Free Wolf Island by Cheryl Gorman

lured into allowing her to stay.
    A
fire licked at thick pine logs in the fireplace and chased away the chill in
the air, but did little for the bitter rush of fear through his blood. After
he’d found the macabre package outside the kitchen and then the rabbit in the
library, the stakes had risen considerably.
    The
monster had been inside the castle.
    Devlin
looked out one of the office windows. Dim, watery light sifted like an ivory
mist through the glass pane, but an overhead light cast a golden glow over the
room, dispelling the gloom.
    His
stomach growled, and he checked the time. Half past seven. Jake and the
policewoman from the mainland would be here soon to discuss a strategy for
capturing the bastard.
    Coffee.
He needed coffee. Devlin rose from his desk and headed for the kitchen.
    Moroccan
music, heavy with the click of castanets and the high-pitched lilt of horns,
drifted down the hallway and throbbed through the kitchen door. A corner of
Devlin’s mouth curled upward. He knew Otis sometimes listened to music while he
cooked, but his choice generally ran toward something with a Cajun rhythm.
    Devlin
shifted closer to the door, laid his hand against the wood, and pushed. He
peeked into the kitchen. To his surprise and delight, he saw Abby standing in
the middle of the room, eyes closed, facing the door. She held her hands over
her head with her arms slightly curved. Her fingers and thumbs snapped together
as if she held small cymbals.
    She’d
kicked off a pair of brown leather loafers, and her sock-covered feet slid over
the gray-tiled floor to the rich beat of the music. She wore a pair of brown
corduroy slacks that molded to her sweet hips, and a long-sleeved beige shirt
outlined the shape of her breasts.
    The
feel of those pretty, round breasts floated through his brain, along with the
flavor of her mouth and tongue. He remembered every single moment of the time
they’d spent together, just a few hours earlier in her bedroom. What a paradox,
buttoned up like a nun while her hips undulated like Salome.
    Abby
had bundled her hair up into a clip on the back of her head, exposing her slim,
white neck to him. The texture and flavor of a neck he knew intimately. Devlin
opened the door wide enough so he could slip through, closing the door quietly
at his back. Enjoying the show, he crossed his arms over his chest and couldn’t
have stopped the grin of appreciation if he’d tried.
    He
fantasized for a moment about Abby wearing one of those I Dream of Jeannie outfits made of sheer material and sequins, with lots of skin and a generous
amount of cleavage showing. Complete with toe ring and ankle bracelet.
    A
private dance for his pleasure alone.
    The
cadence of the music pulsed faster and faster; the sound of the horns swelled
higher, their tone growing sharper by the second. Abby turned slowly in a
circle, her hips gyrating to the swift tempo, her feet shuffling to the flow of
the lavish notes. With each rise in the pitch of the music, Abby thrust her
pelvis forward then backward, with increasing ripples and rolls. Desire stroked
his nerve endings and warmed the pit of his stomach. He wanted to know the heat
of her between those sexy legs.
    A
look of naked joy and intense pleasure covered her face as she let the swirling
frenzy of sound sweep her away. The music, blaring from the portable stereo,
finally reached a crescendo, then suddenly stopped.
    For
a moment, Abby remained perfectly still. A light sheen of sweat beaded her
forehead, and her chest heaved in rapid breaths. Devlin watched a smile shimmer
over her lips before her eyes drifted open.
    Their
gazes locked, and her violet eyes widened with shock. Her mouth formed a
perfect O. She jerked her arms down to her sides as a hot blush burned up her
neck and spread red streaks over her face. “How long have you been standing
there?”
    Devlin
raised a brow and smiled. “Long enough. Morning.”
    She
stuffed her feet back into her shoes and cocked her head in