Then she did.
The trees broke away and far below, the Pacific was revealed in a wide sweep of view, glorious, wild, on a rampage. Ann pulled off and braked to a stop. Stepping out, she inhaled the salty air. When she'd left Napa, the Weather Channel had said nothing about a storm, but it was coming. She could sense it in her bones and in her heart, and she reveled in the whipping wind, the ferocity of the waves against the base of the cliff.
This was the way Jasha made her feel. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. In her secret heart of hearts, she led a street gang, fought with the Navy SEALs, spied for the CIA, and killed Bill time and again.
She laughed aloud. As if dull Miss Ann Smith could ever do—be—any of those things.
Her amusement faded, but determination lifted her chin. Maybe she wasn't glamorous, but once she had Jasha Wilder, she would keep him, which was more than Meghan Nakamura had been able to do. Ann wanted him to look at her, to see her, to say, "My darling, I couldn't live without you," rather than, "Ann, when you're done cataloging the pinots, send Jennifer Chavez roses and a note apologizing on my behalf about her cat."
"What's wrong with her cat?"
"It had an allergic reaction."
"To what?"
"To me."
"Don't you like cats?" Ann thought about Kresley, her old tomcat.
"Very tasty."
Ann laughed uncertainly.
But she wasn't sure he was joking.
As the house came into view, she slowed to a crawl, knowing what Jasha had said about his home—that it was a castle built by an early twentieth-century timber baron indulging in a grandiose gesture of courtship to the young woman of his dreams. She hadn't been impressed, and he'd lived in splendid isolation to the end of his days.
Jasha bought it at auction, stripped the interior, and completely refinished everything, then relied on Ann to choose the furniture, fixtures, and appliances. She felt as if this were their house, and her heart pounded in anticipation. . . .
The drive widened. The trees parted. The castle came into view.
She slammed on her brakes.
This wasn't what she had expected. Not at aE.
In her mind's eye, she'd pictured a palace, sort of like Cinderella's, although perhaps the roofs would not be such an obnoxious shade of blue.
Instead the place was tall and narrow, jutting up toward the racing clouds like a primitive penis symbol. It dwarfed the mighty trees around it, and it sat too close to the edge of the cliff. To her stunned gaze, it looked like a monster, the last of its species, hovering on the edge of lonely suicide. The wind had blasted away every hint of softness from the gray stones, leaving the rough surfaces bare and bleak. Sightless gargoyles stared out from the corners on each of the three levels, and the peak of the gray slate roof caught wisps of clouds as they billowed and faded.
The broad front porch was a vast expanse of shale set one step up from the earth, with rough granite columns that supported the Neanderthal brow of a roof.
Ann told herself that when the sun came out, the house would look better.
The sun came out.
The house didn't look better.
Golden rays shot from the west and glinted on the windowpanes, turning them from empty sockets to watching eyes, and the shadows grew more clearly denned.
Ann searched the area around the house, looking for any sign of Jasha, but no one moved in the grass or among the shrubs inside the circular drive before the house, and not even the sunlight could penetrate the shadows beneath the trees that surrounded the house. The garage was behind the house; perhaps he was there. Or perhaps he'd gone to town, or was off on a run. He could be anywhere—but she was here, and here she would stay.
Ann drove toward the porch. She braked, gripped the wheel, and took a long, deep breath.
This was what she wanted. This was what she'd prepared for, shopped for, dreamed of. If she turned back now, she would never forgive herself.
If she turned back now, she didn't deserve happiness.
She could do this thing.
She set the emergency brake—she always set the emergency brake, even on level ground, for it was the responsible thing to do. She lifted her leather briefcase—a gift from Jasha—and her purse out of the passenger seat. As she stepped out, the wind caught the car door, springing it back so decisively she feared for the hinges. She shoved the door shut with her hip, popped the trunk with the key control, and extracted her suitcase—her large, heavy, completely loaded suitcase. It took both hands and all her newly acquired gym-built muscles to heft it out of the trunk. She thanked God for luggage wheels as she dragged it onto the sidewalk and toward the entrance.
The wind shoved her sideways, tousled her hair, grabbed at her camisole. She heard the waves far below, angrier than ever. The air smelled like brine and seaweed, evergreens and wilderness.
And as she walked—one foot, then the other foot, then the other foot—the castle loomed above her. The shadows embraced her. When she stepped onto the stone floor of the porch, she stopped. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. Here she was protected from the brutal wind, yet she shivered in the cool, earthy atmosphere.
She dragged her suitcase up the single step, and the wheels rattled as she rolled it over the slabs of gray slate. The custom door loomed before her; she had ordered it herself from the eccentric artist, and knew it was black walnut trimmed with Brazilian mahogany. Yet she could see nothing of the grain of the wood or its luster, and the massive brass lion's-head knocker was only a glint in the darkness. Finding the small button on the trim, she pressed it.
The chimes rang inside.
No one answered.
She rang again, then cautiously tried the large iron handle. It was locked.
Jasha wasn't home.
She could turn back now. Tell herself she'd tried, plan for another day.
But there would never be another day, she knew that. It was now or never. So she shuffled through the keys on her key ring and found the one that opened the lock.
