When the door opened again, she wiped her damp palms on her slacks. “Grant?”
“Yes.”
“The room at the end of the hall is one of my best, and it has a good view of the ocean,” she said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back.
He had thought too often of the ocean, of the cold, black waves swallowing him up.
She longed to go to him then, to wrap her arms around him and give him the blessing of simple human contact. The warmth of her body could help take away the chill that had sunk into his bones.
But she wasn’t going to fool herself. There was more she had glimpsed in their brief encounter. Things she didn’t dare name because admitting her desires and seeing them crushed was worse than never acknowledging their existence. Once her life had been full of possibilities. After she’d lost her sight, she’d learned not to ask for too much.
Did she dare to open herself up to the pain of rejection? She didn’t know whether she had a choice.
GRANT set his duffel bag on a luggage rack near the bedroom door and looked around. The room was charming, with refinished mahogany cabinet pieces, a four-poster bed, and blue and white curtains at the double-hung windows.
Had Antonia given directions for the decorating? Had she bought the furniture at country auctions? He could picture her wanting to know every detail.
Striving to put her out of his mind, he crossed to the bedroom window and stood staring out at the ocean. It was a block away, but from the second floor of the house, he could see the swells rising and falling. The view soothed him because he knew the sea would set him free.
He told himself he should leave this dwelling. He was used to being alone with his mangled heart and his quest for justice. He had mated for life, and Marcy’s death had ripped away a part of himself that could never be returned.
But over the past two years, the sharp edge of grief had dulled. He saw that as a betrayal of his wife. And he saw his response to Antonia in those terms, too.
Not a physical response, he told himself. It was nothing sexual. He had shared dark secrets with her. And none of it had sent her running from him.
But she saw him only as a man. She knew only the human part—the part about the stranger who had lost his wife and was searching for her killer.
She didn’t know about the wolf who had indulged his raw grief by roaming the woods of western Pennsylvania hunting animals and ripping out their throats. She didn’t know that wolf was upstairs in her house.
He had come here for a tarot card reading. But he hadn’t let her go ahead with it. Was he afraid she would see through his carefully cultivated veneer of humanity?
What if he took off his clothes, walked back downstairs, and said the ancient chant that changed him from man to animal? She wouldn’t see the wolf. But she would sense his presence. And that would be the end of whatever relationship she was thinking about.
He could end this anytime he wanted. Very dramatically. And that made him feel safer.
So he left his duffel bag in the room while he went back to the business district to have a look around. After driving slowly up and down Atlantic Avenue, he pulled into a space near Bridges Dry Goods Store, Ernest Bridges, Proprietor, and got out.
As he walked inside, he saw that several people were standing around talking to the man behind the counter, presumably Ernest Bridges himself, who looked like he’d been planted there for the past seventy years.
The conversation stopped, and Grant watched the crowd eyeing him speculatively, although not with the earlier hostility of the cop. Apparently this was one of the town gathering places—regardless of class or profession. One man was wearing a business suit. Another had on overalls. A woman was in jeans and a pullover. Even in human form, Grant could pick up their distinctive scents. All of them had something in common. They’d all been to the murder house.
“Help you?” Bridges asked.
Grant pulled his focus away from the olfactory analysis and scrambled for an answer. “Toothpaste.”
“Second aisle on the right. Halfway down.”
He ambled past shelves crammed with lipsticks and boxes of graham crackers, dishwasher detergent and beach towels on deep discount.
“You passing through?” the old man behind the counter asked as Grant came back with his purchase.
“I might be interested in vacation property,” he said for the second time that afternoon.
The guy in the suit perked right up. “Well, I can surely help you out. Charlie Hastings. I own the real estate office a few doors down.” He held out his hand, and Grant shook it.
When he’d started his quest, he’d thought about whether to use his own name and decided that it might be an advantage—if his goal was to flush out the killer.
“Grant Marshall. I’ll stop by in the next day or two,” he said, thinking that the man probably knew how long all the residents had owned their homes.
Stepping outside, he lingered under the shade of the porch, pretending he was just enjoying the sea air. Although the door closed behind him, his hearing was excellent, and he could still pick up the conversation from inside the store.
“You think he knows property values have gone down?” Bridges asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” the real estate guy answered.
“Sell him a fixer-upper and I’ll get some business out of it, too,” another voice said, and Grant figured the guy in overalls must be the town handyman.
The group laughed.
“So, do you think I should put in another cabin in the back?” the woman asked.
“The tourist business will pick up in the warm weather. Leastways if we can do something about the hole in the ground that used to be the Jefferson house,” Hastings answered.
When the talk metamorphosed into a deep discussion of Sea Gate property values, Grant left the porch for a walk through the business district, following the scent trails of people who had been at the murder house and also in the shopping area. Many of the paths led to a bar and grill several blocks down Atlantic called the Seagull’s Roost. But he didn’t go inside, because he knew the alcohol fumes would make him sick.
