Cravings

by L. Hamilton, M. Davidson, E. Wilks, R York

  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?"

  Chapter 6

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  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."

  "Wh
at 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.