Beneath a Rising Moon

by Keri Arthur

  of this moon dance, but she wasn’t about to lean on him,

  not in any way. She’d chosen him to be a means to an

  end, nothing more, though whether he’d let her continue

  her investigations now that he knew who she was, she

  didn’t know. But undoubtedly soon would.

  Her teeth were chattering by the time she reached her

  house, and the goose bumps he’d mentioned were

  practically boulders. She flicked on the lights and the

  heating, then moved into the kitchen to fill up the coffee

  pot.

  “I’m going for a shower,” she said, flicking the switch.

  “Alone.”

  She turned to face him, and all thought of showering

  immediately fled at the desire so evident in his dark eyes.

  Her heart began a double-time dance, and she knew with

  certainly this time it had nothing to do with fear. Freezing

  cold or not, she wanted this man with a fierceness that

  was almost scary. As was the fact that she’d never felt

  anything like this before. But then, she’d never been with

  a wolf as wild as Duncan before. Her previous mates had

  been sensible choices—the sort of wolves her parents would

  have approved of.

  She stood her ground, and he stopped, leaving only

  inches between them. The heat of him melted the ice from

  her skin, and the wave of his anger and passion burned

  at her mind. She might have her shields at full strength,

  but right now she was feeling this man’s emotions all too

  clearly.

  “Tell me one thing.” His voice was soft. Emotionless.

  But his dark gaze held hers with an intensity that curled

  her toes. “Is Savannah the reason you’re at the mansion?”

  She nodded, wishing he’d touch her. Hoping he didn’t.

  Crazy, that’s what she was.

  “You joined the dance for no other reason than to hunt

  down her attacker?”

  Again she nodded. With the emotive soup of passion

  and need and hunger swirling around her, through her,

  she could do little else.

  “And no one else knew of your decision?”

  She couldn’t help a derisive snort. “Not until you

  announced to the whole damn hospital ward that I was

  your mate this moon phase.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. What, she wasn’t sure,

  though she doubted it was regret. This man didn’t seem

  to regret anything he did.

  He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, his

  gentle touch sending a shiver of longing through every

  fiber of her being. Then he dropped his hand and stepped

  back.

  “Go have your shower.”

  She stared at him for a moment, wondering what sort

  of game he was playing now. Or was it merely an extension

  of the same one? His behavior over the last day certainly

  suggested he enjoyed stirring her to the point of climax

  then pulling back, and while she was nowhere near that

  point at the moment, his closeness had her so hot it

  wouldn’t take much to reach it.

  “Go,” he said when she didn’t move. “I’ll rustle up

  something to eat.”

  She went, though in truth, it was really the last thing

  she wanted to do. By the time she’d showered and changed,

  the aroma of deep fried chicken wafted through the air.

  Her stomach rumbled a reminder that she hadn’t eaten

  breakfast, and she hurriedly dried and brushed her hair

  before padding barefoot down the stairs.

  Stopping in the doorway, she watched him dish up

  two plates of chicken and vegetables. He’d taken off his

  coat and rolled up his sleeves, and he looked so completely

  at home in her kitchen that something stirred in her heart.

  He glanced up, his dark gaze catching hers and seeming

  to delve deep into her soul. The intensity that flared

  between them went beyond the natural heat of moon-spun

  lust. It was deeper, stronger. But just how deep or strong

  was something she had no intention of finding out. Such

  exploration would only lead to a disaster with this man.

  “That smells good,” she said, breaking the moment

  and refusing to contemplate what that moment actually

  was.

  He picked up the two plates and brought them over to

  the table. “Living on my own for so long has taught me to

  cook. Eat up, while it’s still hot.”

  It was hard to imagine Duncan being on his own for

  any length of time. And he’d hardly have the reputation

  he had if he was. She sat down on the opposite side of the

  table from him, picked up the knife and fork, and quickly

  discovered the meal tasted as good as it looked. They ate

  in silence, and when they’d both finished, he took the

  plates over to the sink and poured them both a mug of

  coffee.

  “So,” he said, sitting down once again. “You want to

  explain why you and your sister are so adamant the killer

  is hiding in the Sinclair mansion?”

  “You want to explain why you think he isn’t?”

  His smile was grim. “I know my family. They’re many

  things, but they’re not killers.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Even you?”

  He met her gaze squarely, and though his face was

  expressionless, his exasperation and anger stirred around

  her. “Even me.”

  She leaned back in her chair and contemplated him

  over the rim of her coffee cup. “Then why did you go to

  jail?”

