The Unforgettable Wolf. Jane Godman
want to run after him and beg him to kiss her again? Because this attraction was growing like wildfire, consuming her to the exclusion of everything else.
The thought jerked her up from her seat like a lightning flash. No. This couldn’t have happened. She was confusing gratitude with something deeper. She was still suffering the effects of that blow to her head. I could have a husband, or a lover, waiting for me somewhere. He could be frantically searching for me even now. I may not be free to have these feelings for another man.
She didn’t think that was the case—and Nate’s frequent internet searches that turned up no trace of anyone looking for her, no newspaper reports of her as a missing person, backed up her hunch—but she clung to the thought anyway. Because the alternative was that she had tumbled headlong into this intense attraction toward Nate with no real idea of who he was. Worse than that, she still had no idea of who she was. But she had a suspicion that she was a werewolf, and she knew he was a werewolf killer. It was hardly a match made in heaven.
Restlessly, she decided to push her thoughts aside, reasoning that her damaged head wasn’t capable of straight thinking. After being confined on that bus with all the raw energy that was Beast for the best part of a day, she needed activity. Among her expensive new clothing, she had noticed some kick-ass running gear. Changing hurriedly into three-quarter-length leggings, a tight T-shirt and running shoes, she made her way down to the lobby and out onto the street.
The wide pavements alongside the river were busy, but there were other joggers taking advantage of the pleasant weather. Violet ran at a steady pace, enjoying the fresh air and the sunlight on her face, even though she craved more. What more was, she didn’t know. When she tried to reach within herself to find out, it eluded her. All she got was a sense of needing bigger, freer, wilder. Frustration kicked in and she paused, leaning over a wall to view the river as she caught her breath.
That was when it hit her. A memory. The first she’d had since that blow to her head. Brief and faint, it flashed into her mind for a second or two. A man, strong, tall and powerful. He was angry. His voice was raised. She got a sense of her own anger firing back at him before the image faded. Although she tried to catch it, to hold on to it, it was gone.
Even though she had felt the confrontational mood of the flashback, she had felt something else more strongly. It was there again. That feeling of otherness. Wherever she had been when she and that man faced each other with rage quivering between them, it had been...different.
Where am I from? Where do I call home? That man cared enough to be angry at me, yet he doesn’t seem to be searching for me. The mystery of her identity appeared to be tied into the mystery of where she belonged. A slight headache was forming behind her eyes, and instead of jogging back to the hotel she walked slowly, her feet dragging. Her thoughts kept returning to the only thing that mattered.
Nate. She picked up the pace. I need to be with Nate.
Nate tried to drag his focus back onto the forthcoming gig. Around him, everything was the usual organized chaos, but he hardly noticed. His mind was on Violet. Face it, he told himself. His mind had been on Violet since the moment he met her. But she’d been unnaturally quiet ever since she’d turned up at the rehearsal. In the whirlwind of preparation, he’d barely had time to speak to her.
Typically, before a performance, the big personalities in the band would take up most of his time. Nate was the peacekeeper. He wasn’t the showman. He was a classically trained musician and, just as his guitar playing brought the music together, it was his temperament that held the team in place. He was the one who didn’t need his own ego massaged. There was a definite pecking order, starting with Khan. The closer they got to the start time of the gig, the more outrageous the lead singer’s behavior became. Khan was so high maintenance, he was off the scale. By the time they went onstage, he was often lucky to still be alive.
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