Cravings (31 page)

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.