She was, after all, Jasha's administrative assistant She had witnessed his will. She called his mother by her first name. She even held the extra key that opened his safe-deposit box. She had every right to use the house key he'd given her.
Slipping it into the lock, she turned it. The door opened easily, silently. She looked into the foyer— and breathed a sigh of relief.
Better. This was better. Not brutal and overwhelming, but warm and civilized. The ceiling soared far above her head, and when she flicked on the light, a thousand prisms danced across the pale cream walls. One of the prisms touched the bunking light on the security system; she caught her breath. Dropped her purse and keys on the table by the door. And hurried toward the control panel.
She punched in the code.
"Jasha? Mr. Wilder?" she called.
No answer.
Well. She would wait for him inside.
She dragged the suitcase across the threshold. As she shut the substantial door behind her, she admired the windows set on either side. They were nineteenth-century leaded glass from one of the great houses on the East Coast. She'd found them, and she was glad to see they were as elegant as the price had indicated. Each pane had been cut in a diamond shape, then set in mahogany, and they caught and reflected and divided the light into glints of color.
Eager now to see the interior she'd decorated from afar, she walked forward.
The foyer opened into the great room. Ruby and gold Oriental rugs lay on the golden hardwood floorings. Warm shades and textures tinted the walls. A baby grand piano of shiny ebony stood in one corner. The paintings were bright, cheerful splashes of color, framed in the same shiny ebony. A simple, comfortable grouping of furniture formed a seating area before the huge fireplace that rose toward the second-story ceiling, and where the gas logs now merrily burned.
She'd designed the room, and it was a personal triumph for her.
The curved staircase
rose smoothly toward the second-floor gallery. She walked to the foot and called, "Jasha?"
She went to the doorway of his study, then to the kitchen. "Mr. Wilder?"
Nothing but silence answered her. He just wasn't here. So he was outside. Running, probably, impervious to the weather, his strong legs covering the miles. He said running cleared his mind. He told her she should try it, and invited her along.
She told him her mind was clear enough.
She wasn't about to put on shorts and run with him. Half the time he took off his shirt and showed off a trail of black hair down his breastbone and over rippling muscles, and the exotic tattoo that rippled as he pumped his arms. Every time he came in from running, she wanted to lick the bead of sweat off his nipple, and run her hands over his thighs to see if they really were as solid as they looked.
Run with him? Yeah, right. She'd hyperventilate before they were out of the parking lot. It was bad enough that he kept a weight bench in his office and lifted weights when he'd been working long hours, and he said his neck was tight.
So she was alone in this house, waiting on pins and needles for her first lover to arrive home.
She rubbed her palms on her pants.
He didn't know he was her first lover, or even that he was her lover at all. It was her task to explain her plan. She'd thought about putting together a PowerPoint presentation; after all, conferencing was a tool they both extensively used and understood.
But a brief contemplation of the scene recalled the humiliating lecture about reproduction, abstinence, and sin given by old Sister Theresa in eighth-grade health, and Ann had hastily returned to her scheme— an enlightening discussion conducted in seductive circumstances.
So it was a good thing he wasn't here, because this gave her time to freshen up from her long drive and implement said seductive circumstances.
She already knew which bedroom she planned to take—the master. Jasha's room.
She was bold. She was valiant.
So why was she tiptoeing over to her suitcase, picking it up as quietly as she could, and tiptoeing back to the stairs?
Because she'd spent her life waiting in the wings, desperately wanting love to find her, and now she was stepping onstage and demanding attention . . .
and she would get that attention any way she could. With great clothes ... or no clothes.
Abruptly, clouds covered the sun. The light disappeared. The wind hit the house with a blast that shook the windows, and rain splattered against the glass.
The storm was here.
Chapter 3
Stranger was back. He'd come out of the big rock cave at the edge of the cliff. Only rarely did he run with the wolf pack, but when he did, he always came out of the big rock cave like some domesticated dog. But he didn't act like a domesticated dog—if he had, the pack could have killed him.
Instead, Stranger pranced along, big, handsome, his eyes golden and framed with black lashes. He had broad shoulders and a mark like two snakes that twisted and wrestled down one front leg. The dappled sunlight sparkled on Stranger's black and silver fur, and as he dodged through the forest, his muscles rippled with strength. He challenged the wind with his speed and grace.
Leader hated him, for the young female with the smooth brown fur watched Stranger, moist eyes gleaming. She would be in heat soon, and she made it clear that when she was, she'd run with Stranger.
But Stranger never looked back at the young female. He ran at the edge of the pack, keeping his gaze straight ahead, never challenging Leader's authority.
But if he wished, he could.
Leader knew that, so he loped along, his senses attuned to Stranger, to his motions, to the sounds of his panting breath and the thud of his paws on the ground.
For those senses told him there was something not right with the male. Something ... bad.
That was the real reason Leader didn't challenge Stranger. Not because Stranger would win, but because the stench of something worse than death clung to his fur. Something unlucky. Something ruined, burned . . . hopeless.
A curse. Or perhaps a pact with the shadow that lurked right outside the range of Leader's vision . . .
