White rested his jaw on her thigh, and she skipped stones, discussing each throw with him. Maybe if she decided to live here permanently, she could set markers in the lake to measure her reach.
Sorcha lay on the deck, head cradled in her hands, legs dangling off the jetty, the baseball cap shading her eyes and face from the sun.
Grams had to have known she was dying.
Why would she drive to Canada to post her last communication?
What was the key for?
Where did The Sound of Music fit in?
She and Gray didn't do the mate-lock right.
Did Gray know it wasn't normal to be stuck together for almost a half hour?
But if felt so good.
She wrote damn good jingles.
Lying here feeling sorry for herself wouldn't solve a single problem or riddle.
She wrote damn good jingles.
The Sound of Music.
Sorcha sprang to her feet.
“That has to be it. Come on, boy. We've work to do.”
By five thirty, she'd heard the damned CD eleven times and read every line of lyric in the entire songbook. When she and Grams had come home from seeing The Sound of Music, Sorcha had decided to write her own song.
She remembered starting with “The Lonely Goatherd,” but her lyrics wouldn't rhyme, and rhyming had been very important at that time of her life.
Sorcha tried free writing to “Do-Re-Mi.” Nothing. “So Long, Farewell” didn't inspire a word. Neither did “Edelweiss.”
Crumpled sheets of paper littered the dining table and puddled around her chair.
“Sorcha?”
She stared at Gray, but her mind didn't register his arrival. “Hi.”
“I've been calling you all afternoon, but your cell kept going to voice mail, and the house phone is ringing busy.”
“Hmm.” Sorcha knew it wasn't a Julie Andrews solo she'd used for her lyrics. What was the missing connection? Maybe if she watched the movie something would click.
“Sorcha, are you okay? Look at me, honey.” Gray's palm cradling her chin warmed her insides.
Her mind refused to relinquish The Sound of Music.
“Is there a DVD-rental place in town?”
“What?”
“I want to watch The Sound of Music.”
“Why do you want to watch The Sound of Music?”
“Because I want to remember a lyric I wrote a long time ago.” Sorcha noticed he carried two cloth bags. Groceries—he had mentioned before he left that he'd stop at the supermarket. “Is it that late already? Sorry, I'm a little absentminded when I'm composing.”
Gray set the bags on the kitchen counter and bent over. “Why is the phone on the floor? Have you been dipping into the wine?”
“What? Of course not.” Full reality returned when his hands cupped her shoulders from behind. She angled her head back to meet his eyes.
“Stand up,” he ordered, his low tone gentling the command.
Using her bare heels for leverage, she pushed the chair away from the table, stood, and turned to face him. The pinched set of his mouth made her frown.
Sorcha tiptoed and brushed her lips over his. Instantly, he surged in, and the first touch of their tongues made her knees wobble. She clung to his arms.
He broke the kiss way too soon. “You really haven't had a drop of alcohol.”
“Of course not. I was working on a lyric. I told you before, I'm a little absentminded when I'm composing.”
“You didn't hear me the first two times I spoke to you.”
She grimaced. “That happens. My boss wouldn't allow me to answer the phone when I was composing because I'd agree to anything to end a conversation.”
“Where's your cell phone?”
“In my purse.” She always put the phone in her purse.
“Where's your purse?”
“On the bed?” she asked, praying that was true. Let's see, she wore it as a backpack in the park, but she'd swung and looped the long leather straps from one wrist while walking down the gravel road. “No, wait. I think I might have left it outside. Maybe in the garage? Or it could be at the end of the dock. I've tried to teach White to fetch it, but he won't. Does newspapers, though.”
Instead of curving into a smile, his lips flattened. “Stay here. I'll go check.”
Sorcha surveyed the dining table littered with crumpled paper, pencils, one dictionary, and a thesaurus and wrinkled her nose. Next time she must remember to hang a garbage bag from a chair. She had most of the mess cleaned up when Gray shouldered through the doorway. In one hand he had the plastic pumpkin bucket, in the other her purse and her shoes and socks.
