Kiss of the Silver Wolf (6 page)

He was at her side in a flash. He nuzzled her neck and nipped her earlobe. “Let's make it two weeks."

A wave of desire crashed over her. She gasped and arched her back, pushing her breasts onto his hard chest. Her mind lost its ability to form words. She closed her eyes and gave in to the free fall of lust.

His hands roamed her body, rubbing her breasts, making her nipples harden and hurt with desire. “Are you sure? Maybe we should wait. Get to know each other better. Go for dinner and a movie? What do you say?"

Breathless, she reached down, fondled the tip of his penis, his slickness belying his patter. Still holding on, she began to walk backward. “C'mon big boy, I've got plans for you."

They erupted in laughter when she bumped into her four-poster bed and he fell on top of her. He ran his fingers through her hair, releasing the long blonde strands from what was left of the ponytail. She closed her eyes and melted under the light touch of his fingers. When his tongue grazed her nipples, she gasped.

"You like that?” He continued to lick his way down to the center of her belly, and she arched her back—each kiss, each lick and nibble filling her with urgency. By the time he traced lazy circles around the sensitive skin just below her silky triangle, she could barely breathe.

"Now, please,” she begged him.

Without warning, he flipped her over on her stomach, pulled her hips up in the air, and molded himself to her body. His thighs pressed against her buttocks—his erection urgent between her legs.

"Up on your hands and knees,” he growled.

Breathless and half-dazed with desire, she complied, and sighed when he entered her aching, wet folds, filling her. He wrapped his arms around her, one long fingered hand finding her throbbing clitoris, the other pulling at her nipple. She moaned and he began to plunge with harder, longer strokes that filled her deepest need.

He nipped at her shoulders, clutched her waist, and thrust faster, releasing musky scents of sweat and sex. Just as she screamed in orgasm, pain shot though her shoulder, and he howled.

She fell flat on her face, struggled to roll over, and stared at him. “Did you just bite me?"

He looked abashed. “A love nip. No blood drawn. Honest. Sorry. I got a little carried away."

She scooted backward on the bed, surprised by the bite and confused by her unexpected arousal from it. “You do this often?"

He knelt at her feet and gave her a mischievous grin. “I could ask you the same question, couldn't I?"

She reached over, lifted his chin, and said, “Hoisted by my own petard—or perhaps by your petard? I have to tell you, you brought out my wild side.” She patted the bed. “Come sit next to me so I can play with your petard."

He crawled on his hands and knees, rubbing her legs, belly, and breasts in slow, tantalizing strokes. She trembled as his hands slid between her legs. “You know I'm the one for you. You quiver when I touch you. When I'm inside you, our souls meld and I'm complete. We're meant to be together. Let me show you how much I need you. Marry me, Charlene."

With him beside her, her loneliness fled—a distant memory. Was this what she'd been yearning for all her life? Was this man her home? Tonight she didn't want to think. She didn't answer him. She wanted to live in the moment and enjoy the sensations she felt with Zack. She sighed, opened her arms, and released her wild woman once again.

Later that night, sexually sated, Charlene sat alone at the kitchen table, sipping tea, and eating apple pie. Zack had left an hour before, to give her time to rest—and to think. What the hell had come over her? She'd
never
had sex without insisting on the man using a condom before tonight. She closed her eyes, saw him naked, and a fresh wave of arousal warmed her center.
Hot, hot, hot.
Her brain went out to lunch every time she thought about him. That's why.

She ordered herself to focus on the leather-bound family Bible she'd discovered on a table in the front parlor—along with a beautifully illuminated Koran in English.
Did Rebekkah leave these here?
She wiped her fingers on a napkin and flipped through the Koran, examining the bookmarked and heavily underlined chapters and verses—"The Cattle—
And they make the jinn associates with Allah, while He created them, and they falsely attribute to Him sons and daughters without knowledge; glory be to Him, and highly exalted is He above what they ascribe;"
“The Ant—
And his hosts of the jinn and the men and the birds were gathered to him, and they were formed into groups;"
“The Jinn—
And that some of us are those who submit, and some of us are the deviators; so whoever submits, these aim at the right way: And as to the deviators, they are fuel of hell;” “
The Saba—
And (We made) the wind (subservient) to Sulaiman, which made a month's journey in the morning and a month's journey in the evening, and We made a fountain of molten copper to flow out for him, and of the jinn there were those who worked before him by the command of his Lord; and whoever turned aside from Our command from among them, We made him taste of the punishment of burning
."

