Declan walked into the kitchen, unable to shake the conviction Ryder was hiding something. His friend was secretive—always had been—but this was something more, an underlying desperation he’d not sensed before.
Seeing Taite sitting on the window bench at the small table by the back door, her hands wrapped around a thick sandwich, made his shoulders tense and his mind go back to his conversation with Ry. Hand him a book and tell him to read it. What the fuck?
If Mr. Horror Novelist thought Declan was just going to sit back and wait for him to decide to start sharing information about werewolves, he’d better think again. Declan loved this woman like a sister—a novel experience for him—and he’d be damned before he let some oversized furball hurt her.
He’d always been of the opinion that men couldn’t be “just friends” with women—it wasn’t in a man’s genetic makeup to form a platonic relationship with someone who could potentially be a lover. But with Taite that kind of attraction had never fully materialized.
Oh, he’d noticed how beautiful she was and what a lovely body she had but, other than an aborted attempt to seduce her early on, he’d not been sexually tempted by her. And now her friendship was too important to him to risk it by trying to make something work that clearly wasn’t meant to be.
He joined her at the table, pulling out one of the chairs and plopping down onto it with a sigh, his mind already back on Ryder’s incomprehensible refusal to help.
“What?” Taite stared at him with a slight frown dipping between her brows.
Before Declan could reply, Cobb walked into the kitchen. Picking up a dishrag, he started cleaning the knives in the sink.
Declan looked at the turkey sandwich in front of him, then at Cobb. “Only one?” He was starving, and one wasn’t going to do it.
Without a word, Cobb opened the refrigerator. He took out the turkey, then jars of salad cream and mustard. “What would you like to drink, Mr. O’Connell?”
Declan glanced at the glass of water in front of Taite and frowned. “I don’t suppose you’ve any iced tea?”
Cobb sniffed.
“I didn’t think so.” Declan shook his head and winked at Taite. “It’s an American way of drinkin’ tea, puttin’ ice in it, and I’ve found I quite enjoy it. But it’s somethin’ you’d never do to a good cuppa, would you, Cobb?”
“It’s a sacrilege, doing that to tea.”
Declan grinned. “What did I tell you?” he said sotto voce to Taite. Looking at Cobb, he leaned back in his chair. “How ’bout a pint, then?”
“We have Guinness and Fuller’s.”
“Fuller’s Ale?” Declan licked his lips. He hadn’t had a Fuller’s in years. At Cobb’s nod, he said, “Give us a Fuller’s, then.”
Cobb pulled a bottle of the amber ale from the pantry. “Would you like one, miss?” he asked Taite.
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Cobb’s lips twitched, and he popped the cap, then placed the ale in front of Declan. Turning back to the stove, he fitted an oven mitt over his right hand and picked up a platter from one of the burners. Spatula in his left hand, he carried the plate to the table and slid a pile of homemade chips onto Declan’s plate.
“These are so good,” Taite said as she bit into a chip. “How do you fix them, Mr. Cobb?”
“Just Cobb will do, miss.” He carried the plate back to the stove and set it down. “A good chef never reveals his culinary secrets.”
“Ah, one of his famous Cobbisms,” Declan murmured. When Cobb turned to the butcher’s block and started preparing another sandwich, Declan said, “Go light on the mayo, all right?” He patted his stomach. “I’ve gotta watch my waistline.” Grinning at Taite’s snort, he leaned forward and snagged the remainder of the chip from her fingers. His grin widened at her—“Hey!”—and he dodged the swat of her hand. “Well, you weren’t eating it,” he said in defense of his action.
“You didn’t give me a chance.” She reached over and took a warm chip from his plate. “From now on, eat your own,” she said around a mouthful of potato.
Cobb placed a second sandwich on Declan’s plate, then put the turkey and condiments away.
Declan scooted his chair to the side to watch him. Now was the time to ask Cobb about Pelicia. Trying to ignore how his gut tightened at the thought of her, he asked, “How’s Pel?”
“Fine.” Cobb’s voice was cool, even more so than his usual formal tones.
Taite leaned forward. “Pel?”
“My daughter.” Cobb cleaned off the butcher’s block. As he wiped his hands on the dishtowel, he said, “Should you require anything else, please let me know. I shall be next door in the laundry room.” He neatly folded the towel and placed it on the butcher’s block, then left the room.
Declan stared after him. The older man’s reaction was not unexpected, and Declan felt the weight of his disapproval. It wasn’t completely undeserved.
Realizing he’d tensed, he drew in a deep breath and rotated his shoulders. When he turned his chair back to the table, he saw Taite’s raised eyebrows. He sighed. “Pel and I have a history.”
“So I gathered.” She glanced toward the kitchen doorway. “And it’s one Cobb apparently isn’t too happy about.”
Declan took a swig from his bottle of ale. He set the bottle on the table with a thud. “No, that he’s not.” He didn’t want to think about how he’d left things with Pel, much less talk about it. It was something he planned to set right, which was another reason he’d been so impatient to get to the Isles of Scilly.
Picking up his sandwich, he took a big bite. The mustard hit the back of his tongue and he groaned in ecstasy. “God, this is good,” he said around a mouthful of food.
Taite propped her elbows on the table and put the last of her sandwich in her mouth. After a moment, she said, “Okay, I get that you don’t want to talk about her. So, tell me what Ryder said.”
She took a long drink of water, her gaze on his over the rim of the glass. Her look was full of hope, as if she expected him to impart some golden nugget shared by Ryder.
Son of a bitch.
“He told me to read a goddamned book.” Declan bit into his sandwich with the savagery of a barbarian. He chewed and washed it down with a swig from his ale, then took another bite. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “Like we’ve time to do that.”
Taite leaned her chin on one fist and frowned. “I don’t understand. You explained what we saw? The werewolf?”
“Aye. But Ryder seems reluctant to help.” He finished his sandwich and picked up the bottle of ale. Rolling it between his palms, he stared into the opening.
He was puzzled by Ryder’s nonchalant attitude. If anything, he’d have expected his friend to look at him—and treat him—as if he suspected Declan needed to be fitted with a straight-jacket. But the damned man had sat on the sofa with his eyes closed, sprawled comfortably and looking as if Declan was keeping him from a nap.
Setting the bottle down, he started in on his chips and the other sandwich. His years in covert operations told him something was up. He didn’t know what—yet. But he wasn’t going to be unprepared if—or, rather, when—the werewolf caught up to them, as he had no doubt it would.
Some stalker and now a werewolf had staked a claim on Taite, and Declan feared neither would give up until he had her or he was dead. Declan aimed to make sure the outcome was the latter of those two choices.
“Then I don’t understand why he won’t help,” Taite said, her voice full of confusion. “We can’t