by Rebecca York
The reasons varied. Sometimes guilt was the motivating factor. Those were the men and women who came to him on the assumption that providing information in some way atoned for their own sins against society.
Then there were the ones who were greedy for money—who would sell you pieces of other people's lives on a cash and carry basis.
Others were driven by vengeance. They were smarting from some real or perceived wrong, and they wanted to "get even" by ratting out their enemies.
The hardest to deal with were the nuts with a cloak and dagger fantasy who saw themselves as supersleuths fighting crime, corruption, and terrorists, making the world safe for women and small children all by themselves.
They were dangerous—not just to the bad guys but to the public—because there was no telling what they might do to feed their inflated egos.
Another big category consisted of informers he thought of as John Q. Citizen. They wanted to do the right thing, but they were scared to get involved. So when they heard screams outside their window, they were likely to run in the other direction instead of coming to the rescue.
The good news was that they might come forward if pressed—or if their anonymity could be guaranteed.
Ross Marshall was none of the above. Jack pursed his lips, wondering if he'd describe the man as a hero.
One thing was for sure: Marshall believed in what he was doing. He believed in truth, justice, and that "the system" did actually work.
He was every detective's dream source. Knowledgeable, intelligent, professional, completely trustworthy—at least in the dealings they'd had. Although Jack was pretty sure Ken Winston wouldn't agree.
Ross would have probably been a great cop. But there was something that had kept him from taking that route. Something in his background that made him choose to work alone, unless he determined that the only way to clear a case was to give information to the police.
So what had turned him into a loner? His deprived family background? The violent father? His relationship with the long-suffering mother?
Or some defect he saw in his own personality? Something that had caused him to take the law into his own hands five years ago and kill Edward Crawford.
Jack sighed. He was about ready to officially label the Crawford file as a Stone Who Done It—a case that couldn't be solved. Nobody would fault him for that. The evidence suggested that Crawford had been abducting and killing young women. Now he was dead. And there was no proof leading to Ross Marshall as the man who'd put him in the ground—other than that he'd tried to get Ken Winston to take a closer look at the guy.
But what about the current situation? Ross Marshall and Megan Sheridan cared about each other. She'd been attacked.
What would Marshall do if the police—if Jack Thornton—couldn't find the guy who had done it?
Take the law into his own hands again?
He hoped not.
Then there was the tip Ross had given him on Donald Arnott that he'd barely had time to pursue yet. His mind switched gears, and he started thinking about the process he needed to start in the morning. The first thing he'd do was talk with the police in Paoli, Pennsylvania, and find out if the series of abductions and killings up there had stopped when Arnott had moved to the D.C. suburbs.
He was just making a note about that on the pad he carried in his pocket when a noise in the doorway made him look up.
A small figure in a white nightgown stood with one hand clutching the doorjamb. "Daddy."
Lilly's face was pale. Tears streaked her cheek.
"Honey, are you sick? What's wrong?"
Her lower lip trembled. "I had a bad dream."
"Come here."
She scurried across the room toward him; he scooped her up, cradling her in his lap.
Her head rested against his chest, and he stroked the soft blond hair that he loved so much. Her mother's hair.
"Can you tell me about it?" he murmured.
"A bad man was chasing me," she whispered, the last word breaking on a sob.
He stroked his hands through her hair, over her shoulders, rocking her. "It's okay. Daddy has you."
She pressed her face against his shirt, turning the fabric damp with her tears. When the flood subsided, he murmured, "Do you want to tell me any more about it?"
"I was running through the hallways at school, trying to get away from him; and every time I thought I got away, there he was again—in front of me." She gulped. "Then I woke up, and I was scared to be in my bed alone. I looked for you in your bed, but you weren't there."
"I'm sorry. I was working late. I'm glad you came downstairs and found me," he answered, continuing to rock her.
"I miss Mommy," she said in a small voice that stabbed at him.
"I do too, honey."
"If Mommy were still here, you would have been upstairs in bed with her. And I could have gotten in the middle, the way I used to do."
His throat clogged. "Yeah," he answered.
"Can I get in bed with you now?"
He ran a hand through his hair. Christ, was it okay to let a six-year-old girl get in bed with her daddy? Some psychology book would probably give him the answer. Or the family counselor they'd all seen after Laura had been killed.
The answer was probably no. But right now he knew that his daughter needed to know he was there for her.
"I'll come up and lie in your bed with you for a while," he said, standing and shifting her weight so he could carry her up the stairs.
She pressed her face into his neck. "You won't ever go away," she whispered. "The way Mommy did."
"No, I'll never go away," he said, clutching her to him as he climbed the stairs. "Tell me about that painting you're doing in the school hallway."
She snuggled against him. "It's really neat. One thing I get to paint is a cat. Any cat I want. I want to do a gray one—like Mrs. Williams has."
