by Keri Arthur
the right people.”
She slapped her palms on the table and thrust upright.
“Get out.”
His smile was grim. “She’s done it once, Neva. She
could easily do it again.”
“I said, get out.” Her voice shook with the force of the
fury rolling through her.
“A good investigator considers all options.”
“My mother is not an option. Now get the hell out of
my house.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Might have been
made of stone, and she was certain his heart was.
“Then perhaps you should consider your father,” he
said, his rich voice as cold as the storm outside. “Did you
know he’d been questioning Betise about who was dancing
with whom up at the mansion?”
She’d been questioning Betise—and the older wolf had
certainly never mentioned her father doing the same. And
she would have, if only because Betise hated Neva’s father.
It was actually doubtful whether she’d give him the time
of day. “I said get out. I meant it.”
“Your days and nights are mine, little wolf. I’m not
going anywhere.”
“You’re a...” Words failed her. Somehow, bastard just
didn’t seem strong enough.
His smile contained little warmth. “So you keep
saying.”
She hit him. Not physically, but emotionally. Hit him
with all the anger and humiliation and pain that had built
up over the past couple of days. Although his shields were
up, the force of her emotive blow still leeched all color
from his face and thrust him backwards, off the chair and
onto the floor.
“It’s not a nice feeling, is it?” His voice was little more
than a hoarse whisper, and beads of sweat dribbled down
his face. “Having your family as suspects?”
She met his soulless gaze and wondered why in hell
this man got to her so badly. Not just physically, but
emotionally. Damn it, if any of the rangers had mentioned
her mother’s past, would they be now writhing on the
floor? Definitely not. She’d be asking them to show her
the evidence to prove it. Or running back to her mother to
confirm what had really gone on.
But right now, that was something she could not do.
She let the power slip away and slumped back on the
chair, covering her face with her hands. After a few
seconds, he climbed slowly to his feet. She could feel the
heat of his gaze on her, but she refused to look up.
“I’ll be back at dusk,” he said softly. “And I will claim
what I am owed.”
His words made her tremble, but it was a reaction
that had nothing to do with fear.
And that, she thought, as his footsteps retreated to
the door, was a major problem. He could push her buttons
as easily as he breathed. He didn’t even have to touch
her. All he had to do was look at her.
Cold air swirled around her as the back door opened
and closed. Shivering a little, she dropped her hands,
surprised to find that he really had left. Given the heat
that had been flaring between them, she’d expected the
conversation to end in bed.
Had half wanted it to.
She rose and walked over to the coffee pot. How could
she want a man she hated?
Easy. She didn’t really hate him. Never had.
She closed her eyes at the thought but knew it was a
truth she finally had to acknowledge. Despite everything
he’d done, she didn’t hate him. In fact she rather liked
him, at least when he wasn’t being such an arrogant fool.
But what good did such an admission do? It wasn’t as
if anything could develop between them. It was one moon
dance, nothing more. She’d known that going in, and he’d
certainly emphasized it more than a few times since.
But that deep down crazy part of her wanted more.
She sighed softly and wondered what the hell she was
going to do. Because the one thing she’d feared the most
after their very first mating was beginning to happen.
She didn’t want to let him go at the end of this moon
cycle. Didn’t want to walk away. Didn’t want him to walk
away. Just wanted to explore the possibilities that might
lie beyond the heat that flared between them.
Which was stupid thinking. Especially when his soul
mate didn’t live all that far away.
She bit her lip and glanced at the clock. Betise owned
a small hair saloon on Main Street. With this storm, it
was doubtful whether she’d have any customers.
The perfect time to catch up with her and ask some
more questions.
Nine
Duncan shivered and pulled up his jacket collar. As
he headed across town to Neeson Jones’ place, the force
of the wind was pushing him along the street so hard that
he was almost running. The old wolf had only recently
retired as editor-in-chief of the Ripple Creek Gazette, and
if there was anyone in this town who’d know all the secrets
and hatreds, it would be him.
Though right now, battling this storm and talking to
the old wolf were really the last thing he wanted to do.
He’d much rather be curling up with Neva in her big old
bed, loving her and holding her until the storm had fled.
But given what he’d done over the last day or so, it was
very doubtful that she’d dance with him willingly. Not
during the day, anyway. And he certainly wasn’t going to
force her. He wasn’t that callous.
