Free To Catch a Wolf by Susan Krinard Page B

flattered. She
    looked up at the third person and lost any sense of comfort.

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    Tamar was tall, voluptuous, and beautiful, but her black eyes were devoid of warmth.
    Her lips remained flat and unwelcoming. A darting, reptilian head thrust out from under
    her dark wrap.

    "Miss Munroe," she said, her voice low and heavily accented. "I hope you do not find it
    inconvenient to come here.”

    "No. Not at all, thank you." Athena kept her hands folded in her lap and held Tamar's
    gaze, resolved not to let her unease show. It was clear she would receive no friendlier
    greeting from the Queen of the Snakes. But an even more disturbing sensation
    centered on her temple, seeming to emanate from the direction of the man Harry had
    not quite finished introducing.

    She turned her head. Her eyes met those of the last man. She could have sworn that
    even her legs felt the impact of that golden gaze.

    "Oh, yes," Harry said, bumbling up beside them. "How remiss of me. Miss Munroe,
    please meet Morgan Holt.”

Chapter 5
    So strong was the sense that they had met that Athena almost asked him where he had
    been and how he had fared over the years.

    She caught herself before she made an embarrassing mistake. They had not met
    before. He was a stranger, though her heart insisted otherwise. A stranger who
    compelled her to stare in defiance of all good manners and propriety.

    Morgan Holt was tall, though not quite so tall as Niall. He was broad through the
    shoulders and lean through the hip in the way of a natural athlete. While the others wore
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    coats and wraps against the autumn wind, he was dressed in an open-necked cotton
    shirt and simple trousers, and his feet were bare.

    But his face made such oddities insignificant. Oh, he was handsome enough—not in the
    conventional way preferred by the women in Denver society, but undeniably attractive.
    "Rugged" was the word that came to mind. He was clean-shaven, making no
    concession to the fashion for long side-whiskers and moustaches. His black hair fell to
    his shoulders, like an Indian's, and his brows were dark slashes above piercing golden
    eyes. Yet something in his face, in his expression, held a fascination for her that went
    far beyond looks.

    Secrets. His face was full of secrets, a calm surface over hidden currents that bubbled
    and boiled. Utter fearlessness. Fierce independence. All the things she wished she
    possessed.

    Morgan was a man who would never beg for a place in the world. Never have to prove
    anything. No one would pity him.

    He blinked like a cat in the sun. She came to herself abruptly and realized that he was
    giving her the same methodical examination to which she had subjected him. His eyes
    grew hooded as they tracked from her face to her lower body and the chair with its
    special wheels. And then he met her gaze, and she saw what she had dreaded
    and
    expected.

    When men looked at her, they did not see a woman. They saw a cripple, a girl never
    permitted to grow up, a creature to be protected and pampered but never loved. Not as
    a man loved a woman, as her father had loved her mother.

    Most of the time she was able to ignore masculine discomfort with her affliction. Most of
    the time she didn't allow herself to think of Niall's business partners, or her friends'
    brothers, as men at all. That entire part of her being remained safely locked away.
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    Until a man like this one came along. And suddenly, painfully, she was aware of his
    potent maleness and her own shortcomings as a woman.

    "Miss Munroe," he said.

    She started, hardly expecting him to speak. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance,
    Mr. Holt," she said, grasping at the rote phrase. "What is your area of expertise in the
    circus?" She smiled cautiously. "Are you the lion tamer, perhaps?”

    He made a sound in his