Or not at all.

Gideon knew that if he didn’t want to die there in the snow, he was going to have to find help, and fast.

Keep safe the Stone.

Protect the Pack.

It took a Herculean effort to start forward, toward the lights in the distance. And as he half-walked, half-dragged himself in their direction, it became harder and harder to keep at bay the blackness that wanted to consume him.

Hurry home, the voice in his mind whispered, mocking his efforts.

Later, Gideon would think that he must have blacked out and somehow still kept moving. It seemed as though one moment he was still deep in the pine trees, and the very next, he was lurching through the tidy backyards of a small town, trying desperately to stay clear of the bright glow of windows, of barking dogs who smelled wounded animal and blood. He raised his head as much as he could and scented the air for what seemed like the hundredth time, confused in his weakened state. He was unsure whether he should attempt a Change, whether he even had the strength to make it through one, unsure of where to look for help in this unfamiliar place. He whined softly, his once glossy black fur now clumped and matted, exhausted from making it even this far. Despite his best efforts, he was going to have to lie down; and out here, with the storm coming in, Gideon was fairly sure that once that happened, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

Then, just as his legs began to buckle for the last time, Gideon caught the faintest scent of … something. It was barely there, carried on a breath of arctic wind, but it was compelling enough to bring the great head up again, his nose searching the air greedily for another trace of it. What was it? So familiar … like berries and cream, with a hint of vanilla … and perhaps a dash of spice, something almost exotic.

And just like that, Gideon’s pain faded around him as he concentrated on that wonderful, delicious smell, a scent both familiar and unknown, yet holding some mysterious promise of coming home. Instinct took over—propelling him, driving him. He put one paw in front of another, then again, and then slowly, deliberately, he was moving again, the intense need to find out the source of the intoxicating aroma overriding his body’s every command to shut down.

Left, through a darkened churchyard.

There, a hint of cinnamon!

Now right, down a wide alleyway.

So much stronger, and impossibly, irresistibly sweet!

At last, all reserves of strength drained, Gideon got as close as he could to the source: a small red door, on which hung a simple holly berry wreath, that led into an old brick building from the alley. The door filled his vision. Its cheery color was a beacon that seemed, at that moment, made solely for the purpose of leading him out of the cold. In his delirium, Gideon lost all sense of time and place, hanging onto the promise carried on a whiff of arctic breeze.

Home?

He paused there, on the soft rubber mat, and willed everything he had left into raising one shredded paw to scratch feebly at the door. Once. He heard a voice from within, but it stayed distant. Twice, and then once more Gideon scratched, now whining pitifully as he sank to the ground, defeated.

Guard … Protect … Home …

Gideon’s mind struggled, but he felt unconsciousness barreling toward him like a freight train. In those seconds before the blackness claimed him, Gideon rolled his eyes heavenward and said a silent prayer for a mangy, flea-bitten cur such as himself to be taken Home.

God, however, apparently had His own ideas. At that moment the red door swung open, bathing Gideon’s broken form in soft, warm light as a feminine gasp of shock reached his ears. Hope kindled in Gideon briefly before he finally floated away on a dark and distant sea. His last conscious impression was that of being wrapped, head to toe, in that no-longer-elusive scent, rich with caramel and cocoa and so, so many of his favorite things. He moaned again faintly, this time with pleasure.

A small, graceful hand touched the side of his face gently, light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing.

“Oh, you poor thing,” sighed a voice like music.

Gideon turned his muzzle into the hand, seeking comfort, and then he knew no more.

Chapter Two

“CELESTINE HAS A POINT, YOU KNOW. I THINK YOU HAVE

to at least allow for the possibility that it exists.”

“Please. Please tell me you’re not serious about this.”

“I don’t know. Why couldn’t there be such a thing as tear-inducing sex?”

Carly Silver, proprietor of Bodice Rippers and Baubles, rearranged herself in the faded elegance of her overstuffed wing chair, tucked her feet back up beneath her, and sipped at her glass of chardonnay to hide her grin. It had been her idea of a perfect evening: another successful book club meeting, enough chocolate to put lesser women in a coma, and a fascinating discussion about Dana Bellamy’s latest trilogy. And, now that the shop was nearly empty, the fun of playing devil’s advocate while her best friend tried to get a rise out of Celestine on her way out the door.

True to form, Regan O’Meara just couldn’t resist taking the bait.

