Wind scuttled brittle leaves around Del's ankles. The October sun was golden bright, as if filtered through chunks of amber. She loved autumn, especially in the city. Others could rhapsodize about New England's riotous foliage, but she preferred Manhattan. Central Park offered the same dying leaves as the rest of the country. Her heart beat in natural syncopation with the vitality of her hometown.
      She ran with the wind, her lungs and leg muscles burning. Her daily five miles were religious, a purging of her soul. Pounding the pavement took the harsher edges off the restlessness that sometimes threatened to consume her.
      Remembering the drawling cowboy, she shuddered. He probably ambled. Well, he wouldn't want her and her endless reserves of energy around for long. Most men didn't.
      Why had he been so insistent on a legal marriage?
      She increased her pace as she rounded a curve.
      In less than three hours, she would be getting married, and for the first time since her father's death, she was glad he wasn't alive to witness her cowardice.
      Martin wouldn't have hesitated to do whatever possible to go after the story. Of course, he also had no qualms about how he used his body, either. He would have cheerfully committed bigamy with a federal agent and enjoyed all the side benefits that came with marriage. Whether or not the union was legal or moral wouldn't have mattered a bit. When it came to a story, Martin would have bartered his soul.
      She stopped in the middle of the trail. Her breath rasped in and out of her lungs. Tears stung her eyes. She was pathetic.
      A runner dashed by, nearly knocking her to the ground.
      What was wrong with her? She should have been more gracious to the federal agent, even when he'd made his outrageous demand. Martin had charmed his way in and out of scores of sticky situations. She'd inherited some of his charisma. Now was the time to dig it out and use it.
      Except the cowboy - Toke Lobo - frightened her. Well, not him. Her attraction to him. Unlike most of her friends, who'd settled for Mister-Right-Now, Del was waiting for Mr. Right. She didn't know how to handle her physical reaction to the golden giant in the Stetson.
      Bending at the waist, she grabbed her knees and concentrated on regulating her breathing.
      If dealing with the cowboy became too difficult, she could drop the pretense of writing a story. She didn't have to go through with anything.
      All she wanted was to find out what had happened to Daniel.
      If she hadn't urged him to pick up the pieces of their father's final story, he'd still be in his SoHo loft with James. She owed her brother-in-law the truth. If Daniel was dead, they both needed to mourn him. Limbo was no way to live.
      Maybe Graham's betrayal wasn't so bad.
      Except it meant marrying some hick singer.
      On the bright side, if she went undercover with a new name, the threats might stop.
      A pair of joggers growled as they trotted around her. Still, she didn't step to the grass.
      "Are you all right?"
      Recognizing that drawl, she jerked upright. "Don't sneak up on me," she said. How had he found her? "Did you follow me?"
      So much for her resolve to be nicer to him.
      If Toke hadn't spoken, she wouldn't have recognized him. Gone were the cowboy hat, fringed shirt and worn jeans. Sunlight glinted in his oak-colored curls, as if they were sprinkled with gold dust. Dressed in gray running shorts and a tee shirt that clung like a second skin, he could have posed for the Chippendale's calendar. Mr. October.
      Her body betrayed her by remembering the shock of heat when she'd pushed her finger into his chest, the surge of pure sexual energy when he'd taken her hand.
      "You shouldn't run alone," he said.
      "I run alone all the time," she said, upset that he'd interrupted her thoughts. "You're the first person to ever accost me, and if you think I'm afraid of a cowboy -"
      "You should be."
      The deep rumble of his voice reverberated in her chest, as if they were somehow connected.
      She tilted her face to meet his gaze. To spit in his eye, if necessary. "You don't scare me."
      But he did, because of the lust zinging between them. She did not want to marry this man, did not want to share close quarters with him. She didn't know how to charm him without sending the wrong message.
      A guy who looked like him would have no problems finding willing women, even in 'God's country'. So why her? Why marriage?
      "Good," he said after a moment. His topaz gaze slid from her face. "I don't want a frightened bride."
      Her cheeks heated as she realized her jogging bra did nothing to hide certain details of her anatomy.
      "Shouldn't you be getting ready for your wedding?" she asked, crossing her arms over her breasts.
      "Just taking a run to clear the cobwebs. How about you? Shouldn't you be buying a white gown or something?"
      His smile was slow and lazy, like his speech.
      Sexy.
      "In your dreams," she retorted.
      She planned to throw on a pantsuit - maybe the black pinstripe - to show him the arrangement was strictly business.
      "In my dreams, you're wearing nothing at all."
      His audacity stole her words. She'd never in her life had a problem with a sarcastic comeback, but this Roy Rogers wannabe stumped her. All she could do was sputter.
