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

"—before I break your—"

"Do you believe in werewolves?"

"—big stupid—what?"

"I'm a werewolf. And my change is very near. Otherwise I might be able to—but the moon's too close.
And so are you."

"Whatare you talking about?" she cried.

"I'm trying to explain. Why this is going to . . . why this must happen. Don't be afraid."

"I'mnot afraid," she hissed, shoving at his chest again. This time, it worked. Or he stepped back.

"You're a liar." Odd, how he could make that sound like an endearment. "I can smell your fear."

"I'm not sure how to break this to you," she said through gritted teeth, "but I'm not afraid of any man.
And Idon't smell. "

"Not afraid. Anxious, then," he soothed. "I don't blame you a bit. IfI was trapped in a box a hundred feet
off the ground with a werewolf an hour from his change, I'd be out of my mind."

"About the werewolf fixation," she said, striving for a note of humor—she'd always had a perverse need
to make light of any seriousness. "I confess this concerns me a bit. Perhaps there's a support group that
can help. Men-who-love-werewolves-and-the- women-trapped-in-elevators-with-them."
He laughed, a throaty chuckle.

"Couldn't you have waited another hour to have your nervous breakdown?" she complained, pleased
that she amused him. If she could keep him distracted, off balance, maybe the power would come back
on and she could—

Then she felt his hands on her arms, gently pulling her forward. "I am sorry," he said, his voice heavy
with regret. Again, she caught his pleasant, utterly masculine scent, and again she fought her unwitting
attraction. Jeannie didn't plan to let him do anything he'd be sorry for. She took a deep breath and
prepared to strike him, palm out, with all her strength. A crippling blow, and, if she nailed him on the
bridge of the nose, a killing blow. She hoped she would get him in the forehead or cheek. She didn't want
to kill the lunatic. That was her thought as she smashed her hand into his chin and felt him rock backward
with the blow.

"Ouch," he said mildly.

She felt her mouth pop open in stunned surprise. She hit him, sheknew she hit him! Her hand was numb
from the force of it. He should be unconscious, or at least groaning on the floor.

"That was some punch," he continued, as if commenting on a drink and not a blow it had taken her four
months to learn. "You've had training."

"You're out of your mind," she whispered. Or she was. Could it be true? Was he a—ludicrous