“Where were they?”
“The shoes were on the porch step. This was at the edge of the pier.” He brandished the plastic pumpkin. “And your purse was on top of a bag of cement in the carport.”
“That makes sense. I started thinking about The Sound of Music on the walk down the driveway.”
“You walked down the driveway? Susie didn't drop you at the front door and make sure you got in the cabin and locked the door?”
“Course not. It was the middle of the day. Oh damn. I forgot to visit Kumar. I didn't even phone to see how he was.” The thunderous look on Gray's face finally sunk in; his clenched jaw, the strange glitter in his black eyes, and his slashed eyebrows silenced her nervous babbling.
Uh-oh.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Now why would you think that?”
“Because your face is the color of a tomato, and your lips aren't really moving when you speak. And well, you look kind of scary.”
“Are you insane, woman?” he roared. “Last night someone killed one of your birds and shot out your security lights. You thought you heard footsteps inside the house. And you choose to walk down a remote driveway to your house this afternoon by yourself?” Arms akimbo, a scarlet hue staining his bronzed flesh, his roar changed to a bellow as he continued, “And this afternoon Wicks tells me you went into Twisp unaccompanied that first night? Without even phoning to let me know where you were going?”
“But everything turned out okay,” Sorcha protested as she mentally speared a bucketload of outrage at this Wicks's chest.
“Let's see if you feel that way after your punishment.”
Chapter Seven
“Punishment?” Those Washington blues he loved, lived for, widened. Sorcha's full, rosy lips quivered.
Good.
She needed to be scared. Terrified. Petrified.
As terrified and horrified as he had been for the last seven thousand two hundred and seventy-five seconds.
He couldn't remember ever being so incensed. If he touched her right now, he'd shake her to death.
“Strip.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” His jaw ached from being so clenched. Gray inhaled, relishing the aroma of her confusion, of her apprehension.
“Gray, you're scaring me,” Sorcha said as she took two steps back.
“Good.” Fucking good.
“I don't understand.” Her hands fluttered around her throat.
“Strip.”
Gray shuttered his eyes as the iciness he needed for the next few hours flooded his veins. He lifted his lids to find Sorcha had put the dining table between them.
“Your eyes are glowing.” Her voice wavered.
“I'm not going to say it again, mate. Strip.” He walked to the door, shut and locked it, and drew the drapes.
Sorcha stood fully clothed on the other side of the table.
Gray leaped the five-foot mahogany surface, clamped one hand around her hips, bent over, and jerked her torso over his shoulder.
“Gray?” she squealed. “Put me down. You're scaring me.”
“How scared do you think I felt today when I couldn't get ahold of you?” With her pussy so close to his nose, he scented her ebbing fear and her growing arousal, could almost taste her cream. He deposited her none too gent
ly onto the mattress.
“Stay. Don't move an inch.” Gray didn't look behind him as he entered the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror; his eyes were black once more. He had himself under control, and he would need it for the coming lesson. When he'd showered earlier, Gray had discovered her vibrator hidden in one of the shuttered shelves of the brass space expander above the toilet. Grabbing the tools he needed, Gray reentered the bedroom.
During his brief respite in the bathroom, Sorcha had stripped, and she lay in the same position he had left her. Her obedience took the edge off his icy rage but didn't deter his plans.
The absolute quiet in the room, broken only by her shallow, rapid inhales and the low whirring of the ceiling fan, set the tone he wanted. Her pupils dilated as he mounted the bed and straddled her waist, her gaze locking on the rope dangling from his hand. He tied her wrists together and looped the cord around one of the carved slats in the wrought-iron headboard. She didn't say a word and didn't look at him.
When he blindfolded her, she didn't quite manage to choke back a whimper. Sorcha clamped her lips together; Gray firmed his mouth and stifled a small, satisfied smile.
He couldn't do what he had to with her blue eyes staring at him.
