Also obvious, Lizzie Smith had no idea who or what he was, as demonstrated by her threat to phone the police. He smiled to himself. That’s all it was, a threat. He could smell the lie. She was as reluctant to involve the police as he was.

She looked downright pissed. A change in tactic was required. He had to make nice or he’d get nowhere—and that meant an apology. Damn.

He had to stiffen practically all of his facial muscles not to grind his teeth together. “I apologize.”

That book belonged to his family, his people. Apologizing for attempting its recovery went against his nature. He had to remind himself, the book alone wasn’t nearly as valuable to him as the book and the girl together. And this was a situation requiring some finesse; commands would fall on deaf ears.

“For what, exactly?” she replied, lips pursed together. Oh, she was pissed. He thought back quickly.

“I shouldn’t have tried to push my way into the house.” Shit. Please let none of his friends, or worse, his pack, ever hear about this. He would never live it down. “I just wanted a minute to speak with you, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Because it had been a good idea. He was here. They were talking. Hell, she brought him tea. Unpoisoned tea, no less…he’d checked.

“Hmm. Okay.” Her eyes were still suspicious. Although…his nose twitched. I’ll be damned. If his nose was right, little Ms. Proper and Pissed was oozing lust. He smiled. His nose was never wrong.

Her face still had the tight, pinched look of anger. But he was feeling much more charitable toward Lizzie Smith. A nose full of aroused, attractive woman can have that effect.

His tone softened considerably and he said, “I know you’ve got the book. It appears you may be having some problems with it?” His voice raised slightly at the end of the sentence. He hoped she’d bite and give him some idea of why she hadn’t read the book. And if she had, why she hadn’t contacted the pack. His little Lizzie didn’t seem the extortionist or power hungry type, so he was betting she hadn’t read it. But why? What was her game?

She deflected, rather than answering his question. “First, it’s not here. The book, I mean. It isn’t here in the house. What do you want with it?” Her question revealed curiosity, but he could smell the much stronger scent of her increasing fear. And he could smell the lie. The book was in the house.

He may have hit on her discomfort. She thought he was here to steal it. He could certainly answer some questions if it made her more comfortable. The smell of fear was starting to overpower her arousal—and it was making his nose itch.

“If it’s the same book I’m searching for, it belonged to my family. We lost it a number of years ago,” John said.