BURNING MOON

---

 

 

BURNING MOON

Rebecca York

 

SOME people glory in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Antonia Delarosa had learned to seek the shadows of the night.

On this November evening, she sat in the midnight-dark lounge of the old Victorian where she lived, her narrow hands not quite steady as she shuffled and cut the tarot cards, then laid them on the table in front of her.

No light illuminated the images. But she didn't need to fix her gaze on them. As she laid each one on the table and ran her finger over the upper left-hand corner, a familiar picture came to her.

"The Empress," she murmured, seeing in her mind a woman wearing flowing robes and a twelve-star crown, seated on lush red pillows.

The next card she turned over was the Knight of Cups—coming to save the day, no doubt.

As a teenager, she had been drawn to the tarot, and she had worked with the cards for more than fifteen years, using many different decks.

Tonight, she held her old favorites, the Rider-Waite. The one that most people thought of when they pictured the cards whose origins went back to ancient legends and religions.

As always, she felt herself tapping into a combination of memory and awareness—her own unconscious.

Shuffling through the deck, she turned over one more card. It showed a man and a woman standing naked under the arms of Raphael, the angel of air, who was giving them his blessing.

"The Lovers," she breathed. That card had come up for her again and again over the past few months. Of course, it didn't always refer to a romantic relationship. Maybe she was going to mend her fences with Mom.

"Right. And hippos will fly," she muttered.

Her hand went back to the Empress, touching the surface lightly, and she uttered a small sound that was part distress and part wonder.

There was another image intruding into the picture now—something that didn't belong. To the left of the woman, an animal sat ramrod straight, his mouth slightly open, his tongue lolling out between white, pointed teeth.

"The wolf." Antonia felt a prickle of sensation travel down the back of her neck. The animal's fierce eyes stared from the card, challenging anyone who dared question his right to be there.

She had first become aware of him weeks ago on the Magician card, his outline hazy among the greenery that festooned the underside of the sorcerer's table. She had doubted her vision then. And when she had focused her inner eye more closely, the wolf had vanished.

But he came back the next night—on the five of Pentacles, in front of the two homeless people. The card represented bad luck or loss, but it had been upside down, which wasn't quite as bad—because it might indicate a reversal of bad fortune.

The wolf had refused to relinquish his position under the church window, even when she had muttered "begone," and lain the card facedown on the table.

He had returned again and again, and she couldn't guess what his presence meant.

"You're close now, aren't you? Come out and show yourself," she challenged. "Or are you a coward?"

"I am no coward."

The answer echoed in the darkened room. She had spoken the words with her own lips. But she sensed the wolf's truth.

A wolf mates for life. And what if his mate is killed? Does he slog through existence without her? Or does he find a way to end his misery?

Grant Marshall turned the question over in his mind as he drove down the two-lane highway toward Sea Gate, New Jersey.

He had opened the window partway, and a cold breeze off the ocean blew back the dark hair from his forehead. He knew he needed a haircut. He'd get one at the barber shop in town and hopefully get the locals talking about last month's murder.

He wasn't the kind of man who naturally started conversations with strangers, but necessity had changed his habits.

Once, he'd built houses. Now he was a vigilante—dedicating every moment of his existence to finding the man who had killed his life mate.

And when he had sent the devil's spawn back to hell, he would plunge into the cold sea and swim away from shore—until his strength gave out and he could join Marcy.

That is, if they let werewolves into heaven.

He dragged in a lungful of the damp air, imagining that he could catch the scent of evil drifting toward him. Did the killer live in this town? Or was he only passing through—as he had passed through so many communities in the last eight years.

Marcy hadn't been the killer's first victim. Or his final one. But Grant was close on his heels now. He knew the signs. Knew the kind of woman he preyed on. He knew how to search the Internet and newspapers for the creature's spoor. He would track down the monster and make sure it never took another life.

He reached the town limits, then cruised down Atlantic Avenue, which was a block from the ocean. It featured a commercial district overflowing with art galleries, real estate agencies, and t-shirt shops, most of which were closed for the season. But the all-year-round establishments like the drugstore, grocery, and cleaners were still open for business.

At the far end of the main drag and on several side streets, he saw Victorian-era houses in various states of repair. Some rivaled the decorative splendor of New Orleans's famous painted ladies. Others were worn by salt, wind, and rain.

He found the murder house on Maple Street. A blackened wound in the flesh of the town, much like the remains of the home where his wife had died.

Seeing the charred remnants of the structure made his throat close, and he gripped the steering wheel to steady himself.

He should drive on past and wait until tonight to poke through the ruins of Elizabeth Jefferson's life. A wolf could pick up more clues than a man.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from pulling to the curb, then climbing out.

He walked around the foundation of the structure, breathing in the scents of burned wood and a crowd of people. The place had been a regular sideshow attraction. He was halfway around the blackened derelict when his sharp ears told him he had made a tactical error.

A car was gliding slowly to a stop in back of his SUV. Turning, he saw it was a patrol car.

Shit.

He kept the curse locked in his throat as a cop climbed out of the cruiser, wearing a blue uniform and an attitude. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair and piercing gray eyes. The black plastic tag on his chest said his name was Wright. Probably he thought he always was.

"Mind telling me what you're doing here?" he said, his voice lacking any touch of warmth.

Grant stood with his hands at his sides, hoping his body language made it clear that he wasn't going to pull out a concealed weapon.

"I read about the incident here. I thought I'd stop by the house where it happened."

"Why?"

"Because I'm considering buying property in town," he answered, giving the cover story he'd been using for the past two years when he came to investigate one of the murder sites.

"Let me see your driver's license, please," the cop said.

Grant pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out the plastic card, and handed it over.

Wright studied the license, comparing Grant's dark eyes and hair to the man in the photograph. And his six-foot height, hundred and ninety pounds to the written description. He'd lost some weight since Marcy's death, and he'd never gained it back. But the license was otherwise accurate.

"You're from Pennsylvania, Mr. Marshall?" the cop said in a flat voice.

"Yes."

"What are you doing down here?"

"Like I said, I'm looking to buy a home in a town on the ocean."

"Why here? Are you some kind of vulture?"

"I'm a prudent investor."

Wright walked to his cruiser. Grant followed, standing back as the cop checked his name on the onboard computer.

Even though he was sure nothing was going to come up, he could feel his heart drumming inside his chest.

"You're clean." The officer sounded sorry about that as he handed back the ID.

"Yeah," Grant agreed, glad that his license didn't have "werewolf" stamped across the front.

"We don't need outsiders coming in and taking advantage of our… tragic circumstances."

"Thanks for the advice," Grant said, using the mild voice that worked best with aggressive small-town cops.

He felt the man's eyes on his back as he got into his SUV and started the engine. The cop followed him to Atlantic Avenue, then sped away with his lights flashing, probably racing home for a late lunch.

 

SWINGING back the way he'd come, Grant turned onto Norfolk Street. He intended to stay in town until his business was finished. Now he knew from the get-go that he'd have to watch out for the law.

As he turned another corner, a sign caught his eye. It said BED AND BREAKFAST, CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.

Under it was an additional line that said TAROT CARD READINGS.

He made a snorting noise. He had never gone in for mumbo jumbo like fortune-telling, and he had no intention of starting now. No intention at all. But some impulse caused him to stop for the second time since reaching Sea Gate.

Pulling up beside a neatly trimmed hedge, he studied the house and grounds. The Victorian's clapboard siding was painted dove gray, with darker gray trim. Neatly tended gardens surrounded the structure, and several bird feeders hung from the lower branches of large, old trees.

What the hell, he thought. Maybe she can tell me if this is the week I get lucky.

As he rang the bell, he was picturing a stoop-shouldered crone wearing a shapeless dress and knit shawl over her plump shoulders.

"Yes?"

The woman who answered the door uttered only that one brisk syllable, then went very still.

He fought to quickly rearrange his thinking. Instead of a housedress over a dumpy figure, she was wearing gray wool slacks and an emerald-green sweater that showed off her slender curves. She looked to be in her late twenties, although a streak of white at her forehead split her shoulder-length dark brown hair, drawing attention to her lush, shiny curls. But he was more interested in her blue eyes. Though she seemed to be focusing on his face, there was something strange about the way she regarded him.

It took several seconds for him to realize that she was blind.

"I was looking for the tarot card reader," he said.

"You found her."

"But…"

 

ANTONIA fought a sudden sharp stab of panic. He might leave. And she couldn't let that happen. Hoping her face showed none of the tension coursing through her, she said, "I've been working with tarot cards for a long time. I don't need to see them to read their meaning."

An eternity elapsed as he considered the statement. Finally, he answered. "Okay."

She had to gulp in a breath of air before she could manage to say, "Come in."

Then she waited with her pulse pounding while he stepped into the front hall and closed the door.

Hoping she didn't look like a nutcase, she led the way to the table in the corner of the lounge with its comfortable upholstered chairs.

She didn't need to see where she was going. She knew the landscape of this house as well as she knew her own body. Every piece of furniture was where she had placed it. Every cup and saucer was put away where she could find it.

She needed that order in her life. And usually her control of the environment left her feeling calm and confident.

Not now—because she sensed something unsettling and at the same time compelling radiating from this man.

She had learned to form quick impressions of people. That was more difficult when you couldn't see their eyes. But she liked the deep timbre of his voice. Liked the clean, woodsy scent that clung to him. Not from aftershave, but from some unnamed quality all his own.

Yet it wasn't voice or scent that commanded her to keep him here. It was fear—that he would leave her and do something that could never be set right.

She didn't really know what that meant. She only knew she had to find out what was troubling him—for his sake and for hers.

She sat down, then listened for the small sound of chair legs scraping across the rug. When she heard it and knew he'd joined her at the table, she let out a small sigh.

The cards were sitting where she'd left them. She picked up the deck and shuffled.

"I should have introduced myself," she said. "I'm Antonia Delarosa."

"Grant Marshall."

He didn't offer to shake her hand, but she knew he must be watching her, probably deciding whether to go through with a reading. Should she offer to do it for free? No. Instead of reassuring him, that would probably drive him away.

She wanted to study his expression, judge what he was thinking. She'd been sighted for the first twenty-five years of her life, and she wanted to see this man. If she couldn't do it with her eyes, she wanted to use her hands. But that would step over a social boundary she couldn't cross, so she kept her fingers on the cards.

"I guess you're wondering if you've made a major mistake by coming here," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.

When he didn't answer, she went on. "I charge fifty dollars for a reading, and I can refund your money if you're not satisfied. But I think you will be. I've had psychic abilities since I was a little girl."

He cleared his throat. "Like what?"

She had stories waiting at her fingertips. Setting down the cards, she said, "I'd know things—things that I couldn't explain by normal means. I remember when I was seven, waking up crying—worried about my parents. My baby-sitter couldn't calm me down, and it turned out Mom and Dad had been in an automobile accident. She broke her shoulder and collarbone, and my dad had a concussion."

Into the silence from across the table, she went on. "That's just an extreme example. I knew other stuff. Not necessarily anything monumental. Like maybe whether a friend was going to call me on the phone. When I grew up, I did tarot card readings in New Orleans, before I lost my sight. People came back to me again and again. And they recommended me to their friends."

"How did your parents react to your making a living that way?" he asked, and she sensed that the answer to the question was important.

"The talent has been in my family for years. It was something we all knew about and accepted."

"So you can see the future?" Again, tension infused the question.

"You want to know your future?"

"I want to know…" He stopped, swallowed, drumming his fingers against the tabletop.

She never pushed people to reveal more than they were willing to tell her. She always let a querent—a person who came to her for a reading—give her information at his own pace.

Breaking one of her own rules, she reached across the space that separated them and found his hand. It was large and warm and strong, with a hint of callus between his thumb and index finger. When she stroked her own thumb along his palm, she couldn't hold back a strangled exclamation.

"WHAT?" the man across the table asked sharply, pulling his hand away.

"It wasn't your fault. The fire."

He made a low, angry sound. "She didn't die in the fire. Whoever killed her poisoned her first."

Antonia gasped, but Grant Marshall was already speaking again. "I should have been home with her!" The words came out as a menacing growl that would have sent her running in the other direction if she hadn't been glued to her chair.

She and this stranger were speaking a kind of shorthand now. They'd met only minutes ago. He hadn't told her that someone had burned up his house with his wife inside. She'd pulled that terrible image from his mind. And more. The fire had left him with scars. Not physical marks but guilt and unbearable pain that ate at his soul.

"You didn't know anything bad was going to happen."

Antonia had uttered that phrase many times in the past. Sometimes it gave comfort. Not now. There was only one thing that would give Grant Marshall any kind of cold comfort. And he didn't want her to know about it.

He stood up. "This is a mistake," he said, sounding angry.

Desperation came out as a plea. "Don't leave."

"You… see too much."

"Maybe I can help you find him," she said quickly, then sat with the breath frozen in her lungs.

He stood a few feet away, but she imagined she could hear his heart pounding.

When the chair scraped back again and he sat down, she allowed herself to breathe.

"You got that picture of the burned house from my head," he said in a voice that told her he didn't want to believe her insight.

"Because you've been focused on it for a long time."

"What else are you going to see?" he asked.

