“I don't think either of us is going to be able to control what's happening between us.” His smile held a grim warning.
“And this?” She dipped her chin at their joined bodies.
“That's new for me. But I have talked about it with my cousins and my grandfather. Apparently, when a wolf finds his mate, this happens. Until we mate and there is a mate-lock, the males of our tribe aren't fertile. Our sperm shoots blanks.”
“Mate?” she croaked. The throbbing at her temples doubled in volume.
“Mate,” he said, holding her chin firmly with his thumb and forefinger. “You're mine now, just as I'm yours.”
“This is crazy,” Sorcha said.
“And you're terrified. Your pupils are so dilated, I can hardly see your irises. The roses are gone from your cheeks. I can smell not just fear but confusion, honey. Come here.” He pressed her cheek to his chest. “What are you going to do now that you've returned to town? Jobs aren't easy to come by in this county, especially in this economy.”
“Huh?” Her mind reeled, and she wanted to shake sense into him.
“Your heart's leaping.” He rested his thumb on the hollow of her throat. “Let's try normal conversation for a while. What do you plan to do now that you've returned to Twisp?”
Go with the flow, she reasoned, try to figure out this craziness. Be logical. Right. Answer his question, concentrate. Sorcha took a deep inhale, closed her eyes, and replied, “I'm going to start my own business, an ad agency. I figure I'd kick off my company by producing a magazine guide to Okanagan County. This area's become quite a magnet for up-and-coming artists. There are eight semifamous potteries in the area, the same for jewelers, sculptors.”
“How long have you been planning this?”
Since I started having the nightmare.
Sorcha had almost said the words aloud. She ground her teeth and went into the spiel she'd rehearsed for the bank. “Since Grams left me this cabin, I figured I could take out a mortgage, a small one, and use the money to keep going until the agency starts producing a regular income. I do have a business plan, and I did consult a financial analyst.”
The fire crackled and snapped behind her back, and a spark hit her shoulder. She rubbed the spot, frowned, and turned her head. Roaring flames licked from logs in the shale fireplace. “When did you light the fire?”
“It seems that, unlike others of the species, the white wolf has an affinity for fire and water.”
“Gray.” She knuckled her forehead, but the pressure in her head kept building; the pounding grew to a painful roar. “This is crazy. Really, really crazy. How did you light the fire? Oh God, don't answer, don't answer.” She bit her lip and braced for what she knew would be an impossible explanation.
“Watch the gas stove,” he replied.
All the burners lit when he closed his eyes.
Damn, damn, double damn.
He idly rolled her right nipple between his fingers. “When the cherry blossoms are in bloom this spring, I'm going to drive into Twisp, gather buckets of flowers, and make love to you on a bed of them. I think it'll be our annual spring fling.”
“What?”
Was the room spinning or was it her brain?
She cuffed his bicep. “You tell me you're a wolf. You tell me I'm your mate. You can make fire at will. And then you talk about cherry blossoms?”
Tilting his head, Gray coasted a finger along the ridge of her cheekbone and he said, “I'm trying to take your panic down a notch, honey. And to answer your question, the first time I saw your nipples, they reminded me of the color of cherry blossoms.”
Cherry blossoms; automatically, she glanced at her nipples. Then her head snapped up so hard, a sharp pain lanced her neck.
“You have to take this seriously, Gray. I came back to Twisp to start a small ad agency and have a nice, comfortable life. One where no one will gossip about me. One where I can go to church, have tea with friends, and the occasional dinner with a glass of wine. I don't want this.” She covered her face with her palms and thunked her head on his ribs. “I don't want this. I want a normal, middle-class Kellogg's life. Do you hear me, Gray White?”
“Honey, you happening to me was the very last thing I expected.” He dashed her hands away, lifted her face, and his palms warmed her cheeks. “Look at me. I'm as scared as you are, maybe more. I've never made love like this before. The way I feel about you scares the crap out of me. Like now. We're not locked anymore, but I need to touch you, feel you around me. Hell, I hate having you out of my sight.”
