He squatted down beside her. The sunshiny, slightly citrus scent of her spun around him, thankfully overwhelming the other wolf's unpleasant, very used smell. He couldn't really remember dancing with her, and it was only the familiarity of her scent that told him he had. Looking at her now, he had to wonder what had attracted him. Beyond her hair, there was nothing even remotely pretty about her, though that probably wouldn't have mattered when he was younger. A lust for alcohol and a willing bit of tail was all he'd been interested in for more years than he cared to remember.
"Can you describe the wolf who attacked you?"
She shuddered. "He was big ... and silver-coated."
So was the murderer, apparently, but that in itself wasn't much of a link. There were plenty of big silver wolves in the mansion — a whole pack of them, in fact.
"And you didn't recognize him?"
Betise shook her head, but something flickered in her pale eyes, and he knew she was lying. Was she trying to protect her attacker, or did she have other motives. He intended to find out, and maybe he could use Neva's apparent friendship with this wolf to do that.
"Duncan, enough." Neva's voice was sharp. "She needs medical attention."
She did, though he suspected her wounds were not as bad as they looked. "Can you walk?"
Neva's expression got darker. "Of course she can't. Carry her, for moon's sake."
The last thing he wanted was this wolf's scent on him again. He frowned and suddenly wished he could remember what had happened between them all those years ago. At the very least, he could then warn René to be wary of her — something he might do anyway.
"Her legs aren't injured from what I can see," he said coldly. "I'll go find the doctor. You help her to the study. She knows where it is."
"Bastard," he heard Neva mutter as he walked away.
He smiled grimly. He was all that and more — and would continue to be that way for as long as this murderer was loose.
He strode past the rows of wind-tossed aspen and pine. As he got closer to the ballroom, the music began to seep through his blood again, and need rose. He ignored it, but he wondered if that was going to be at all possible in the coming nights.
He might have practiced restraint over the last ten years, but coming back to the mansion seemed to have loosened the control he had over his old habits. Part of him ached to celebrate the rising of the moon as he had in the past — to drink himself senseless and lose himself in the pleasure of a female's body, over and over and over. Only right now, it wasn't any female he hungered for but one with dark golden hair and leaf green eyes.
It was a need that was more than a little worrying. If she wasn't in jail by the time this was all over, then she'd certainly hate him more than she already did. It would be the mother of all ironies if, for the first time in his life, he'd actually found a woman he wanted to spend more than one moon dance with, and she couldn't even stand the sight of him.
Though undoubtedly fate would probably think it a fitting retribution for his youthful unthinking and uncaring behavior.
He walked into the ballroom, and the heat and the smell of sex hit him like a punch to the gut. He took a deep breath, half thinking of grabbing the nearest free female to mate with, if only to ease the sharpness of the moon-spun pain. He resisted the temptation and swept his gaze across the rutting, sweating crowd. His father and Tye were nowhere to be seen, but René and Kane were both still here. After a second, he saw the doctor heading out another side exit.
He pushed through the crowd. The associated scents and sounds of lovemaking flushed heat across his skin, and though he'd made love to Neva less than ten minutes ago, he wanted her with a fierceness that made it difficult to concentrate.
His father's warning ran through his mind. He would indeed have to watch the bait, or he really could end up getting hooked.
He caught the doctor heading for the stairs leading to the wing housing staff and guestrooms.
"Hey, Duncan," Martin said with a smile. "Long time no see."
"Certainly has been." In his heyday, Martin had been responsible for the delivery of most of the Sinclair cubs, but failing health and the odd, often long, hours of obstetrics had forced him to retire just before Duncan had left ten years ago. These days, he did little more than ensure all male wolves attending the dance received the injection that kept their fertility under control. Wolves might only be fertile during the week running up to the full moon, but given the number of partners many had, Ripple Creek would quickly be overrun with cubs if he didn't.
And while the presence of werewolves might be tolerated in the human world, human tolerance only went so far. Ripple Creek had survived where many other reservations had failed, simply because they kept their numbers under tight control and didn't push the boundaries.
"I need you to do me a favor, Doc," he said.
The old wolf raised a bushy white eyebrow. "What?"
"A female's been attacked in the pavilion. She claims she didn't know her attacker, but I think she's lying. I'd like you to clean her wounds and, in the process, see if you can grab a sample of saliva from them." He hesitated, then added on impulse, "and perhaps sneak a sample of whatever lies under her nails."
"A tall order." Martin hesitated, dark eyes worried. "Is this attack linked to the recent murders?"
"In some ways, it's similar, but we can't be sure."
"And you're not calling the rangers?"