His wary tone made her tread carefully. More than you want me to see, she silently admitted. She was still frightened. Not of him, although she knew violence was not far from the surface of his mind. That should worry her. Yet she was more worried that she would drive him away if she said too much.

"Let's use the cards," she said, wondering what she was going to do now. She couldn't be dishonest with him. That would violate her personal code of ethics. Yet she'd learned to soften bad news.

"I've never asked for a tea leaf reading. Or anything else like that. Maybe you'd better tell me something about these cards," he said, buying them both a little time.

"Well, I don't mess with tea leaves." She laughed. "All I'd get from them is wet fingers."

Ignoring her attempt at a joke, he pressed for more information. "Then how do you read the cards?"

"Braille markings. After that, because I know the pictures so well, I see them in my head." She went on quickly, "The tarot deck has seventy-eight cards. They're divided into the twenty-two Major Arcana, cards which reference the archetypal passages in our lives, and the fifty-six Minor Arcana which deal more with day-to-day life."

Sensing that he was listening intently, she pushed the deck toward him. "Take a look at them. Each one is full of symbolism. Some go all the way back to Egyptian mythology or the Hebrew Cabala. But it's all open to interpretation. And no card is either good or bad. It's all in context."

She heard him shuffling through the deck. "What about this one? With Death riding a white horse."

She heard the strong emotion in his voice, emotion he was struggling to hide. She knew why he had pulled out the card. He was contemplating his own demise, but she didn't need to tell him that.

Instead, she said, "It looks scary, but it's not so bad. It can symbolize transformation or rebirth. The king is dead! Long live the king! It can come up when people are going through lifestyle changes. It can signify that it's time to move on. It can mark new beginnings rather than endings."

It seemed he was too restless to stay seated across from her. He put the cards down, got up from the table, and paced the room.

"You know why I came here?" he asked.

"To my house? Or to Sea Gate?"

"Sea Gate."

She swallowed. Again she wondered how much to say. "You know there was a similar murder here. You think it's related, and you hope the person who did it is still in town."

"Yeah."

Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them.

Under the table, she squeezed her hands into fists, considering her next move. She knew she was taking a chance when she said, "In the summer, I run this place as a bed and breakfast. Well, I have people who do the actual work. There are plenty of rooms. You could stay here."

"I wouldn't be very good company."

"I'm not looking for company. And I could use the money," she added, not because money was really an issue, but because it might help him make up his mind. "I can give you a winter discount, a hundred dollars a night. For the room and breakfast."

Again she held her breath, waiting. When he said, "All right," she felt almost dizzy with relief.

"You can bring your luggage in," she said quickly.

When he walked toward the door, she wasn't sure whether he was walking out of her life. And she'd never been more frustrated in her blindness. She wanted to follow him to the car and see that he was getting his suitcase. But that would surely send him away.

Her own anxiety shocked her. She was desperate to keep this man from killing himself. More than that, she ached to make him realize that life was worth living. But she couldn't force him to see things her way, so she pushed back her chair with deliberate slowness and walked into the hall.

When the door opened again, she wiped her damp palms on her slacks. "Grant?"

"Yes."

"The room at the end of the hall is one of my best, and it has a good view of the ocean," she said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back.

He had thought too often of the ocean, of the cold, black waves swallowing him up.

She longed to go to him then, to wrap her arms around him and give him the blessing of simple human contact. The warmth of her body could help take away the chill that had sunk into his bones.

But she wasn't going to fool herself. There was more she had glimpsed in their brief encounter. Things she didn't dare name because admitting her desires and seeing them crushed was worse than never acknowledging their existence. Once her life had been full of possibilities. After she'd lost her sight, she'd learned not to ask for too much.

Did she dare to open herself up to the pain of rejection? She didn't know whether she had a choice.

 

GRANT set his duffel bag on a luggage rack near the bedroom door and looked around. The room was charming, with refinished mahogany cabinet pieces, a four-poster bed, and blue and white curtains at the double-hung windows.

Had Antonia given directions for the decorating? Had she bought the furniture at country auctions? He could picture her wanting to know every detail.

Striving to put her out of his mind, he crossed to the bedroom window and stood staring out at the ocean. It was a block away, but from the second floor of the house, he could see the swells rising and falling. The view soothed him because he knew the sea would set him free.

He told himself he should leave this dwelling. He was used to being alone with his mangled heart and his quest for justice. He had mated for life, and Marcy's death had ripped away a part of himself that could never be returned.

But over the past two years, the sharp edge of grief had dulled. He saw that as a betrayal of his wife. And he saw his response to Antonia in those terms, too.

Not a physical response, he told himself. It was nothing sexual. He had shared dark secrets with her. And none of it had sent her running from him.

But she saw him only as a man. She knew only the human part—the part about the stranger who had lost his wife and was searching for her killer.

She didn't know about the wolf who had indulged his raw grief by roaming the woods of western Pennsylvania hunting animals and ripping out their throats. She didn't know that wolf was upstairs in her house.

He had come here for a tarot card reading. But he hadn't let her go ahead with it. Was he afraid she would see through his carefully cultivated veneer of humanity?

What if he took off his clothes, walked back downstairs, and said the ancient chant that changed him from man to animal? She wouldn't see the wolf. But she would sense his presence. And that would be the end of whatever relationship she was thinking about.

He could end this anytime he wanted. Very dramatically. And that made him feel safer.

So he left his duffel bag in the room while he went back to the business district to have a look around. After driving slowly up and down Atlantic Avenue, he pulled into a space near Bridges Dry Goods Store, Ernest Bridges, Proprietor, and got out.

As he walked inside, he saw that several people were standing around talking to the man behind the counter, presumably Ernest Bridges himself, who looked like he'd been planted there for the past seventy years.

The conversation stopped, and Grant watched the crowd eyeing him speculatively, although not with the earlier hostility of the cop. Apparently this was one of the town gathering places—regardless of class or profession. One man was wearing a business suit. Another had on overalls. A woman was in jeans and a pullover. Even in human form, Grant could pick up their distinctive scents. All of them had something in common. They'd all been to the murder house.

"Help you?" Bridges asked.

Grant pulled his focus away from the olfactory analysis and scrambled for an answer. "Toothpaste."

"Second aisle on the right. Halfway down."

He ambled past shelves crammed with lipsticks and boxes of graham crackers, dishwasher detergent and beach towels on deep discount.

"You passing through?" the old man behind the counter asked as Grant came back with his purchase.

"I might be interested in vacation property," he said for the second time that afternoon.

The guy in the suit perked right up. "Well, I can surely help you out. Charlie Hastings. I own the real estate office a few doors down." He held out his hand, and Grant shook it.

When he'd started his quest, he'd thought about whether to use his own name and decided that it might be an advantage—if his goal was to flush out the killer.

"Grant Marshall. I'll stop by in the next day or two," he said, thinking that the man probably knew how long all the residents had owned their homes.

Stepping outside, he lingered under the shade of the porch, pretending he was just enjoying the sea air. Although the door closed behind him, his hearing was excellent, and he could still pick up the conversation from inside the store.

"You think he knows property values have gone down?" Bridges asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not," the real estate guy answered.

"Sell him a fixer-upper and I'll get some business out of it, too," another voice said, and Grant figured the guy in overalls must be the town handyman.

The group laughed.

"So, do you think I should put in another cabin in the back?" the woman asked.

"The tourist business will pick up in the warm weather. Leastways if we can do something about the hole in the ground that used to be the Jefferson house," Hastings answered.

When the talk metamorphosed into a deep discussion of Sea Gate property values, Grant left the porch for a walk through the business district, following the scent trails of people who had been at the murder house and also in the shopping area. Many of the paths led to a bar and grill several blocks down Atlantic called the Seagull's Roost. But he didn't go inside, because he knew the alcohol fumes would make him sick.

Instead he drove back to Antonia's bed and breakfast. She wasn't around when he stepped inside. Relieved that she was making herself scarce, he went back up to his room.

Sleep had become something he grabbed in snatches. But the bed was comfortable, so he lay down on top of the covers for a short nap. When he woke, it was dark outside.

His watch said six thirty. Later he would go visit the burned house. But he needed fuel, and his stomach told him he hadn't eaten much that day.

After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh shirt and went downstairs. He was thinking he'd go out and get some fast-food hamburgers. But the aromas coming from the back of the house stopped him.

He smelled homemade beef stew, and a wave of nostalgia swamped him. His mother had made thick stews, filled with chunks of meat the way his father liked it. Marcy had gotten the recipe, on one of their brief trips home.

There hadn't been many visits because all the werewolves he knew—his father and his brothers—were alpha males, and they fought for dominance when left in a room together.

His father had a couple of brothers he hadn't seen in years. Just the way Grant had stayed away from his own adult male relatives. But he'd looked up his cousins on the Internet to find out if they were still alive. One was a private detective. A guy named Ross Marshall. They'd exchanged a few e-mails. And he'd thought for a split second about asking him to help track Marcy's killer. Then he'd figured they'd only end up at each other's throats. So he'd kept to his private quest.

He hesitated in the front hall. He should stay away from Antonia, but he found his feet taking him to the kitchen.

When he stopped in the doorway, he saw her stirring a large pot on the front of the stove. The light was low, giving the kitchen a cozy feel. The simple domestic scene made his chest tighten.

"That smells good," he said, hearing the thickness of his own words.

She turned to face him. "Cold weather makes me want to fix a big pot of something hearty. Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"The stew is about ready. We can have a salad, too."

He watched as she opened the refrigerator and took out tomato, lettuce, celery, carrots. She washed the produce in the sink, then brought it to a small cutting board resting in what looked like a large cookie sheet with low sides.

"Can I help you?"

"You could set the table." She gestured toward a side-board. "The cutlery is in the drawers. And the salad bowls are on the shelves just above."

"And I see the napkins in the basket."

As he worked, he watched her preparations, admiring her efficiency. The cookie sheet kept any vegetables from skittering away as she carefully cut them up, then tossed them into a bowl with the lettuce.

It was a strange experience, not having to pretend that his attention was elsewhere. And he found he wasn't just watching her cook. He was taking in interesting details, like the way her lower lip pursed as she concentrated on her task, and the way she'd tied back her mass of brown hair with a green ribbon, exposing the tender curl of her ear.

His gaze traveled lower, to her nicely feminine curves. He hadn't noticed a woman's breasts in a long time, and his jaw tightened. He didn't want to focus his attention on boobs. But hers were high and rounded, and he could make out the small buds of her nipples beneath the tee shirt she was wearing now. When he found his body responding, he bit back a curse.

"So—you weren't always blind?" he said in a gruff voice.

She kept busy with the salad. "I got something called uveitis when I was twenty-four. By the time they made the diagnosis, it was too late to save my vision."

"That must have been… devastating," he said, thinking about how he would have reacted.

"I did a lot of crying and screaming. Then I made peace with it. But I wanted to live as independently as I could, so I went to a school where they taught blind people basic skills."

"You didn't want a guide dog?"

"The school encouraged independence. I've got a white cane that I use when I go out. But I know my way around in here. If you put things back where they belong," she added with a note of firmness in her voice.

"I will." He cleared his throat. "A dog would be good protection."

"I didn't think I needed protection, until… Elizabeth."

"You felt safe in Sea Gate?"

She turned to face him, then carried the salad bowl to the table.

"Yes. That's why I came back to this house where my aunt lived. I used to spend the summers here with my parents. Sea Gate is about the right-sized town for me. I can walk to just about anything I need—the grocery or the dry goods store or the pharmacy."

He'd given himself the perfect opening to talk about the murder. Instead, he asked, "And you ended up with the property?"

"Yes. My mom and dad separated when I was in my teens. My aunt never had any kids. So she left me the house."

"And your mother?"

"Mom was bent out of shape about my getting Aunt Minnie's inheritance. She's in Colorado—working as a fortune-teller in Manitou Springs. It's an old hippy community, so she fits right in."

He was wound up in her narrative, when her sudden sharp exclamation sent him striding across the room.

He could see that while she'd been ladling hot stew into bowls, she'd splashed some on the side of her hand.

Quickly he turned on the water, then thrust her hand under the cold stream, holding the reddened skin upward.

"So much for walking and chewing gum at the same time," she murmured.

He wasn't sure how to respond.

"That's supposed to be a joke," she said in a quavery voice.

"Yeah." He was trying not to focus on the feel of her small hand in his large one. It was small-boned and graceful. He should turn her loose. She could take care of the emergency by herself. But he kept the hand cradled protectively in his.

"How does it look?" she asked.

The question startled him, because he'd forgotten she couldn't see for herself.

"Red. But I think it's only first degree."

She sighed. "Burns are a problem for me in the kitchen. I've got some salve."

When she started to step away from the sink, he cupped his palm over her shoulder. "Keep your hand under the water. I'll get the salve."

"It's in the drawer right under the microwave."

He let go of her, then crossed to the drawer and found the tube.

Turning off the water, he took her hand again. When she swung toward him, her breast collided with his outstretched arm, and neither of them moved for several seconds.

The contact was innocent, yet the pressure of that soft swell made his breath catch.

She angled away, tried to snatch her hand back.

But he wanted to prove he wasn't reacting to her, so he kept hold of her, blotting the water with a paper towel. Then he stroked on some of the burn medication. When he was finished, he let her go and deliberately stepped back.

 

"THANK you," Antonia whispered.

