the walls. A mirror hung over an old dresser, and a rosary lay on the nightstand next to the bed.

Donavon. Irish Catholic. That made sense. The feather-soft feel of the mattress beneath her sang a siren's song. It would beat a sleeping bag on the hard ground, and she'd gotten very little sleep the previous night. But she couldn't sleep, anyway. Not until she knew if Rick Donavon would be all right, or if she needed to get him to a doctor. She glanced down at him.

He looked at peace despite the unnatural sheen of his skin. His lashes were dark, thick, and enviably long. His every feature looked as if it had been specially designed to fit his face. Puzzle pieces that made up a striking picture. Stephanie glanced away. She shouldn't gawk at him while he lay helpless.

She'd obviously been on her own for too long. Cut off from civilization. Once, she'd thought this was the life she wanted-the life she needed. But three years of solitude had taken its toll. She missed her parents-missed being part of a family. And then there was the matter of men, or the lack of them in her life. Studying her patient, she had to admit that her first reaction to seeing him naked had surprised her. Immediate l.u.s.t was not an emotion that she'd ever experienced before.

As if he sensed her appraisal of him, Rick tossed, mumbling incoherently. Stephanie placed a hand against his forehead, more careful this time. He still felt too warm, but not so hot that she thought desperate measures should be taken. She'd give him a while longer. If his fever broke, chances were he'd be all right. If it didn't, she'd have to figure out how to haul him to her Jeep. All six feet three inches, probably close to two hundred pounds of him. The other side of the bed tempted her. She moved around him and climbed onto the soft mattress. Weary, she closed her eyes. She just wanted to rest them for a moment.

The hunters chased him again. Only this time, the men had hair on their faces and long fangs like the werewolves Rick had once laughed about in old black-andwhite movies. They growled and snapped, their mouths flecked with foam, their eyes glowing red.

Ahead of him, a woman stepped out of the trees. An angel with blond flowing hair and eyes the color of the forest in early spring. She held out her arms, beckoning him to safety. Rick went willingly into her embrace. It had been too long since he'd held a woman, kissed one, made love to one. Those were human pleasures, and not for the likes of him.

Her hair smelled like wildflowers, felt silky beneath his fingertips. The full contours of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against him. She smelled good, felt good, and he wanted to taste her lips. They were petal-soft beneath his. After a moment of no response, she opened to him. He kissed her deeply, his hunger for her building, his senses so much stronger now.

Her body heat rose, fanning the flames of his pa.s.sion. It was h.e.l.l, wanting her, but it was heaven, too. Glorious to experience so human an emotion, and agony to know he had no right. The dream shifted. He suddenly sensed her withdrawal- the moment her mind rejected him.

He clung to the fantasy, unwilling to give it up, to surrender either the pleasure he felt with her or the wonder of being merely mortal. He moved on top of her, pressing her down. His fingers clamped around her wrists, forcing them up over her head. The scent of fear mingled with her intoxicating natural fragrance. He hesitated, the man in him understanding that her reaction was not one of compliance, the animal urging him to continue regardless of her wishes.

A moment later, pain ripped through his groin. He moaned and rolled off her. The soft, sensuous ripples of the dream gave way to a whirlpool of emotions. He opened his eyes, the brightness of day cutting into his skull. A woman stood above him, her green eyes narrowed, lips swollen and shirt gaping open. He remembered her, the angel in his dream, the woman who'd barged in on him in the shower-the same one who'd spared his worthless life.

"I thought I was dreaming," he said.

Her labored breathing caused her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to strain against the gaping shirt, affording him a tantalizing view.

"Well, you weren't," she huffed. "If you're well enough to do that, you're well enough for me to leave."

And she did. She stormed from the room. Rick groaned and rolled off the bed.

He swayed but caught himself. The tranquilizer drugs that had done a number on his system earlier were beginning to wear off. His head still felt a little fuzzy, but he recalled a couple things all too clearly, his hunger for the woman, and the fact that he'd behaved like a rutting beast instead of a man. She was out the door by the time he reached the living area.

The smell of coffee hung heavy on the air. He rushed outside, cursing when a splinter from the wooden porch sliced into his toe. The woman had already made it down the steps.

"Hey!" he shouted. When she didn't respond, he called, "Stephanie, would you stand still long enough for me to apologize?"