Instead he drove back to Antonia’s bed and breakfast. She wasn’t around when he stepped inside. Relieved that she was making herself scarce, he went back up to his room.
Sleep had become something he grabbed in snatches. But the bed was comfortable, so he lay down on top of the covers for a short nap. When he woke, it was dark outside.
His watch said six thirty. Later he would go visit the burned house. But he needed fuel, and his stomach told him he hadn’t eaten much that day.
After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh shirt and went downstairs. He was thinking he’d go out and get some fast-food hamburgers. But the aromas coming from the back of the house stopped him.
He smelled homemade beef stew, and a wave of nostalgia swamped him. His mother had made thick stews, filled with chunks of meat the way his father liked it. Marcy had gotten the recipe, on one of their brief trips home.
There hadn’t been many visits because all the werewolves he knew—his father and his brothers—were alpha males, and they fought for dominance when left in a room together.
His father had a couple of brothers he hadn’t seen in years. Just the way Grant had stayed away from his own adult male relatives. But he’d looked up his cousins on the Internet to find out if they were still alive. One was a private detective. A guy named Ross Marshall. They’d exchanged a few e-mails. And he’d thought for a split second about asking him to help track Marcy’s killer. Then he’d figured they’d only end up at each other’s throats. So he’d kept to his private quest.
He hesitated in the front hall. He should stay away from Antonia, but he found his feet taking him to the kitchen.
When he stopped in the doorway, he saw her stirring a large pot on the front of the stove. The light was low, giving the kitchen a cozy feel. The simple domestic scene made hi
s chest tighten.
“That smells good,” he said, hearing the thickness of his own words.
She turned to face him. “Cold weather makes me want to fix a big pot of something hearty. Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“The stew is about ready. We can have a salad, too.
He watched as she opened the refrigerator and took out tomato, lettuce, celery, carrots. She washed the produce in the sink, then brought it to a small cutting board resting in what looked like a large cookie sheet with low sides.
“Can I help you?”
“You could set the table.” She gestured toward a sideboard. “The cutlery is in the drawers. And the salad bowls are on the shelves just above.”
“And I see the napkins in the basket.”
As he worked, he watched her preparations, admiring her efficiency. The cookie sheet kept any vegetables from skittering away as she carefully cut them up, then tossed them into a bowl with the lettuce.
It was a strange experience, not having to pretend that his attention was elsewhere. And he found he wasn’t just watching her cook. He was taking in interesting details, like the way her lower lip pursed as she concentrated on her task, and the way she’d tied back her mass of brown hair with a green ribbon, exposing the tender curl of her ear.
His gaze traveled lower, to her nicely feminine curves. He hadn’t noticed a woman’s breasts in a long time, and his jaw tightened. He didn’t want to focus his attention on boobs. But hers were high and rounded, and he could make out the small buds of her nipples beneath the tee shirt she was wearing now. When he found his body responding, he bit back a curse.
“So—you weren’t always blind?” he said in a gruff voice.
She kept busy with the salad. “I got something called uveitis when I was twenty-four. By the time they made the diagnosis, it was too late to save my vision.”
“That must have been . . . devastating,” he said, thinking about how he would have reacted.
“I did a lot of crying and screaming. Then I made peace with it. But I wanted to live as independently as I could, so I went to a school where they taught blind people basic skills.”
“You didn’t want a guide dog?”
“The school encouraged independence. I’ve got a white cane that I use when I go out. But I know my way around in here. If you put things back where they belong,” she added with a note of firmness in her voice.
“I will.” He cleared his throat. “A dog would be good protection.”
“I didn’t think I needed protection, until . . . Elizabeth.”
“You felt safe in Sea Gate?”
She turned to face him, then carried the salad bowl to the table.
“Yes. That’s why I came back to this house where my aunt lived. I used to spend the summers here with my parents. Sea Gate is about the right-sized town for me. I can walk to just about anything I need—the grocery or the dry goods store or the pharmacy.”
He’d given himself the perfect opening to talk about the murder. Instead, he asked, “And you ended up with the property?”
“Yes. My mom and dad separated when I was in my teens. My aunt never had any kids. So she left me the house.”
“And your mother?”
“Mom was bent out of shape about my getting Aunt Minnie’s inheritance. She’s in Colorado—working as a fortune-teller in Manitou Springs. It’s an old hippy community, so she fits right in.”
He was wound up in her narrative, when her sudden sharp exclamation sent him striding across the room.
He could see that while she’d been ladling hot stew into bowls, she’d splashed some on the side of her hand.
Quickly he turned on the water, then thrust her hand under the cold stream, holding the reddened skin upward.
“So much for walking and chewing gum at the same time,” she murmured.
He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“That’s supposed to be a joke,” she said in a quavery voice.