Sorcha searched his features and read the unease in his dark eyes. Three frown lines etched the space between his eyebrows. She smoothed them with her finger. “I can't think straight anymore. Between the sex and the wolf stuff, my head's spinning. Are you sure this isn't a dream?” She offered him her arm. “Pinch me. Go ahead.”
He said, “I'll do one better.” Gray slanted his lips over hers and began feasting, sucking her tongue, licking the ridges of her teeth. Sorcha melted into his taste, all smoky and sexy and him.
“How can you do that in two seconds?” she asked when he moved on to her earlobe. “Make me forget to think, make me feel as if I'm in this snug cocoon, all safe and secure.”
“Snug, sexy cocoon, all safe and secure,” he corrected and seemed to find something fascinating about the curve of her shoulder, nipping and kissing the spot as if he couldn't resist its lure.
“Gray?” Her hands pushed against his chest. “I have to…you know?”
“Nature call?”
“Uh-huh.” When he stood, stalked to her bedroom, and turned in the direction of the bathroom, she jabbed a finger into his bicep. “Don't even think about it. I go to the bathroom alone, Gray White.”
Sorcha leaned against the closed bathroom door, and the mental dam she'd erected burst. She felt as if she'd been in a mental hit-and-run, as if she had taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug, and reality, as she knew it, had ceased to exist. A fraction of her mind had already accepted his explanation—the hidden, intuitive part she'd learned to distrust.
How could she go back out there? How could she not? How could he have become an addiction after so few hours?
Gray scooped her into his arms the second she stepped through the door.
“I can walk. I have two legs.”
“Beautiful legs and perfect feet.” Dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose, he continued as if she'd never voiced a protest. “I'll order cable tomorrow and bring over a flat-panel, high-def TV.” He carried her to the sofa and sat down, settling her sideways in his lap. “The Seahawks are playing, and I want to catch the game.”
Whaaat?
TV? Cable?
A pulse in the back of her eye sockets leaped.
His cell phone on the coffee table vibrated and buzzed. Gray picked it up and answered, “Sheriff White.”
Sorcha tried to get up while he talked, but he shook his head and curled his arm tighter around her waist.
His relaxed mouth stiffened, and he sat up straight. “When?”
She jumped at the opportunity to study him while his attention was elsewhere. A hint of dark stubble caressed the line of his square jaw. His Native American ancestry showed in the high line of his cheekbones and his black hair and eyes. As a teenager he'd worn his hair long, and she'd always envied his glossy raven locks.
“Have we identified the body?”
At the answer from the man on the other end of the conversation, he groaned.
“I'll be there in thirty minutes, Henry.” He snapped the phone shut. “I gotta go in for about an hour, honey.”
“Someone died?” she asked, a little wary of the grim expression he wore.
“One of my men just fished a body out of the lake,” he answered and feathered a kiss on each eyebrow. “I have to go. I don't want to, but I have to.”
“It's okay.”
“Let's get this house locked up tight. Have you used the security system yet?”
She
shook her head.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, a railroaded Sorcha, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, watched Gray shrug into a black leather jacket.
Holy moley, she'd never had instructions drilled into her so fast and so insistently before: set the alarm the minute he left, check the doors before going to bed, make sure the outside lights were on.
She gave him her key to the front door, and he muttered something about bars for the sliding doors on Monday.
Sorcha sat on the couch and propped her head in her hands. What had happened to the safe, cozy life she'd planned in Chicago two weeks ago? White jumped onto the sofa and rested his jaw on a cushion. At his insistent nose nudging, she scratched his ear.
“Have I gone completely insane, boy? How did my Gray fantasy turn into this nightmare?”
White licked her leg.
Sighing, she stared at the glowing logs in the fireplace, following stray embers as they whirled up the chimney. “I've never felt so confused in my life.” The Lab grunted.
