Free The Beast in Him by Shelly Laurenston Page A

brought out all sorts of reactions from other shifters. Some looked down on them and others looked horrified. That one small phrase, “Of the Smith Pack?” followed Smitty around like stink on a pig.
    “Yes, sir, I surely am of the Smith Pack. The Tennessee Smiths.”
    “I see. Well, it’s very nice to meet you. Jessica, can I speak with you for a second?”
    “Well, as you see—”
    “Now.”
    This had been what she’d been trying to avoid—time alone with Sherman Landry. Like most obsessive dogs that chased the same car every day, went after the same cat, slammed into the same mirror because they didn’t seem to grasp the only other dog in the room was themselves, Sherman wouldn’t quite give up on her. She really wished he would. He’d sent flowers to the office that morning, even though she’d told him about her allergies. How could Smitty remember sixteen years after the fact, but this idiot forget after two days?
    He grabbed her hand and pulled her outside Starbucks into the cold, completely oblivious to the fact that she had no coat in ten-degree weather. Then he started rambling and she had a hard time focusing. Not merely because of the cold, but really because a tit grab had never felt so good before and Smitty hadn’t even squeezed.
    “I’m not sure what the problem is, Sherman,” she snapped, too cold to bother being polite any longer.
    “Jessica, do you know who you’re sitting with?”
    “Well, since I just introduced him to you, I have a vague idea.”
    “I don’t mean who he is. I mean who he is.” A physicist with several government contracts under his belt and a tenured position complete with his own lab at the local, blindingly expensive small university, Sherman still had the amazing ability of sounding like a complete idiot.
    “And who is he?”
    “He’s a Smith. I thought he was just a wolf, but he’s a Smith. What are you thinking?”
    I’m thinking the man can palm my breast anytime. “I’m not sure what you mean. What am I thinking about what?”
    “Jessica”—to her great annoyance, he took her elbow and led her farther away from the coffeehouse—“Smiths are, at the very least, not good for a woman’s reputation.”
    “My reputation?” Had she actually portaled to another time and dimension? Where women actually had to worry about their reputations.
    “I know. I know. You don’t think about those things, but you need to. Smiths are infamous womanizers.”
    She’d never call Smith males “womanizers.” Although she would call them whores.
    “I see.”
    “And,” Sherman said in all doglike seriousness, “they’re dangerous, Jessica. Unstable. Even other wolves avoid them.”
    “I had no clue.” Sure, she could explain to Sherman how she’d grown up around Smiths and knew them better than most. She could also explain how Smitty and she used to be friends. But all that would require her to spend more time with the man, seconds of her life she’d never get back.
    Forcing herself not to glance impatiently down at her watch, she said, “I’ll talk to my Pack about it.”
    “Of course. Because God forbid you should move without their permission.”
    It was the venom with which he made that statement that had her eyes narrowing to slits. Her Pack only wanted her to be happy. For instance, they sure as fuck wouldn’t let her stand out in the cold so they could lecture her.
    The coffeehouse door opened and Smitty walked out, heading right toward them. She hadn’t been this relieved to see the man since he dragged Bertha off her while she was pummeling Jess’s face.
    Smitty glanced down at her, and she knew he’d immediately caught on to her rapidly growing anger. Taking her arms, he pulled them around his waist and pulled her in tight to his body. His jacket and body heat kept her warm; his embrace kept her from tearing out Sherman Landry’s throat.
    “Everything all right out here?” Smitty asked.
    “Yes,” she said out loud. Under her breath,