A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by Deborah MacGillivray Page A

supplied.
    “Yes. It has a Wurlitzer, and the thing is loaded with songs mostly from nineteen sixty-four. When my mum was alive, I spent my summers in Kentucky, thus I’ve heard ‘Leader of the Pack’ a time or three.” Her huge eyes flashed in challenge. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious, are you going to tell me where your path crossed my sister’s? I shall get it out of Raven anyway. She never keeps secrets from me.”
    The corner of Trev’s mouth lifted in a faint taunt. “She didn’t tell you about me, did she?”
    Paganne tilted her head side to side, weighing that. “Possibly there was simply nothing to tell—until you magically appeared from out of nowhere, like some knight in shining armor. Whatever your reasons, you presented Raven with the way to save face before Jerkoff. That alone earns you a merit badge in my eyes.” She turned and poked an index finger into Trev’s chest. “Be that as it may, you hurt her and I shall take a knife to you.”
    Trev couldn’t resist. “You mean that Pictish knife your grandmother gave you when you turned twenty-one?”
    Astonishment filled her features. Paganne’s brown eyes widened and she stared, clearly reevaluating her opinion of him. Her mouth opened to say something, but he could tell she was nonplused. Then those eyes narrowed on him, and it felt as though she could see inside his black heart.
    “I’m not sure I like you, Trevelyn Sinclair. You’re likesome big alpha wolf that’s taken human form, looked my sister up and down and licked your chops, viewing her as your next meal. If that’s your game, think thrice. It’s a dangerous one.”
    “They’re about to start the bidding on my pony!” Brishen said, returning to Paganne’s side. Leaning a little forward, he checked their faces. One black brow lifted, a silent comment about Paganne’s grip on Trev’s arm.
    Wickedly Paganne winked at Trev, and then looked back at the Gypsy. “You jealous?”
    “He stands beside you, pretty Paganne, but his eyes stay glued on our Raven.” Brishen gave a small nod. “It does you good, for a change, to have a man not fall at your feet.”
    After Cian introduced the rocking horse, listing all the details that made the item a one-of-a-kind treasure, Raven left the auction area. A tension released in Trev: He’d been afraid he’d pushed her too far earlier and destroyed the progress he’d made getting close to her. But she threaded through the people and straight to his side, linked her arm through his and then tilted forward to frown at her little sister.
    Paganne was unrepentant, holding his other arm. “Chill, sis. Just testing. He passes. No rust or dirt on this armor.”
    “Does anyone want to open the bidding?” the auctioneer called out, running his gaze around the room.
    “Hush, jealous women. They’ve started,” Brishen chided. He was joking, but suppressed anxiety was apparent on his face.
    A man to the right bid five hundred pounds. Another raised the total to seven. A woman made it eight. Then, to the left, a man called for one thousand. Trev knew without looking who had made the offer; Raven’s hand had spasmed on his arm. Those nervous fingers relaxed when a fourth man chimed in offering twelve hundred, which was quickly raised to fifteen from someone in the back.
    The very pregnant Ellen Beechcroft nudged her husband, who sang out loudly, “Two thousand!”
    Once again, Raven’s fingers bit into Trev’s muscles. Trev glanced to the side to see her expression. She was maintaining a serene mask, and likely most people didn’t notice her agony, but it was clear to him.
    The auctioneer glanced around. “Do I hear twenty-one hundred? This item is a dream come true for that special child. Imagine their bright eyes when your little tyke awakens Christmas morn to see this heirloom-quality rocking horse. Priceless!”
    The crowd seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next bid. There was only silence and the storm outside.
    Her hand