Good Counsel

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Abraham Michaels was trying yet again to access parish fhiles that the new software seemed to have scrambled when a knock sounded on his door. He glanced at the clock. Three already?

“Come in.” l

Dora opened the door. “Mr. Seabourne to see you, Father.”

“Excellent.” He pushed his chair back and rose.

The man who entered was lean, scruffy, and extraordinary. He wore ryouagged jeans and Reeboks with the panache of a box office star relaxing between films—a notion supported by a face that could have earned him top billing in Hollywood or Madison Avenue. But it was his body women would watch. Cullen Seabourne possessed the physical poise of dancer, which wasn’t surprising. He was one—an exotic dancer. Or had been. Cynna said her fiancé hadn’t decided yet whether he would continue in that profession.

He was also a werewolf . . . no, Abe reminded himself. He should think of Seabourne as a lupus.

That’s what they preferred to be called. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Seabourne.” He extended a hand and they shook. “Please have a seat. Would you care for coffee or tea?”

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