"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

The voice was a pleasant baritone, one she liked despite its abruptness. She hushed, not offended.
Some people didn't like talking to strangers. Or maybe this guy was claustrophobic. Or—what was fear
of the dark? Darkophobic? Whatever it was, he was clearly unhappy to be trapped in an elevator for
who knew how long. Poor guy. She hoped he didn't get the screaming meemies. There was nothing
worse than a grown man having hysterics.

"Sorry," she said, then added, "I'm sure we won't be here long."

She heard a sound and recognized it immediately: the man trapped with her had taken a couple steps
back. Almost as if he was trying to put as much space between them as he could.

Exasperated, she said, "For crying out loud! I don't have cooties. Anymore," she added, hoping to
lighten the mood.

"Be quiet. And step into the far corner. Now."

"The hell I will!" She turned toward the voice. "Look, just because you're feeling antisocial doesn't mean
I—"

"Don't." No pleasant baritone that time. That one sounded like a growl, like he'd forced the word out
through gritted teeth. "Don't come near me. Keep away. When you move, you stir around the air currents
and I get more of your scent."

"And that'sbad , right?" Great, she thought with grim humor. Trapped with someone who skipped his
medication this morning. Why didn't I take the stairs?

"No. It's not bad." His voice, low in the dark, was a throbbing baritone she could feel along her spine.
"It's . . . extraordinary."
 "Gosh, thanks." Uh-huh. Clearly a nutcake, sexy voice or no. She hadn't had time to put perfume on
after her shower. He couldn't smell a damn thing, except maybe a lingering whiff of Dial soap. "Do you
have a special doctor you tell these things to? Someone you should call when we get out of here?"

He barked laughter. "I'm not insane. I'm not surprised that's the conclusion you've drawn, though. What
is your name?"

"Jane Doe."

He chuckled softly. "What harm could it do to tell me your real name?"

"All right, but only if you promise not to freak out on me. More than you already have, I mean. It's
Jeannie Lawrence." There were a million Lawrences in the greater St. Paul area, she comforted herself,
so if he was a serial killer he likely couldn't track her down when this was over. "Now remember, you
promised . . ."

"Actually, I didn't. Not that promising would have done any good." He sighed, a lost sound in the dark.
Absurdly, she felt sorry for him, this perfect crazy stranger who talked so oddly and in the sexiest voice
she had ever heard. "You smell wonderful."

"Don't get started on that again," she warned.