He answered with little more than a grunt, and she knew that she hadn't been the only one affected by the innocent contact.

She wanted to say something like, "You're not being unfaithful to your wife by responding to me." But she kept that observation locked behind closed lips.

"Maybe I should just go out and grab something for dinner," he said.

"Dinner is already made. And it's better than anything you're likely to get in town at this time of year."

"Yeah." After a moment's hesitation, he moved to the stove, and she heard him ladling stew into a bowl.

Which left her with the other bowl. She wasn't sure now where she'd set it down, and she had to fumble around on the counter, wondering if he was watching the blind woman make a spectacle of herself. She almost stuck her fingers into the stew, but the heat warned her before she had to start over again with the cold water and the salve.

Nervous now, she wondered if she could make it across the room with the food. But she carefully counted the steps and ended up at the table, where she sat down.

While she'd been cooking, she'd imagined the conversation she and Grant might have at dinner. She'd thought she would offer him some wine. But that seemed out of place now. They both ate in silence until he said, "Do you have any salad dressing?"

She'd completely forgotten about dressing, and she felt her face heat. "I'll get it."

"I can do it. Where do you keep it?"

"The bottom shelf in the refrigerator door."

He brought two bottles and set them down on the table. She waited while he poured dressing on his salad. No point in any part of their bodies colliding again. When he was finished, she reached for a bottle and felt the plastic label she'd fixed to the side. It had the letter P, for Pepper Parmesan.

"You were right. The stew is good," he said.

"Thanks."

The conversation ground to a halt again, and she bent toward her bowl, thinking that her social skills had certainly deteriorated.

When a noise from outside invaded the silence, her head jerked up. A car had stopped out front.

"Are you expecting company?" Grant asked.

"No."

"Let me take a look." She heard him get up from the table and crossed to the window.

"Shit." He made a small coughing sound. "Pardon the language."

His exclamation sent a sizzle of alarm traveling up her neck. "What's wrong outside?"

ANTONIA waited for Grant's answer. Finally he said, "I don't want to worry you, but whoever was out there split as soon as he saw me standing at the window."

"Or maybe it was someone looking for a bed and breakfast who saw I was closed for the season."

"Is the sign lighted?"

"Not in the off-season."

"Well, they probably didn't see it in the dark, then." He cleared his throat. "Does this happen a lot? Someone stopping by your house—then driving away?"

"What? Do you think someone is stalking me?"

"I didn't say that. I just didn't like seeing a car speed away as soon as I showed my face in the window."

Wondering what to say next, she finally settled on, "It could have been Scott Wright. One of the local cops."

"He comes by to check on you?" Grant asked.

"You've already met him?"

"How do you know?"

"From your voice."

"Yeah, well he pulled up right behind my car when I stopped to have a look at the Jefferson house."

"He's protective of the town."

"And of you?"

She snorted. "That's what he says. But what he really wants is to… relieve the blind lady's sexual frustration."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, temper flaring in his tone.

She hesitated for a long moment, thinking that maybe the way to get Grant to open up with her was to share her own secrets. "I knew Scott when I was a teenager. And when I came back to town, he was… solicitous, so I made the mistake of telling him too much. He knows my fiancé left me when he found out I was losing my sight. He thinks I should be an easy lay. But I'm not attracted to him. And if I were, knowing he has a wife and kids would stop me cold."

"Nice guy."

She wished she could take back the part about Billy walking away from her. But it was said.

"Watch out for him. He likes to use his official position to intimidate people."

"He probably wondered why you were interested in the Jefferson house."

"Or he has something to hide."

"What?"

"Maybe I'll find out." Grant didn't sit back down at the table. "I figured that tonight might be a good time for doing some exploring."

"In the dark?"

"I have very good night vision," he said.

"Do you want some coffee before you go out?"

"I don't drink it," he answered at once, and she wondered if he was making an excuse to end the conversation.

"Tea?" she offered.

"Not now. But herbal tea would be good in the morning."

"I've got peppermint and cranberry."

"Either one."

He crossed to the sink, and she pictured him emptying out stew he hadn't eaten.

She pushed back her chair, then reached for her own unfinished bowl.

"You cooked. I'll clean up," he said. "If you trust me to put things were they belong."

"I trust you," she said, meaning more than kitchen cleanup. "The dishes go in the dishwasher. Plastic wrap for the salad bowl is in the drawer under the cutlery. Put the salad and the stew in the refrigerator."

When she'd finished the short speech, she turned and left the room, before she said anything else she regretted.

 

NOT far away, Shadow Man got out of his car and walked toward the sound of laughter and rock music coming from the Seagull's Roost.

"Hey," Hank Horngate greeted him.

"Hey yourself," he answered.

Others around the room repeated the salutation, and he gave everyone a friendly smile and a wave. He was a fixture in town. One of the gang. An upstanding citizen whom no one would suspect of murder. Which was why he thought of himself as Shadow Man. Like the guy in that movie who called himself The Shadow. He'd learned to cloud men's minds so they saw only what he wanted.

He ordered a Bud Light and relaxed on one of the stools at the end of the bar. The Seagull's Roost was a good place to pick up information, so he came here pretty frequently before calling it a night.

He'd made a mistake a month ago. He'd known it pretty quickly. Fouling your own nest wasn't the smartest idea in the world. Always before, he'd traveled away from Sea Gate to murder the damn bitches who reminded him of Helen. But he hadn't been able to resist Elizabeth Jefferson. Not after her husband Bob had come into the bar night after night talking about her. She'd had MS. She was in a wheelchair part of the time. And she never stopped complaining about how life wasn't fair.

Like Helen. The harpy who had ruined his life. It wasn't his fault a drunk driver had jumped the signal and plowed into them. But Helen had never let him forget he had sped through the intersection a split second after the light had turned from yellow to red.

Since they'd been kids, she'd told him how stupid he was and how he'd never make anything of himself. Then she'd spent the last two years of her miserable existence dragging him down to her level. Finally he'd had enough of playing the loving brother atoning for his sins.

He'd fed her arsenic day after day, and the doctors had thought her pain was just part of her incessant complaining. Before he'd burned her up in an "accidental" fire, he'd had the pleasure of telling her what he'd done and hearing her plead for mercy. He'd laughed in her face.

With the others, he had to use poisons that acted quickly. But that didn't dampen the satisfaction of killing women like Helen. Women who were handicapped and who made the lives of the people around them a living hell.

"What's new?" Shadow Man asked.

"I hear Bob Jefferson is going to sell the property."

"Good luck," someone else answered. "Nothing like murder to knock the price down."

"Yeah," another voice chimed in.

Shadow Man was thinking that he'd done Bob Jefferson a big favor.

"You hear about the guy at Antonia Delarosa's place?" someone else asked.

"What guy?"

"Looks like she's got a boarder."

"In the winter?"

"Maybe they're having a little fun together. She's got a nice set of titties on her. A shame to let them dry up from disuse."

That brought a laugh from some of the men.

"She needs some fun."

Another laugh.

Shadow Man joined the chorus, but privately he didn't agree.

 

GRANT lay on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He was still thinking that staying here was a mistake. But that car stopping in front of her house had given him a bad feeling. It might be the nosy cop. Or it might be someone else.

Had Officer Wright put his hands on Antonia? Really, he shouldn't be dwelling on that. He had his own business to take care of. But he couldn't get the picture out of his mind of the scumbag "accidentally" brushing against her breast.

He'd like to make the guy sorry he'd ever thought of touching her—except that her life was none of his business.

Around midnight he got up, dressed in black sweats, and slipped out the back door, then hesitated. He might have driven away from the house, but he liked the idea of leaving the car where it was visible, so anyone checking up on the place would think he was still there.

 

AFTER Grant left, Antonia went back into the kitchen and got a deck of cards from one of the drawers. She had about five different decks scattered around the house, the way her mother had cheap drugstore reading glasses. Even then, Mom had trouble finding a pair. But Antonia knew where she kept every deck of tarot cards.

Simply holding them in her hand helped steady her roiling emotions. After shuffling, she drew a card. It was the Knight of Wands. A man on a quest. Well she already knew that was true of Grant Marshall.

The Knight of Wands never did anything halfway. He could be a generous friend—or lover. His arrival might herald a major life change.

Her chest tightened. Scott Wright might want to fuck her. Probably that was how he thought about it. A mercy fuck. And a convenience for himself. But it wasn't Scott Wright that she was thinking of making love with.

In her mind, the card flickered, and she saw a wolf running along next to the knight.

The wolf was connected with Grant. In some way that she didn't understand. The image had come to her again and again in the cards. And then he had arrived in person. And the two had merged in her mind.

The wolf must represent some part of his personality that she didn't yet understand. All she knew was that there was something different about him. An indefinable aura that set him apart from other men. And not just the shroud of sadness that he used like a suit of armor.

She wanted to rip off that protective layer. She wanted to give him back the will to live.

She knew that any intelligent woman should be frightened of him. But she wasn't afraid. She wanted to help him. And she wanted to help herself.

She turned over another card and made a small sound. It was the Ace of Cups—a symbol of new beginnings, of new love.

It heralded joy and happiness. Hers? His? Both of them? Or was she simply finding what she wanted to find in the cards tonight?

 

GRANT walked to a deserted stretch of beach on the outskirts of town. Behind a sand dune, where he wasn't visible from the road, he took off his clothes and stood shivering in the cold wind blowing off the ocean. Then he closed his eyes, gathering his inner resolve before calling on the ancient ritual that made him different from other men.

"Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen," he said in measured tones, then repeated the same phrase and went on to another.

"Ga. Feart. Cleas. Duais. Aithriocht. Go gcumhdai is dtreorai na deithe thu."

The first time he'd changed from boy to wolf, he'd thought his brain was going to explode. It didn't help knowing that two of his older brothers had not survived the experience. But none of them had had any choice about it. It had happened to each of them at puberty.

He'd learned to anticipate disorientation as the physical changes gripped him. He felt his jaw lengthen into a muzzle, his teeth sharpen. Long ago, he'd learned to ride above the pain of bones crunching, muscles jerking, cells transforming from one shape to another.

Thick gray hair formed along his flanks, covering his body in a silver-tipped pelt. As he dropped to all fours, he was no longer a man. He was an animal far more suited to the hunt.

A wolf.

One of the few of his species, because nature had not been kind to those who carried his genetic heritage. There were no female werewolves, as far as he knew. And half the boys died the first time they made the change.

He'd thought he was lucky to survive. He'd long ago given up that notion. Still, the freedom of the wolf grabbed him by the throat as he sniffed the wind with new clarity. He smelled salt and seaweed and small animals hidden in the dunes.

Even now, the wolf's persona filled him with a kind of excitement no ordinary man would ever know. Though legend gave the full moon power over werewolves, it wasn't true of him or any of the men in his family. Any night was his. Any day, for that matter.

Another time he might have hunted prey. Tonight he had more important business.

Staying away from the highway, he trotted toward the residential part of town, toward the charred remains of the house where Elizabeth Jefferson had lived and died.

His body might be that of a wolf. But his mind had not changed. He was thinking about staying out of sight and thinking about Mrs. Jefferson as he wove his way through the shadows.

She'd had MS. He'd found that out from his research. She'd been disabled. Like Marcy. Only his wife's problem hadn't been permanent. She'd broken her leg falling on the ice. And while she was still limping around with a cane, the bastard murderer had spotted her. Or maybe he'd seen her earlier, in her cast.

Grant didn't know. He'd racked his brain, trying to identify some time when he'd seen the guy, but he always drew a blank.

Reaching the house, he prowled around the foundation, taking in the smell of charred wood. But that wasn't his main interest. He focused on the men and women who had come here since the fire. He caught his own scent. And that of Scott Wright. And the locals from the dry goods store.

There were many others, too. One could be the killer—if he'd come back to admire his work. If he lived in town, he might have risked that. And Grant had reason to think that he might live here, because this town was so centrally located in the territory where he'd murdered in the past.

 

AS he often did since he'd dispatched Elizabeth Jefferson, Shadow Man drove through the night toward the blackened ruin of her house. There was a certain satisfaction in visiting the site again and again, knowing he was the only one who got the secret joke of his presence at her house. He was her killer, living only a few blocks away. He had a lock of her hair in his keepsake chest, along with hair from the other bitches he had sent to hell.

Nobody else was ever going to see that chest. And if anybody wondered what he was doing near the murder house, he was just heading home.

In the moonlight he saw the blackened ruin. And he saw something more. A form moving in the darkness.

A dog?

What the hell was it doing poking around the house?

The animal raised its head, staring toward the headlights. Then it faded into the shadows. But a flash of movement gave away its location, and Shadow Man turned off the car lights and drifted forward.

As Shadow man watched, the dog dodged into a driveway between two houses. The animal was obviously intelligent. Was it a tracking dog? Did some big-city law enforcement agency know about the murder?

Suddenly worried, he reached for the gun that he kept in the glove compartment, then sped up, looking for the animal.

WARY of the car with its headlights off, the wolf backed farther into the shadows, thinking it would be easy to make a wrong move.

Someone was interested in the murder scene. In him.

After ducking around the side of a house, the wolf considered his limited options. He could race back to the place in the dunes where Grant Marshall had left his clothing. But that wasn't such a great idea. If somebody managed to follow him, he'd be too exposed on the beach. Better to hug the shadows near the houses.