He briefly closed his eyes, remembering her shocked
expression, seeing again the hurt and anger shining in
her pretty eyes, and swore softly. Part of him had needed
to push, had needed to confirm what he already knew in
his heart—that she had no part in whatever was going on.
But mostly, he just felt like the bastard she kept calling
him.
And that he regretted. Very much.
But he’d set his path, and it was too late to change it
now. He just had to be thankful the moon was still rising.
If nothing else, he at least had the nights to enjoy.
He sped past houses he couldn’t really see, their shapes
lost to the white blur of the storm. Neeson lived up on
Seventh Street, not far from the building that housed his
beloved paper. Duncan wondered why he’d finally decided
to retire. Ten years ago, he’d been adamant he’d die on
the job.
He swung onto Seventh Street, and the wind hit him
broadside, sending him staggering several steps before he
caught his balance. The dance was in trouble tonight. It
was doubtful if even the most dedicated follower would be
willing to battle this storm for the sake of pleasure.
He ran across Neeson’s lawn and rang the doorbell.
Inside the house, bells chimed an annoying melody that
seemed to go on and on. After several minutes he heard
shuffling steps approaching.
“Who is it?”
“Duncan Sinclair. I need to talk to you.”<
br />
The door opened, revealing the stout, silver-haired
figure Duncan remembered. But as his gaze met the old
man’s, he saw the reason for Neeson’s retirement. His blue
eyes were all but white. The cataracts were so bad he had
to be nearly blind.
And the white cane he held confirmed it.
“Come in, come in,” Neeson said, opening the door
wider. “You want a drink to warm the ice from your bones?”
“Coffee would be good.”
Neeson snorted softly as he slammed the door shut. “I
can remember a time when you would have sneered at
the mere mention of coffee.”
“A few days in jail can alter a wolf’s thinking,” Duncan
said wryly.
The old wolf tapped his way down the hall, but once
he got to the kitchen, he put the cane down and moved
with more assurance. Obviously, he spent most of his time
here and didn’t have many visitors—or at least many who
used the front door.
“So,” Neeson said, picking up the coffee pot and feeling
for the mugs. “You didn’t come here to talk about old times,
as we haven’t had many. What do you want?”
“I’m trying to hunt down this killer for my pack.” He
saw no reason to lie to the old man. Neeson might be
blind and he might be retired, but he probably still knew
more about what was going on in this town than anyone
else. And his next words confirmed this.
“Thought you might be, considering you swore ten
years ago never to set foot in this...what did you call it?
‘Blighted town?’”
Duncan smiled. “I don’t believe I was that polite.”
“I wouldn’t have been, either. Darcy set up quite a
campaign. Had more than half the town convinced you
were the father of his daughter’s kid.”
“And the other half ready to come after me with
shotguns.” He kept his voice dry, though in truth, anger
still lingered even now. “You think he’d be peeved enough
at the outcome to plan a little revenge?”
“No. Darcy wouldn’t have the brains to come up with
something like this and pull it off. If he intended to come
after any of the Sinclairs, he would have done it the old
fashioned way. With a gun.”
Duncan murmured a thanks as Neeson slid a chipped
mug across the table, then said, “What about Nancy
Grant?”
Neeson’s rheumy gaze studied him for a moment.
“You’ve obviously been digging.”
He shrugged, even though he knew the old wolf
couldn’t see the movement. “I have to start somewhere.”
“Nancy Grant isn’t what I’d call a start.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was sixteen when the Bitterroot fire
happened, and she was fueled up on alcohol and drugs.
She’s been on the straight and narrow since.”
“No rumblings whatsoever about the dance?”
“Nothing more than any of the golden tribe.“
“What about Levon?”
“Doubtful. Besides, both he and Nancy are golden
wolves. The killer is silver.”
“The evidence points that way, but it could be planted.”
“The rangers don’t think so.”
True. But then, the rangers were convinced it was
someone in the Sinclair pack, despite having no real
evidence to prove it. “I’m told Levon was recently asking
about the dance and who was partnering who.”
“Then the person who told you is a liar.”
If Betise was lying, he’d have to find out why—and
what she hoped to gain by doing so. “What makes you say
that?”
“Because Levon knows the dance is essential. He might
hate it—he might not want any of his immediate pack
involved with it—but he’s never said a word publicly
against it, and he’d never try to stop it. Did an interview
with him about five years ago. You should read it if you
want to get a handle on the man. Very interesting.”