DONALD Arnott leaned against the bar, pretending not to watch the door. But he knew the moment Sandy walked in. Once again it struck him: she could be a carbon copy of his mother, the whore who would spread her legs for any guy, as long as he had the money to pay. When he was a kid, there'd been too many nights when he'd lain on the sofa in the living room, listening to her with some John in the bedroom, both of them so loud it was a wonder the neighbors didn't start banging on the walls.
That had ended abruptly when he was eleven, when one of her low-life fucks had climbed out of her bed and come after him in the morning, thinking he was going to have a little dessert—of the kiddy variety.
Donald had brained the bastard with a lamp. And good old Mom had turned him over to the juvenile authorities. He'd gotten even with her by blabbing about her lifestyle to anyone who would listen. That had kept him out of the detention center—and put him in the foster care program. Which wasn't great. But it was better than life with his slut of a mother.
They'd told him she died of cancer of the liver. He hadn't given a shit about it.
Sandy crossed the floor. In the dim light he could see that she'd frizzed out her hair, put on too much makeup, and wiggled into a red dress that looked like a second skin.
Jesus. What a sight. The first thing he was going to do when he strapped her to the wooden table in his secret room was wash the makeup off her face with paint thinner.
But he wasn't going to get a chance to do that tonight. Tonight he was going to have to be on his best behavior.
So he gave her a wide smile. "You look sensational."
She smiled back, patted that Day-Glo hair. "Why, thank you."
"So what can I get you to drink?" he asked expansively.
"White wine."
Woman's wimp drink. He signaled the bartender and inquired about the house wines. She picked a chablis. When it arrived, he suggested that they repair to a table in the corner.
"So are you from around here?" he asked.
"No. I'm from Michigan."
"What brings you to the D.C. area?"
"There was nothing to hold me
in Kalamazoo."
"No boyfriend?"
Her face contorted. "I was married to a real jerk. But that's all in the past."
"Well, I'm glad you're free, white, and over twenty-one."
She took a sip of her wine. "You're the most interesting man I've met in a long time."
"Oh, yeah? How come?"
"You're not what you seem."
That brought a little spurt of alarm. "What do you mean?"
"You've got hidden depths. I know there are things below the surface that you don't show to everyone."
"Good things?"
"Of course."
He relaxed a little.
"You told me about your bird watching."
"Yeah," he improvised. "I have lots of different types of feeders—to attract the different species."
"Oh—which kinds?"
"Uh, robins, cardinals, sparrows."
"I didn't think robins came to feeders."
"Well, I've got special stuff for them. From the Wild Bird Center." He dredged up the name from an ad he'd seen in the local paper. What a waste of time, spending money on birdseed. But Sandy seemed enthralled. "But I'd rather talk about you."
"I'm not that interesting."
"Oh, don't be modest. You're a very charming woman." He lifted her arm, played with the gold and diamond bracelet around her wrist. "This is so pretty," he gushed, trying not to throw up as he said it. "I love your taste in jewelry. Where did you get it?"
He got her talking about clothes and jewelry while his hand dropped to her knee under the table. Smiling at her, he caressed the knee, her leg, working upward to her thigh. That wasn't difficult under the short tight skirt. The problem was the damn panty hose. He hated panty hose.
He would have liked to rip them off. Instead he smiled and made appropriate responses to her inane chatter.
"Let's go back to your apartment," he finally said in a husky whisper.
Her eyes turned cautious. "I don't know you well enough for that."
"Yeah. I guess you're right," he said immediately.
"Come sit with me in my car for a little while before we both have to go home."
She hesitated for a moment, then agreed.
He led her to the Land Rover he'd parked in a dark corner of the lot, opened the back door so they could sit on one of the bench seats.
He reached for her, kissed her, turning himself on by thinking about the metal ring riveted to the back of the seat—and what he was going to do to her after he got her where he really wanted her.
He amused himself by seeing how far he could get with the slut, pawing her breasts, reaching under her skirt. Getting her to shuck off the panty hose so he could stroke her cunt.
Because he still needed that credit slip, he made her come with his fingers, gritting his teeth at the disgusting sounds of pleasure she was making, keeping himself hard by focusing on his power over her. Then he told her that if she cared anything for him the way he cared for her, she wouldn't leave him hot and bothered.
When he opened his fly and took out his swollen cock, she reached for him, probably thinking she was going to get away with a hand job. But he took her head between his palms, pulled her mouth down to his rod, and got her to suck him off. Then he watched in amusement as she fumbled in her purse for a wad of tissue so she could spit out the cum.
When he got her back to his underground room, she was going to swallow it. For now he was satisfied that he'd gotten her to suck him off in the backseat of a car in the parking lot of a bar—proving what he'd known about her all the time. She was a slut. Just like all the women he'd punished.
But he kept a sincere look in his face as he thanked her. Acted tender and appreciative. Told her how much he wanted to see her again.
And when they went their separate ways that evening, he was feeling better than he had since he'd shot the dog.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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IN THE MORNING, reaction set in. Ross knew what he had done. Knew that at least some of what his father had told him had been right—about the selfish greed of the mature werewolf.
