Chapter 2

He cursed the bad timing. Sure, his luck couldn’t last forever. But did it have to all go to hell now? When the activist group recruited him, he’d at last found the means and the courage to fight for his fellow omegas instead of hiding and ignoring their plight.

Taking a sip of coffee that burned its way down his throat like pure acid, Rafe cast a surreptitious glance toward the hallway. No armed guards. The window revealed only a rain-drenched parking lot. No prisoner transport van. Okay. Maybe he was panicking for nothing. “The government wants me for what?” Rafe cringed at the thready sound of his voice

Caldwell chuckled. “Your skills, of course. And let me tell you, this could be quite a bonanza—a make-or-break opportunity.” He gestured to the disarranged file drawer. “I was going to bring the complimentary letters I’ve gotten about your work. A little bragging never hurts.”

So they didn’t know anything! Rafe forced down a shout of glee and concentrated on keeping his expression neutral. All he had to do was dodge this government assignment and keep out of sight—and out of scent range. He set the coffee cup on the desk and sorted through the bouquet of excuses blooming in his head while Caldwell kept talking.

“I haven’t told you the best part. Care to guess who’s asking for our help?” A broad smile of anticipation lit Caldwell’s doughy face. Like a high school girl revealing a nugget of hot gossip, the man leaned forward and whispered, “Grant Tenereth.” He eased back in the chair with an expectant look, no doubt waiting for awed admiration.

Well, Rafe could provide the awe part all right—shock and awe. He choked. On nothing or on something—it sure wasn’t spit because his mouth had gone dry as a summer day in Las Vegas. Grant Fucking Tenereth? At the tender age of thirty-four, the youngest, most hard-assed alpha bastard ever to be appointed to run the Omega Council? According to rumor, the reason the man didn’t have a mate yet was he was too busy making love to the rulebook.

An urge to fly out of there and never look back seized Rafe. Only by wrapping his fingers tight around the arms of the chair could he hold himself down. He had to stay in control—omegas who panicked and ran always got caught. His long term success was due to years of hiding in plain sight. No, he had to think his way out of this.

Maybe Caldwell’s ego was the key—a little manipulation might work. He arranged his lips in a smile. “That’s quite a coup for the company. And for you. You’ll want to be hands-on with this, so I’ll stay in the background and let you get the credit you deserve.”

“Nonsense. He told me to deliver you personally.”

Oh, God. The alpha had custom-ordered him. Was that when the restraints would be brought out?

“Tenereth picked you because you’re the best in the field. And because you’re a beta.” He gave Rafe a conspiratorial wink. “Probably doesn’t want to butt heads with a tough old alpha like me.”

Tenereth wanted a beta? Too bad there wasn’t one available. Could this get any worse?

Caldwell stood and plucked his pond-scum green suit jacket from the coat rack. “Let’s go. The meeting’s in half an hour. Can’t make a good impression if we’re late.”

“What? Right now?” Rafe was thirty minutes away from being presented to Grant Tenereth? A helpless whimper rose in his throat as behind the terror, his damned omega hormones perked up at the prospect of meeting a prime alpha. If he couldn’t shut them down fast, even his heedless boss would recognize a blossoming omega scent. “But I’m still in the middle of the Donaldson program.”

“Let what’s-her-name handle it. A government contract like this could mean millions.” The man rubbed his palms together as if feeling the arousing touch of money already.

Scrambling for excuses, Rafe protested, “But I won’t make a good impression. I’m not prepared.”

“No way you could be—he hasn’t told us yet what the assignment is. Very hush hush—we’ll be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement.” Caldwell had moved out from behind his desk and stood towering over Rafe. “Now, up and at ‘em—I want to get there before the storm gets any worse.”

What was he supposed to do now? More herb capsules? Not strong enough—not to ward off an alpha in his prime. He needed a suppressant injection. And that meant a trip to the employee locker room—without Caldwell. What excuse would work? He picked up the coffee, and pretending to take a last sip, dumped it on his shirt. Leaping up, he cried, “Damn, what a mess.”

Caldwell backed away to protect the awful suit, leaving enough room for Rafe to escape.