Daring The Moon. Sherrill Quinn

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      Rounding a bend, she came upon a small inlet. She picked her way over and around rocks. The waves lapped gently against the shore, and she stopped at the sloping edge, staring out over an ocean that glittered in the sun as if the great width was covered in a mammoth, diamond-studded net.

      Here at the water’s edge it was colder. She huddled into her jacket, her hands once more in her pockets. In spite of the wildness of this place, she felt more at peace than she had in a long time. Maybe it was because she felt safe for the first time in weeks. Once she’d left Tucson she hadn’t had to worry about her stalker, and she and Declan had given the werewolf the slip after he’d caught up with them in Atlanta. She only hoped the old myth about werewolves not being able to cross water was true.

      She stopped, frowning. Or was that a myth about vampires?

      Damn. She didn’t have a clue about any of this crap. If Ryder didn’t help, she didn’t know what she’d do.

      Ryder. A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with sex worked its way down her spine and wrapped deeply around her womb. Her nipples tightened and she squeezed her thighs together against the sudden ache in her core.

      She did not need this complication, as much as she might want it. From the short time she’d been around Ryder, she could tell he would be hard to handle. And she just didn’t have the energy.

      Sighing, she stared around the cove, seeing fallen logs and moss-covered rocks. Here and there were varying types of flotsam—pieces of wreckage and trash littering the shoreline. Wind roared into the small cove and she huddled into her coat, drawing her collar up around her neck.

      As beautiful as it was, Taite was reluctant to flounder around after dark. Turning, she retraced her steps. The sharp crack of a twig snapping made her stop before she’d gone very far. She looked around. There was no movement that she could see, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was out there.

      Surely the werewolf couldn’t have found her already. With her heart slamming against her ribs, she started walking as fast as the terrain would allow, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. If it were the werewolf, he would have already attacked her, wouldn’t he?

      But if it wasn’t him, who was it? What was it?

      She swallowed and picked up her pace. It could be the werewolf. Unlikely, since she’d only arrived an hour ago, but there was that possibility.

      Or was it all her overtaxed imagination?