“Yeah.” He was trying not to focus on the feel of her small hand in his large one. It was small-boned and graceful. He should turn her loose. She could take care of the emergency by herself. But he kept the hand cradled protectively in his.
“How does it look?” she asked.
The question startled him, because he’d forgotten she couldn’t see for herself.
“Red. But I think it’s only first degree.”
She sighed. “Burns are a problem for me in the kitchen. I’ve got some salve.”
When she started to step away from the sink, he cupped his palm over her shoulder. “Keep your hand under the water. I’ll get the salve.”
“It’s in the drawer right under the microwave.”
He let go of her, then crossed to the drawer and found the tube.
Turning off the water, he took her hand again. When she swung toward him, her breast collided with his outstretched arm, and neither of them moved for several seconds.
The contact was innocent, yet the pressure of that soft swell made his breath catch.
She angled away, tried to snatch her hand back.
But he wanted to prove he wasn’t reacting to her, so he kept hold of her, blotting the water with a paper towel. Then he stroked on some of the burn medication. When he was finished, he let her go and deliberately stepped back.
“THANK you,” Antonia whispered.
He answered with little more than a grunt, and she knew that she hadn’t been the only one affected by the innocent contact.
She wanted to say something like, “You’re not being unfaithful to your wife by responding to me.” But she kept that observation locked behind closed lips.
“Maybe I should just go out and grab something for dinner,” he said.
“Dinner is already made. And it’s better than anything you’re likely to get in town at this time of year.”
“Yeah.” After a moment’s hesitation, he moved to the stove, and she heard him ladling stew into a bowl.
Which left her with the other bowl. She wasn’t sure now where she’d set it down, and she had to fumble around on the counter, wondering if he was watching the blind woman make a spectacle of herself. She almost stuck her fingers into the stew, but the heat warned her before she had to start over again with the cold water and the salve.
Nervous now, she wondered if she could make it across the room with the food. But she carefully counted the steps and ended up at the table, where she sat down.
While she’d been cooking, she’d imagined the conversation she and Grant might have at dinner. She’d thought she would offer him some wine. But that seemed out of place now. They both ate in silence until he said, “Do you have any salad dressing?”
She’d completely forgotten about dressing, and she felt her face heat. “I’ll get it.”
“I can do it. Where do you keep it?”
“The bottom shelf in the refrigerator door.”
He brought two bottles and set them down on the table. She waited while he poured dressing on his salad. No point in any part of their bodies colliding again. When he was finished, she reached for a bottle and felt the plastic label she’d fixed to the side. It had the letter P, for Pepper Parmesan.
“You were right. The stew is good,” he said.
“Thanks.”
The conversation ground to a halt again, and she bent toward her bowl, thinking that her social skills had certainly deteriorated.
When a noise from outside invaded the silence, her head jerked up. A car had stopped out front.
“Are you expecting company?” Grant asked.
“No.”
“Let me take a look.” She heard him get up from the table and crossed to the window.
“Shit.” He made a small coughing sound. “Pardon the language.”
His exclamation sent a sizzle of alarm traveling up her neck. “What’s wrong outside?”
Chapter 3
ANTONIA waited for Grant’s answer. Finally he said, “I don’t want to
worry you, but whoever was out there split as soon as he saw me standing at the window.”
“Or maybe it was someone looking for a bed and breakfast who saw I was closed for the season.”
“Is the sign lighted?”
“Not in the off-season.”
“Well, they probably didn’t see it in the dark, then.” He cleared his throat. “Does this happen a lot? Someone stopping by your house—then driving away?”
“What? Do you think someone is stalking me?”
“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t like seeing a car speed away as soon as I showed my face in the window.”
Wondering what to say next, she finally settled on, “It could have been Scott Wright. One of the local cops.”
“He comes by to check on you?” Grant asked.
“You’ve already met him?”
“How do you know?”
“From your voice.”
“Yeah, well he pulled up right behind my car when I stopped to have a look at the Jefferson house.”
“He’s protective of the town.”
“And of you?”
She snorted. “That’s what he says. But what he really wants is to . . . relieve the blind lady’s sexual frustration.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, temper flaring in his tone.
She hesitated for a long moment, thinking that maybe the way to get Grant to open up with her was to share her own secrets. “I knew Scott when I was a teenager. And when I came back to town, he was . . . solicitous, so I made the mistake of telling him too much. He knows my fiancé left me when he found out I was losing my sight. He thinks I should be an easy lay. But I’m not attracted to him. And if I were, knowing he has a wife and kids would stop me cold.”
“Nice guy.”
She wished she could take back the part about Billy walking away from her. But it was said.
“Watch out for him. He likes to use his official position to intimidate people.”
“He probably wondered why you were interested in the Jefferson house.”
“Or he has something to hide.”
“What?”
“Maybe I’ll find out.” Grant didn’t sit back down at the table. “I figured that tonight might be a good time for doing some exploring.”
Cravings Page 24
