Free Gone With the Wolf by Kristin Miller Page A

to her building in Drake’s hand, he had questions for her. Questions about something personal that Raul discovered—she’d applied for a marriage license one month before taking the job at Wilder. She’d accepted a proposal of marriage. In Drake’s pack, that meant that she was off-limits. Untouchable.
    What happened to her fiancé? Public records didn’t show a marriage and she’d never mentioned it. The whole thing didn’t sit right with him. His coffee tasted bland, though that could’ve been because he came in early and made it himself, and his coat clung to his shoulders too tightly.
    As Drake strode around the last corner and spotted Emelia slumped over her keyboard, he cleared his throat. She gasped, nearly jumped out of her chair. “Drake? I—”
    “In my office,” he said, shoving open the office door. They needed to get the deed business over with so they could move on to more pressing things. Like when she’d been claimed by another.
    “I wasn’t sleeping, I swear,” Emelia said, following his every step. “I was thinking…with my head down.”
    “I don’t care.” He strode to the windows and went palms-down on the glass. The cold lancing through his fingers did little to soothe the possessiveness flaring in his gut.
    “I should get back out there.”
    “Stay,” he commanded and then on second thought, added, “Please.”
    “I’m not supposed to leave my desk.” Her voice wavered with uncertainty. “What if someone calls or comes in?”
    “Let Trixie take the calls,” Drake spun around, holding his breath as he brushed past her.
    “Trixie’s not here. She had to run an errand downstairs.”
    “We’re going to straighten out this mess with your bar,” Drake said, laying everything on the table. “And we’re going to do it now.”
    Emelia stood in the center of his office, her mouth gaping as if he’d surprised her. She owned the hardworking secretary image with black dress pants that stove-piped to the floor, and a baby-blue sweater with crinkles of extra fabric at the collar. She was a chameleon, Drake gave her that much, able to adapt to the secretary role as easily as she had the bartending one.
    “I know I said we should talk in the morning, but maybe we should talk about this later…when you don’t look like you’re about to kill someone.” She took a step toward him, hesitating when he put his hands up to stop her. It was better if she didn’t get too close—he wouldn’t be intoxicated by her sugary sweet scent that way. “There’s more bothering you than you’re saying. What’s going on?”
    What was going on? Drake’s entire body was drawn tight, a rubber band stretched to the limit. Barely holding on to the thread of composure, Drake strode to his desk and flipped open a manila envelope filled with copies of e-mails between her and Raul. “When do you claim to have bought the building on Porter Street?”
    “When do I claim to have bought it?” Emelia mocked. She coughed out a laugh. “Good choice of words. Way to rob me of my bar in one fell swoop. I own that building. The Knight Owl is mine.”
    “When did you buy it and from whom?”
    “Eight years ago, January.” Folding her arms over her chest, Emelia sighed, then set her gaze on his mouth. “I bought it from the guy who owned the tattoo parlor next door. I’d leased from him for years, and one day he dropped in and showed me the deed to the entire building. He said the county rezoned and informed him that he could split off the bar from the tattoo parlor. He asked for fifty grand.”
    “Quite the steal, even for a building in that rough neighborhood.” Drake circled his desk and perched on the edge, crossing his feet at the ankles. It staved off the urge to kick something. Barely. “So you just handed it over?”
    With a cynical string of laughs, Emelia plopped into the leather seat facing him. He fought to keep his eyes level with hers and off the cleavage revealed from the drooping