His mate's fear had dissipated almost entirely. Desire and curiosity dominated her aroma.
This would be harder on him than it would be on her. The temptation to suckle her taut nipples had him salivating, but he avoided her rising and falling breasts and bound her splayed legs to opposite ends of the bed.
She flinched and tensed when he slid the finger-thick vibrator into her pussy.
“Gray?” Soft and wavering, her tentative question bombarded his resolve.
Balling his fists, he allowed the terror he had felt earlier to return. The thought he had found his long-sought mate only to lose her for all eternity cascaded through his veins. Swallowing the sympathy constricting his gullet and threatening his willpower, Gray avoided glancing at her face, her mouth, and focused on his task.
For two hours, he teased her with the sex toy and deprived her of his touch. She begged him to stop, begged him to touch her. It killed him to refuse her pleas, his heart ached, and he had to bite his tongue so hard, he tasted his own blood.
“I won't do it again,” she finally moaned. “I promise. I'll never scare you that way again.”
Thank God. He couldn't have gone another minute.
Gray cut the ropes and untied her wrists. He gathered her onto his lap and held her while she cried. When Sorcha's weeping calmed and she eased into a deep sleep, he stroked her back, her arms, her legs, her feet, kneaded her buttocks, and she relaxed into him.
Gray licked her throat, nuzzled her neck, bit her earlobe. She slept through it all, but he knew his touch had permeated her soul, her spirit.
Staring at the ceiling fan, at the slow turn of each wooden blade, Gray thoughts blurred and spun with each oscillation. His chest expanded and he drew his mate's scent into his lungs, letting his lids close to savor their mingling odors. Sorcha had accepted him. His hand cupped her breast, and his thumb caressed the pink tip that haunted his every waking minute.
He'd never expected mating to be so all-consuming. When he hadn't been able to contact her this afternoon, morals, ethics, training, the self-control he'd battled for all his life, evaporated. Seeing her sitting at the dining room table only vaguely aware of him spiked his internal beast's anger. His wolf instincts reigned supreme, and only one need drove him.
Domination.
“Gray?” Sorcha's warm, minty breath caressed his jaw and tickled his nostrils.
Framing her face with his palms, he kissed her, licking every inch of her warm moistness. Her small hands linked behind his neck, and lithe fingers skipped across his nape. She broke the kiss and leaned her cheek against his chest.
“I want you to throw that thing away,” she mumbled, sending a scowl at the vibrator lying on the bedside table.
“Done,” he agreed, his voice gruff with remorse.
His cell chose that moment to ring, and he glared at the phone. Her arms fell away, and she sat up and away from him.
“I know you need to get that,” she muttered. Without meeting his gaze, she rolled off him and the bed and marched to the bathroom.
His gaze followed her receding form. She had shut down on him. He couldn't read her aroma, couldn't guess at her feelings.
The phone's vibration continued. Gray snapped the cell open and barked, “White.”
“Gray,” Henry said. “You need to get here right away. I'm at Miss L's. She's dead. Murdered.”
Mind numbing, Gray stared at the closed door to the right of the bed.
“When?”
“Earlier tonight. Body's warm.”
His gut nose-dived to the bowels of the earth.
“I'm on it.”
Gray dropped the phone onto the mattress and dragged his hands through his hair, his thoughts skittering in a million different directions.
Miss L murdered so soon after Aileen died? Were the two deaths linked? How?
The tap in the bathroom squeaked, and his stomach hollowed and dipped.
He had to tell her. If Sorcha heard the news from someone else, she'd never trust him again. This would break her heart. First her grandmother, now Miss L.
Swallowing the acidity rising up his gullet, he swung his legs off the bed. His hand shook as he knocked on the bathroom door. “Honey. I need to talk to you.”
The door opened.
She wore a robe the exact color of her auburn hair. Staring at his bare feet, she muttered, “I don't get time to lick my wounds?”
Gray tipped her chin.