      "It seems to me an engagement ought to be sealed with more than a handshake," he continued, amber eyes glinting.
      Her nipples tightened into aching points.
      "Let's get something clear right now," she said, furious that her voice trembled like one of the brown leaves clinging to the overhead branches. "This is a marriage in name only. If you keep on making not-so-subtle innuendos, I'm going to -"
      "You're going to what?" The sexy smile disappeared, leaving something ruthless, almost feral in its place. "Start minding your own business and leave federal business to the feds?"
      She got it. He was trying to frighten her off the story.
      "I'm doing my job, like you're doing yours. Just don't expect me to -"
      "I expect you to play the part with enthusiasm, darlin'." He planted his hand on the small of her back and guided her off the path. "I expect you not to embarrass either one of us by refusing to kiss me in front of the preacher."
      "Justice of the peace," she muttered, battling a new flare of irritation and a tingle of alarm.
      "Now you listen up real good here," he said in a voice so low she had to strain the make out the words. "Maybe you didn't understand what went on back in Jasper's office. My cover is an up-and-coming singer. Your cover is my wife. Now, that means a lot of people are going to see us. Together. There's going to be a lot of speculation. You do know what that ten-dollar word means, don't you? Now, if you aren't up to acting like a woman in love, maybe undercover investigative reporting isn't your thing."
      Be nice, she admonished herself. You need him.
      "I'll even keep your groupies at bay," she promised.
      The hard line of anger left his mouth, replaced by his resolve-destroying smile. He probably practiced it in a mirror.
      "Jealous?" he asked.
      "I'm not a voyeur."
      "Whoa! A fifty-dollar word. Want to explain what it means?" Mischief twinkled in his eyes.
      He was all bluff, and she'd fallen for it.
      Well, two could play at that game.
      She reached up and patted his cheek. "It means I don't put out, and I don't like watching other people do the dirty."
      He captured her hand, holding it against his face. "Shucks. I guess I'd better cancel those x-rated movies I ordered for our honeymoon."
      Del struggled not to wince. "Is porn legal in God's country?" she asked.
      "I figure in your case, we could call them educational."
      Ouch.
      For a moment, she'd enjoyed exchanging barbs with him.
      She should have realized the government wouldn't hire a dimwit. And the drawl that so grated on her nerves seemed to come and go.
      It was an act. His cover.
      Well, she was as smart as he was. If he could play the good ole boy with aplomb, she could play at being smitten.
      Except a quick glance below his waist hinted that the man might not be all bluff. Ample evidence that he might not want a paper-only marriage rearranged the front of his shorts.
      She swallowed hard and averted her gaze.
      He was as attracted to her as she was to him, and that was bad. He could use this lust thing against her. Distract her. Prove her father's allegation that she didn't have what it took to be a serious journalist.
      He released her hand and reached for her hair. His fingers tangled in the tight curls.
      "A leaf," he murmured, showing her the crunchy brown offender before dropping it to the ground.
      He stood too close, his height and bulk dwarfing her. The heat emanating from him threatened to overwhelm her, not to mention what she'd observed straining against his shorts.
      She stepped away from him. "What should I pack?"
      He scowled. "You're not packed yet?"
      "It won't take me long," Del said.
      "Warm clothes. It's already snowing in the mountains. One bag. Small. There's not a lot of room on the bus."
      She nodded. "When are we going to compare story notes?"
      "Investigation," he corrected. "Later. After the wedding."
      She glanced around. "There's no one here. Why not now?"
      "Your cover isn't in place." He smiled again, as if he could see right through her. "I'm not risking my investigation, not even for you, darlin'."
      "But I'll have my exclusive," she pressed.
      "Why do you think we're getting married?"

      Stoker opened the door of Hank's rental pick-up truck for Lucy, then cupped her delectable bottom to boost her into the cab. His palms tingled where he touched her.
      Soon, he thought.
      Part of him felt like thanking Randy Butler for driving Lucy deeper into his protection. At this rate, they'd be mated much sooner than anyone but Stoker wanted.
      He wondered if the irony of sending Restin to New Sinai as a thank you gift would be appreciated by General Butler.
      Stoker nearly laughed out loud. He wished Hank were with him, because his cousin would appreciate his humor. Were it any other topic, Lucy might, too. At least, he hoped she would.
      "Sit next to me," he said as he buckled his seatbelt.
      Lucy clung to the passenger door as if it could save her.
      "I won't bite you."
      Her eyes widened.
      "Yet." He grinned, trying to get her to relax. If she walked into the courthouse looking as if she expected to die at any moment, the bureaucrats might not issue them a license.