“Why do you think Grams moved us away in the first place? And why'd she come back after that horrible night?”
Don't go there.
She hit a canine sweet spot, and the full weight of White's head suddenly rested in her palm. “Come on, boy, this is no time for wallowing in self-pity. Let's get ready for bed.”
Shaking her head and gritting her teeth, she stood. White gave her his favorite why-are-you-moving-when-I-just-got-comfy wounded look but trotted behind her as she headed to the bedroom, toenails clicking on the wooden floor.
After changing and shrugging a long white T-shirt over her head, Sorcha trudged back into the living room. She picked up the remote, hit Power, and the ancient TV flickered to life. Slumping on the couch, she channel surfed idly, her thoughts tangential. She sat up and blinked as an image caught her attention.
“Was that Gray, boy?” She backtracked two stations and squealed, “That's him. He's on TV.”
Gray's features vanished, and the camera focused on a slender male reporter in his midtwenties. “Earlier this evening, Sheriff White confirmed a third vandalism incident at Leader Lake. Are these crimes connected to the body discovered in Lake Wickia only hours ago?”
An uneasy sense of doom crawled from her toes to her scalp; she wriggled her shoulders, trying to shake the feeling away. Less than a full day after she'd returned to Twisp, population: 935. Mr. Morgan's shop had been burglarized, and someone had turned up dead.
The reporter continued, “In other news, in a surprise move, local football hero Bruce Hazard's thrown his hat into the senate race. He's favored to win an overwhelming victory in his home seat of Twisp, Washington. Recently made partner in one of Seattle's most prestigious law firms, Mr. Hazard's announcement caught most political pundits off guard.”
She remembered Bruce Hazard—quarterback of the high school football team, a conceited show-off, and the town's darling. A shot of the blond-haired, blue-eyed Bruce, now a good forty pounds heavier than fifteen years ago, flashed onto the screen.
“Mr. Hazard's wife, a former Miss Washington, announced the formation of a foundation to benefit underprivileged children in Okanagan County.”
Sorcha stopped listening as Tonya Field's perfect face graced the screen.
A visual of Gray, naked and humping between the cheerleader's thighs, brought bile to her throat. So Tonya had married Bruce. Figured.
She couldn't prevent the reflexive balling of her hands.
God, she'd have to face Tonya again. She'd never expected the town's richest, most perfect daughter to remain in Twisp.
Was Gray still attracted to Tonya?
Don't go there.
Sorcha stabbed the remote. Another news anchor materialized, this one a male with that singsong accent so peculiar to the Canadians of eastern British Columbia and western Alberta. This close to the border, the residents of Okanagan County received many Canadian stations.
Sorcha's lips twitched as a man dressed in the red and black uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police filled the screen. A black bowl of a hat with a ridiculous chin strap framed a rugged jawline as the camera zoomed in and the Mountie spoke. “At this point we're targeting individuals suspected of smuggling illegal aliens into the US.”
Mexicans being smuggled into the US made sense, but Canadians? Intrigued, Sorcha punched Volume.
“There are rumors the Mounties and Homeland Security are involved in an undercover cross-border sting. Can you confirm or deny these rumors at this time?”
Sorcha snorted, as if any member of the RCMP would be stupid enough to answer that loaded question.
Sure enough the Mountie refused to comment. Something familiar flickered in the background, and all at once Sorcha recognized the Main Street the man stood on.
“That's Penticton, boy.” She rubbed her arms as memories of the three years she and Grams had spent in the small Canadian town flooded her brain.
“What about the string of politicians and law-enforcement officials recently arrested in Vancouver? Are they linked to the international pedophile ring rumored to be number one on your hit list?”
“No comment.”
The station cut to commercials, and she switched channels.
“Today, Chinook Council officials expressed concern over the development of rival adolescent gangs in Okanagan County. Could these gangs be connected to the Leader Lake vandalisms? When I posed that question to Lieutenant Douglas Wicks of the Twisp sheriff's office earlier, this is what he had to say. And I quote, 'I wouldn't be surprised. It's their territory, after all.'”