He had come to Megan's house with no other thought in his head besides fucking her. He had done the deed—twice. And the thought hadn't even entered his mind that protecting her from pregnancy would be a smart idea.
Jesus—what if he'd started a baby growing in her last night when he'd been thinking about nothing but his own pleasure? What if she were carrying a girl child?
He felt as if a raw, hollow place had opened up in the center of his chest, the pain seeping outward to every part of his body. Megan could soothe the terrible ache. Only Megan.
Last night…
Last night had been incredible. Thinking about it made him long to reach for her and see that smoldering look in her eyes again. But instead of letting his own needs take control, he eased away, made it down the hall to the bathroom and stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror.
The face that looked back sickened him. He'd been kidding himself for the past five years—following some kind of half-baked moral code to make himself feel better about Crawford. But he had no right to think of himself as a moral person.
A werewolf had no morality. He was an animal—who followed his own selfish impulses. And maybe phases of the moon. Or maybe he could shift the responsibility to his genes, he thought with a snort. Maybe the things he did were only what his genes commanded him to do.
He turned on the water, stepped under spray hot enough to sting his skin. But a shower couldn't wash away the feeling of disgust, although he stood under the hot water for a long time.
Then he dressed and quietly slipped back into the bedroom to retrieve his gun and jam it back into his shoulder holster.
The blinds were closed, and the room was still dark. Standing a few feet from the bed, he looked at Megan, feeling his heart turn over in his chest. She looked so peaceful, so trusting. But what if someone had come into the house last night and attacked her?
He wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it because he'd been too focused on what they were doing in bed.
His nerves strung as tight as piano wire, he backed out of the room and walked to the sliding glass door in the living room. The need to escape building in his chest like a bomb about to explode, he shed the clothing he'd just put on, leaving everything in a heap on the floor as he unlocked the door and stepped into the gray light.
He was a wolf. That was his true nature.
He had the presence of mind to glance around, note that the houses on either side of Megan's were screened by tall trees and that the back of her property bordered a wide stretch of greenery—perhaps a park.
But checking to see that he wasn't being observed was only perfunctory as the words of transformation sprang to his lips. This morning he welcomed the pain of bones crunching, muscles jerking, cells transforming from one shape to another.
Dropping to all fours, he streaked away, heading toward the trees that bordered the backyard.
MEGAN woke, then smiled as she remembered the incredible night with Ross. Sleepily she reached out to touch the man who had transported her to another plane of existence.
Until last night, he had resisted her. Resisted the sense of connection growing between them. But when they'd finally come together, their union had been glorious. Not just sex. Something more that she'd never believed could exist. Her essence merging with his while they danced together in a magic world where only the very lucky were admitted.
A small pang gripped her when she found the bed empty. Her eyes bunking fully open, she turned to stare at the impression his head had left in the pillow. He had been here. It wasn't a dream. He was gone now.
Gone away? Impossible. Not after last night. He must be somewhere else in the house.
Struggling to contain the feeling of uneasiness that tugged at her as she slung her legs over the side of the bed, she crossed to the closet and slid into the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door.
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In the bathroom, she saw that he'd taken a shower not very long ago.
"Ross?" she called.
When he didn't answer, she headed down the hall toward the living room.
The drapes were still closed, but she could see them blowing back and forth, telling her the window must be open. She never left the sliding glass door unlocked. So he must have stepped outside.
In the dim light she saw something on the floor by the window. A pile of clothing. The clothing Ross had worn the night before. And his gun.
Her brow wrinkled. He'd gotten dressed this morning, then taken off his clothing by the back door. And gone outside.
Against her will, her mind streaked back to another time when she'd found an open window, an empty room. His white shorts on the floor of his bedroom.
And outside…
Her body went stock-still, and a terrible wave of cold swept through her, all the way to the marrow of her bones. She didn't want to discover what was out there. But an invisible force had grabbed hold of her and was pulling her toward the window. On legs that felt like wood, she stumbled forward, her movements jerky as she pushed aside the drapes and stepped onto the patio.
For a brief moment, she saw nothing but her backyard looking just the way it had looked the day before, and some of the terrible tension eased out of her. It was all in her imagination. All the smoldering anxiety that she was terrified to put into words.
In the next instant the feeling of relief was ripped apart. She saw a flicker of movement at the edge of the trees. Against her will, her gaze riveted to the spot. And as if she'd stumbled from sleep into a nightmare, she saw the gray wolf emerging from the woods, his silvery pelt catching the first rays of the sun, his ears alert and pricked toward her.
The wolf was here, her mind screamed.
Immobilized by a soul-deep fear, she watched the animal move toward her. Eyes fixed on her, he closed the distance between them until he was standing less than six feet away.
Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she could barely breathe as she stared into his brilliant yellow eyes—eyes that she'd thought held intelligence beyond that of a mere animal.