He wove through the residential district, keeping his profile low. Stopping in the shadows, he realized several things almost simultaneously.

As far as he knew, he had lost the car. He was near Antonia's house. And all the lights were off.

It was late, and she was probably sleeping. Which meant he could slip inside, change back to human form, and wait a few hours before retrieving his clothing.

The wolf had learned to turn a doorknob with his teeth. Opening the back door, he slipped inside.

As soon as he'd crossed the pantry and entered the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. He wasn't alone.

Antonia was sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. The sound of her breathing mingled with his. The woman scent of her body reached out toward him.

He was caught in a snare of his own making, and he had time to wonder if he had wanted to be trapped.

He heard the click of his claws on the wood floor as he backed away.

For an eternity, that was the only sound besides the beating of his own pulse in his ears.

Then she spoke into the darkness, her voice carrying just the hint of uncertainty. "Grant?"

The sound of his name startled him into absolute stillness. She must know an animal had walked into the kitchen. Yet she called out to him.

Even if he'd wanted to speak, he couldn't do that now. Not as a wolf. And as a wolf, he didn't dare approach her. Instead he made a wide circle around her chair, blood roaring in his brain. She didn't move, didn't say anything more.

Without looking at her, he walked on past, then into the hall and up the stairs. When he reached his room, he quietly closed the door. In his mind he said the words that would reverse the process of transformation.

Once again, his limbs lengthened and contorted. Once again, animal fur changed to human flesh, and his eyes lost some, but not all, of their keen night vision. He stood naked in the darkness, breathing hard, his pulse still pounding.

She had called his name. How much did she understand? More than an ordinary woman might.

 

ANTONIA sat in the darkness, longing to doubt her own senses, yet knowing that she would only be fooling herself. Her hearing was quite good. The click of claws had told her that a four-legged animal was crossing the kitchen floor, staying as far as he could from her chair before reaching the hall.

An animal. A large dog. Or a wolf.

She might have gotten up and run screaming from her own house. But she was no coward. And she was trained to interpret what she saw in the tarot cards. So she stayed where she was, working her way patiently through layers of logic.

She could throw that logic aside. Or she could accept the evidence of her own senses.

This evening, she had been trying to unravel the puzzle of Grant Marshall. And she had sensed he was the human aspect of the wolf who had been invading the cards for weeks.

Then the real wolf had somehow opened the back door and walked into the kitchen like he belonged there.

There were two more possibilities, of course. She could be losing her marbles, or she had made it all up out of her own needs and desires.

But she didn't think either one of those was true.

Which left her with Grant Marshall and the wolf.

Was he really some creature beyond normal human experience?

Falling back on old habits, she laid out the cards again. Her practiced fingers could identify each one from the braille markings, but her mind was too scattered to call up the pictures.

One thought drove everything else from her mind. She had heard a wolf in the kitchen. And if she was right about that, and if she was sane, she should be terrified of the man upstairs.

Yet he had awakened feelings inside her she had long suppressed. And now she wondered if she had recognized his death wish because she was half dead herself and hadn't wanted to admit it.

She didn't feel half dead now. Her heart was thumping inside her chest, and her ears strained for some sound from the second floor. Standing, she walked to the bottom of the stairs and clutched the newel post, her head raised toward the second floor. She could hear him moving around. Was he going to cut and run?

She wanted to influence his decision. But the ball was in his court now. So she turned and went into the lounge where she sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs.

 

GRANT climbed into jeans and a tee shirt, then paced the room, wondering what he was going to do next. Pack his bag and leave? Confront her?

Since Marcy's death, he had been afraid of nothing because nothing could happen to him that was worse than what he'd already experienced.

He was afraid now. Afraid of facing the extraordinary woman who was waiting for him to come downstairs.

Thinking he might as well get it over with, he pulled on socks and running shoes, then opened the door again and descended the steps.

"I'm in here," she said from the shadows of the sitting room.

The quaver in her voice told him she was no steadier than he.

She was still in darkness. Maybe to make the confrontation easier for him. Or maybe because light was the last thought that entered her mind when she was nervous.

He stopped in the entrance to the room and cleared his throat to make sure she knew he was between her and the door.

Now he could see her rigid shape in one of the chairs.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

"Is that what you're planning?"

For months, there had been only two plans in his mind. Kill the monster and end his own pain. Suddenly he could see a glimmer of light beyond the monster's death.

He shoved his hands into his pocket. "How did you know that was me?"

He heard her drag in a breath and let it out in a rush. "For weeks, I've seen the wolf."

"How?"

"In the cards. He invaded the pictures, like he had every right to be there. He crept into the scenes where he shouldn't be. And I didn't know what it meant. But I knew he was coming here."

"Were you frightened?"

Instead of addressing the question, she stood and came toward him, and he felt his whole body vibrating with awareness of her.

"You should be afraid of… me," he answered for her.

"Well, you can call me too stupid for that. Or too reckless."

"I would never call you stupid."

"I was waiting for the wolf." With no hesitation, she reached out and took him in her arms. The shock of that first contact knocked the breath from his lungs.

He gulped in a strangled gasp of air as she lifted her arms and cupped them around the back of his head, her fingers winnowing through his shaggy hair.

The pressure was gentle, not a command but a question. With his excellent night vision, he looked down at her for a long moment. Then his eyes focused on her lips.

As if she knew where his gaze had landed, her tongue flicked out, sweeping across the fullness of her lower lip.

He would have pulled away from any other woman. But not this one. With a sound low in his throat, he lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch of that intimate contact was like a bolt of lightning, sizzling along his nerve endings.

And when she made a small exclamation, he was pretty sure that she felt it, too.

He would never have reached for her on his own. Not in a thousand years. But all at once he was too needy to stop himself from devouring her mouth with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

And she accepted what he offered and gave in return, her response frantic and subtle and overwhelming by turns, making his head spin and his body come to life.

Her controlled exterior had vanished. She was a creature of pure sexuality now. He forgot where he was. Forgot time and space. There was only the woman in his arms, giving to him and taking anything he was willing to give her.

When his embrace tightened around her, she made a small, needy sound.

Or had he been the one to voice that strangled exclamation?

Her hands stroked over his back, then under his tee shirt, her fingertips sending shock waves over his hot skin as he angled his head, first one way and then the other, greedy to experience her every way he could.

Kissing wasn't enough. He was ravenous for more. One hand slid down to her hips, pulling her lower body against his aching cock, so that he wondered if he was feeling pleasure or pain.

When she moved against him, he thought he might burst into flames.

With undisguised greed, he slipped his other hand between them and cupped one breast, taking the weight of it in his hand, and he knew he had been wanting to touch her like that since he had secretly watched her in the kitchen.

As he stroked his thumb over the hardened tip, she made a low, pleading sound. Pulling up her shirt, he dragged her bra out of the way, then lowered his head, circling her nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. The taste, the texture of her made him drunk with need. And her little sob and the way she arched into the caress told him how much she liked what he was doing.

He pictured himself pulling her down to the floor, striping off her clothing, then stripping off his so that he could enjoy the feel of her naked skin before he plunged into her. The anticipation of her sex clasping hot and tight around his cock made him tremble.

Somehow, that erotically charged image brought him to his senses.

He had lost his wife—his life mate. And now he was in the arms of another woman.

Stiffly, he thrust her away from himself. "This is wrong," he growled.

He heard her swallow, watched her blink as though she was trying to orient herself again. Her cheeks were red, marked by the imprint his day's growth of beard.

Swaying on her feet, she fumbled her clothing back into place, then reached out a hand and steadied herself against the doorway. Slowly she raised her head and stared straight in his direction. "You aren't betraying your wife. Do you think she would want you to live with no hope of human contact?"

"She and I… made solemn vows." The words sounded hollow, after the way he'd just been acting.

"And you kept them. Long after most men would have given up."

He wanted to shout that he wasn't most men. Instead he turned and left the house. Left her standing in the darkened room. He ran down the sidewalk, then across the street and toward the beach. But he couldn't outrun the honeyed taste of her on his lips or the feel of her middle pressed to his erection.

A cold wind blew off the water as if trying to hold him back. He fought against it, fought toward the sound of the waves crashing on the sand.

Beyond that, he barely paid attention to his environment. His mind was focused on what had happened between himself and Antonia.

He had responded to her as he had never expected to respond to a woman again. The way he had with Marcy, he thought as he clenched his fists in denial.

But he couldn't lie to himself. It had been sharp and fast and all-consuming. When he'd touched Marcy, he had known he must have her or go insane.

And he had felt that sharp rush of desperate sensation once again.

Why? Because he had experienced it before? Because he couldn't live without it? Well, he hadn't been prepared to live at all. He had been preparing for his own death for months. And Antonia had yanked him back into the midst of life.

He resented that. Resented her power over him. Was that what had happened? She had told him she had psychic powers. Was she using them on him?

She had said she had been waiting for him. What the hell did that mean? Waiting for him tonight? Or had she drawn him to her?

Had she used otherworldly powers to enslave him? Bind him to her the way he could be bound to no other woman besides his lost mate?

He wanted to clutch at that explanation. He wanted a reason why he had betrayed his marriage vows—a reason that had nothing to do with his personal failings.

He had been running toward the beach; he stopped short when the beam from a flashlight suddenly stabbed him in the eyes.

"Hold it right there. Put your hands up where I can see them."

HE might have a death wish, but there was enough reason left in Grant's brain to make him stop in his tracks and raise his hands. He knew that voice. It was Scott Wright, and he knew the guy could blow him away if he made the wrong move.

"What do you know about this clothing on the beach?" the officer asked in a grating voice as though he were confronting a suspect who had returned to the scene of the crime.

If he hadn't been standing with his hands in the air, he would have smacked himself on the forehead.

"That's my stuff," he finally said. "I was swimming." Carefully he shifted one of his arms so that it partially blocked the light shining in his eyes.

"Swimming? In this weather?" Wright demanded.

"I like a nice cold dip in the ocean."

"So why are you dressed now?"

"A big dog scared me off," he said, keeping his tone even, wondering if Officer Wright had been the man in the car with its lights off. "I got the hell out of here—then came back for my stuff," he added.

The light lowered, as though Wright accepted the dog story without question. Interesting.

"Mind if I take my belongings?" Grant asked, cautiously bringing his hands to a more normal position, then reaching to pick up the clothing he'd discarded earlier.

The cop fixed him with a displeased look. "Why are you still hanging around town?"

"I told you. I'm looking for property where I can build a house."

"I think you're up to something else."

Grant turned his free palm up. "Like what?"

"You tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

They stood confronting each other for heartbeats. Finally he asked, "Is it okay if I take my clothes home?"

Wright kept him waiting, then finally muttered, "Go ahead."

Picking up his belongings, Grant shook out some of the sand and rolled the items into a ball in his arms. Then he turned and left, feeling the cop's eyes on him as he walked toward the road. He kept imagining the impact of a bullet hitting his back, but Officer Wright let him go—for now.

 

ANTONIA sat in the darkness, trying to ignore the hot, aching sensations pulsing through her. But pretending nothing had happened was impossible because every cell of her body still throbbed with the aftershocks of Grant's touch.

It had been a long time since a man had reached for her with sexual intent. Well, excluding Scott Wright. He had put his hands where they didn't belong. He had played games with the blind woman because she couldn't see what he was doing.

She would never label the encounter with Grant as play. When he'd touched her, something strong and scorching had leaped between them. Something they had both felt.

Raising her hand, she slid her fingers lightly against her lips, bringing back the sensuality of his kiss.

She had thought she understood passion. She knew now that nothing had prepared her for the wild, out-of-control ardor she had felt in Grant's arms. Still felt, because there was nothing she could do for herself that would come close to satisfying the all-consuming need he had aroused. She ached for sexual release. It was all she could do to keep from sliding her hand down her body, to the throbbing place between her legs. It wouldn't take much to push herself over the edge. But she knew that masturbation would be a pale substitute for what she craved.

Her mind and body still rocked with needs she hadn't known existed. And she knew it had been as powerful for Grant, knew it from the way he had devoured her whole, then wrenched himself away and fled into the night.

When she had some control over the sensations clamoring inside her body, Antonia reached for the pack of cards on the table and began to shuffle them.

They had been at her side for years, and handling them brought her a measure of calm. At first, she simply shuffled them, letting the hard rectangles slide against her skin. Then she went through the deck more slowly, stroking the corner of each card, reading the name. Usually every one brought her a vivid image. This evening, the pictures barely registered in her brain.

All she knew was that the wolf was gone from the cards because he didn't need to be there anymore.

He had come to Sea Gate—in person. And, again, she knew she should be frightened. Any normal woman would be.

Well, not any woman. He had been married to someone else—someone who had gotten past the fear of a man who could change himself into a wolf.

Or was that the wrong assumption, she suddenly wondered. Had he been married to someone who was like himself—able to change into a wolf whenever she wanted?

She longed to know the answer to that question. She had to know if the only woman he would consider for a mate was like him.

A shaky laugh bubbled from her throat. She was certainly getting ahead of herself here. She should be running away from the man. Instead, she was worried about how she would cope if he walked away from her.

Would he?

