Claire found herself struggling to make sense of his words, but the increased pounding of her heart filled her ears, heated her blood, confusing her so that she couldn’t help leaning closer, letting her breasts brush his hard chest and her nose fill with the masculine scent of him.

Fascinated, she studied the throbbing pulse at the base of his neck. Calm. Strong. Steady. The mad urge to press her mouth to that spot and taste him seized her. Cocking her head to the side, she lifted her gaze to his. The pale green of his eyes glowed as if lit from a fire within.

His scent altered then. Her nose twitched at the subtle difference. The air around him seemed to color, darkening to a wine-red haze. The pulse at his neck quickened. She licked her lips.

He lowered his head until they were practically cheek to cheek, his breath rasping her ear and raising the tiny hairs on her nape as he whispered, “Can’t you feel it?”

Yes, she felt it. Like a fever. A ravaging disease infiltrating and killing the old Claire. She blinked several times, both frightened and exhilarated, before jerking back to focus on his smug face.

“You feel it,” he announced, his voice much too satisfied for her tastes. “That’s the wolf in you.”

Jaw clenched, she stepped back and flexed her fingers around her purse strap. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more about you than you think.”

Ignoring the worry that ambiguous statement elicited, she muttered, “No. You don’t.”

He couldn’t see her. No one saw her. No one knew her. She had spent a lifetime building walls to keep people out, to stay safe and warm inside where pain could never touch her. He couldn’t have breached those walls.

“Claire,” a faintly breathless voice sounded from behind, as if in a hurry to catch up to her.

She spun around and stopped short of groaning. Cyril advanced, slowing his jog to a slight skip, briefcase swinging at his side.

He stopped next to her. “You’re leaving early today. I went by your room.” He smoothed a hand over his thinning hair as if the few strands needed taming.

He looked to Gideon suspiciously, asking slowly, “How’s it going?” The translation was clear. Is this guy bothering you?

“Good. Fine.” She forced herself to sound normal, to act as if she was not caught conversing with a dangerous man.

“Hello.” Cyril extended his hand to Gideon when it became evident she wasn’t going to introduce them. “Cyril Jenkins.”

He really was a nice man. An unexciting, nauseatingly nice man. Why couldn’t she like him? Things would be so much easier if she could.

“Gideon March.”

She watched, tense, as the two shook hands.

“You’re a friend of Claire’s?” Cyril inquired.

Gideon nodded and draped an arm across her shoulders, the muscle in his jaw flexing wildly.