He may have believed it if the child, a perfect barometer for the mother's feelings, didn't choose that moment to let out a silent whimper of distress. Her mother was clearly upset, off balance, perhaps even frightened. Because whatever emotion her mother was feeling, so then was the child feeling.
Jonas backed up with three deliberate steps, waiting tensely for the child to regain the calm he wanted the mother to feel.
It happened slowly. One step at a time. Rachel turned back to the computer and that impossible itinerary she was working on.
"Racert is double-crossing us," he finally told her, careful to keep his voice quiet. "He's after information."
"Which you give so rarely and with such perfect manners," she mocked him.
He grunted at the comment. He would tell her anything she wanted to know; she only had to ask. Racert, however, was another thing entirely.
"Cancel the meeting," he ordered her again.
"No." There was pure stubborn refusal in her voice.
His lips thinned.
"Fine, I'll leave the office." He stalked back to the doorway.
"Go ahead." He heard the shrug in her voice. "I'll handle the meeting myself. I believe the meeting involves the latest projected budget, which you haven't yet turned in. I'm certain I can handle that."
Jonas assured himself he wasn't paling at the very thought of Miss-Financial-Tight-Ass creating his budget.
A growl slipped free before he could hold it back.
Rachel's brow arched as disdain filled her expression. But from the child, he felt something far different, something he was certain he should at least protest.
Amusement. The baby was amused, which meant her mother was much more amused.
"Are you laughing at me?" He paced back to her desk, flattened his hands on the dark wood and leaned forward. Close enough that he could smell her unique scent. Close enough that the hunger ripping through his guts sharpened to a dagger's stroke. "Be careful, little girl," he warned her softly, holding her gaze, watching the wild green become darker, wilder. "Or you may well get far more than you're bargaining for."
The amusement drifted away and something far darker took its place.
Jonas eased back. He forced himself from the suddenly reckless anticipation that poured from the woman, despite the composed features, the iron will and stubborn determination. Slowly, he straightened, turned and forced himself back to his own office.
There was desire there, in the sweet scent of her, in the tension that tightened between them each time he went near her. There was hunger. The scent of it was like a soft summer rainfall. It was fresh, tinged with the scent of the earth itself, and a sweet moisture that he knew could become addictive as hell.
The woman was everything he could have wanted in a mate. She was the dream he'd never allowed himself to wish for. Because it was the greatest danger he could bring to his life, and the future of the Breeds.
This was a temptation he knew he could never allow himself to weaken to. It was a promise he had made to himself. It was a vow. And this small woman was shredding his determination one look, one word, one breath at a time.
His mate would never know mating heat.
CHAPTER 1
FOUR MONTHS LATER
For the first time in her life, Rachel Broen was terrified. It wasn't fear. It was soul-destroying, mind-numbing, silently screaming terror.
She couldn't scream aloud, it would draw notice. Notice that her tears and ragged sobs wouldn't draw, weren't drawing as she slid her unassuming little Civic into the deserted parking lot of the Bureau of Breed Affairs.
The night guard on duty at the gate had taken her pass without much notice. He knew her car, had seen enough of her to know who she was. It wasn't unusual for her to leave late, or to arrive early if she was commanded to do so by the autocratic Bureau director, Jonas Wyatt.
The guard had easily accepted her hasty excuse that she'd forgotten to update his memos and his morning schedule, and that it had to be done tonight.
He hadn't noticed her torn blouse or the jacket she wore that covered it. He hadn't seen the bruise she could feel spreading across the right side of her face, or the swollen condition of her right eye.
The blow had been carefully delivered.