Call Of The White Wolf

“Tara said not to curse in front of the children,” Derek scolded. “And what do you know about making babies, anyway?”

Flora glanced up at John. “Where do babies come—?”

John flung up both hands to forestall the barrage of questions he didn’t want to answer. “Enough! We’ll discuss this later.” In about a hundred years, if he had his way about it!

“You mean tomorrow while we’re on another survival excursion?”

Leave it to little Flora to pin him down, he thought in dismay. “Yeah, sure. That’d be good.”

Samuel and Derek perked up immediately. John wanted to swear, but there’d been enough of that already. Apparently, Maureen had recovered from her humiliation, for she was staring curiously at him, as if she had a million questions to ask on the subject of the birds and bees. Hell!

John got up, limped out the door and went looking for Tara. He found her perched on a quilt, taking advantage of the last rays of sunset. Her nimble fingers flew over the rips in Samuel and Derek’s grass-stained shirts.

“You, Irish, have a devilish sense of humor,” John muttered.

She glanced up, grinning elfishly. “Oh, are you referring to that kiss I bestowed on you at the table?”

“Hell, yes, damn it,” he snapped. “Next thing I knew Flora was spouting off that she’s the one who loves me, and then she wanted to know if kissing is what makes babies.”

He could see Tara battling back a giggle. He wished he was in possession of a chain—one size smaller than the swanlike column of her neck.