'As little as I do to you.' But as her gaze got lost in the obsidian depths of his eyes, she had to wonder if either of them was telling the entire truth.
'And these hairs they found--are they matching or different?'
Right then, she didn't particularly care. His fingers had slipped up her arm and were caressing the inside of her elbow. It felt so damn good desire trembled through her. 'Matching,' she somehow managed to say. 'Black hair?'
His fingers slipped further up her arm, and the back of his hand brushed against her breast. Her nipples ached to feel his touch, pressing almost painfully against the restrictions of her bra. She swallowed, and said, 'I presume so. I only read the prelim reports.'
'No chance of getting back into your sister's office and reading the rest?'
His touch retreated back down to her wrist, and she almost groaned in disappointment. 'About as much chance as we have of this storm stopping by nightfall.'
'Then ask your sister.'
'My sister is still listed as critical. She won't be looking at anything for a while yet.' Which wasn't exactly the truth. Knowing Savannah, by tomorrow morning she'd be demanding full reports on everything that had happened since she'd been attacked.
'And that's the only evidence the rangers have that's it a Sinclair?'
She raised an eyebrow. 'You tell me. You seem to have had better access to the files than I did.' His sudden smile was war m and sexy and all too fleeting. 'It's not much evidence to believe that it's one of us, is it?'
'Well, no, but who else could it be?'
He leaned back in his chair, the shutters well and truly in place. It made her uneasy, though why she had no idea. It wasn't as if she'd been able to read too much emotion in his expression anyway.
'Someone who disagrees with the dance, perhaps?' he drawled softly.
The uneasy feeling increased. She eyed him for a moment, then said, 'Half the golden pack doesn't like the idea of the dance, me included. Are you trying to imply we have some sort of conspiracy going on?'
'Is it any more implausible than one of the Sinclairs being the murderer?'
'Well, yeah. My pack are strong telepaths. A secret that big would not stay secret for long.' He raised a dark eyebrow. 'The fact that you're all strong telepaths means you all have strong shields, doesn't it?'
When she reluctantly nodded, he continued, 'So why is it implausible?'
'Because my pack aren't murderers.'
'And the Sinclairs are?'
She wished he'd get to the point--if he had one. 'Well, you Sinclairs do have a rather wild reputation you're not afraid to live up to.'
'There's a difference between being wild and being a murderer.'
'From what I've heard, a lot of the Sinclair pack walk the edge.'
'Walking the edge doesn't make us murderers.'
'No.' She hesitated, then put her coffee cup on the table and crossed her arms. 'So, who do you suspect?' He studied her for a moment, face impassive, dark eyes hard. The air around her practically buzzed with tension--both his and hers.
'Your mother was born on the Bitterroot Reservation over in Idaho, wasn't she?'
It felt like he'd punched her. Her breath left in a whoosh of air, and for several seconds, she couldn't even breathe. Couldn't do anything more than look at him in horror. 'Did you know,' he continued mercilessly, ' that as a sixteen-year-old she took part in a raid of the Sinclair stronghold over there and burned it to the ground?'
'No.'
'Yes.' His voice was monotone. Relentless. 'Thirteen people died that night, and many more were injured. Your mother was never charged because her old man paid off the right people.'
She slapped her palms on the table and thrust upright. 'Get out.'
His smile was grim. 'She's done it once, Neva. She could easily do it again.'
'I said, get out.' Her voice shook with the force of the fury rolling through her.
'A good investigator considers all options.'
'My mother is not an option. Now get the hell out of my house.'
He didn't move. Didn't even blink. Might have been made of stone, and she was certain his heart was.
'Then perhaps you should consider your father,' he said, his rich voice as cold as the storm outside.
'Did you know he'd been questioning Betise about who was dancing with whom up at the mansion?'
She'd been questioning Betise--and the older wolf had certainly never mentioned her father doing the same. And she would have, if only because Betise hated Neva's father. It was actually doubtful whether she'd give him the time of day. 'I said get out. I meant it.'
'Your days and nights are mine, little wolf. I'm not going anywhere.'
'You're a…' Words failed her. Somehow, bastard just didn't seem strong enough.
His smile contained little warmth. 'So you keep saying.'
She hit him. Not physically, but emotionally. Hit him with all the anger and humiliation and pain that had built up over the past couple of days. Although his shields were up, the force of her emotive blow still leeched all color from his face and thrust him backwards, off the chair and onto the floor.
'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