Blue eyes with no hint of vitality met his.
Gray stifled his automatic curse and scooped her into his arms. He walked to the living room, fumbled with the front door, and strode onto the porch, pacing up and down the length of the wooden deck.
Honey, Miss L's dead, didn't seem the right thing to say.
Too bald, too stark, too fucking awful.
“Gray?” Her warm hand cupped his shoulder. “Stop. Stand still. Something terrible has happened, hasn't it?”
He avoided her searching glance and nodded.
Clouds bracketed the three-quarter moon, and a thin sliver of light formed a circle in the middle of the lake. An icy blast gushed around the deck, and Sorcha shivered.
Gray gulped in air and tensed every muscle in his body.
“There's no easy way to say this, and I wish to God I didn't have to. Honey, Miss L's dead.”
She sucked in a breath and bowed her head.
“Sorcha? Look at me, honey. I need to know what you're feeling,” Gray pleaded.
Misty eyes met his, and she gave him a sad little half smile. “I've been expecting this. She and Grams were like an old married couple, and they were both in their eighties. I didn't think she'd last long without Grams around. I can't say that it still isn't a shock—it is.”
Bolting her gaze, Gray said, “She didn't die a natural death, Sorcha. She was murdered.”
“What?” Alarm dusted her aroma, along with rising panic. “Who would want to hurt Miss L? She's the sweetest person in the world.” Sorcha shook her head. “No. No. I refuse to believe this. It doesn't make sense.”
Gray sat on the bench and held her close, stroking her back. “That was the call I just took. Henry's at Miss L's store. It happened earlier tonight. I have to go to the scene. I don't want you here alone. I'll call Susie and ask her to come and stay with you.”
Sorcha pushed away from him. “No.” She shook her head again. “No. I need to be alone for a while.”
“Are you sure?” Her reaction didn't make any sense.
“Absolutely.”
“I'll post Ted here while I'm gone.”
“Fine. I'm going to get dressed.” She tightened the belt holding her bathrobe together and then stood.
Bereft didn't begin to describe the emptiness invading his core a
s Sorcha walked away, bare heels slapping the teak. Gray frowned and studied a knot in the wood. What the crap had just happened? Her reaction to the news Miss L had been murdered made no sense at all. Every instinct told him she was hiding something. What?
By the time he reentered the house, Sorcha was dressed and in front of the kitchen sink, the faucet running.
“Sorcha?”
“While I can't cook, I make a mean salad. Neither of us has eaten. I'm almost done.”
“You don't have to bother. I'll grab something on the way.”
“She's dead, Gray. Henry's there. Taking five minutes to eat isn't going to sully the crime scene. There. It's ready.” She turned off the water and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. When Sorcha turned around, she held a wooden bowl in her hands.
“I have two forks.” She shuffled forward and deposited the bowl in the middle of the breakfast table. “It's already dressed.”
“Be right there. I need to call Ted first.” On autopilot, Gray headed for the bedroom, picked up his cell, called Ted, and gave him strict instructions.
When he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the round table, Sorcha was chewing absently while staring out the window.
“Looks good,” he said and picked up the fork lying on the place mat.
“Susie told me yesterday that Grams had lost a lot of weight during the last few weeks.”
Sorcha's intent scrutiny raised whorls of hair on his scalp. What now?
“Did you think so too?”
“I haven't seen Aileen in more than a month,” he replied, spearing a fat strawberry. “I've been on medical leave for the last eight weeks.”
Her lips pursed. “Medical leave?”
“Two months ago I interrupted a drug buy on one of the campsites. Took a shot in the shoulder.” He couldn't scent anything—no fear, no worry. Gray listened to her even breathing. Not a hitch, not a stutter. Hooding his eyes, he studied her even features.
“Which shoulder?” Three horizontal lines appeared on her forehead, the first sign of anything other than the bland expression she kept in place.
“Left. Why?”
“I didn't notice a scar.”
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