Wild About You
Book 2

She caught him with his pants down...

When over-educated anthropology professor Roarke Wallace seeks to discredit her grandfather’s sighting of Bigfoot, Abby Winchell launches a counterattack. Sure, Grandpa Earl is dotty, but he’s not a liar. Taking his high-powered camera, she heads into the woods. No sign of Bigfoot, but she spots the learned professor…taking off his clothes and sprouting fur.

Painting Earl Dooley as a crackpot is the only way Roarke can prevent a media blitz that would endanger the Sasquatch and expose the local Were pack. He doesn’t count on Abby catching him on film. Or using the photos to blackmail him into taking her on his search for the Bigfoot pair. Roarke and Abby have every reason to distrust each other. But trekking through the woods strips away their preconceptions, revealing all the ways they’re...compatible.

But when the Were pack gets suspicious about Abby’s involvement, Roarke’s caught between loyalty to his kind, and loyalty to the woman he never expected to love...


Abby was so intent on her image of a warm fire and a hot drink that she almost missed seeing movement about a hundred yards away. There. Somebody…or something was walking through the trees.
Heart pounding, she raised the camera and zoomed in. What she saw made her blink in surprise. Had Roarke changed his mind about looking for Sasquatch on her grandfather’s land? She couldn’t imagine any other reason he’d be here.
Gradually surprise turned to anger. Obviously Earl’s story had put some doubts in Roarke’s mind and he’d decided to investigate, after all, but damn it, why couldn’t he have said so this morning? An admission that he was rethinking his position on Bigfoot would have meant the world to Grandpa Earl. Apparently Roarke was too proud to make it, and the sexy professor instantly dropped several notches in her estimation.
Focusing on him again, she took a couple of pictures. Maybe she’d print them up and present them to him over another drink at Flannigan’s. So, Dr. Arrogant Bastard, if you don’t believe a word my grandfather said, what were you doing prowling around in his woods, hmmm? Is this or is this not you, Dr. Pompous Hypocrite?
She would do exactly that. He deserved to be found out, and she was just the woman to do it. She snapped off a couple more pictures for good measure. What a prince. And she’d thought he might be worth pursuing. Ha. He was…he was taking off his clothes?
That made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Abby stopped clicking the shutter. Roarke was quickly going from hot prospect to strange weirdo. He could be a nudist, but he’d have to be one totally dedicated nudist to strip down in a cold drizzle.
Apparently he expected to put his clothes on again, though, because he was stuffing them into a nylon backpack as if he wanted to keep them dry. Through the zoom lens, Abby could see...everything. Too bad he was a total nut-job, because he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever had the privilege of viewing naked.
Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt this guy. A girl didn’t usually see this kind of muscle definition in a college professor. True, Abby had only dated one of those in her life, but he’d been sort of soft in the middle.
Roarke was the exact opposite of soft. He turned his back to her, and her mouth went dry. She hadn’t meant to take a picture, but her finger had a mind of its own. It pushed the button. Now, whether she wanted it or not, she had a shot of his powerful back, narrow hips, and tight buns. Oh, darn.
Hey, what the hell. She’d make sure her grandfather never saw these pictures. But his legs were concealed behind some foliage, so she still didn’t have the complete man preserved for later viewing.
Then he moved away from the foliage and she snapped another shot of his muscled thighs and strong calves. Yes, she was acting like a voyeur, but no woman in America would blame her. She willed him to turn around. She wasn’t planning to take a full-frontal picture, but she wasn’t above using the zoom to get a better look.
Then he turned, but he’d shifted his position so that a fern became a very effective fig leaf. Damn. She held her breath and waited. Step away from the fern. Step away from the fern.
Which he eventually did. Omigod. Now that was a package. If she’d been shivery and cold before, she imagined steam coming off her now. What a shame that such a well-endowed man was several slices shy of a loaf.
As she congratulated herself on making the best of what had previously been a boring afternoon, Roarke surprised her once again. Zipping the backpack containing his clothes, he got to his knees and then stretched out on the carpet of wet leaves and pine needles.
Whew. Anybody who would decide to sleep naked in the woods in the rain was seriously in need of a shrink. Maybe she should call 911. A loony appeared to be on the loose.
Except Roarke wasn’t sleeping. Something was happening to him. When she began to understand what that something might be, she pinched herself hard. The pinch hurt, but that might not mean anything. She could still be in the middle of a nightmare.
She had one way to know for sure. She’d keep taking pictures. If she was dreaming, she’d wake up. If she wasn’t, she’d have proof of what her eyes couldn’t believe was happening—Roarke, esteemed NYU professor of anthropology, was becoming a wolf.

Book 1

Book 1.5

Book 2

Book 3

Book 4

Book 5

Book 6

Copyright 2001-2021 Vicki Lewis Thompson