Fanning out the deck, she reached for one of the cards, pulled it out, and laid it on the table.

There were many ways to do a reading. For a client, she might lay out a Celtic cross, the most common pattern. For herself she preferred to simply turn over individual cards.

Five years ago, she had asked questions about her life and gotten answers that had turned out to be true.

Would she regain her sight? The cards had told her that was unlikely. They had also reassured her that she would be able to make a life for herself despite her handicap. They had said she was well rid of her fiancé, Billy Raider.

He wasn't the right man for her. But she'd known that as soon as he'd started worrying about how he was going to cope with a woman losing her vision.

Still, it had taken her months to get over her hurt and anger. Conversely, it had taken her only hours to know that Grant Marshall was more important to her than any man she had met before him.

Or was she making that up because she wanted it to be true?

Her own sense of confusion made her pulse pound as she stroked her finger gently against the ten of Swords. The card showed a graphic picture of a dead man lying on a desolate plain, ten swords sticking upright in his back.

She grimaced. He represented the effects of war and strife and by extension major trauma in someone's life. It wasn't hard to get that from the image. But the extent of the card's meaning was unclear to her now. The picture could signify a deep sense of loss. Her own? Or Grant's? But it could also mean a cycle in her life or his had come to an end—which implied a new beginning. She wanted that to be true. But she couldn't force her own meaning on the card. And as she sat fingering the raised braille dots, she knew it was impossible to decide what the image meant.

Frustrated, she turned over another card, then felt a shiver go through her when she realized it was the nine of Swords. It wasn't a card she usually got. Which said something about her present circumstances all by itself.

The picture showed a woman sitting in bed, hiding her face in her hands, probably crying. It represented loss of hope, depression, bad dreams, desperation.

"Oh great," she muttered.

If someone else had gotten that card, she'd think that they needed medical or legal help. At the very least, she would assume the woman was in big trouble.

But maybe that was just her view of the situation—not reality, she added, trying to make herself feel better and succeeding only marginally.

She turned over another card. The six of Wands—a horseman wearing a laurel wreath on his head and coming home to victory. That was better. The card could herald upcoming good news. Or guests arriving.

Well, her guest had already arrived. The question was, would he stay?

More possibilities turned themselves around in her head. The card could predict a journey. Did that mean Grant was leaving?

Her thoughts were in too much turmoil to give a clean interpretation of anything.

"Have you fallen completely apart?" she whispered, hearing the tears in her voice.

In frustration, she clenched her hand around the deck, thinking about throwing it across the room. What stopped her was the image of herself crawling around on the floor trying to find all the cards.

Instead, she sat where she was, clenching and unclenching her hands, her thoughts going back to Grant.

He had lost his wife, and he had focused all his energies on finding her killer.

He had made no plans for himself beyond that. He had wanted nothing more than the satisfaction of ripping out the throat of the man who had robbed him of his reason for living.

But when they'd kissed and touched, she had reminded him that he was still living and breathing, and that had shaken him. Probably it had also made him angry—at her and at himself.

Angry enough to make him walk out on her?

She had only met him a few hours ago. Yet fear of his loss clawed at her insides.

 

GRANT'S feet carried him toward Antonia's house. He walked slowly now, trying to reach back into the past of a few hours ago and find the steady center of his being—of his purpose.

The exercise proved to be impossible, because something inside himself had shaken loose and was twisting around in his gut.

Deliberately he brought up scenes from another life, scenes that would help him remember why he had come to Sea Gate, New Jersey.

He hadn't thought for a long time about making love with Marcy—or anyone else. In the darkness he called on very private memories—of a time when they had driven to the state park near their home and slipped in after dark. He'd left her sitting on a rock by a stream that wound its way through mature trees and tangles of honeysuckle.

He left her wearing a simple cotton dress. When he returned, a gray wolf moving through the darkness, she was naked. Sensing his presence, she pushed off from her seat, smiling as she came down on a bed of soft moss. He moved silently to her side and stood looking down at her.

Slowly, slowly, she raised her arms, then circled the wolf's neck and drew him close, scratching behind his ears and under his chin where he liked it, then stringing kisses along his muzzle.

Since her death, he had ruthlessly kept memories like that out of his mind. Now he focused on her slender body, on her scent, on the way she touched him—the way she told him she wanted more than just to stroke and kiss him.

With a groan, he cut off the scene before it could go any further. He had deliberately brought back memories of Marcy to wipe away the heated scene with Antonia. But the two had become entwined, and both had the power to make him hot and hard.

"Jesus, no!" he denied. He hadn't asked to get tangled up with another woman. Hadn't expected it.

With a growl of anguish, he changed the picture. Maybe he had some vague idea of proving to himself that he could resist Antonia—that he could control his reactions to her.

His fantasy had her sitting outside in the moonlight, not by a stream, but on a blanket in the dunes. In his mind, he made the location far out of town, where nobody would disturb them. He was a gray wolf, standing twenty yards away, but he knew she couldn't see him, which added to his excitement as she lifted her face to the wind, drawing in a deep breath. That same wind blew her long cotton shirt against her body, making her nipples stand out against the thin fabric. He liked the view, but it wasn't enough.

Unconsciously, he clenched his jaw as the fantasy continued—as he had her come up on her knees and unbutton the shirt. Her fingers weren't quite steady, and it took a little time, drawing out his anticipation.

She was naked now. He hadn't seen her body, but he had felt it pressed to his, and he could imagine her smooth skin, her womanly curves and a dark triangle of hair at the juncture of her legs. As he trotted toward her, he waited for her to turn and run. It had taken months before he'd dared to come to Marcy as a wolf. Dared to trail his long, wet tongue over her breasts and down her woman's body. Dared to taste the rich, female part of her.

But in his imagination, Antonia didn't flee the animal stalking her. She stayed where she was, as he knew she would. It wasn't her lack of vision. She would feel the coarse fur of the wolf. Feel his sharp teeth if he delicately pressed them against her neck or her shoulder or her breast.

She wouldn't fear the wolf. She had waited in the dark for him. When he had walked into her hallway, she had called out his name.

And now, as he watched, the back door of the house opened, and he went still, seeing her emerge from the interior as though he had called out to her.

She was holding a white cane that he hadn't seen in her hand before. She'd moved so confidently through her own house. But out here, she must feel less assured.

She stood for a moment and lifted her head, the silver streak in her dark hair drawing him like a beacon.

In an unconsciously sexy gesture she swept back her hair with one hand, then swung her cane along the landing and each step before she walked down and stood at ground level. Raising her head, she sniffed the wind, much as she had in his vision of her on the beach. She was silent for several heartbeats, then she turned her head toward him.

He felt goose bumps prickle his arms. If he didn't know better, he would swear she was staring at him.

In a voice that wasn't quite steady, she asked, "Are you there?"

GRANT cleared his throat before answering, "Who were you expecting?"

"I hoped it wasn't Scott Wright out here."

"Why?" he challenged.

She delicately lifted one shoulder. "I don't like him."

"What if I came back to pack my things and leave?" he asked roughly.

He saw her swallow. "Why? Are you afraid of a blind woman?"

He managed a gruff laugh. "Don't use your lack of sight as a shield."

"It's not a shield. It's a handicap."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he answered, "Not for you."

She gestured with the white cane in her right hand. "Because I work pretty hard to hide my defects."

"And you compensate very well. You see things other people miss. That can make the rest of us uncomfortable."

He watched Antonia lick her lips. She'd done it before. Probably the gesture was unconscious, but he couldn't take his eyes off the pink tip of her tongue.

"Yes," she said in a soft voice. "The cards give me insights about people. But that's not the major thing that's bothering you—where I'm concerned."

 

SHADOW Man sat in his car, watching the scene unfold at the back door of the bed and breakfast. He hadn't seen the man until the guy had started talking to Antonia. Somehow he had walked up to the house in the darkness, then appeared like a creature out of the mist.

That was spooky. But it wasn't the only thing about this fellow that worried him. His name was Grant Marshall, and that was a very bad piece of news.

Two years ago, Shadow Man had killed a woman in Fairfield, Pennsylvania, with the last name of Marshall.

The husband had gone missing not long after the murder—which had made the cops suspicious. Then he'd come back looking like he'd been living in the woods and explained that grief had driven him a little crazy.

The cops had investigated him up the wazoo. Too bad he'd been out of town with people from his company—and there hadn't been time for him to drive home and poison his wife, then make it back to his associates.

But more importantly, too bad he was in Sea Gate now.

That couldn't be a coincidence. He must be here because he knew too much for his own good. And maybe he was telling Antonia things unfit for a woman's ears.

Very quietly, Shadow Man rolled down the window and leaned forward. The wind had shifted, making it easier for him to hear the conversation. He wanted to pick up more, but he couldn't get any closer. He couldn't risk them knowing he was there.

His gaze absorbed Antonia. She was standing near the door with the moonlight shimmering off the silver streak in her hair. It made her look weird, and she didn't even know that.

Tomorrow or the next day, he could get close to her. No problem. He knew her habits, because he'd studied her; the way he'd studied a lot of the women in town. She went to the grocery store a couple of times a week—and brought her purchases home in one of those rolling carts that old ladies used. He could come sweeping around the corner and mow her down when she was crossing the street, if he wanted. That would be his fallback plan. But it would be better to get rid of Grant Marshall and Antonia Delarosa together—and make it look like Marshall had come to town, wigged out, and killed them both.

 

"OH yeah? What do you think is bothering me?" Grant asked Antonia.

"Do you really want to talk about it? Out here?"

He had built up lifelong habits of secrecy. Now she was reminding him of what he should have remembered.

"You're right. Let's go back inside," he said.

He walked up the steps and into the house, making sure that no part of his body brushed against hers. Then he waited, with his pulse pounding, for her to follow him.

Silently, she folded up her white cane and placed it in one of the pantry drawers, then walked into the kitchen.

"What do you know about wolves?" he asked, following her through the doorway, wondering what it would take to make her as uncomfortable as he felt. He hadn't talked to Marcy about wolves until after he'd ruthlessly seduced her. Now he was doing the exact opposite.

"Not much," she answered, sounding calm, yet he detected a quaver of emotion below the smooth surface of her demeanor.

"I read a lot about them when I was a teenager. When I was nineteen, I took a trip to Wyoming," he said in a conversational voice. "I watched a pack for a few days."

"As a man?" she asked in a steady voice.

"Yes. For some reason, they let me get close."

"They must have sensed you were no threat to them." She looked like she was about to say more, then stopped.

He nodded, realized she couldn't see the automatic gesture, and went on quickly, clutching the shirt and pants from the beach that he was still holding in his arms. "They had one leader—one alpha male. And all the others were subservient to him." Before she could comment, he plowed ahead. "That was true of me and my brothers when we were young. We obeyed our father automatically—until we hit our teens."

She interrupted him with a question he assumed she wouldn't be bold enough to ask. "That's when you first… changed."

"Yeah. That's when we do it. A couple of my brothers didn't make it. They died in the process."

"I'm sorry."

"It was hard on my mother," he said bluntly.

She didn't ask why he was being so specific—and so stark. Probably she knew why he was presenting the reality of his life in the darkest possible terms.

"We leave home when we're old enough to challenge the leader. Like my own dad did when he was a teenager."

She bent her face away from him. "You mentioned your brothers. What about sisters?"

"My mom was lucky enough to have only one girl—because they die at birth. That's another fact of life in my family."

Still with her face averted, she asked, "You mean, there are no women—like you?"

"No."

"That must be hard. I mean about your sister dying," she said with a hitch in her voice.

"It's hard on the woman who marries one of us," he clipped out. He would have met her gaze now if she could have looked at him. He'd thought the conversation was going to make her back away. Instead, she was still standing there, acting like they were discussing some ordinary dysfunctional family.

"Grant…"

"I'm sorry. I can't do this any longer." He flung the last part of the phrase over his shoulder as he made for the stairs, fleeing the woman standing inside her back door.

He strode into his bedroom and leaned against the door, feeling as though he'd run a ten-mile race.

He needed to think of Marcy. Of her amazing hazel eyes that had smiled at him with such warmth. Of the bouncing golden curls that he'd twined around his fingers. Of her long, silken neck that she'd arched for his kisses. Of the way she looked in a chenille robe fixing eggs for herself in the morning and rare steak for him.

To his horror, he found that the images were not as sharp in his mind as he wanted them to be.

His father had told him that once he found his life mate, no other woman would satisfy him. That was the way it was among the males of his species. Probably they bonded with one woman so strongly because they had to stay around to coach their sons through the first change from man to wolf.

He hadn't been looking for a mate. He'd met Marcy Hammersmith by pure chance. Although she'd had a degree in biochemistry, she'd been working as a county site inspector, and she'd come out to certify some lots where he was planning to build. He'd known from the moment he saw her that she was the woman who was going to change his life forever.

He used every ounce of charm he possessed to ruthlessly seduce her. Then he waited weeks before he could bring himself to tell her the truth about his dual nature. She hadn't run from him, maybe because she no longer had a choice.

He'd had six months of honeymoon bliss with Marcy. Then a sadistic killer ripped his joy to shreds.

He wanted to step out of the bedroom now and shout at the woman who thought she could accept the wolf so easily.