Today, as Stranger ran, grim and bitter fury ran with him.
The storm was coming. The storm was here.
Leader feared it, for this time, the storm wasn't merely lashing wind and cold rain. Leader could feel a fire in the earth, as if a great shift was coming to their land, and everything he knew would soon be blasted and twisted.
Stranger carried the storm in his fur, in his heart.
The mark on his leg moved and twisted, and his eyes . . . they glowed in the dim light of the forest.
That was why Leader failed to notice the scent of a human and take action.
Then it was too late. The human stepped out from behind his tree and took aim.
Leader saw him, turned to protect his female— and the killing blast rocked the forest. Pushed by an invisible hand, Leader flipped in the air. He came to his feet at once, prepared to fight. Prepared to run. In pain.
But Stranger raced toward the human.
The human pointed his stick.
Stranger leaped, and as he leaped he changed.
The fur shrank away from his skin. His body lengthened. His front legs became arms. His face grew horrible. Human.
A strong gust of wind bent the trees and hit them like a blast.
The first human screamed. He lifted the stick over his head and, in a panicked movement, lashed out.
Stranger hit him from the side. The humans rolled in the dirt. The stick flashed and roared. Overhead, branches exploded and chips and needles flew like snowflakes.
Stranger came to his feet, clutching the stick. He swung it in a circle. Smashed it against a boulder. Rock chips and moss flew. The stick broke in two.
The first human leaped up and ran.
Stranger stood still, looked at Leader, and spoke.
Leader didn't understand human-speak, but he understood this man. He recognized this man—he stood naked, with dark hair on his head, and dark brows, long, dark, curly lashes that framed familiar golden eyes, and a tattoo that rippled down one arm from his shoulder to his wrist that matched the marks on Stranger's fur.
"Are you all right?" Stranger asked.
Leader looked down. Blood dripped off his chest. His flesh burned like fire. His alpha female licked it, and Leader knew he would survive.
He inclined his head.
"He won't bother you again." The human changed again. More slowly this time, as if the effort cost him. But when he was done, he was a wolf. A wolf wrong. A wolf damned. But a wolf.
Then he sprinted after the human.
Leader took his pack deep into the forest, and hid. Hid from the humans, from Stranger, and from the scent he now recognized.
The scent of damnation.
The storm broke.
How appropriate.
Ann had broken into Jasha's home. Of course, now an unpredicted storm would trap her here. It was no more than she deserved.
She made it up the stairs and into the bedroom without tripping or dropping anything, and as she unpacked and hung her clothes in the closet, she gave herself brownie points for coordination, for good unpacking skills, for not burying her nose in Jasha's suit and breathing in his scent. . . . Nope, she had to take those points away. Sniffing his sleeve while she hung up her coat constituted cheating.
As she worked, she kept straining, listening, waiting for that whisper of awareness that said Jasha had returned to his home. Nothing. She even walked back to the top of the stairs, but he wasn't here.
Her active imagination created the scenario—he'd gone for a walk in the woods, tripped, and broken his leg. Or better yet, he'd been attacked by a cougar, had fought it off, and was even now calling for her..
And she . . . she sensed his distress and hunted through the night until she found him, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, built a stretcher out o
f saplings, dragged him back to the house, and nursed him. . . . Unfortunately, she couldn't convince even herself of that story.
Not that Jasha couldn't get hurt. He was a daredevil—he rappelled, he skydived, he participated in the Ironman Triathlon once, but the training took too much time from his surfing. He'd been in a cast for three weeks after that ski accident last winter.
She was the problem. Wounds made her faint, and anyway, why wouldn't she use her cell to call for help?
Immediately, in her imagination, she found herself garbed like Scarlett O'Hara—but there was still that yucky blood problem.
Nope. If Jasha knew what was good for him, he'd stay healthy.
One thing she knew for sure—if he was healthy, he'd be here for dinner—Jasha never missed a meal. And if she hurried, she could shower and be dressed in her wraparound black-and-white silk dress, the one that fastened with a single button at the Empire waist.
Her friend Celia had called it the perfect dress for getting laid.
Ann tended to agree, for every time she took a step, the slit in the skirt opened all the way up her thigh, and when she thought about Jasha's tanned hand sliding up her leg, her skin prickled. But, as Celia was fond of pointing out, only the Carmelite nuns who lived near the beach kept Ann from being the oldest virgin in California, and something had to be done.
In a sudden and violent hurry, Ann grabbed the dress, a pair of panties so minuscule they were nothing but lace and elastic, and black stiletto Betsey Johnson sandals with a hard wooden sole that added an inch to her height, and sprinted into the bathroom.
The rich copper tile shower enclosure welcomed her. She set the land-speed record for bathing with Jasha's shampoo and Jasha's soap—made especially for him, and unscented, as he demanded. As soon as she was done, she ran to the locked door and listened, then cracked it and listened again.
Nothing. No sound. He wasn't here yet.
Her heart raced as she toweled herself dry.
It used to embarrass her, the way she longed and lusted when he was nearby. She used to worry that he would notice the way she stammered when he got too close or the way she blushed every time he looked at her.