"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.
Chapter 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."