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Wolfsong by Raffin Barbara
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When Madison Montgomery joins Native American artist Walker Armstrong's wolf re-population project, he sees her as just another city-bred female dabbling in the latest trendy cause, not unlike the last woman in his life. But Madison's motives are more complex. She's hunting the man who raped her best friend.
Awe-Struck Publishing; January 2001
112 pages; ISBN 9781587490521
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Title: Wolfsong
Author: Raffin Barbara
Walker padded into the kitchen, feet bare, black Tee overshooting the waistband of his jeans, and sleep-tousled, raven-hued mane shrouding shoulders broad even when stooped as they were now. He strode past Madison like she was invisible, opened the fridge, and snagged a Pepsi.


"You surprise me," he leveled, turning on her. "I didn't expect to see you crawl into the daylight quite so early. Or is that the reason for the sunrise pot of coffee?" He nodded at the coffee filled mug in her hand-the mug she'd held out to him in silent offering as he'd passed. "Is that your hangover remedy?"

She winced. "About last night--"

"Faint of memory? You want to know what happened?"

"I remember," she murmured, her lips twitching at the memory of his hungry kiss, her abdominal muscles tightening against the remembered weight of his arousal pressed into her stomach. She drew a breath between parted lips and across a tongue that still recalled the sweet cola flavor of his mouth and repeated in a pained whisper, "I remember."

"Good, then there's nothing to be said about last night." He wheeled away from her and headed for the back porch.

"I just make it a point not to get involved with men on the rebound," she blurted at his back.

"Men on the rebound?" he pitched almost chidingly, circling back at her. "Men on the rebound!" His voice crescendoed and his hair shuddered across his shoulders. "What the hell difference should it make to a one night stand?"

Madison blanched.

"Who the hell told you my business anyway?" he demanded. "Mike? Dalton? Damn the pair of them!"

Her hand shook, spilling hot coffee out of the mug and over her fingers.

"You don't do rebounds, hell," he growled, advancing on her, towering over her with his massive height and brute strength. He waved the Pepsi can so close in her face she felt its chill, a chill that all but hissed with evaporation as it buffeted his burning rage. "You uptown girls don't do anything that's not trendy."


"There was a time when having a man of my shading was trendy." His voice had gone low, threatening; and a shadow crossed his eyes, the same shadow she'd seen in them last night on the back porch when he'd accused her of having tastes for paler men. She thought she understood why he was so deeply injured.

"This has nothing to do with you being--"

His eyes went dead, paralyzing her to silence.

"Have you forgotten the latest politically correct label?" he mocked when she didn't continue. "I believe it's Native American."

"It had nothing to do with your heritage," she croaked, fighting the urge to back away from him. "You just surprised me."

"Now you say I surprised you. A minute ago you said you didn't do rebounds. Last night you said you hadn't offered me any invitation. Which is it?"

"It-it's all of it."

He straightened, squared his shoulders, and peered down at her through narrowed eyes. "If I was white, this would have ended last night...on the porch floor."

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