But he'd made her a promise not to use the moon magic, and until it suited him to do otherwise, he intended to keep that promise.
He turned right, heading for Meadows Road, even though he still had an hour to kill. If she was feeling the moon anywhere near as strongly as he, she'd be there already, waiting. And arriving early would give him more time to enjoy her luscious body.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled down Main Street. Ripple Creek, unlike many of the other reservations, hadn't embraced the human ideal of progress and had kept much of its quaint architecture. And, if what he'd heard about the council was true, they'd also kept many of the old-style ideals when it came to sex. Which was odd, considering a Sinclair pack lived on the reservation—and Sinclairs everywhere had a wild and hedonistic reputation that was thoroughly deserved.
And it probably explained Levon Grant's popularity. Over the years, Cade had come to realize that licentious behavior often existed hand in hand with old-fashioned conservatism.
It was hard to imagine Vannah being Grant's daughter, though. Especially since she'd been one of Jontee McGuire's mistresses, and her main duty at the commune had been to welcome newcomers and introduce them to the sexual ways of Rosehall. There'd been over one hundred people at that commune, and even though she'd apparently arrived there several months later than Jontee himself, that was still a lot of welcomes. Still a lot of men.
He supposed that by Sinclair standards, it was pretty damn tame. Still, he'd put a stop to it pretty quickly once they were an item. But he'd never been able to stop her from going to Jontee. Sharing her had eaten at him, even if that was the only reason he'd been there—to share her, to read and know her thoughts, and through her, Jontee's.
But there was no sharing this time. She was his, only his, and would remain so for as long as he was here in Ripple Creek. He turned onto Meadow Creek Road and made his way up the steep incline as the buildings and houses gave way to parkland. He walked past a music auditorium that looked more like a series of conjoined tents, and then he passed several large concrete structures that claimed to be the Ripple Creek School of Music. Trees began to crowd closer as the road narrowed, and without street lighting, the shadows became thick. With his breath condensing on the still night air, and the soft gurgle of water coming from his left, it was easy to imagine he was in an untouched wilderness rather than the outskirts of a thriving town. He passed several small roadside mailboxes that gave lie to the feeling, and finally came to one that said White Peaks.
He stopped, looking up the steep driveway. No lights beckoned ahead, and there was no hint of exotic fruit or flowers warming the night air. She hadn't passed this way. Not yet. Annoyance, perhaps tinged with a little disappointment, swept through him. Still, there was no point in going back to town. She'd be here soon enough.
He walked up the sharp incline. By the time he'd reached the top, his legs ached. He stopped, sucking in air as he scanned the rundown building. He'd been expecting a small house, but this was, in fact, an old ski lodge, probably capable of holding thirty or so couples. It was shaped like a flat-bottomed V, with the flat section the main office area, and the sides the accommodations. There was nothing pretty about it, though. Half the windows were smashed, the roof in the right wing had partially collapsed, and one side of the steps leading up to the main doors had all but pulled away.
He caught soft flickers of orange reflecting through the cracked front windows, and anticipation surged. Because those flickers were flames. From a fireplace.
She was here.
He strode toward the main door, avoiding the steps and leaping directly onto the covered patio. His footsteps echoed across the stillness, and as he opened the door, a bell chimed softly.
The front room was small, holding a reception desk on the right side and a curved staircase that led up to the first floor landing on the other. Straight ahead, through an open set of doors, was a huge communal room filled with sheet-covered sofas and chairs. At the end of the room was the fire he'd seen. The fireplace was huge, dominating half the back wall.
The scent of dust and age teased his nostrils, but underneath it was the erotic aroma of woman. His woman.
She wasn't in the immediate area, though. Her scent would have been far stronger if she were.
"Vannah?” His voice seemed to hang in the quiet, a note of fierce longing and desire.
"If you want me, wolf, you have to find me.” Her voice had a tinny quality, yet it still contained a low note that sent his pulse racing. He looked over his shoulder and saw the small two-way radio sitting on the window frame.
He picked the unit up and pressed the button. “And what do I get when I do?"
"As long as you're na**d, whatever you want."
The heat in his body just about exploded. He wanted her now, not in ten minutes. Not in two minutes. Now.
"Why the games, Vannah?"
"Why not? Don't expect it easy, Cade, just because I once was."
There wasn't much he could say to that, simply because it was the truth. “When I find you, I intend to take you.” A floorboard squeaked, and he glanced at the first floor landing. She was moving. “Be ready for me."
"The moon makes me ready.” Her voice was little more than a low, taunting murmur. “And if you don't hurry, I'll tend to my own needs.” She paused, then added, “Or find someone else to ease the ache."
"You promised—"
"And we both know how much esteem you place on promises, so you might want to hurry."
Anger swept through him, anger that was basic, the anger of a wolf whose turf is being threatened. “You are mine, Vannah. And I'm coming to claim what I own."
"You don't own me. You never have."
Never will. The unsaid words seemed to form in the shadows, as powerful as the attraction that had always existed between them. But she was wrong. He did own her—at least for the next five nights. He kicked off his boots and socks, and then he padded barefoot up the stairs. At the top, he stopped, tasting the air, searching for the rich headiness of her scent. He'd expected her to be on the left, simply because that way was safer. As ever, she did the unexpected. Her scent was coming from the right.
He followed the darkened hallway, passing closed doorways without bothering to stop and check them. She wasn't there. He'd feel her, smell her, if she was. The air got colder, the smell of dust and age gradually replaced by the crispness of the night. Ragged glimpses of sky appeared above him, and he slowed, knowing he was coming to the collapsed section. In the middle of the hall, highlighted by starlight, was a pale mauve bra.