Heart of the Highland Wolf by Terry Spear

twitched up a bit. Rogues . She was certain their laird would not like it that they were flirting with the women on the film crew. The men were probably interested in them even more because she and Maria were also lupus garous .
    Julia quickly jotted down some more notes—this time about the men of the castle and not just about the sandstone towers or the wicked-looking iron gates designed to keep the enemy out. For the first of the men, she wrote: Redheaded male; muscular arms bulging beneath a lightweight shirt despite the chill in the air; eyes cool gray, warming a little when he spies a woman; mouth mannish, roguish, and kissable. Maybe of Norse descent. Could be a descendant of the first red werewolves. At least for her story.
    Yes, that’s how she’d write the man in her historical romance.
    She glanced at the other man and noted that he was now having a word in private with the redhead, whose eyes remained fixed on her. He was smiling a little more. He nodded at the other man’s comment.
    She ignored the blush heating her whole body and tried to concentrate on the business of describing the second man for her novel. It definitely was a lot easier to observe subjects for her stories more covertly when the objects of her note taking were unaware of what she was doing.
    She wrote for the second character: Pale yellow eyes, just as roguish; a hint of a beard; dark brown hair; tall like the redhead, just as muscled; interested, looked to be more Scottish in origin.
    In the cool dampness, Julia shivered and heard male voices up on the allure, the wall walk on top of the curtain wall. She moved away from Maria and the others to get a better view of the wall walk and made out three brawny Highlanders conversing there.
    Dark-haired Duncan was scowling and looked ready to start a war. He was dressed in black, paramilitary style, as if he was an FBI agent but without the white lettering across the shirt to identify what he was. All he needed was a sword. No need even for a shield because she assumed he’d never fall back to a defensive mode as he battled his way through a fight, staying on the offensive the whole time.
    In the fading light, the other was smiling and looked of good humor. His hair was fairer, a tinge of red streaking it, and an emerald-green muscle shirt showing off the right kind of muscles—not bulky but hard enough that he looked as though he got a lot of exercise. Maybe wielding a sword, although more in fun rather than in combat. He appeared relaxed, like he was listening to a bard’s tale.
    And the last, the one who garnered her attention the most, was Ian, the laird. He was all business and in charge, as far as she could tell from the way the others came to him to speak. He motioned for the one, then the other, to go about their business as if he was issuing orders. With a rugged face and a stern look, he was the one who caught her imagination.
    The two men disappeared, while her hero remained on top of the curtain wall for a moment more and then stalked off in the opposite direction. Two more men approached him, both bowing their heads in greeting.
    She sighed, pen in hand, clutching her notebook to her chest and trying to appear as though she was with those who were meeting with the MacNeills to iron out arrangements for the filming to begin.
    Duncan exited the tower stairs and stalked toward them with two other muscular men flanking him as if they were medieval types ready to do battle, except that the other men were wearing black trousers and light sweaters rather than kilts and tunics. Fascinated, she watched Duncan address the director and production manager and set down the terms forcefully, while the manager nodded agreeably, if not a little shakily. The director remained stoic, as if he were a clan chief from another location and wouldn’t bend to any man’s rule.
    â€œNo one is allowed inside the castle before production begins. Except for the great hall, the