Hot Blooded

look around, just to assure herself
that she was alone, and even took the time to sweep up the broken glass, before
tossing a log on the fire, and finding a comfy spot to wait out the remainder of
the night with her backpack right at her side.
    Unfortunately, it was a little too comfy in Samuel's overstuffed easy chair.
Especially with the fire's warmth reaching out and wrapping around her like a
warm blanket. She only realized she'd fallen asleep when the dull thump at the
front door startled her right out of her chair. She was on her feet before she
even came fully awake. When she did, all was silent. She hugged herself, eyes
glued to the door, every sense on alert.
    The knob jiggled just a little. Then there was a low moan, and a soft sound,
as if something slid over the door.
    Swallowing her fear, Jenny yanked the gun from the backpack at her side, then
moved forward very slowly. She reached for the doorknob.
    A soft snuffling sound, then a low bark almost made her hit the ceiling. She
jerked backward three steps, then hurried to a side window to peer out.
    She could see the wagging tail of Samuel's pet. It was standing on the
door-stoop, head down, but she could only see the back of it.
    Dare she open that door to see what was going on outside? It was still dark,
but not fully. The distant sky was beginning to pale to gray, and the moon was
nowhere in sight. Not that she'd ever once believed the moon had to be visible
in order for a man to assume wolf form. Nor even that a man
could
assume wolf form under any circumstances. Still…
    Mojo had been friendly before. It might be different now, however.
    The wolf barked again. A friendly, if urgent-sounding yip, aimed at the door,
from the sounds of it.
    "He's a wolf," she told herself aloud. "It's not as if he doesn't already
know I'm in here."
    Tucking the gun into the back of her jeans, she moved to the door, gripped
the knob and opened it just a crack.
    Then she flung it open the rest of the way, because Samuel was lying at her
feet, completely naked, his pet nuzzling and licking at his face, pushing him as
if to get him up.
    For just an instant she could only stand there, staring at him. He looked
like a fallen, battered God—Lucifer after the fall. The lines of him, the planes
and angles—he was stunning; he was perfect.
    She dropped to her knees, hands gripping Samuel's warm, hard shoulders,
rolling him carefully onto his back. His chest was sculpted, powerful, his belly
lean. "Samuel? Are you all right?"
    His eyes were closed, but she wasn't sure if that was because he was
unconscious, or because they were cut and bruised and swollen. "My God, what
happened to you?"
    "Why are… you here?" he asked, his words broken, hoarse.
    "Waiting for you."
    He tried to get into a sitting position, and she gripped his forearms and
helped him as he struggled to his feet and limped into the house with his dog
dancing around his feet. She winced in sympathy with his pain and closed the
door. He said, "It's nothing, I'll be fine in a few hours."
    "Some doctor you are. It'll be more like a few weeks."
    "I need… my bed."
    "You need a hospital bed. Yours will have to do for now." She kept hold of
him as they made their way to his bedroom. "Hold on." She peeled back the covers
on the huge bed, a rustic four-poster made of knotty pine logs.
    As soon as the blankets were out of the way, he fell facedown onto the bed,
his head turned away from her.
    Jenny tugged the covers over him again. "Is anything broken, do you think? Is
there anything more serious than cuts and bruises?"
    He said nothing. Not a word.
    "Samuel?"
    Nothing.
    She rounded the bed so she could see his face, and watched the slow, steady
rise and fall of his powerful back as he breathed. Gently, she reached out,
brushed a wisp of dark hair away from his forehead.
    "Samuel."
    She didn't know what had happened to him, but she could guess. She imagined
that the same kind of behavior that would constitute hunting, or even frolicking
for a wild wolf, would mean physical exhaustion for a human being. The branches
and twigs that snapped against the fur-covered hide of a wolf would leave welts
on a human.
    But it looked as if more than that had happened. It looked as if he'd run a
gauntlet of sadists armed with whips and clubs. It looked as if he'd been beaten
to within an inch of his life.
    Sighing, she got to her feet, only to feel the brush of Mojo's head