“Just for now,” he whispered—a promise he intended to keep no matter the cost. His leopard had been caged long enough. “Wait a little longer.”

The beast subsided, snarling his reluctant obedience; more, Drake was certain, because the alluring scent had drifted away on the night breeze than because the man was stronger. He wanted to follow that scent—he needed to follow it, but it was as elusive as the females of his kind were. The sexy fragrance was gone and he was left with a clawing need and an aching groin as the scent gave way to the normal smells of the river’s edge.

“Mr. Donovan? Drake Donovan?”

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the melodic sound of a woman’s tone. She had the sultry lilt of Cajun country in her voice. He turned his head slowly, not believing any woman could match that voice. He didn’t know what he expected, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected his reaction to her. That same low, mean, wicked punch to his groin, the same assault on his raw senses he’d experienced earlier repeated itself even harder.

She stood several feet from him but he was instantly aware of everything about her. His senses were heightened by his leopard, he had no doubt about that, but this time his reaction was all man. She wore faded and ripped blue jeans and a short tee that clung to her curvy form lovingly. Her face was young, but her eyes were old. Her hair was thick, a dark blonde, but heavily streakedith silver, gold and platinum strands. Beautiful dark chocolate eyes spiced with golden flecks seemed at odds with the sun-kissed hair that was worn in a ragged, jagged cut that would never have suited anyone else, but somehow only enhanced her appearance.

Drake could barely breathe, knew he was staring, but couldn’t stop himself. She stood there, just looking at him with a curious expression, waiting for an answer. Her lashes were long, and she had a tiny scar on her chin, and melting dimples. Her mouth was a thing of fantasy, full lips like a fascinating bow, her teeth small and white, although her canines were sharper than normal. He had a strange urge to drag her into his arms and taste her.

She regarded him with a mixture of reticence and wariness. “I’m Saria Boudreaux, your guide. You are Drake Donovan, aren’t you?” She tilted her head to one side, studying him with concern. “If you don’ feel good from the trip, it’s all right, we can wait before we get you back on the boat. Maybe get you somethin’ to eat?”

Her accent curled in his stomach. He could feel the reaction pulse through his groin. “I’m fine, Miss Boudreaux. I’ll be staying at the Lafont Inn, as you recommended. You said it was close to the canals and marshes I’ll be visiting?” He’d made certain the bed-and-breakfast she’d recommended was rarely visited and near the bayou where there were groves of trees, marsh and swamp. He’d rented the entire B&B on the chance he’d need his team as well as to ensure their privacy.

She nodded. “Call me Saria, it will be easier since we’ll be spendin’ a week together. Is that your bag?” She indicated his small war bag with a nod of her head.

He’d be damned if she carried it for him. He reached down and lifted it himself, sending up a silent prayer that his very full groin would allow him to walk. “Just Drake then. Thanks for meeting me so late.” He never had such a reaction to a woman. It had to be the fierce need of his cat.

She shrugged and turned away from him, walking down the wooden sidewalk toward the grove of cypress trees dipping long shimmery beards of moss into the water. She made no sound as she walked, a graceful, silent sway of her hips so enticing his breath caught in his throat. He was not a man given to shocking, erotic images at the sight of a woman walking, but every cell in his body went on alert and he had the mad desire to leap on her, to pin her under him and devour her. He shook his head to try to clear madness from his brain.

It was his leopard; that was the only sane answer. He’d been injured too long ago and his cat had been unable to emerge. Recently the man he chose to work for, well okay—Drake actually winced before admitting it—his friend, Jake Bannaconni, had arranged an operation for him, grafting the bones of his kind to his bad leg in the hopes that he could someday shift. He wasn’t quite healed, and when he was tired he still walked with a limp, but his cat was growing more restless as each day passed, eager to test out the new material in his leg.

More and more the leopard fought him to surface. He had purposely asked their guide to find a bed-and-breakfast in a remote area with the idea that he might try to allow the animal side of him freedom—it was that or go insane. He pushed down the voice of his surgeon warning him to take it slow. He’d taken it so damn slow he really was losing his mind, and his poor, unknowing, beautiful guide was in danger of being savaged.

He was a man who aumatically noticed everything and there was no way not to watch Saria walk. He felt so damned old and she looked fresh and innocent and so far out of his league it wasn’t funny—but still—she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and the wildness receded even more. He breathed normally now, years of discipline taking over. The small breeze caressed the wispy ends of her sun-kissed hair and his heart stuttered.

Saria turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, a slight frown on her face, her eyes assessing him. She slowed her pace. “Are you all right?”

He gave her a direct stare, the kind that usually scared the hell out of people. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He was gruffer than he intended but she looked so damn young and innocent and he wasn’t having a great deal of success controlling the images of her naked body writhing under his—and that made him feel like a lecherous old man.