he
couldn’t explain. Divulging that she’d been cavorting in the spring with a deer
would only create more alarm.
“Perhaps if she took a piss in the spring!” Grant snapped.
“I want results! I want them now! I have spoken!” Atwood
spat his heated words at Grant.
“No matter the price to Ivy?” Had they all lost their
humanity? What’s the worst that could happen if the spring died? He had
no idea. Life would go on. It had to. Their ancestors shifted in the old
country. They’d shift on Mars, he guessed. But without the spring, could they
control the lust for the hunt that dominated their nature? Would the beast
within take over the man he saw in the mirror each morning?
“Bed her,” Atwood demanded between gritted teeth. His face
grew red, his eyes dilated.
“No,” Grant growled.
Atwood sniffed the air. “I smell her on you.”
The others muttered and whispered amongst themselves,
probably speculating about the implication of her scent on him. Did he or
didn’t he bed her? Christ, he’d washed his hands and face as well as gargling
before heading out to the accident. Due to their heightened senses, he nearly
had to take a hazmat shower for them not to know.
Grant raked his fingers through his hair, hating the
Brotherhood’s intrusion into his private affairs. “That was a mistake,” he
admitted. “A mistake I won’t make again.”
“You leave me no choice, Grayson. I’m bringing in a ringer.”
Atwood said.
Scoffing, Grant said, “A ringer?”
“I can’t take the chance that she might end up with Bobby
Joe Dumfries or, God forbid, Adam Griswold.” Atwood paced the hardwood floor of
the meeting hall, his hands clasped behind him.
“What if she bedded an eagle, for crying out loud,” someone
said.
“I’m bringing in Dirk Fallon,” Atwood said like it wounded
him to say so. “He’s handsome, charming and—”
“A boozing, gambling, womanizer,” Grant finished for him.
The guy was nothing more than a middle-aged gigolo, for heaven sake. He’d been
asked to leave town after imposing himself on a number of female resort guests,
leaving each woman brokenhearted and a little worse off financially. Grant
turned on his heels. “You know something, go ahead. I thought we were the
powerhouses of the community because we’re above all this superstition and
hocus pocus. Bring him on.” Grant punched the air, wishing he could punch
Atwood instead. “Ivy couldn’t, wouldn’t have anything to do with Dirk in
a million years.”
Grant walked away. His words expressed more confidence than
he truly felt.
The Ivy he knew was smart, sensible and had good instincts
when it came to people. He also knew her to be sensuous and quick to arousal.
Grant pulled at his shirt collar where jealous heat simmered.
Storming out the door and down the stairs, Grant opened his
car door only to slam it shut. Grasping the roll bar, he rocked the Jeep in a
fit of barbaric anger. Flinging the door open again, he got behind the wheel
and peeled out of the parking lot, spewing gravel. He zipped to the closest
secluded spot he knew, pulling over.
Grant pounded his steering wheel before getting out,
slamming the door behind him. He looked to the night sky and cried out in
anguish like a wounded animal. Who he was, or rather what he was, directly
conflicted with what he wanted. Ivy . She’d never accept him, even if he
could bring himself to betray the deathbed promise he’d made to his wife out of
guilt and grief. Now sober, he realized he’d nearly made a tragic mistake by
seducing Ivy. Or had she seduced him?
Jack Crump jolted his golf cart to a stop behind Grant’s
jeep. He stalked over, nostrils flaring, a murderous glare in his eyes.
Holding his hands up, waving them in protest, Grant said,
“The topic of Ivy is closed for discussion.”
Grabbing Grant by his shirtfront, Jack jacked him up against
a tree. “Open it.”
“Don’t make me—”
“Like you could,” Jack ground out between
couldn’t explain. Divulging that she’d been cavorting in the spring with a deer
would only create more alarm.
“Perhaps if she took a piss in the spring!” Grant snapped.
“I want results! I want them now! I have spoken!” Atwood
spat his heated words at Grant.
“No matter the price to Ivy?” Had they all lost their
humanity? What’s the worst that could happen if the spring died? He had
no idea. Life would go on. It had to. Their ancestors shifted in the old
country. They’d shift on Mars, he guessed. But without the spring, could they
control the lust for the hunt that dominated their nature? Would the beast
within take over the man he saw in the mirror each morning?
“Bed her,” Atwood demanded between gritted teeth. His face
grew red, his eyes dilated.
“No,” Grant growled.
Atwood sniffed the air. “I smell her on you.”
The others muttered and whispered amongst themselves,
probably speculating about the implication of her scent on him. Did he or
didn’t he bed her? Christ, he’d washed his hands and face as well as gargling
before heading out to the accident. Due to their heightened senses, he nearly
had to take a hazmat shower for them not to know.
Grant raked his fingers through his hair, hating the
Brotherhood’s intrusion into his private affairs. “That was a mistake,” he
admitted. “A mistake I won’t make again.”
“You leave me no choice, Grayson. I’m bringing in a ringer.”
Atwood said.
Scoffing, Grant said, “A ringer?”
“I can’t take the chance that she might end up with Bobby
Joe Dumfries or, God forbid, Adam Griswold.” Atwood paced the hardwood floor of
the meeting hall, his hands clasped behind him.
“What if she bedded an eagle, for crying out loud,” someone
said.
“I’m bringing in Dirk Fallon,” Atwood said like it wounded
him to say so. “He’s handsome, charming and—”
“A boozing, gambling, womanizer,” Grant finished for him.
The guy was nothing more than a middle-aged gigolo, for heaven sake. He’d been
asked to leave town after imposing himself on a number of female resort guests,
leaving each woman brokenhearted and a little worse off financially. Grant
turned on his heels. “You know something, go ahead. I thought we were the
powerhouses of the community because we’re above all this superstition and
hocus pocus. Bring him on.” Grant punched the air, wishing he could punch
Atwood instead. “Ivy couldn’t, wouldn’t have anything to do with Dirk in
a million years.”
Grant walked away. His words expressed more confidence than
he truly felt.
The Ivy he knew was smart, sensible and had good instincts
when it came to people. He also knew her to be sensuous and quick to arousal.
Grant pulled at his shirt collar where jealous heat simmered.
Storming out the door and down the stairs, Grant opened his
car door only to slam it shut. Grasping the roll bar, he rocked the Jeep in a
fit of barbaric anger. Flinging the door open again, he got behind the wheel
and peeled out of the parking lot, spewing gravel. He zipped to the closest
secluded spot he knew, pulling over.
Grant pounded his steering wheel before getting out,
slamming the door behind him. He looked to the night sky and cried out in
anguish like a wounded animal. Who he was, or rather what he was, directly
conflicted with what he wanted. Ivy . She’d never accept him, even if he
could bring himself to betray the deathbed promise he’d made to his wife out of
guilt and grief. Now sober, he realized he’d nearly made a tragic mistake by
seducing Ivy. Or had she seduced him?
Jack Crump jolted his golf cart to a stop behind Grant’s
jeep. He stalked over, nostrils flaring, a murderous glare in his eyes.
Holding his hands up, waving them in protest, Grant said,
“The topic of Ivy is closed for discussion.”
Grabbing Grant by his shirtfront, Jack jacked him up against
a tree. “Open it.”
“Don’t make me—”
“Like you could,” Jack ground out between
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