The only name she recognized was Sulaiman—King Solomon.
What the heck did this stuff have to do with the people of Eden?

She placed the Koran back on the table and gently turned the onionskin pages of the Bible—careful not to get food on them. A hand-written family tree was inside the front cover in beautiful calligraphy. She sat up straighter when she read her mother's name.

"Joanna Abigail, daughter of Jethro and Rebekkah Carter. Joey, son of Oblis and Joanna Abigail Carter. Charlene, daughter of Fred Johnson and Joanna Abigail Carter."

Her brother had a different father?
No. That couldn't be. Fred adored Joey. Worked tirelessly to find a cure for him.

Her head spun trying to connect the pieces.
If it was true, it would mean Jethro was her grandfather. Why didn't he tell her? And he's Joey's grandfather. None of this made any sense.

The clocked chimed twelve times.
Too late to call now.
The next time she saw Jethro, she'd make him explain—especially the part about Joey.

After she found the medicine in Joey's room, along with directions on how to give it, she had tried to get more before she left Baltimore. But the pharmacists just gave her strange looks and told her they'd never heard of the drug. Joey seemed to be fine—or was she kidding herself? What if he died?

Her mother called him her Sweet Joey, and told Charlene he'd been born with a thick pelt of baby hair that never went away—despite the doctor's assurances.

When she was a little girl, she asked her mother why her older brother couldn't talk. Mom said it was his disease, and her Daddy was going to find a cure for it.

Grief welled up in her chest—captured her heart in its iron fist, and wrenched sobs out of Charlene's most guarded memories. Overcome by sorrow and terrified by the knowledge that she teetered on the edge of an abyss of secrets within secrets within secrets, she clutched the Bible in her arms and wept.

Unbidden, her mind returned to the night at the morgue. Her mother, neck broken, but face intact. Her fingers and nails covered in blood. Her father, eyes bloodied, face shredded with what appeared to be claw and bite marks—
Stop going there!
She had to forget the medical examiner's questions about her mother's nails—and teeth. He must have been watching too many horror movies. Shame on him. He was supposed be a scientist.
The marks were from the accident. Nothing more. Her mother was not some kind of mutant.

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Chapter Seven

The Route

"Good morning, Mrs. Jones!” Charlene called out her first greeting of the day. Joey sat behind her in his wheelchair, clapping and signing, “Good morning! School!” over and over again.

"Morning, Miss Charlene!” Mrs. Jones led a boy in denim overalls down the rocky driveway. He took halting steps, and his hands flopped as he walked. An oversized baseball cap shadowed Joab's face.

Charlene stood to assist her, but the mother insisted on getting the child onto the bus by herself.

Small hands, covered with fine light-colored hair pushed the brim of his hat back from his face. He impaled Charlene with his smile. “Bus,” he signed.

She stifled a gasp. “He looks like Joey."

Mrs. Jones smiled. “Now how'd you know that was Joab's nickname?"

Charlene shook her head. “No, my brother Joey—right here—he looks like Joab."

Mrs. Jones gaze followed Charlene's pointed finger. “Well, I'll be! They do look like brothers, don't they?” A firm hand gripped her forearm. Charlene looked up into Mrs. Jones’ green-blue eyes.

"The boys—they're real hard-of-hearing or—like Joab—completely deaf. They need their routine; otherwise they get upset. Be sure to get them home before sundown. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am.” She blinked. Mrs. Jones eyes were crystal blue again, not a hint of green in them. “I'll see you this afternoon."

