“Well?” Gwen pushed, ignoring Lock’s uncles.
“I’ve got it covered.”
Hamish folded his arms over his chest. Or, perhaps it was more like his massive arms over that massive chest. Huge didn’t even begin to describe the size of these men. She knew she should feel uncomfortable around them, but she didn’t. Not anymore. And honestly? She’d never felt safer in her life. “You haven’t told her?”
“Quiet.”
“Told me what?”
Calum grinned. “What Mr. Sensitive Bear does in his spare time.”
“Shut up.”
“Which is what exactly?” Gwen pushed.
“It’s nothing.” Lock motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Gwen rested her hands on the table and began to tap her fingers. She tapped and she stared.
“You can stop that right now,” Lock said. “Because there’s nothing to tell.”
Gwen kept tapping. Gwen kept staring.
“It’s not going to work.”
Tap. Stare. Tap. Stare.
“I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t owe you an explanation. So let it go.”
Gwen never changed her expression, she never said a word, and she never stopped tapping her nails.
With a short roar, Lock snatched the racing form back from Duff. “Fine! This will allow me to take care of something tonight anyway. Now move your skinny butt!”
Gwen shoved the rest of the money in the pouch and headed toward the door. Lock stopped her.
“Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
He raised a brow—and she now knew where he’d gotten that particular expression from—and Gwen gave a short snort of disgust before handing him the small wad of money. Small compared to what she now had.
“This better be all of it.”
“Like that guy would know one way or the other.” He probably didn’t even know Gwen had taken his money, and she wouldn’t have thought about giving it back to him if it wasn’t for Lock. To her way of thinking, the guy owed Lock big for being so gracious.
Lock opened the door and motioned her out.
“We’ll see you soon, Lovely Gwen.”
She turned to wave at the MacRyrie bears, but the door had already slammed closed and Lock stood in front of her, glaring.
“What?” she demanded. “I like them.”
“Figures.” He spun her around and pushed her. “Come on. If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 20
It was bad enough he let his uncles goad him into things he didn’t want to do, but now he was letting Gwen do it, too. And all she did was stare at him with those gold eyes.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to show Gwen. That he wanted to let her in to the part of his life that only a chosen few had access to.
Lock pulled into one of two parking spaces at the warehouse and shut off the motor. They sat in silence for several minutes until Gwen asked, “So what exactly was going on behind your uncles’ bar?”
Surprised by her question, Lock could only stare at her.
“What?” she demanded. “You think I’m stupid? You disappear with your uncle, then Ric shows up, but he never comes inside. No one discusses what’s going on out there, and even though everyone is trying to be quiet, I can still hear ’em all out there. And I know I smelled something dead in that alley.”
Realizing that trying to get anything over on Gwen would be futile, Lock shrugged and said, “They found a shifter corpse behind the bar. And before you ask,” he said when she opened her mouth, “no, my uncles didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Someone sending them a message?”
“Doubtful. It’s no one they know and it’s happened randomly over the last five or six months. Chances are it’s just a good dumping ground.”
“For what?”
“So far it’s been hybrids. Male wolf mixes.”
“Hunted?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You worried?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Why bring in Ric?”
“It’s the kind of thing that gets him all up in arms. He’s a big believer in protecting all shifters, full-blood or mixed.” He took her hand. “That being said, I want you to be careful. At least until we know what’s going on. You and Blayne.”
“No worries there. We’re always careful. We have no choice. I’m an O’Neill and she’s the best friend of an O’Neill. Now are we going inside to see what your uncles were talking about or are you hoping I’ll completely forget and you can totally puss out?”
Dropping her hand, Lock snarled, “Fine. Get out.”
Lock stepped from the SUV and slammed his door. He walked to the warehouse and unlocked the door, shutting off his alarm system and heading inside, assuming Gwen would follow.
Gwen stood in the doorway and gazed up at the high ceiling. The place was an old warehouse, but even in New Jersey it couldn’t be cheap to own or rent a place like this, even for storage. Which she was sure it was with all the furniture lying around.
And nice furniture, too. Really nice.
Captivated by the first thing that caught her eye, Gwen wandered over to a sweet little side table. It was made entirely of wood, and she was amazed at the craftsmanship. Gwen crouched down in front of it and ran her hand over the smooth wood.
“Well?”
She heard tone from the bear behind her, but she chose to ignore it. Besides, the more she touched the end table, the more she wanted it. “Where did you get this from?” When he didn’t answer right away, Gwen glanced over her shoulder and was surprised by how uptight he looked. “What’s wrong?” She stood, gently placing her hand on his forearm. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged and admitted, “I made it.”
Gwen looked down at the table and back at the bear. “No, seriously.”
“I am serious. I made it. And I was drawing a front door for the house. Dad’s been wanting a new one.”
Gwen reached into Lock’s back pocket and pulled out the racing form. She’d grown up looking at these and helping her own uncles with their winnings and losses. It surprised her that she and Lock had that much in common. It surprised her even more what was drawn on that racing form.
It wasn’t simply a door, as the MacRyrie bears had put it. The design was intricate, beautiful. As someone who worked with carpenters and construction people most of her life, Gwen knew when she was looking at something amazing. But could he actually create this?
Gwen stepped closer to the end table and examined it again. Straightening, she walked down to the next piece. A rolltop desk that looked like something out of the nineteenth century but had been kept in impeccable shape. She pushed the rolltop up and then down. She studied every inch carefully.
“You did this?” she pushed, really not sure she believed him, but he looked so nervous and embarrassed, she was beginning to realize he wasn’t lying. And if he could do this, then she doubted the door would be much of a challenge for him.
“Yeah. I did.”
“This is your hobby? The woodworking you like to do?”
“Yeah.”
Momentarily speechless, she stepped to another piece. This one a long dining table that she knew her mother would kill for.
“Hobby?”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
She whirled on him. “Because hobby means whittling. Or birdhouses. Remember the birdhouses?
“You said birdhouses. I never said birdhouses.”
“It means,” she went on, ignoring him, “a badly put-together table that your friends only pull out of the garage when they know you’re coming over. This—” she gestured around the room at all the amazing pieces surrounding her “—this isn’t that.”