Sorcha cupped a hand over her mouth. What a politically incorrect thing to say. She winced, not envying Gray having to deal with the repercussions from his lieutenant's comment.
A still photograph of a little girl with brown hair and great big doe eyes flashed across the TV monitor. “No developments in the case of Hailey Dressner, the two-year-old who disappeared from her parents' hotel room last week. Criticism of the couple is mounting, and the case is being compared to that of Madeleine McCann. Like the McCanns, the Dressners are a professional couple who could have hired a hotel sitter to watch their daughter while they dined in their hotel's restaurant. More when we return from the break.”
Grinning when an ad for Subway's “$5 footlongs” came on, she squared her shoulders and pride welled up her throat. Officially, she hadn't been credited for her contribution to the jingle or compensated for the lyrics, but everyone in the industry knew she'd cocreated the catchy phrase. The success of the tune had boosted her self-confidence and made Sorcha believe she could go it on her own.
When the commercials ended, a sports newscaster graced the screen. “With the expectation that Tommy Houndtree will be sentenced to the maximum of two years, the Cougars' chances of making it to the state finals now appear to be dashed. The parents of the high school quarterback have started a petition for a retrial on the grounds that an officer in the sheriff's department planted the cocaine found in Tommy's Jeep.”
Man, small towns had become microcosms of big cities. Honestly, the news in Twisp reflected Chicago's on a bad night. She switched stations and discovered that after the news on a Saturday night in Twisp, the choice of programming varied between God and paid infomercials.
Surrendering, she grabbed a magazine, headed to the bed, and slipped under the covers. White settled on the daybed in the sunroom, doing a few of those loud Snoopy yawns she loved.
Sorcha listened to branches scraping the roof, a few unexplained squeaks, and the wind knocking something on the porch. In Chicago, the hum of ever-present traffic masked scary noises at night.
She'd read the same paragraph three times and had about decided to turn off the lights when she heard a weird noise like a child moaning. White woofed, and she heard his toenails click against the sunroom's tiled floor.
“Come here, boy,” she whispered and patted the bed. The Lab ignored her command and went straight to the front door, tail and ears s
tiff. In the glow from the lamp in the living room, she saw the dog's hackles rise. He growled, baring his canines.
The sound came again, closer this time, and goose bumps rose from wrists to nape, making her cold all over. She hugged her arms.
What was that?
White barked and scratched at the door.
She lived in Twisp now, population: 935. Nothing happened in Twisp. Oh yeah right, only wolves and mate-locking and a man whose eyes turned yellow and glowed after he climaxed.
A yelping cry that mimicked a child in pain shattered the silence. She jumped because the sound came from behind her, from outside the window at the head of the bed.
White leaped onto the mattress, barking up a fury.
A loud crack.
She twisted this way and that, trying to pinpoint the source of the explosive sound.
Another bang.
Shots?
On the front porch?
Could someone have broken one of the sliding glass doors?
Be coming into the cabin?
Sorcha held her breath.
Footsteps.
Oh God.
Her temples throbbed.
Fear strangled her ricocheting thoughts.
Please let it be Gray.
Footsteps coming her way.
She thought she heard the clack of shoes on the wooden floors. Her fingers curled around White's collar.
Her brain screamed, Run, run, run.
Her legs wouldn't move, as if someone had cemented her feet to the floor.
Chapter Four
Gravel crunched as a car rolled down the driveway.
Finally, Sorcha's legs obeyed her brain and she ran into the bathroom, dragging White with her. The door had one of those button locks, and she knew it wouldn't stop whoever prowled through the house. She opened the cabinet above the sink and studied the shelves. Toothpaste, her razor, shampoo—She could spray shampoo in the intruder's eyes. Sorcha grabbed the razor and flicked off the safety cap.
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