He might dig it out, but only because it might give
him more insight into Neva. “Have there been any
rumblings about the dance in recent months? Has anyone
been trying to close it down?”
“There’s always rumblings about closing it down.
Always will be. But it never is, because everyone fears
what might happen if they did.”
Duncan swallowed some coffee, then asked, “So,
nothing more than the usual grumbling?”
Neeson hesitated. “There has been more than the
normal amount of anger directed toward the Sinclairs this
last month. Someone is stirring up trouble, but I haven’t
been able to discover who.”
Join the club, Duncan thought. “Where have you been
hearing this?”
“Everywhere.” Neeson hesitated and smiled. “People
seem to equate blindness with deafness. Some of the things
I hear amaze even me.”
“And what’s the opinion on the street about the
murders?”
“That it’s one of the Sinclairs. That your games have
finally crossed the line.”
“And your opinion?”
“It’s too pat, and it just doesn’t feel right.” His sudden
smile was a touch wistful. “Just the sort of juicy story I
loved when I was at the Gazette.”
“Who’s running it now?”
“Some fancy pants from Denver. He’s as useless as a
neutered dog.”
Duncan smiled. “If you hear any more interesting
rumors, would you mind letting me know?”
“As long as you come back when this is all over and
give me a blow-by-blow account of how you found the
killer.”
At least someone outside his family thought he’d find
the killer. “Planning to submit a story to the Gazette?”
Neeson snorted. “And give that asshole a great scoop?
No way in hell. I just like knowing outcomes, that’s all.”
He nodded. It was that desire, more than anything,
that had made Neeson a great reporter and an even better
chief. “It’s a deal.”
“Good.” Neeson rose and escorted Duncan to the front
door. “Where you off to now?”
“I think I’d better talk to my lying source of
information.”
“Good idea.” He opened the door, and Duncan
hurriedly left before the icy touch of the wind stole too
much heat from the old man’s house.
Then he shifted shape and ran through the storm,
heading towards Betise’s house.
***
Neva thrust through the hair salon’s door and slammed
it shut behind her. The heat hit her immediately, making
her gasp, and she quickly shed some layers.
“Don’t tell me,” Betise said dryly as she came from the
rear section of the salon. “You felt an urgent need to finally
cut your hair.”
Neva grinned as she took off her ski mask and shook
loose her hair. “You and I both know that’s not going to
happen, so quit asking.”
“You sure? You’d look fantastic with a shorter cut
style
d to suit your features. And it would bring out your
eyes more.”
“My eyes are just fine the way they are.” She shook
the snow from the mask and her coats, then draped them
over the nearest chair.
Betise crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the
counter. “So what can I do for you, then?”
Though the friendliness had not fled from her voice,
there was a touch of wariness in her green eyes. And guilt
in an emotive trickle leaking past her shields.
Probably because she’d been caught in a lie, Neva
thought grimly. “Why did you tell Duncan my father was
asking you about the dance?”
Betise sighed. “I’m sorry, but Duncan was wasting time
asking me all sorts of questions.”
Hostility rose in a wave, and Neva briefly looked away.
She had no right to feel proprietary when it came to
Duncan, and if anyone should be angry at sharing, it was
Betise.
“But why say something like that?” she said, once she
was sure her voice was under control.
“Because he’s been away for so long and is the only
one in town likely to believe such a silly statement.”
That was certainly true. The animosity between her
parents and Betise was no secret. Though why her father
was so against Betise and not the other regular dancers
who came into their diner was something Neva had never
been able to understand—or get an answer to.
But maybe it was time she tried again. She should
question her mom, at any rate. They’d know she was here—
the hospital staff would surely have mentioned it—and
she’d much rather confront them than have them seeking
her out. Given the way her luck had been running of late,
they’d probably walk in and find her and Duncan in the
middle of a heated dance. That was something she didn’t
need right now—not if she wanted to start mending
bridges.
“I gather he’s been harassing you about your parents,”
Betise continued, sympathy in her voice.
“All but accused my parents of being behind these
murders.” Neva sat in one of the chairs and stretched her
legs towards the heater vent to warm her feet. “My mother
may not have the past of a saint, but she’s not behind
these killings.”
“Anyone with half a brain would know that,” Betise
agreed and pushed away from the counter. “Would you
like a soda? Or a coffee?”
