A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by Deborah MacGillivray Page B

warrior’s edge. A power, a strength, a force vital radiated from him. Oh, Sinclair was dressed to perfection in a tuxedo, but this man belonged on the deck of a ship, screaming orders to buccaneers over cannon fire, or in mail and armor, a knight barded for battle andastride his mighty destrier. There was a sensual, primeval earthiness about him, and dealing with him was way beyond her abilities. Bloody hell, she couldn’t even cope with Alec. Trevelyn Sinclair would wreak twice as much havoc if she dared let him close. If she was fool enough to…
    Oh, temptation slithered under her skin. She wanted him—which surprised her. Prior to meeting this unusual stranger, she’d always believed her emotions would have to be fully engaged before any man would receive an invitation to her bed. Trevelyn Sinclair was possibly the exception to the rule. Making love with him would be dancing in a bonfire: she wasn’t sure there’d be anything left when the flame had run its course.
    Ill at ease, she pressed a hand to her belly to quiet the butterflies. He made her nervous in ways she didn’t even want to consider.
    Breaking the silence, Trev asked, “You’re quiet. Still upset?” He glanced over at her, staring for several seconds, then turned the radio on low.
    “I seem to be thanking you for one thing or another this evening. First, giving me the way to save face before Alec, then buying the rocking horse, rescuing me from the idiot and now taking me home. You were right—I shouldn’t be driving. It’s raining too hard, the road is too dark and narrow, and concentration would’ve been difficult for me.” And likely she’d have been crying. Showing a modicum of wisdom, she bit that observation back. She was a coward, but that was her secret. She didn’t want pity from this man.
    He took his eyes from the road and allowed them to linger on her. That green stare had a banked sexual heat, but solicitude also flickered there. His salacious look was hard enough on her system, but coupled with concern, it battered down what feeble defenses she could muster.
    “You shouldn’t let that creep Beechcroft push yourbuttons. He’s not worthy of you and knows it—it’s precisely what has him so ticked off. You give him power when you react as he wants. Take the power back, Raven. Don’t let him win.”
    “I know. I don’t handle confrontations well anymore. I never did, really, but since the divorce…” She allowed the sentence to trail off, not wishing to bore him, nor caring to rehash the depressing details. Life would be so much simpler if everyone came with delete buttons like computers. “I suppose I’m the misfit of the family. Runt of the litter. I dislike fighting and shrink from competition, which made it hard growing up a twin and one of seven sisters. My sisters are very…hmm…forceful. In a nice way, of course. Not me. I’m happiest when I can ignore life and its problems. I’m too trusting for my own good, wound easily, deeply. I ‘failed to toughen up,’ as they say.” Her words were a warning to this man—and a plea.
    Her eyes shifted to the elegant hand resting lightly on the gearshift. It was a magician’s hand, deft, artful, yet a strong hand you’d expect to see wrapped around the hilt of a claymore. Then she glanced at his much too beautiful face, its strong jaw and luminous all-seeing eyes, and finally the wavy, blue-black hair. Oh, his drop-dead gorgeous looks were enough to fluster her. A woman would have to be comatose not to respond to the carnal aura swirling around Trevelyn. Still, there was something else. He seemed familiar in a way she couldn’t begin to fathom; a sense of déjà vu wrapped around her and made every moment seem a step out of time.
    He gave her a cool smile, unruffled by her long appraisal. Arrogant and uncaring that she knew it, Trevelyn Sinclair was clearly at home in his skin. “What you need is a champion to fight life’s battles for you,” he