“Oh, come on, you two,” Regan laughed from where she was curled gracefully on the chaise, her dark eyes dancing with mischief. “I mean, have either of you ever even thought about crying after sex just because you’re so overwhelmed by the”—and here she fluttered her long, dark eyelashes—“beauty of it all?”

“What a cynic you are,” Celestine clucked from where she stood by the door, barely sparing Regan a glance. She seemed to be completely involved in the process of draping an impossibly long something around her neck that might have once been envisioned as a scarf. Now, however, it was just as unidentifiable as the rest of the things Celestine knitted. Carly had to give the classy, sixty-ish British expat her due, though. She might be a lousy knitter, but she was as unflappable as they came. It was a character trait that often came in handy during discussions of the book club’s steamier selections.

Not to mention one that drove Regan completely, eternally nuts.

“I suppose it would be safe to say that you’ve never been driven to passionate tears, in any case.”

“Untrue,” replied Regan, obviously relishing the raised eyebrows this statement provoked. She looked around at her companions with studied casualness before elaborating. “Dumbass ripped my new seventy-dollar bra. I cried like a baby.”

Carly rolled her eyes as Celestine burst into delighted laughter. “I’m so glad you save these little gems for after the meetings, Regan,” she informed her.

Regan merely arched a slim black brow and grinned unrepentantly. “I bring the joy of realism to your mushy little hearts. You wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

“Eat store-bought cupcakes, then mope about it.”

But she had a point, Carly conceded. No meeting would ever be complete without her best friend. That she also happened to be the owner of Decadence, a neighboring bakery famous for its sinful treats, was just a bonus. An extremely big bonus, Carly amended as she contemplated the remains of Regan’s truly excellent chocolate torte and considered just another few bites of pure, sugary sin. And even when she wanted to hate her for being tall, dark, and fascinating—as opposed to her own short, fair, and relatively boring—Carly couldn’t imagine a more perfectly imperfect being than Regan.

Of course, she was pretty sure Regan couldn’t either. Fortunately, that was part of her charm.

Instead of further inflating her friend’s already-considerable ego, Carly just shook her head and forked one of the few slices of Regan’s torte that remained intact onto her plate. As the first bite all but melted on her tongue, Carly felt the last little bit of tension from the day melt away right along with it. When all was said and done, she decided as she closed her eyes in pleasure, there was nothing like unwinding with friends in your own little temple of femininity. And really, it didn’t get much more feminine than a bookshop solely dedicated to the genre of romance. Bodice Rippers was exactly what she’d wanted even before she discovered the money her Great-Aunt Apollonia had left her just a little over three years ago. That final kindness had given her the seed money for building this place, her dream place. A chance to finally make something of her own.

So when she’d done it, she’d done it right.

And Carly could honestly say that all the agonizing, the sleepless nights, and the blood, sweat, and tears she’d poured into making the dream a reality had been worth it. Everything was just as she’d envisioned it. There were the rich fabrics and textures of the central sitting area surrounding the brick fireplace in the middle of the shop, the walls lined with built-in bookshelves that were crammed full of any sort of romance your heart could desire. More, there were the artfully scattered displays of hand-worked jewelry, deliciously scented candles, unusual glassware and serving pieces, and other lovely bits and pieces, all glinting and peeking out from places both expected and unexpected. It was Carly’s own little slice of heaven, and she’d made it herself.

And things were looking good, Carly decided, savoring the last bite of the torte and brushing the crumbs off of the pale blue cashmere twinset she wore. Kinnik’s Harbor had gone upscale the last few years. The quaint lakeside town, best known for a small but victorious battle against the British during the War of 1812, had revitalized the cobblestoned Main Street, turned the old stone barracks into lavish apartments and eclectic eateries, and begun advertising itself as a scenic getaway from the hustle and bustle of city life. And, miracle of miracles, it was working. After years of being run-down and dormant, the Harbor was coming back to life.

There were some who already thought the Harbor was getting too big, too commercial. Carly just wasn’t one of them. That shift had brought Celestine Periwether and many like her to her door. Not just customers, but friends. And she wouldn’t trade them for all the tea in China (or in Celestine’s pantry, for that matter … Carly wasn’t sure, but she strongly suspected that her friend might very well have more tea squirreled away than most of the Asian countries put together).

For now, the woman in question turned in the doorway, the first flakes from the reportedly impending storm swirling in around her as she wagged a finger at Regan.