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throwing out hints. No need for that. He’d be happy to kiss her whatever nationality she was. But he didn’t have time. Damn.
    She looked him over with an impish smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your vest and bow tie.”
    He glanced down at his jeans and black sweatshirt with the NYU bobcat mascot on it. “You’re disappointed. I should have known the vest and bow tie were a turn-on.”
    “Oh, yeah. Especially the vest.” She laughed and glanced out the window. “Is that your red Corvette out there?”
    “It’s my rental.”
    “I see.” She pursed her lips and gazed at him. “So who’s the real Roarke Wallace? The geeky professor or the laid-back guy driving a red ragtop?”
    “Geeky? I’ll have you know that’s my Henry Jones Jr. look.”
    “So you did that on purpose! I wondered.”
    “I’m an anthropology professor. I recognize the value of costume.”
    Humor flashed in her blue eyes. “So is this your indolent rich boy costume?”
    “Something like that. I’m a man of many parts.” Boy, wasn’t that the truth. If she knew about his third costume, she’d freak.
    “And a man of your word,” she said quietly. “I appreciate this, Roarke. Grandpa Earl will be out in a few minutes. He didn’t want to appear too eager, so he’s dawdling around back there pretending to be very busy.”
    “Just so he’s not very busy loading a shotgun.”
    Abby shook her head, which made her ponytail dance. “I think he’s secretly flattered that you want to meet with him. We have a little area in the far corner of the store with a pot-bellied stove and a couple of wooden armchairs. Why don’t you wait for him over there?”
    “That’s fine.” Roarke followed her down a store aisle and caught himself enjoying the way her jeans fit her backside as she walked. He should look away. He didn’t.
    From the corner of his eye he noticed a small display of condoms on a top shelf, out of reach of little kids. So Dooley’s General Store helped promote safe sex. Good to know. Except buying condoms from her grandfather might not be the smoothest move he’d ever made.
    Besides, he wasn’t buying any, because he didn’t have time to have sex with her. He would talk with her grandfather and hear his story. Maybe Earl Dooley would tell him something that would help in his own search. In fact, he should have thought of that earlier.
    Abby turned and gestured toward the two battered chairs sitting on either side of an old-fashioned woodstove. A fire crackled behind what was probably the original leaded glass in the door. “Can I get you something ? A cup of coffee? Hot chocolate?”
    “Coffee would be great, thanks.”
    “How do you—”
    “Black.”
    She nodded. “Coming right up.” She headed for the door leading into the back of the store. “I’ll see if I can move Grandpa Earl along.”
    The wooden chair creaked as Roarke settled in. He figured it was an antique, too, and he hoped it could hold a two-hundred-twenty-pound werewolf. Sitting in the chair beside the fire and surrounded by the organized clutter of the store, Roarke wondered if Dooley would be happy retiring to Arizona, after all. A man needed something to do with himself, an identity of some kind. And clearly he had one here.
    But that wasn’t for Roarke to worry about. He had plenty on his plate dealing with the Gentry pack’s crisis. That was his ultimate priority, no matter what he thought of Cameron. Exposing one werewolf pack meant all of them were in danger—the Wallaces in New York, the Hendersons in Chicago, the Stillmans in Denver, the Landrys in San Francisco.
    Roarke smelled Abby before he saw her come out from the back room holding a steaming mug of coffee. Every whiff of her was more enticing than the last. He’d be wise to limit his exposure.
    She was followed by a tall, thin man with a head of thick white hair. He wore glasses, but they didn’t soften his piercing blue gaze a bit. If Roarke had been hoping for a