  “You mean you haven’t already gotten all the details

  from your sister?”

  “She’s only just woken, so I haven’t had time.” Besides,

  she wanted to know just how willing he was to be honest

  with her now that he knew what she wanted—and why

  she was at the mansion. “But I do know it was drunk

  driving related. Did you kill someone?”

  “No. And I didn’t spend a lot of time in jail—just enough

  for the police to find the evidence that backed my story. ”

  “Not a lot of time could be one month or one year,

  depending on your point of view,” she said dryly.

  He didn’t react, though the anger touching the air

  increased. In some regards, that surprised her. After all,

  he didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought, so why

  did it matter what she thought?

  “In this case, it was only a couple of days while the

  police checked my story, and only because I couldn’t make

  bail. A man who suspected I was having an affair with his

  wife cut the brake lines, and I couldn’t stop the car. Luckily

  for us both, the driver of the car I crashed into wasn’t

  seriously hurt.”

  “But you were drunk at the time.”

  “Like most wolves, I have a high tolerance for alcohol.

  I was nowhere near drunk, but I was right on the legal

  limit.”

  Until the lawmakers decided how to legally deal with

  the different makeup of humans, werewolves and

  shapeshifters, all of them had to cope with the laws as

  they were. And it didn’t matter diddly-squat if the legal

  limit was barely tipsy for a
wolf. It was the law, and they

  had to live with it. “So you got a fine and did community

  service?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why is it that Savannah thinks you’re a felon?”

  “Because it’s not the first time I’ve landed in jail for

  being drunk, though the other times, I wasn’t driving.”

  “So you were a fool thrice over?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you having an affair with the husband’s

  wife?”

  “They were separated.”

  “So the answer is yes, you were.”

  He shrugged and didn’t answer, his dark gaze as

  impassive as his thoughts. If not for the mix of

  exasperation, anger and hunger that burned between

  them, she would have thought him totally disinterested

  in both her reaction and her.

  “Have you seen her since you got out of jail?”

  “A fool I might be, but an idiot I’m not. I got the hell

  out of Denver the minute I legally could.”

  “And you’ve been with search and rescue since?”

  “Basically.”

  “And sober?”

  “Definitely. I have no intention of ever going back to

  jail. Being locked up for a couple of days was long enough

  for me to realize that being locked up for a long time would

  kill me.” He regarded her for a moment, then said,

  “Satisfied I’m willing to tell the truth?”

  It would be easy enough to check the authenticity of

  everything he’d said, though she really didn’t doubt he

  was telling the truth. “Can I ask one more question?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Why did you leave Ripple Creek, and why did you

  come back?”

  “Why I left is none of your damn business, and you’ve

  already guessed why I’m back.”

  She sipped her coffee and mentally made a note to

  ask Savannah to do some digging into his background—if

  she hadn’t already. “So you are here to investigate the

  murders for your pack?”

  “Yes.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table.

  Hunger slipped between them, caressing her skin with its

  heat, stirring her mind with its fervor. The deep-down ache

  increased, and she squirmed, trying to ignore the

  sensation. She might as well try to ignore the rising of the

  moon.

  “Now,” he continued softly. “Are you willing to offer

  the same sort of honesty?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Then tell me why the rangers suspect it is one of the

  Sinclairs behind the killings.”

  She took a deep breath and slowly released it.

  Savannah wasn’t going to be happy with her for doing

  this, but instinct suggested she had to trust him. And

  right now, instinct was the only thing she did trust. She

  certainly wasn’t about to trust common sense, which was

  currently suggesting she leap this table and dance herself

  senseless with this beautiful but uncaring man.

  “They haven’t got anything concrete, and certainly

  nothing that would be admissible in a court of law.”

  His dark eyes watched her intently. Hungrily. “But?”

  “They found scent trails near two of the three victims

  that led back into the mansion, and they’ve identified them

  as belonging to Kane and Tye.”

  “Considering they were the ones who found the bodies,

  that’s logical. They undoubtedly found René’s scent near

  the fourth victim, as well as mine.”

  And probably hers, though it had been well covered

  by the scent of jasmine. She’d have to remember to tell

  her sister who was responsible for that particular scent,

  otherwise the rangers might waste precious time chasing

  a dead end.

  “They also found several hairs on the first and third

  victims.”

  He nodded. “From a silver coat.”

  “No. These were human.”

  “Really? It wasn’t mentioned in the reports I read.”

  She gave him a long look. “I wouldn’t be telling me

  something like that. Not unless you want it reported back

  to my sister.”

