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 cl**ax 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."