Sullivan Quinn didn't travel 3,000 miles from his native Ireland and his wolf pack just to chase rabidly after the most delectable quarry he's ever seen. Quinn is in America on a mission--to warn his Other brethren of a shadowy group willing to use murder and mayhem to bring them down. But one whiff of this Foxwoman's delicious honeysuckle fragrance and he knows that she is more than a colleague or a conquest...she is his mate.
Anthropologist Cassidy Poe is a world-renowned authority on social interaction, but the overpowering desire she feels around Quinn defies every ounce of her expertise. Working by his side to uncover The Others' enemies poses risks she never expected--to her own safety, to those she loves, and to her heart, as every encounter with Quinn proves more blissfully erotic than the last...
Now, with no one to trust but each other, Quinn and Cassidy face a foe that's edging closer every day, threatening to destroy the life they've always known, and the passion they've just discovered...
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1 . Witty and Sexy
Posted December 26, 2010 by LMR , Maple RidgeChristine Warren has a great sense of humour that is evident in this lighthearted romp between a Lupine and a Foxwoman. The plot flows smoothly, and once you reach the end you're satisfied that the time you spent reading it was well worth it...and hoping to get the next book in line.
St. Martin's Paperbacks
March 06, 2006
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Excerpt from Wolf at the Door by Christine Warren
The idiot attorney in the gray suit continued to natter on about something useless---the most beneficial way to structure a retirement portfolio or some such rot---but Sullivan Quinn had long since tuned it out. The hair on the back of his neck bristled to attention. His muscles tensed and his nostrils flared as he drank in the tormenting fragrance. Somewhere in this snugly elegant club, among these rooms full of werefolk and vampires, witches and magic-users, in the middle of a January cold snap, he could smell the sweet, elusive scent of honeysuckle vines.
And it was driving this particular werewolf out of his bloody mind.
"... lost it when the dot-com bubble burst," short, bald, and boring continued. "Really knocked me for a loop. I didn't have a bite for nearly three days."
Quinn made some sort of not even remotely sympathetic sound and breathed in deeply.
To the left.
His head snapped around, light brown eyes no doubt glowing in reflection of his intensity. He scanned the area thoroughly and tried to suppress a growl when he didn't see an obvious source of the fragrance. It called to him, a sweet heady beacon of femininity, fertility, and fuckability. His three favorite f-words.
Maybe he'd been too long without a lover, or maybe his family was right and his hormones were telling him he was getting too old not to have a mate. Then again, maybe he'd just been sent round the bend by the corrupting influence of New York City. Whatever it was, all he knew was that he wanted that honeysuckle.
What he wouldn't give just then to be back among his own pack, where he could order the bright, intoxicating flowers brought to him like tribute.
Okay, so maybe that was a bit much. As guth of his pack, Quinn lacked the ultimate authority of Alpha, but he made up for it with a freedom and respect enjoyed by few others. Whereas Lupines deferred to the Alpha because of his power, they looked up to the guth because of the scope of his responsibilities. After all, in addition to being the pack's ambassador and negotiator, the guth was the keeper of its traditions, its histories, and its stories. He was the pack's living link to its past, as well as their insurance of a favorable future. So they might not have brought him the honeysuckle as tribute, but they would at least have let him end his current conversation without giving the impression of terminal rudeness.
"Oh, I got over it, of course. Drank three pints straight from the bags before I was fit company again," the charismaless wonder said, peppering his delivery with a few smug chuckles. "That'll teach this old vamp a new trick or two. You'll never catch me on another starvation diet!"
Quinn ignored the man's forced joviality---which, coming from a vampire who looked like Oliver Hardy, frankly creeped him out---and continued to search. He had to find that honeysuckle. In the last forty seconds, it had become the most important goal in his universe. Never mind that he'd flown from Ireland not two days ago to represent his country at a critical international meeting of Others, staking the honor of himself and his pack on his abilities as a diplomat. Bollocks to that. He needed those flowers.
". . . portfolio had been cursed by some old Cuban woman I bumped into at the market. Cost a fortune to have a witch break the spell, but since then things seem to be picking up steam. I've been quite pleased."
The small part of Quinn's brain that hadn't been commandeered to join the search team allowed him to respond with an eloquent grunt. Then Quinn inhaled another hint of honeyed blossoms, and that last holdout joined the search.
The Emperor of Ennui paused for breath and swirled his glass of watered-down bourbon. "But that's enough about me---"
"Yes," Quinn agreed. The hell with good manners. He had more important things to concentrate on, like giving in to the compulsion to follow his nose and leaving Sir Stultifying to yammer away at thin air.