He wanted to tell her every dark, horrible thing he had ever done. You think you know me, but you don't. You should have seen me after my wife died. I went crazy. I rampaged through the woods bringing down Bambi. How do you like that image?

He sucked in a sharp breath and let it out, then pushed away from the door. In the bathroom, he splashed icy water on his face, the small punishment a reminder of why he was here.

To stop a killer. And then to end his own pain.

And he couldn't let Antonia Delarosa take his attention from that purpose.

 

GRANT considered staying in his room the next morning until the shops in town were open. He'd start with the real estate office, then try the dry goods store again. The plan lasted until the smell of peppermint tea wafting up the steps lured him out of his bedroom.

When he walked into the kitchen Antonia was dressed in a flowing silk bathrobe, and he wondered who had picked the blue and green paisley print, since the color looked so good on her.

She was tending a pan, cooking corned beef hash. A bowl of applesauce sat on the kitchen table.

He lingered in the doorway again, observing her efficient movements, feeling guilty that watching her gave him secret pleasure.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, half turning.

"Yeah," he answered, matching the neutral tone of her voice. If she could act like they hadn't been on the verge of making love the first time they'd kissed, he could do it, too.

"Do you like hash? And applesauce?"

"Yes," he answered, thinking she wouldn't know if he didn't take much of the fruit.

He poured himself a mug of tea and got out cutlery, staying out of her way. But a question kept turning itself around in his mind. Into the silence, he asked, "Can the cards tell me who murdered my wife?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?" he pressed, then immediately regretted the sharp tone of his voice.

"I'm not a fortune-teller. I can see things in the tarot. But I'd be unlikely to identify a specific individual."

"You said you knew the wolf was coming."

She moved her spoon around in the hash. The degree of resistance must have told her it was done, because she took the pan off the heat, then reached to turn off the burner. After it gave a faint click, she raised her head toward him.

"Because he invaded the cards," she answered, her voice telling him she didn't want to elaborate. After dishing some hash onto two plates, she carried them to the table.

They sat across from each other, pushing food around, neither eating much.

"When I first got here, you said you could help me find the killer," he finally said. "I'd like to see if the cards give me any clues."

Her shoulders stiffened, but she said, "All right."

He cleared away the half-empty dishes, and she carefully wiped off the table and dried it, then washed and dried her hands, and he wondered if she was stalling. But finally, she got a deck of cards out of a nearby drawer.

"We can do a Celtic cross," she said in a strangely detached voice. "Or a seven-card spread."

"Whatever you think is best."

She kept her gaze down as she handed him the cards, and their skin touched for the first time since the night before. Quickly he pulled his hand back.

"You shuffle," she said, her voice tight.

"How much?"

"As much as you want. Until you're satisfied."

He did as she asked, then set the pack down. She turned over the first card and he saw a man poling a small boat with two shrouded figures in the front. A bunch of swords were in the background. The next card said Ace of Wands and showed a disembodied hand holding a branch with leaves. The name was at the top, but the picture was upside down. The next was called the Star and showed a naked woman kneeling by a pool pouring water from two jugs. Next came the five of Cups, featuring a mournful-looking figure.

Antonia kept her head bent, touching the braille markings on each card as she laid it out, working slowly and carefully.

When she'd arranged all seven, she sat with her shoulders hunched.

"What does it mean?" he finally asked.

She didn't answer, and he felt his heart rate accelerate. Reaching across the table, he cupped her shoulder to get her attention.

"Just say it," he demanded.

Slowly she raised her face, and he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

"What? Am I going to fail? What?" he demanded, giving her shoulder a shake because he couldn't cope with the idea that she was holding back information for his own good.

"LORD, I don't know," Antonia answered in a barely audible whisper. Then more sharply, her voice cracking, "I don't know! It's all a blur in my mind."

She stood up abruptly, sending her chair flying. "I'm just going through the motions," she whispered. "I can't tell you a damn thing because the cards have stopped working for me." The last part came out in a sob as she tried to flee from the room. But the chair had landed on its side, with its legs sticking out like a fence. When they tangled in the skirt of her robe, she lost her balance and started to pitch forward.

Grant was already out of his chair. Surging around the table, he reached for her, and she landed heavily against him, with a small sound of surprise.

"It's okay. I've got you," he murmured.

"Let me go," she cried out, the plea thick with anguish.

When she tried to push away, he gathered her closer. "Don't."

She was still protesting, but he could barely hear her words above the roaring in his ears. He had forgotten why she was in his arms. The part of his mind that was still functioning told him he should loosen his grip on her. But it had become impossible to break the contact, as though the flowing folds of her robe had magically twined themselves around his legs, holding him where he was.

She was shaking, and he tried to comfort her, stroking his hands over the silky fabric on her shoulders.

"It's all right. It's all right," he whispered, not sure of what he meant.

But the light touch of his hands on silk abraded his fingertips, sending sensual messages through his body. And he found that she wasn't the only one shaking.

"Grant?" She spoke his name, but the word was muffled against his shoulder.

Her scent, the feel of her body, the taste of her skin as he pressed his lips to the side of her face had seeped into his senses, driving him beyond reason.

She raised her head, her eyes still glistening. He knew she couldn't see him, yet he felt the intensity of her gaze.

One of her hands lifted, and slowly, slowly touched his face, stroking over his cheeks, his brows, his nose, then down to his lips, the light touch holding as surely as a magic spell.

"I wanted to know what you looked like," she whispered, "So badly. The worst part is that I can't see you smile. Do you ever smile?"

"There haven't been many reasons to… recently," he answered.

The look of anguish in her eyes tore at him.

"I've lost my gift," she said with a terrible finality. "I see the pictures on the cards, but I can't sort out what they mean. It's… gone."

"No."

"What would you call it?" she asked in a broken voice.

"You're upset. By me."

"By your pain," she said.

He wanted to transform every drop of her sadness to rays of sunshine. And it hurt to know that nothing he could say would make a difference.

But there was something he could do to wipe the despair from her face. Telling himself he had no other choice, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Did he mean to give her comfort, or gratify himself? All he knew was that her taste was intoxicating. A heady combination of wisdom and power and sweetness. And he recognized at the instant of contact that one draft would never be enough. Not near enough.

He was instantly hot and hard and needy. On a surge of hunger, he increased the pressure of his lips on hers, deepening the kiss, drinking in her eager response.

She murmured something incoherent, sliding her hands up and down his back and into his hair.

Tensions held too long in check clamored for release. Taking a step back, he brought her with him, leaning against the counter so he could equalize their heights, bringing his straining erection into the cradle of her hips.

She made a fevered exclamation, rocking her body against his, even as he devoured her mouth, using his tongue, his lips, his teeth.

When she pushed at his chest, he thought his heart would stop.

His hand clamped around her shoulder, holding her where she was. She covered the hand, stroking her fingers against his. To soften her rejection?

When she started to speak, her voice was thin and breathy. "Grant, this is going too fast. I mean—I want to be naked when we make love. I want to feel my breasts pressed to your bare chest. I want you inside me when I come."

"Jesus!"

She gulped, then made an attempt at a laugh. "I'm telling you all that because if I keep standing here with that wonderfully hard penis wedged between my legs, I'm going to explode."

"The explosion could be mutual," he managed.

"Maybe we can hold off for a couple of minutes."

When she knit her fingers with his, he clasped her hand.

"Where are we going?"

"Not far. I don't think I can walk far."

"You've got that right."

She led him into a small, comfortably furnished room. Stopping when they reached a thick oriental rug, she turned to face him. The intensely sexual look on her face scorched him as she yanked down the zipper on her robe. Tossing it out of the way, she rugged the tee shirt she was wearing over her head, then skimmed her panties down her legs.

He had never experienced anything so erotic as the sight of her standing naked and glorious in the center of the rug.

"You are so beautiful."

"Probably I'm starting to sag…" she tried to say. The sentence ended in a gasp as he reached to capture the fullness of her breasts, lifting them in his hands, then stroking his thumbs across her hardened nipples. She stood with her eyes closed as he caressed her, her breath fast and shaky.

"You, too. I want you naked, too," she murmured.

Her hands reached out, connected with his midsection, and lowered to his waist, where she slid open his belt buckle, then lowered the fly of his jeans so she could reach inside and push his briefs out of the way. When she took his swollen cock in her hand, he made a strangled sound.

"God, your erection feels so good," she murmured, stroking his length, exploring his size and shape with her hands. In danger of free-falling over the edge of a cliff, he lifted her hand away, bringing it to his mouth, kissing the hollow of her palm.

Barely able to breathe, he wrenched off his shirt before kicking away his pants and shoes.

When he pulled her naked body against his, both of them cried out. He held tight for a long moment, trying to catch his breath, then moved her in his arms so that her breasts slid across the hair on his chest.

She made small, urgent sounds as her hands ran up and down his back, over his buttocks, cupping him, gathering him to her. And when she spoke, her voice trembled. "Grant, I can't wait any longer."

Tugging him down to the rug, she rolled to her back as she pulled him down on top of her.

He found the slick folds of her sex with his free hand, found her hot and wet and ready for him.

"Come inside me. Quickly," she begged, her legs moving restlessly against his. "Deep inside me."

There was no way he could deny her throaty invitation.

When he slid into her, she made a small, sobbing sound.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked urgently.

"No. Oh, no. It's just that I wanted you so much."

Her face was turned toward his, and he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her as he began to move inside her.

She clasped him to her, matching the rise and fall of his hips, her frank sensual enjoyment making it impossible for him to hold anything back.

He came like an explosive device detonating, calling out her name, even as he felt her inner muscles contract around him and her nails dig into his shoulders.

He drifted for long moments, feeling more relaxed and content than he had in years, his eyes closed, soothed by the feel of her hand stroking through his hair and over the damp skin of his back.

With his eyes closed, he thought that Marcy had come back to him, and he smiled. Then he realized she didn't smell the way he remembered.

The realization brought a spurt of panic, and he rolled to his side. When he tried to scramble to his feet, a woman's hand flailed out, scrabbled against his side, then clamped around his wrist.

"Grant, it's all right," she said.

"No."

"Were you planning to make love with me, then walk away?" she asked in a voice he knew she was struggling to hold steady.

The frank question was like a blow to the chest.

"I wasn't planning anything," he said.

Her mouth twisted. "I guess not. You touched me, and it was like being on a runaway train."

"Yeah."

He watched her swallow.

"I think it was meant to be," she said. "But I think you still can't accept that. I mean, you can't accept the concept of being happy again."

He didn't answer because he didn't have a comeback.

He watched her fingers press against the rug fibers as she said. "Do what you have to. But don't pretend that wasn't…" she paused, then said softly, "wonderful."

"It didn't last long," he answered with the first thing that came into his head.

"Because we were both too turned on to wait. But it was what we both needed." Again she paused. "Well, at least I did. I've been aching to finish what we started last night."

"Are you always so blunt?" he asked.

"No. I'm never this blunt. With clients, if I have bad news, I try to soften it."

"And with me?"

"With you, the stakes are too high to play around. Either you're going to stay with me—or you're going to convince yourself you made a mistake. I want you to stay. Very much. Not just for great sex. For everything we could give each other. But after Billy left me, I realized I couldn't count on having the things other women take for granted."

It was a relief to turn the spotlight away from himself. "This has nothing to do with your being blind!"

She raised her face toward him, and the illusion of her sight was so strong that he wanted to turn away from her piercing gaze.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty about walking away from a blind lady. You came here thinking you were going to rip out the throat of the man who murdered your wife and then kill yourself," she said, finally stating what neither one of them had yet discussed. "But I hope I've given you a choice. I hope you can admit that you might have something to live for."

He struggled for breath, wondering what he might say if he managed to fill his lungs.

"I want you to make the right choice," she added softly.

"We've known each other less than a day."

"I know. But that doesn't mean we haven't…" She turned her hands palms up. "I want to say bonded. Is that the right word?"

"Don't you dare say that!" he fairly shouted. "I bonded with someone. With my wife." He looked around the room, feeling the walls closing in on him. "I have to go out."

Snatching up his clothing, he ran from the room, ran from the woman who had seduced him into forgetting his marriage vows—into forgetting his purpose.

 

ANTONIA felt around the rug and found her robe, then her panties. After she'd pulled them on, she remembered she'd been wearing a tee shirt, too, and searched until she found it.

After putting herself back together, she stood. But her legs were unsteady, and she sat down heavily on the sofa. When she was feeling more in control, she walked out of the room and up the stairs, hardly daring to think about what had happened. She had made love with Grant, and the emotional and physical joy had been more than she had dreamed were possible.

But he hadn't accepted what their joining meant.

She thought back over what she had said. Maybe she had been too blunt. Maybe she should have pretended she didn't know exactly why he had come to Sea Gate.

Pretended? No. She would have been lying, and she wasn't going to lie to him.

So she took a shower, then came back down and began to clean the kitchen.

She was in the middle of loading the dishwasher, when a knock at the door made her heart leap.

Was Grant back? Had he come to his senses?

On her way to the front hall, she realized Grant probably wouldn't have knocked.

"Yes?" she called out through the closed door.

"It's Charlie Hastings, ma'am."

"From the real estate company?"

"Yes."

Wondering what he wanted, she pulled open the door and aimed her gaze toward where the man's face should be. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm going around town, telling people what they can expect to get for their property—should they be interested in selling."

