Moon Glamour

Chapter 1 I showed up at the job interview with salt packets in my pocket and a grease stain on my right knee. Scanning the museum steps for a woman with a rose pinned to her blouse, I came up empty. Good. I was early enough to nip inside and wash up. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite make it to the ladies’ room before words a human wouldn’t have been able to decipher percolated into my lupine-enhanced ears. “I’d hit that.” “Mm mm, me too!” I turned just a little so the glass case I was walking past reflected the faces of the girls behind me. They were around my sister’s age. Sixteen, fueled by raging hormones, and currently proving that men weren’t the only ones who objectified members of the opposite s*x. “I mean look at that butt.” “Can’t. Too busy with his biceps.” They sounded like they wanted to lick the object of their admiration. And even though I was on a deadline, I swiveled all the way around so I could follow their gaze. No wonder the girls were excited. The man leaning forward to peer at the brush strokes of a Renoir measured over six feet of rope-thick muscles. His shoulders were so wide I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had to turn sideways to fit through doorways. He also moved with the grace of a werewolf. I flared my nostrils then coughed as my throat flooded with the wildness that only another shifter could exude. My fists clenched. Coming face to face with a male werewolf was bad news, even if both of us were currently playing human. If I was lucky, this stranger would acknowledge my right to pass through a territory I didn’t rightfully belong in after he saw the rectangle of paper in my pocket. But my get-out-of-jail-free card wasn’t likely to hold up to many testings. Better to fly under the radar.... Leave. Now, my inner wolf whispered. Our heart rate sped up. Human feet were pointing toward the exit with wolf speed hurrying their motion when the girls hissed out disappointment. “Ew. What a face.” “I’d still do him...if he tied a bag over his head.” Their words descended into giggles and curiosity stole my momentum. This time, I turned all the way around to see what grotesqueness had squashed their juvenile infatuation. I was too late to catch more than a glimpse before the man angled his body away from us. I’d seen enough, however, to note the relevant facts. Skin a middling brown that I suspected spoke to a Latin American heritage. Bushy eyebrows. A nose that had been broken and reset without medical attention. Scars, multiple scars. But that wasn’t the reason the girls had reacted so negatively. The charisma of an alpha—and he was an alpha; I could smell that on him—should have attracted human women as thoroughly as it intrigued female werewolves. Only, something was off about this particular specimen. Something related to the scars streaking through what might otherwise have been appealing features. I c****d my head, trying to understand the girls’ repulsion. This was an unexpected twist in the well-worn path of werewolf charisma. The strength of an alpha, apparently, could either attract or repel. And as I squinted, I could almost see what had turned the teenagers off about Mr. Broad Shoulders. More than the scars. Something deeper.... Then I blinked and my face blindness kicked back in. Well, my face blindness plus his evasive action. Instead of responding with the rage I would have expected, the alpha turned even further so we couldn’t catch even a glimpse of his supposed ugliness. Maybe that’s why I broke my cardinal rule—never draw attention to yourself. “The perfect male body,” I mused aloud. “A rare art form. I believe I saw two specimens on the fourth floor, third gallery over from the stairs.” I had, too. Last Sunday when I wandered through the Roman marbles. The men in question, let me be clear, were statues. n***d, though. Muscular. Perfectly featured. The girls would appreciate their chiseled physiques. I was tempted to add a zinger. Something about the cold harshness that often went hand in hand with perfect masculine beauty. The warmth of spirit that was far more important outside museums. But these girls were kids. Too young to know better. So I let their giggling recede without dousing them in the cold water of adult wisdom. Then I turned my own feet toward the exit, already thinking ahead to my upcoming meeting... ...and ran into a wall of hot, living werewolf chest. *** “THAT WAS SWEET, CHICA.” His voice was deep, gravelly. Before I could retreat, he took a single step sideways. Now he was toeing the line of appropriate personal space while also opening my path to the exit in case I needed to make a run for it. And I did need to make a run for it. I’d wasted my hand-washing minute educating teenagers. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be late to the job interview. Which, in turn, was likely to cascade into making me late visiting my sister. Late preventing family drama from a stepfather who reveled in inserting monkey wrenches into my well-laid plans. But my feet merely swiveled so I could stare upward into the face of the stranger. He was taller than I’d thought from a distance. Maybe because he’d been striving at the time not to scare gawking teenagers? Had his shoulders been hunched earlier? His spine bent? Whatever the reason, I was the scared one now. Or maybe scared wasn’t the proper word. Some heavy emotion I couldn’t quite fathom struck me in the chest area. It was abruptly hard to breathe. “But unnecessary,” the man continued, and for a moment I forgot what he was talking about. “I know what I look like.” Oh, right. Human standards of external beauty. “We have such a strange obsession with facial symmetry,” I observed, forgetting for a moment that I was talking to a male werewolf who could likely freeze me in my steps and force me to do his bidding. “Presumably based on the evolutionary advantage of choosing the healthiest mate. Infections during childhood....” “These scars didn’t come from childhood infection.” His head c****d and he smiled, a slow display of sharp teeth that—I’ll admit—sent a tremor down my spine. I flinched and his mouth snapped shut, lips going instantly flat. “I apologize.” His eyes struck the floor, as if he was afraid of me. I wanted to stay and tell him he had nothing to apologize for. Because even as the tremor flew through me, I understood it for what it was—instinct no more rational than that which had disgusted the teenagers. But I was late. My sister needed the cash this job would offer. And this man was a werewolf. Dangerous to me in ways I couldn’t afford to handle. A threat to my tenuous understanding with another alpha, one that allowed me to see my sister while she lived far too close to the heart of his territory. “Keep your chin up,” I told the stranger as I spun toward the open door. And why, when distance eased the tightness in my chest, was I left feeling heavy rather than light?