      He started the engine and waited for her to slide across the bench seat to his side.
      "Won't you be distracted if I sit next to you?" she finally asked, as if realizing they weren't leaving until she moved.
      "Not as much as if I'm worrying you'll jump out of the truck at the next traffic light."
      She inhaled deeply, her chest shuddering with the effort.
      That hurt.
      He was good enough for her to cling to while Bill Danby and Randy Butler tossed down threats like open wounds shed blood, but not good enough for sitting thigh-to-thigh on their way to purchase a marriage license.
      Yup, it hurt.
      "I could toss you over my shoulder and run into town," he offered. "Like last night."
      She unlatched her seat belt and slid closer to him.
      Lucy's problem, he decided, was she had too many choices.
      He waited while she dug into the upholstery for the middle seat belt. If he touched her right now, they wouldn't make it to the courthouse.
      Finally, she was strapped in. He put the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. Lucy leaned forward and turned on the radio, fiddling with the buttons until she found the local country station.
      That was one way to avoid conversation.
      Stoker tried not to scowl. Hank had once said he could scare a ghost with his grimace, so its appearance while he was trying to woo his mate didn't bode well.
      Ancient Ones, he was never going to get this right.
      He thought about some of the movies he'd seen on late night television. He was a sucker for human love stories. Happily ever after was his idea of perfection; what he sought with Lucy. Well, he didn't have time to pick flowers for her right now, chocolate and champagne were poisons, and gestures didn't get much grander than his offer to liberate her sister. There had to be something else he could do, something immediate.
      Keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he drove the unfamiliar streets, he reached for Lucy's hand. Holding hands was supposed to be romantic.
      She didn't struggle, but neither did she return the gentle squeeze he gave her fingers. At least, he hoped it was gentle. Sometimes a werewolf misjudged his strength.
      He glanced at her, forcing his gaze not to linger. Her profile filled him with a warm calm. He'd never seen anything as beautiful as Lucy Callahan.
      A faint tremor just below her surface stillness betrayed her calm demeanor. A faintly rank odor lingered beneath the sweet, green aroma he'd come to associate with her.
      Trepidation.
      A bride-to-be should be excited, not terrified.
      Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her palm. She flinched when his tongue touched the sensitive flesh in the center.
      "Relax," he said. "You look like you're headed for your own execution. It isn't very flattering to me, you know."
      Lucy's eyebrows twisted. Her eyes shimmered as if tears lingered on their surfaces. "Watch the road," she said, her voice husky and strained.
      He wasn't a monster, but she was making him feel like one.
      "I'm not Bill Danby."
      She jerked again. "I know. It's just that I have a lot on my mind."
      "Business?" he asked, unable to keep the sarcastic inflection from his tone.
      "Yes."
      "You should let Restin handle your business and concentrate on . . .."
      He broke off. He couldn't very well say "me," although that's what he meant. If she hadn't figured out that part by now, he doubted she ever would.
      "On what? Or who? My sister?"
      "On being happy."
      Oh, that sounded so lame, and he regretted the words even as they left his mouth. He clutched her hand, his thumb massaging her fingers.
      Her bare fingers.
      A frustrated howl lodged in his throat, but a city street wasn't exactly the place for venting.
      "Where's your ring?" he asked between clenched teeth.
      Lucy started. "Oh," she said. "I forgot to put it back on."
      He pinched her ring finger between his thumb and forefinger. "Why did you take it off?"
      She seemed surprised at the venom in his voice. "To make my phone calls," she said, as if that answer made any sense whatsoever, which it didn't, unless she had some fetish about wearing rings while on the telephone. "You're hurting me."
      He immediately eased his grip. She was making him crazy, making him do perverted things. "I'm sorry. The last thing in the world I'd ever do is intentionally hurt you." He once again brought her fingers to his lips and gently kissed them.
      "I know," she said.
      When you won't wear my ring, you hurt me, he wanted to say, but what kind of male - a werewolf at that - got upset about something as ridiculous as a piece of jewelry. The symbolism wasn't even part of his culture, but rather hers. Maybe that's why its absence bothered him. By rejecting her own token, she rejected him.
      "What did you do with it?" The question came out more sharply than he'd intended.
      "I wrapped it in a towel in the bathroom," she said.
      At least she hadn't lost it.
      "Housekeeping already came through, so it will be okay. I mean, they won't accidentally toss it." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to wearing a ring." She held out her right hand. Those fingers, too, were bare.
      He felt a little better.
      "I promise not to leave it off again," she said. "It was a careless mistake on my part."
      Okay, he felt a whole lot better.