She signed “Hello, good morning!” to each child as he climbed onto the bus with halting steps. Each mother thanked Charlene, said they'd see her in the afternoon, reminded her to “get the boys home before dark,” and waved good-bye. The shock of seeing her brother in each one of them punched her in the belly. They weren't really boys, but grown men with severe disabilities like her brother. An image of the Koran and the old family bible came to mind. She had to talk to Jethro, find out what it all meant—but damn that old man. When he stared at her with those ice blue eyes, it was almost as if he could see right through her. She'd have to work up the nerve to confront him.

Secrets within secrets within secrets.

One of her charges grunted, interrupting her disturbing thoughts. She glanced in the rearview mirror and Justus? Joab? smiled, waved at her, and signed: “Joey is my friend.”
They're really children. All innocent and sweet, like Joey.

The summer heat lingered and then autumn blazed through the orchards, with trees bursting into red, orange and gold flames. During the month of August, Charlene eased into a routine of driving in the morning, coming home to crate apples, then running out to pick up the kids in the late afternoon. Doing business under her aunt's company name,
Janie Appleseed
, she had boxes of apples in her cellar and orders from wholesalers piling up on her kitchen table. It was exhausting, back-breaking work. Every now and again, she wished someone would take care of her—but she couldn't give voice to that thought.
One foot in front of the other.

Each night Zack came to her house after she'd fed Joey and put him to bed. They would share a meal—and something more. Much as she wanted to be with him, part of her was afraid to take the next big step and accept his marriage proposal. She valued her independence. Would she lose her identity, her independence, if they married?

One evening he arrived at her house and told her that Joab needed his school books, they'd been left on the bus.

He handed her book bag. “I'll stay here with Joey, while you run them over to his house."

Upon her return, she opened the door and inhaled the mouth-watering aromas of sizzling meat and herbs. By candlelight, the simple dining room was transformed into a romantic hide-away. Everywhere she looked, there were daisies and candles. A white lace tablecloth covered the table and in the center was a large vase of red roses.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

"Madam,” he pulled a chair out and bowed. “Please be seated."

"What's going on?"

"I thought the city girl might need a fix. So tonight, you are dining Chez Zack. I am your chef, your server and your dishwasher. Your wish is my command."

Tears sprang to her eyes. “How did you know?"

"I have my ways.” He poured a glass of wine for each of them. “Now, relax and enjoy your first course, a little apple and walnut salad on a bed of fresh field greens with a hint of balsamic vinaigrette."

He placed the plate in front of her, sat down, and lifted his wine glass. “To you, to me, to us."

She raised her glass in kind. “To you for making this a magical evening."

"We've only started. I have a wonderful ending in mind."

That night, his nips were harder, and caught up in the throes of passion, she found herself biting his shoulder, too. Embarrassed, she stopped, only to have him beg for more.

"Don't you see? We're
meant
to be together. I think about you every morning when I wake up and before I go to sleep at night. I dream about you. I love you. Marry me. Be my mate forever."

After he left, she stood in front of her full-length mirror, assessing the tiny bruises on her neck and shoulders. She glanced down and gasped at the now luxuriant curls where once a light silky triangle had been. A layer of blonde hair grew down her inner thighs. And a faint shimmer of golden fuzz shone all over her body.
What was happening to her?
She grimaced and then stared at her teeth.
That can't be. No. I've had too much wine. Time for bed.

As Charlene drove out to pick up her charges from school the next afternoon, she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror and stared.

Who was that woman?
She seemed familiar, but her face was fuller, tanner and healthier looking than it had been in years. Was she happy at last? Yes, and Zack was a big part of her newfound joy in life. Six months ago, if someone had told her she'd be thinking about marrying and settling down in Eden, Kentucky, she would have laughed.
Funny what love did to a girl. Love and fantastic sex.

The school librarian, Shoshannah, came out with the teachers’ aides and waved Charlene over. “I heard Zack is courting you."

Heat blazed in her cheeks. “Can't keep any secrets here, can I?” Charlene wondered if they knew how often she had sex with him, too.

"Here in Eden, we have the
original
grapevine. The whole town is buzzing. When are you going to let him know?"