"I'm not."

"Are you positive? This is a pretty large house, for someone on her own."

"But I run a bed and breakfast in the summer."

"Well then, I could advise you on modernizing."

"I'm fine," she said, wondering why he'd picked today of all days to come around with his offer—until she thought about the man staying at her house. Obviously the town would be interested in Grant. Probably they'd be wondering what was going on in the house with the two of them alone here.

As she thought about what she and her houseguest had been doing less than an hour ago, she felt her cheeks heat, then hoped Hastings wasn't studying her face.

"I could take a look around," he said, and she flashed on the scene in the den. Had she and Grant left any telltale evidence?

She was thinking the real estate agent might shoulder his way into the hall when she heard booted steps just before another voice said, "The lady told you she's not interested."

Antonia recognized the boots and the authoritative tone. It was Scott Wright. He must have been doing one of his drive-bys, seen Charlie, and decided it was his duty to stop.

"I was just trying to be helpful," Charlie answered, addressing the cop. Somehow they had both made it into the front hall.

"She said she doesn't need your assistance," Scott answered, moving closer to her. She could feel his breath against the top of her hair, and she wondered which man she least wanted in the house. She decided it was the cop.

"Uh, maybe I would like an opinion on modernizing my kitchen," she allowed.

She could practically hear Officer Wright bristling. "It sounded like he was bothering you," he said.

"I'm fine."

When the pushy lawman had left, she wished she could just tell Charlie to forget it. But she'd trapped herself now. "The kitchen is a little outdated. Maybe you can make some suggestions for quick fixes."

"Of course."

She led the way back down the hall, then waited, hearing the real estate agent walk around the room. When he opened the refrigerator door, she wondered if there were any spills inside.

But her mind was going down a different path as well. Maybe being alone in the house with this man wasn't such a good idea.

She didn't know she'd shaken her head until he asked, "Did you have a problem?"

"Uh no."

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"I'd better answer that," she said quickly, wondering who it was this time.

The man who called out to her was another familiar voice. Dwayne Shipley. Relieved that she was no longer going to be alone with Charlie, she opened the door.

"Ms. Delarosa? I had some time, and I thought I'd look at that loose paneling you wanted me to take care of. And see what else needs doing, like that wall socket in the pantry."

"Yes. I appreciate it," she said, thinking that her house was turning into Newark Airport. "What other small-town busybody was going to show up with an excuse to look around?"

She was leading Dwayne down the hall, when she stopped short, remembering where the paneling was. In the room where she and Grant had made love. Not long ago.

"Maybe you should just do that socket," she said.

"And you wanted some painting done in some of the upstairs rooms. The off-season is a good time to take care of that."

"I've got a guest now."

"Grant Marshall," he said promptly.

"How do you know?"

"From the other day at Bridges."

"Oh."

Footsteps approaching from the kitchen told her Charlie was coming to join the conversation.

"Morning, Dwayne," he said.

She would have given a lot to see what kind of look the two men exchanged.

"Odd for you to take in lodgers in the winter," Charlie observed.

"Well, he… needed a place to stay," she said lamely.

"You call me if you decide to sell," the real estate agent said, using his hearty, friendly voice. "Or you can do some easy updates. The kitchen needs painting, for example."

"I'll keep that in mind. Just let yourself out," she added, thinking that she should start keeping her door locked.

"I'll just get my tool kit and fix that socket," Dwayne said.

"Yes."

She busied herself with the rest of the dishes. Then got out of Dwayne's way by going into the lounge and sitting with her cards. But if her concentration had been bad earlier, it was worse now.

To her relief Dwayne announced he was finished with the wall plug about a half hour later, and he could come back to do the painting another time.

She locked the door behind him. Then went back to her useless cards, shuffling them and turning them over, hoping that the jumble of images would tell her something important.

They only confused her more.

Hours crawled slowly by before she heard the doorbell ring.

Stumbling into the front hall, she called out, "Who is it this time?"

"GRANT," his now-familiar voice answered.

Relief flooded through her as she unlocked the door. When he came inside, she wanted to reach for him, but she only stepped back as he locked up again. He stayed near the door, and she raised her head toward him.

"Thank God. I've been worried about you," she said, uttering the understatement very calmly before adding, "I've been listening for your car. I didn't hear it."

"I left it in the parking lot at the 7-Eleven and came across the back way."

"Why?"

"Yesterday I thought it might be an advantage to let people know I was here. Now I'm thinking there's too much damn interest in me in town. I couldn't even get my hair cut without stopping all conversation at the barber-shop. I figured it might be better if it looked like I'd gone somewhere else."

Her mind focused on the part about his hair. He'd gotten it cut? She hoped it wasn't too short now. Would the length still feel good against her fingers?

Her attention switched abruptly when she heard him suck in a breath and let it out in a rush.

"What?" she asked.

"Why was your house full of people?" he demanded, his tone suddenly sharp.

"How do you know that?"

"I know you had a bunch of guys in here, because I can smell them. Everyone has a distinct scent. And I can sort them out. That's one of my talents."

"I should have figured that out."

"They're all men—men that I've met in town. Scott Wright, for one." He paused for a moment, then said, "Also a real estate agent named Charlie Hastings and a fellow wearing overalls. They were both at the dry goods store yesterday."

"Dwayne is the one in overalls."

"What—were they having a convention here?"

"Well, Scott thought Charlie was hassling me."

"Was he a problem?" Grant pressed.

"Only mildly. In that pushy way salesmen have." She cleared her throat. "He kindly offered to appraise the house. And Dwayne Shipley, who does handyman stuff for me, suddenly decided to fix a broken wall plug he's been neglecting for months."

Grant's tone turned fierce. "One of them could have been the murderer, looking for an excuse to check the place out. I mean, including your friend Scott."

"No! And don't call Scott my friend. I can't stand him."

She turned and walked through the wide arched doorway into the lounge.

Grant followed but stopped near the doorway. "Did anybody else give you… bad vibes?"

She sighed. "All of them, actually. That's why I locked the door. You need a key. I'll show you where I keep them."

"Not now." She was so tuned to him, that she thought she could hear him shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "While I was poking around town, I had time to do a lot of thinking."

Suddenly sick with tension, she waited for him to say he was leaving.

"My getting involved with someone now isn't fair to her."

She raised her chin. "If you mean me, say it straight out."

"I came to Sea Gate with a purpose. I have to see it through. I have to find out who murdered Marcy." He made an angry sound. "And Wendy Spencer in Baltimore. Cara Boston in Williamsburg. Laurie Carmichael in Morristown. Donna Dunn in Princeton. Phyllis Nelson in Camden. Tracy Porter in Rising Sun. Ginnie Gold in Washington, D.C."

"So many," she whispered.

"That's not the whole list And until I nail the bastard who poisoned them, then burned up the evidence, I can't… think about myself."

She considered the implications. "You mean, find him and rip out his throat, don't you?"

"You're still being pretty direct."

She pressed her hands against her hips. She longed to argue that tearing the killer to shreds wasn't a great prelude to the rest of his life. But she was pretty sure he didn't want her opinion on that subject.

Walking to a wing chair, she gripped the back and asked, "You said one of the men who came over could be the murderer. Why do you think so?"

He made an angry sound. "Because I put you in danger!"

"How? Just by staying here?"

"Unfortunately, yes. When I first started looking for the killer, I didn't give a shit what happened to me. So I didn't bother to use an assumed name. I even thought it might work like a lure. If the guy is in town, he probably knows I'm the husband of one of his victims. Probably he's got a whole book full of press clippings. For me, his interest is an advantage. But not for you."

"You could find somewhere else to stay," she murmured.

"That would be worse. Now that I've called attention to you."

"Maybe, over dinner, you should tell me what you know about the killer."

"It's not great mealtime conversation."

"But necessary," she said briskly. She hadn't thought about food in hours. Now she started considering what to fix. "Um, since we haven't been drinking coffee, I have some cream I need to use up. How does salmon chowder sound?"

"Don't go to any trouble for me."

"Right. You can always go out and catch yourself a couple of rabbits."

He made a strangled sound, and she wished she could see his face.

"That was a poor attempt at a joke. I guess because I'm nervous."

"Marcy never joked about the wolf," he said very quietly.

"Well, if I were an entirely sober-faced, respectable citizen, I wouldn't be reading tarot cards for a living, would I?"

"I haven't noticed any other customers beating a path to your door."

"Wait until this summer."

The sentence hung in the air between them. Would he still be with her in the summer?

When he didn't answer the unspoken question, she took a step toward the hall. "The soup should be ready in about half an hour."

"Okay. Thanks."

She knew he was still lingering in the wide doorway. It took all her resolve to keep from stopping and cupping her hand over his shoulder. Or touching his lips with her fingers. She craved the physical contact. She longed to hear him say something—anything—about their future. But he'd said he was still stuck in the past. So she walked by him and into the kitchen, where she went about assembling the ingredients she'd need for the soup. Glad to focus on cooking, she chopped onions and garlic, then melted the butter in a small pot and added the vegetables.

When they felt nice and soft against the spoon, she turned down the heat and stirred in flour. Slowly, she added a little chicken broth, stirring until the mixture was uniform. Then she opened the cream.

It smelled a little off, and she didn't want to ruin the soup. So she got out another spoon to have a taste. She was lifting it to her lips when Grant's sharp exclamation rang out from the doorway.

"Don't!"

Frozen in place, she heard running feet, then an arm lashing out and knocking the utensil out of her grasp.

"WHAT? What's wrong?" she gasped as the spoon clattered to the counter.

"It's poison."

"Poison," she breathed, wondering if he'd lost his mind. "How do you know?"

"The same way I know who was here. By the smell. I can smell something dangerous coming off that cream."

"Grant. Are you sure?"

When she reached toward the carton, he snatched her hand away, wedging it against her side as he dragged her into his arms.

She could feel his heart pounding as he held her to his chest, feel him shaking.

"How… how…" she tried to say. But her brain wasn't working all that well.

"It looks like one of your visitors left you a present. Either Charlie or Dwayne or Scott," he said in a grating voice.

"One of them?" she asked, hardly willing to follow the logic of it.

He clamped his hands on her shoulders. "It has to be one of them. They were here today."

"Somebody else…"

"I'd know if somebody else had been in the house."

As she struggled to rearrange her thinking, he went on, "And one of them is using the killer's MO. Like I told you, he poisons his victims, then sets their houses on fire."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure! I've made a study of the bastard. Not only that, he picks women who have some… handicap."

"Marcy had a handicap?" she gulped out.

"She had broken her leg." His fingers dug into her shoulders. "He went after her. Now I've brought him to you."

"But… but you stopped him."

"And the bastard doesn't know we've caught on. He's probably waiting around for you to use that cream."

"You mean he could be… waiting for it to happen?"

"Oh yeah. Do you usually have a cup of coffee after dinner?"

"Yes." She struggled to think logically. "But if he's outside watching, he can see you knocked the spoon out of my hand."

Grant answered with a sharp laugh. "I don't think so. In case you don't realize it, you were cooking in the dark. I'm the only guy who could have seen what you were doing. I'd been standing in the doorway for a while—watching you."

"I didn't know."

"I can be pretty quiet."

She felt his body tense.

"What?"

"I…"

"Say it!"

"If he's waiting to see what happens, we can trap him."

"No. We can call the police."

"If it's Scott, we'll tip him off."

She thought about that. Thought about what might happen next. Swallowing hard, she asked, "What would you want me to do?"

"You have milk, right?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't put any of that damn cream in the soup?" he asked very carefully.

"No. I'd just opened the carton. I've got a better than average sense of smell, too."

"You would." He held her a few feet away from himself, and she imagined he was looking into her eyes as he issued clipped directions. "Put some milk into the soup pot. But leave the cream carton on the counter right next to where you're standing," he went on rapidly. "Then you'll turn on the light, pretend to be cooking, and taste the soup. Act like you've drunk his damn poison. Maybe you can start gagging—then fall to the floor. And lie there."

"What kind of poison is it?" she murmured. "What are the symptoms?"

"I don't know. But probably he'll be so excited that you took the bait that he won't be real particular."

She made a strangled sound. She wanted to tell him they weren't in the middle of a made-for-TV movie. Instead she asked, "And where will you be while I'm lying on the floor?"

"Waiting for him," he said in a low, hard voice that sent a shiver down her spine. And she knew that he was thinking this was his chance to get his claws and teeth into the man. Could she keep the worst from happening? She didn't know. But she had to try.

Her arms slipped around him and she hung on tight, pressing her lips against his shoulder, wondering if it was the last time she would ever hold him.

Then she eased away. "Let's do it, before I chicken out."

"Are you sure ?" Now he was the one who sounded uncertain. "Maybe it's too much of a risk."

"Is the wolf turning tail on me?"

"No!"

"Then help me get ready."

With the light still out, he carefully washed down the counter where the spoon had landed, while she unlocked the back door. When he had left the kitchen, she crossed to another drawer and got something she thought she might need. With her private preparations made, she turned on the light and fussed around the kitchen for a few minutes before pouring some milk into the soup, keeping the carton shielded with her body before returning it to the refrigerator.

As she stirred the mixture, she wondered if she had lost her mind by agreeing to this crazy scenario.

