LITMIR.BIZ

       “You think I’m bad?” Abigail asked.

      “Yes.”

      A tiny smirk of satisfaction curled her kissable lips. The slender rim of fur at her wrists taunted him and made him remember all the naughty things he’d imagined doing with her over the years.

      Yes, he’d had a few dreams.

      Ridge averted his gaze. Though he felt sure the sex had been great, it was only a hopeful memory. He was a fool to believe it had been anything more than a stupid night of drunken folly. Damn that vodka!

      He tugged out the papers from his coat and waved them before her.

      “Okay, okay!” She paced before the counter, twirling a finger around the end of a luscious twist of black hair. “You want something from me? First you have to give something to me.”

      He had not expected this visit to be easy.

      “What’s your price, witch?”

      Dear Reader,

      I confess I display pictures on my computer monitor of my hero as I’m writing a story. Many times that hero will resemble a favorite actor. I like casting my stories that way, and it’s helpful to have a visual as I’m writing. When I’m reading another author’s story, I always cast the characters. It’s a natural thing to do, and I suspect many of you do it, as well. I also know that not everyone imagines the character the same, and for that reason it’s probably not wise to reveal who inspired my hero’s physical looks, just in case you don’t necessarily find that particular actor as sexy as I do.

      Alas, I cannot resist with this book. Ridge Addison is one of my favorite heroes, both in physicality, rugged good looks and emotion. And staring at a picture of Jason Statham every day for the months I was working on this story made the job that much easier. ;-)

      Who do you like to imagine your heroes and heroines to look like? Stop by my blog or Facebook page, and let me know!

       Michele

      About the Author

      MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and creatures she has never seen.

      Michele can be found on Facebook and Twitter and michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at: PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

      The

      Werewolf’s

      Wife

      Michele Hauf

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      This one is for all my Twitter followers.

      You tweeple are swell.

       Chapter 1

      Ridge Addison swung an ax, chipping out wood at the base of a dead pine tree he wanted to lay flat for firewood. He and a friend had been working all afternoon under a steady snowfall, and dark was beginning to layer the sky. One last chop …

      The pine tree creaked. The trunk split at the base and the thirty-foot tree toppled onto the frozen forest grounds outside the Northern pack’s compound, situated thirty miles northeast of the Twin Cities.

      Fellow pack member Jason Crews called, “Timber!” but they were the only two on the private land.

      The men stood back, waiting for stray branches to finish falling from nearby trees before Jason picked up the chain saw in preparation to remove the branches.

      “Wait,” Ridge said.

      Jason paused, chain saw held at the ready.

      Ridge glanced up. The half-moon was already bright. The sky was gray and a perfect snow fell. Perfect meaning huge, downy flakes fell straight down, slowly, softly, without a sound.

      “Just wanted to enjoy it a moment,” he said, and then signaled Jason to go for it.

      The chain saw snarled. The man ripped into the tree, making quick work and leaving a cleanly stripped trunk. This winter they were clearing out the dead and diseased trees. Ridge had plans to start a horse logging company that traveled from forest to forest, wherever the landowners wanted them to go, clearing and cutting back deadwood. A necessary service to keep forests healthy while also respecting nature. It was ecological and used no trucks, only horsepower, thereby leaving the forest in as good condition as when they arrived.

      Jason shut off the chain saw and slapped the sawdust from his overalls. Both men had been bundled against the shrill January cold this morning, but over the course of the day they’d stripped to half overalls, flannel shirts and heavy-duty leather gloves as they’d worked up a good sweat.

      Ridge was considering making Jason pack scion, since they were sorely in need of structure after the recent events that saw him become the new pack leader.

      But then, how to structure a measly four wolves? The pack was dwindling daily. When yet another wolf packed his things and told Ridge he was leaving for a rival pack because he needed family, well, there was no argument to be served to match the werewolf’s innate and instinctual need for family.

      He and Jason had surveyed the land before Christmas—the pack owned well over five hundred acres, seventy percent of it forested land. As the new pack principal, Ridge was responsible for the pack and for the members’ living quarters, if they chose to live at the compound. Only two remained at the compound—he and Jason. The other two lived with their families in the Twin Cities suburbs.

      A pitiful pack, but he wasn’t willing to give up on building a healthy group that considered itself family.

      “I say we call it a day,” Ridge suggested, and received a confirming nod from Jason.

      They packed the equipment into cases and duffels. Tomorrow, they’d lead out the draft horse from the stable, hook chains to the fallen tree and drag it back to the compound for cutting into lumber and firewood. More backbreaking labor that felt so good to complete.

      “It feels good out here,” he said, drawing in the brisk, sawdust-scented air. “Most of the bad karma doesn’t cling to this sight.”

      Because the bad karma had all been invoked elsewhere.

      Ridge had been principal almost four months. Formerly, he’d been the right-hand man to his predecessor, principal Masterson, though not the second-in-command scion. That was until Amandus Masterson had been revealed to be plotting against a local vampire tribe, Nava, in an attempt to stage an all-out war. There had been casualties, Masterson being one of them—at Ridge’s talons.

      He did not for one moment regret killing the pack leader. It had to be done. At the time, all of the pack had stood beside him, showing their accord. Ridge had been protecting the leader’s daughter, Blu, and the vampire tribe leader, Creed Saint-Pierre. And he’d been defending all werewolves against the heinous label of vampire killers. The Northern pack had been involved in the blood sport—a wicked game that pitted blood-starved vampires against one another to the death—that had left a bloody mar upon their familial image.

      He’d do the same again if necessary. Ridge was not a man to jump into the fray without cause, but rather thought through every move, and never regretted those moves. Ever. He stood for what he believed just. Let no man challenge him without due strength and strong morals.

      Whipping a stone across the open field edging the forest, he winced as the scar along his torso

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