  He reached across the table, capturing her hand,

  turning it palm up. His thumb stroked her wrist, a gentle,

  almost possessive caress that sent shivers of desire skating

  across her already overheated skin. “You won’t tell on me,

  will you?”

  It wasn’t a question, but an order. And the power that

  slipped between them ensured she’d obey. She tried

  wrenching her hand from his, but he held her tight.

  “You could have just asked. You didn’t have to use

  the moon bond.”

  “Didn’t I?” The smile that touched his sensual lips

  was laconic. “Considering the lengths you’ve gone to track

  down your sister’s attacker, I think I’ll continue to play it

  safe.”

  “So, you’re asking me to trust you, but you’re not

  willing to offer the same?” Annoyance bit through her tone,

  and he smiled.

  “If it came down to a choice, you’d take your sister’s

  side every time.”

  He was still stroking her wrist, and it was beginning

  to do weird things to her breathing. “Naturally. She’s

  family, and I love her.”

  “Exactly. While I—” he hesitated, his gaze seeming to

  deepen. “Mean absolutely nothing to you.”

  “As little as I do to you.” But as her gaze got lost in the

  obsidian depths of his eyes, she had to wonder if either of

  them was telling the entire truth.

  “And these hairs they found—are they matching or

  different?”

  Right then, she didn’t particularly care. His fingers

  had slipped up her arm and were caressing the inside of

  her elbow. It felt so damn good desire trembled through

  her. “Matching,” she somehow managed to say.

  “Black hair?”

  His fingers slipped further up her arm, and the back

  of his hand brushed against her breast. Her nipples ached

  to feel his touch, pressing almost painfully against the

  restrictions of her bra. She swallowed, and said, “I presume

  so. I only read the prelim reports.”

  “No chance of getting back into your sister’s office and

  reading the rest?”

  His touch retreated back down to her wrist, and she

  almost groaned in disappointment. “About as much chance

  as we have of this storm stopping by nightfall.”

  “Then ask your sister.”

  “My sister is still listed as critical. She won’t be looking

  at anything for a while yet.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth.

  Knowing Savannah, by tomorrow morning she’d be

  demanding full reports on everything that had happened

  since she’d been attacked.

  “And that’s the only evidence the rangers have that’s

  it a Sinclair?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You tell me. You seem to have

  had better access to the files than I did.”

  His sudden smile was warm and sexy and all too

  fleeting. “It’s not much evidence to believe that it’s
one of

  us, is it?”

  “Well, no, but who else could it be?”

  He leaned back in his chair, the shutters well and

  truly in place. It made her uneasy, though why she had

  no idea. It wasn’t as if she’d been able to read too much

  emotion in his expression anyway.

  “Someone who disagrees with the dance, perhaps?”

  he drawled softly.

  The uneasy feeling increased. She eyed him for a

  moment, then said, “Half the golden pack doesn’t like the

  idea of the dance, me included. Are you trying to imply we

  have some sort of conspiracy going on?”

  “Is it any more implausible than one of the Sinclairs

  being the murderer?”

  “Well, yeah. My pack are strong telepaths. A secret

  that big would not stay secret for long.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “The fact that you’re all

  strong telepaths means you all have strong shields, doesn’t

  it?” When she reluctantly nodded, he continued, “So why

  is it implausible?”

  “Because my pack aren’t murderers.”

  “And the Sinclairs are?”

  She wished he’d get to the point—if he had one. “Well,

  you Sinclairs do have a rather wild reputation you’re not

  afraid to live up to.”

  “There’s a difference between being wild and being a

  murderer.”

  “From what I’ve heard, a lot of the Sinclair pack walk

  the edge.”

  “Walking the edge doesn’t make us murderers.”

  “No.” She hesitated, then put her coffee cup on the

  table and crossed her arms. “So, who do you suspect?”

  He studied her for a moment, face impassive, dark

  eyes hard. The air around her practically buzzed with

  tension—both his and hers.

  “Your mother was born on the Bitterroot Reservation

  over in Idaho, wasn’t she?”

  It felt like he’d punched her. Her breath left in a whoosh

  of air, and for several seconds, she couldn’t even breathe.

  Couldn’t do anything more than look at him in horror.

  “Did you know,” he continued mercilessly, “that as a

  sixteen-year-old she took part in a raid of the Sinclair

  stronghold over there and burned it to the ground?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” His voice was monotone. Relentless. “Thirteen

  people died that night, and many more were injured. Your

  mother was never charged because her old man paid off