Resolutely, she shoved her doubts aside and focused on making it look like she was in the midst of cooking poison soup.

First she found the can of salmon she'd put into the pantry and marked with a braille label. Then she carefully removed the skin and bones from the fish, before breaking it into chunks and adding them to the soup, working slowly and carefully, giving anyone outside in the darkness time to get a good look at what she was doing.

She was glad she couldn't see the carton of cream, because the idea of touching it again made her stomach roil.

Somewhere in the house, she could hear the sound of Grant's voice. He was speaking strange syllables, words she didn't understand, but they raised the hair on the back of her neck. She was pretty sure that the next time she encountered him, he'd be a wolf.

Desperate not to lose her focus, she dragged in a deep breath, stuck a large spoon into the milky soup and took a sip.

Wondering if thee killer was really watching her performance, she went for melodrama. Face contorted, she pretended to cough and gag, then dropped to the floor where she made a show of writhing in agony before going limp.

Once she was still, she wished she'd gotten herself into a more comfortable position. Her leg was twisted, but there was nothing she could do about it except lie on the floor with her pulse pounding.

Eons passed, and the leg began to ache. But she stayed still as death, fighting the horrible sensation that she'd lost control of the unfolding drama.

Her mind screamed for her to scramble up and run. But she stayed where she was. And finally, finally her straining ears caught the sound of the back door opening.

When someone crossed the pantry and entered the kitchen, her stomach knotted painfully. The worst part was that she had no way to know who was there.

Was Scott looking down at her? She'd bet on Scott.

For heartbeats, the man remained very still, then he walked toward her.

"How was your dinner, bitch?" he asked, and she knew then who it was. Dwayne Shipley, who had come to fix her broken electrical plug and left a little present in her refrigerator.

She felt him bend over her. When he jerked on a lock of her hair, she gasped.

"What the fuck?" he growled.

 

THE wolf who had been waiting in the shadows saw the man hover over Antonia.

It was Dwayne Shipley. The hayseed in the overalls. He was the monster who had killed Marcy.

In a blinding rage, the wolf leaped through the doorway, landing on the killer's back, bringing him down. A knife went flying from his hand, clattering across the tile floor, as he fell forward so that his head hit the corner of the cabinet before he sprawled in a heap on the floor.

Even as the wolf stood over the unconscious man, ready for the kill, he heard Antonia's desperate voice.

"Grant, don't. Don't!"

Turning his head, he saw her crawling blindly forward across the kitchen floor.

She couldn't know that Shipley was down, as she scrambled toward them. And Grant couldn't tell her. As a wolf, he couldn't speak. He could only give a warning snarl.

She ignored him and kept coming, still crying out as she closed the distance between them.

"Grant, don't do it. Don't kill him. You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

The rest of his life? He had dedicated the rest of his life to killing this monster. And now she was trying to stop him.

He wanted to howl at her to back off, so he could take care of his own business.

But it seemed she wasn't going to give up easily. She reached his side, half falling over the inert Shipley as she grabbed the wolf's shaggy coat, tugging on him. When he tried to shake her off, her grip on him tightened.

"You asked me to help you trap him. I did. Now turn him over to the police." As she spoke, she came up on her knees, finding his muzzle with her hands and locking his mouth closed with her fingers.

"Grant, I love you. I love you," she cried.

The declaration reverberated through him, even as she kept shouting.

"I want us to have a life together. Don't kill him. If you love me, don't do it."

He went very still, his head spinning, partly because she was making it hard for him to breathe. He was so close to achieving satisfaction. He could kill the monster. Remove this obscene scar on the body of humanity. And now Antonia was telling him to give up that pleasure? That necessity.

The wolf lusted for revenge. The man inside him knew that something fundamental had changed since he had met Antonia.

He had lived to kill the fiend who had taken his mate from him. Now he wanted something more. And he knew with a burst of insight that the woman on the floor holding on to him with such courage and determination was more important than revenge.

With that realization, something new and tender bloomed in his heart. He had been trapped in the freezing winter of his life. Now green shoots dared to poke through the sheets of ice.

He couldn't tell her any of that. He couldn't even use his eyes to convey what he wanted her to understand.

All he could do was tell her with his body. Wordlessly, he bent one leg and bowed to her in a gesture of submission, hoping the posture told her some of what he was feeling.

She must have been waiting for a sign from him, because she loosened her grip on his muzzle.

"Thank God," she breathed.

Delicately, he stroked his tongue against her cheek. He wanted to remain close to her, but he couldn't stay in wolf form now.

Slowly, he eased away. The man on the floor lay without moving. But Grant couldn't take a chance on leaving him alone with Antonia. Changing shape was such a private act for him. Still, he stayed in the room, backing up a few feet and saying the ancient chant of transformation in his mind.

As soon as his body was under voluntary control again, he ran back to Antonia. Pulling her to her feet, he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.

"Grant. Thank you Grant," she whispered, as her hands swept over his naked back and shoulders.

"No, thank you." He let himself hold her for a few precious seconds, then he loosened his hold. "Got to put my clothes on."

"Yes."

He dashed out of the room, picked up his discarded sweatpants and shirt, and brought them back to the kitchen. After dressing, he used a length of rope he'd seen in a kitchen drawer to bind the man's hands. By the time he had secured the killer, Shipley was stirring.

He put himself between Antonia and the bastard. "Why did you kill my wife?" he asked.

"I don't have to tell you nothin'." The man lay there looking pale and sick.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Antonia edging closer. When he tried to hold her back, she gave him a savage shake of the head.

Then she faced the killer, staring at him with a gaze fierce enough to pierce flesh and bone. "No, you don't have to tell us anything. I can read it in the tarot cards. I know all the women you murdered," she said in a low, menacing voice.

"Oh yeah? I say you don't know squat."

"I know… from the tarot," she insisted. "The cards tell me people's secrets."

"You're lying," he answered, but he didn't sound so sure of himself.

"The cards showed me your victims. Marcy Marshall in Fairfield. Wendy Spencer in Baltimore. Cara Boston in Williamsburg. Laurie Carmichael in Morristown." She stopped and took a breath. "Donna Dunn in Princeton. Phyllis Nelson in Camden. Tracy Porter in Rising Sun. Ginger Gold in D.C., Wendy Spencer."

"Ginnie!" Shipley snapped.

"Thank you for correcting me," she answered.

Grant blinked. He had given Antonia those names and places only a few hours ago, but somehow she'd memorized them.

"How… how do you know all that?" Shipley asked in a shaking voice.

"From the tarot. From their ancient wisdom," Antonia intoned. "The cards told me who you killed. The cards tell me everything."

"No. I was careful."

"I know you poisoned them. I know you burned their houses to destroy the evidence."

"You can't know!"

"I know everything," she corrected him. "Shall I tell you how you're going to die? In the electric chair? Or by lethal injection?"

"No. I'm not going to get caught. They deserved to die. Every one of them."

"What poison did you use? I don't know that. What poison did you put in my carton of cream when you were in here this afternoon?"

"Strychnine," he gasped out.

"Thank you for the information," Antonia said, pulling out the small tape recorder from her pocket.

"You blind bitch. You taped me," Shipley screamed.

"That's right. And Grant didn't even have to beat a confession out of you."

"Yeah," he muttered, then took the recorder from her and clicked it off before giving the bastard a swift kick to the chin. Once again, Shipley went still.

"What did you do?" Antonia gasped.

"Mr. Shipley is taking another nap," he told her, "So we can talk. As soon as I call 911."

After telling the cops that they were holding a murderer, he turned back to Antonia. "We'd better get our stories straight."

"You mean that I asked you to help me trap Dwayne because I smelled something funny in the cream and remembered I'd left him alone in the kitchen?"

"You remembered that?" he asked sharply.

"Well, not till just now," she answered, then plowed on, "And we agreed I'd have a tape recorder in my pocket because I was pretty sure I could get him to confess."

"That, too." He cleared his throat. "And I grabbed him from behind when he tried to cut off a lock of your hair."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "That's what he was doing?"

"Yes. The knife is still on the floor under the edge of the counter. Don't touch it—we don't want to smudge those nice incriminating fingerprints."

"And we won't tell any shaggy dog stories," she murmured.

"No."

A police siren in the distance told them that the law was coming.

 

THEY were at the state police barracks for hours, telling their stories separately so that the cops could make sure their accounts matched. While they were there, a judge issued a search warrant. Shipley's journal was at his house. And he'd taken a lock of hair from each victim before he burned them up. Which should make a pretty good case—combined with the knife and the poison the police had collected from the kitchen, along with the taped confession.

Finally, one of the officers drove Antonia and Grant back home.

The moment the door was closed, she felt his hand on her shoulder, and sensed his tension. "I only told you those names and places once. How did you rattle them off like that? Did you really see that in your cards?"

"No. Not the cards. If you're blind, you have to memorize stuff. I'm good at it."

"Good at a lot of things," he said in a thick voice.

"But not too independent to scare you off?" she asked, hearing her own uncertainty. "I mean, I didn't tell you what I had planned when you asked me to let Shipley see me drink the soup. I wasn't sure you would agree on doing it my way."

"I wouldn't have," he said, and he let her sweat for another twenty seconds before he shifted his grip and crushed her to him. "But it was the right way to go."

"Grant. Oh, Grant."

Still holding her tight, he said. "I thought my life was over when I lost Marcy. You gave it back to me."

"Thank God."

"I love you. I thought I could never say that again. But it's true. And I have you to thank for that miracle."

"I knew you were afraid to trust your feelings. Afraid to trust us."

"It happens fast with my kind. We meet our mate and bond."

She heard him swallow. "But the bond is supposed to be for life. I didn't think it could happen for me a second time. I thought there could never be joy in my life again."

"I know. You were so… focused on death. His… and yours."

"You saw that in your cards?"

"Yes. And I knew that if I could save you, I had to do it."

"There is no way I can thank you for that."

"I think you'll figure something out." Reaching up, she pulled his head down to hers.

The touch of their lips sent a sensual shock wave through her. And the way he groaned into her mouth and deepened the kiss told her that he felt it as strongly as she.

"How about if we make love in bed this time?" he asked in a voice he couldn't quite hold steady.

"For starters."

Taking his hand, she led him up the stairs to her bedroom. He had been passionate with her. Wild. Thrilling. This time, he was tender as he began to undress her, murmuring soft endearments while he unbuttoned her shirt.

And as he removed her clothing, she did the same for him, delighting in the slow buildup of need as hands brushed intimate places and lips trailed over warm skin.

This time was so different from the last, she marveled. This time, she knew they were sealing a commitment to each other as they touched and kissed.

Last time there had been no way to slow down their out-of-control desire. Now he drew out the pleasure for both of them—pleasure beyond anything she could have imagined.

And as he brought her up and up to a high peak where the air was almost too thin to breathe, she felt much more than sexual pleasure. She felt the sure and certain knowledge that she belonged to this man in every way that a woman could belong to her mate.

When he was inside her, he went still above her, kissing her lips and stroking back her hair.

"I love you," he said, in a strong sure voice.

"And I love you," she answered.

"In case you can't tell, I'm smiling," he murmured.

"I can hear it in your voice."

He began to move, then, with long, slow strokes that lifted her beyond the clouds and brought her to a soul-shattering climax.

She gasped out his name—and heard her own name on his lips as he poured himself into her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Thank you. For so much," he answered.

Emotional and physical exhaustion claimed her then.

Some time later, she woke and knew from his breathing that he wasn't sleeping.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"A while." He moved his lips against her eyebrows. "I've been waiting to ask for a reading."

"What do you want to know?"

He cleared his throat. "First, do you think the cards will work for you again?"

"I hope so," she said, praying it was true as she reached into her bedside table and pulled out a deck.

"What—you have them in every room of the house?"

"Just about." Sitting up, she dragged the sheet over her breasts, then shuffled.

After taking a deep breath and letting it out, she pulled a card from the deck. "The two of Cups. Harmony and partnership. Two people about to enter a wonderful relationship."

"I like that one."

She pulled out another. "The ten of Cups."

"What does it mean?"

"Family ties. Joy. That we're going to have the happiness we always wanted."

He pulled her close, nuzzling her ear with his lips. "So is it in the cards for you to take on a partner in this bed and breakfast? I mean, a husband who could do the heavy lifting and the repairs."

"That's what I was hoping. I was thinking a beach town might be a good place to raise your children."

He went very still. "You're not afraid of… the consequences?"

"I think there are ways to make it more likely we conceive boys."

She felt him nod against her cheek. "In my family, we live our own lives. But I've talked to some of my cousins. Ross Marshall married a woman who's a genetics specialist. Ross told me she's studied how to better our odds." He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "For a long time I didn't care about that. Now I do."

"Good."

"You're not sorry you got tangled up with a… werewolf?" he said, his hand tightening on hers as he used the word for the first time.

"Well, if someone had said, 'You're going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger, and by the way, he changes into a wolf when it suits his purposes,' I would have been a little worried. But the moment I met you, I knew…"

"What?"

"I knew I cared about what happened to you."

"Thank God."

He stroked his hand over her bare shoulder and down under the sheet to her breast. And she snuggled against him, reveling in the warmth of his body and the sensuality of his touch. They could finish the conversation later. At the moment, she simply wanted to enjoy the pleasure of being with her life mate.