It was that damned tabloid reporter’s fault. Somehow a handful of scientists had gained access to blood and tissue samples from werekind. Sara Beth didn’t believe for one second this had happened by accident—someone inside the community had to be responsible. The world’s shapeshifters had kept their existence secret far too long for a small group of humans to accidentally discover them. Most of the scientific and news communities had dismissed the findings, but Jeff Nichols, the crackpot journalist, was all over the story.

Worse, he’d identified her as a werewolf. A werewolf! The wolves were descendants of King Lycaon, who, along with his sons had been granted the ability to shift by the Greek god Zeus. They were completely unrelated to the foxes, who’d been created by ancient Germanic gods as warriors. Their common ancestor was Reginhard. As the legends and fables were passed from generations and crossed cultures, Reginhard became the surname of the werefox alpha, Reynard.

She had no idea how Nichols had stumbled on her, but he could at least get the story straight. She was a fox, dammit, not some overgrown, bad-tempered puppy. Her clan thought it was hilarious. The whole mess appealed to them. After all, foxes were known as pranksters in most mythology. Of course, they weren’t the ones with their faces plastered all over those awful rags, were they?

She heard a truck crank up and—glancing out the window—saw it drive away. She finished washing the grout off her hands and hurried upstairs. The house was almost finished. She’d come to see how the final stages were progressing and had been roped into assisting with tiling the kitchen backsplash. Truthfully, she didn’t mind. It was the kind of thing she loved and also the reason she’d got degrees in architecture and design. After school, she’d joined the family construction business. She’d only been in charge of the residential side of the company for three years, but she’d been working in it since she was a kid.

The stairs opened onto a large landing that had been designed at the client’s request as a library/lounge area. The second story had natural teak floors, which contrasted nicely with the crisp white built-in bookcases that surrounded the landing. The bedrooms on either side of the library differed only in color. She went through the guest room before moving to the opposite end of the landing to the master suite. She’d given the client exactly what he wanted and had to admit the man had good taste.

The back wall was all windows and French doors that led to a balcony, which stretched the length of the house. The room had a sitting area in an alcove that managed to feel private even though it was open, and the bathroom was to die for. She took her time checking it out. It was done in warm earth tones, had a huge walk-in shower and a tub she was convinced would hold four. It was positively decadent. Sighing, she flipped off the light switch and went back downstairs.

In contrast to the traditional upstairs, the first story looked like something out of a slick urban magazine. The floors were polished concrete and the front half of the house was an open living, dining and kitchen area. A small guest bath was tucked into a short hall which led to the final room. The house featured the first studio she’d built for a working artist and so far it was the least-finished room. Only the floors and walls were complete. She had an appointment with the artist later in the week to discuss work surfaces and storage areas.

She heard the front door close as more of the guys left and hastened to follow them. As soon as she stepped outside, she felt watched. Damn, she was getting sick of this. She let her fox side rise to the surface and sharpen her vision, but she didn’t see anything or anyone who didn’t belong when she looked around. Was danger really lurking or was she just paranoid? It seemed ludicrous to believe someone was watching her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. She decided to swing by her parents’ house. One of her brothers was bound to be there for lunch. It would be easy to rope one into having a look around.

She stepped off the porch to the sidewalk, giving the area another visual sweep. Nothing looked suspicious. There were a couple of guys getting in a truck and another couple on the far side of the yard, packing up the tools by the new retaining wall. She waved as she headed toward her own vehicle. She’d arrived late and had to park a bit down the street.

It was broad daylight, bright and growing chilly as the first storm of the season moved in. She felt like she was walking through town alone at night, though. She dug her keys out of her pocket, eyeing the tree line beside her, and activated the remote when she was in range. By then her senses were screaming. She took a deep breath to test the air. At first all she scented was woods, the last honeysuckle of the season and fresh cut grass. Then there was the faintest hint of man. When the scent’s owner stepped out from behind a tree, she cried out, more from surprise than fear.

She was damned glad she had when she met his gaze and took another deep breath. His scent was putrid in a way she’d learned to associate with violence. Malevolence. His eyes glittered, his expression anticipatory. He was several inches taller than her, bulky the way bodybuilders were, balding and scary as hell. Then he lunged for her. Her heart thudded in her chest and she backpedaled, just managing to stay on her feet and pivot to run away. She had agility and a shifter’s heightened speed on her side, but if the last two guys on today’s crew—both werewolves—hadn’t been so close she would have been caught. She felt something sting her shoulder through the thin long-sleeved shirt she wore. The two shifters, raced toward her in human form, yelling her name. She made it another couple of steps before her knees went out and her vision dimmed.