the toe of her pump in the damp sand. “Am I such a terrible mother?”
Seeing this side of Gillian—this doubt and fear, this vulnerability—unmanned Ross more than anything else she could have done. “Jill…”
“Do you hate me, Ross?”
He wouldn’t in his wildest dreams have expected her to ask such a question. “For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t hate you. I never—”
But that wasn’t true. He had hated her, no matter how much he’d tried to deny it. He just hadn’t realized how much until the hatred was gone.
For it was gone, and he didn’t know what do with the empty space it had left inside him.
Unable to find the words, he took Gillian’s shoulders, pulled her toward him and kissed her.
If she’d struggled, if she’d pulled away and slapped his face, he wouldn’t have blamed her. She did neither. She softened in his arms, as pliant and responsive as she’d been as a girl of eighteen. The distinctive scent of arousal filled his senses, threatening to overwhelm him. He retained enough self-control not to demand too much, so Gillian gave freely in return, locking her arms around his shoulders, accepting the thrust of his tongue with a soft groan of pleasure.
That was when Toby found them.
He made hardly a sound, but Ross smelled him instantly. So did Gillian. She lurched backward, uncharacteristically clumsy once again, and pressed her palm to her mouth. Ross felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.
“Mother,” Toby said, his mouth quivering as he fought to conceal an expression he didn’t want them to see. “Father.”
“What are you doing here?” Ross demanded, aware that Gillian was still struggling to regain her composure. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He hunched a little under Ross’s glare. “I heard voices outside.”
Sure he had, the little devil. He’d probably been looking for a chance to escape his room ever since he’d heard his mother leave the house.
“You’re going back right now,” Ross said. “March.”
“I’ll take him,” Gillian said.
Her voice held no trace of the softening she’d shown since Ross had met her on the beach. Her face was strained and pale.
She’d probably like to shoot herself right about now, Ross thought. How’s she going to explain this to Toby?
And how was Ross going to explain it to himself? When he’d left the house, kissing Gillian had been the furthest thing from his mind.
“Do you still love her?” Griffin had asked. Hell, it had nothing to do with love. Ross still found Gillian attractive—more than that, he’d been forced to admit he still wanted her. And her response had told him that the attraction and the wanting were mutual.
Maybe she’d had other lovers since her husband’s death, but he was beginning to doubt it. Having made the mistake already, she wouldn’t have chosen another human, and he had a hunch that English werewolves weren’t casual in their sexual relationships, even among themselves.
Then there was the way she’d kissed him, tentatively at first, then with an intensity that hinted at passion long denied.
Even though she and Ross had made love only once in London, Gillian had been uninhibited, almost wild in her physical expressions of desire. It was the side of her that had convinced him, in his naiveté, that she might abandon her old life and return with him to America.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Most likely Gillian would never come within touching distance of him again; she wouldn’t want Toby getting any more ideas. But even if she did, it wouldn’t mean anything except that she was still capable of wanting him.
Ross walked away from the boathouse at a fast clip, hoping to get his wayward body back under control. Gillian would know if he went into the house still in a state of arousal. He just couldn’t let her have that kind of power over him. And in spite of what he’d told her, he had yet to make up his mind about Toby. How could he, when he’d barely had time to talk to the kid?
Fresh out of answers, he walked for a good two hours, following the road that ran parallel to the ocean. He passed a dozen fancy mansions, some bigger than Griffin’s. It was ironic. He remembered when Griffin had been dead set on marrying off his younger sister, Gemma, to some human guy from high society. Grif had wanted to forget the animal side of himself. Events had finally compelled him to accept his werewolf nature. Could Gillian accept her son’s human blood?
Hell, he’d been a cop. Still was, whatever anyone else said. In the end, he had to rely on facts. Maybe he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions about Gillian’s fears for Toby, seeing and hearing only what he expected instead of what really existed.
She loved Toby too much to make him suffer for being part-human.
She’d never loved Ross that much.
Another couple of days and I’ll be sure. Then I’ll know I did everything I could.
Everything but forget.
It was near dawn when Ross returned to the house. He heard Allie moving about and took the stairs quietly, wanting to dodge more probing discussions. A couple of hours’ shut-eye would wipe the last confusion out of his head.
But it wasn’t going to be quite that simple. He could smell Gillian even from several rooms away, hear the faint movements she made as she stirred in her bed. When he finally did manage to sleep, his dreams were full of her, full of the sounds of her cries as he made love to her, the feel of her nails scraping his back and the brush of her hair across his face.
The first thing he did when he woke was to take a long, cold dip in the bathtub. It didn’t do a damned bit of good. And short of hiding in his room, he couldn’t avoid Gillian any longer once it was over. He went downstairs to the modern kitchen where Gillian, Toby, Allie and Griffin were eating eggs, bacon and toast.
“Boy, I’ll be glad when Starke is back,” Allie said, polishing off her last bite.
“You don’t like my cooking?” Griffin asked, pretending offense.
“You can cook?”
Griffin showed the tips of his teeth, and Allie laughed. Gillian gazed at them with a strangely bereft look on her face.
She’s never seen this kind of thing before, Ross thought. He still knew almost nothing about her parents or her life at Snowfell, and she hadn’t had enough of a marriage to develop the kind of easy, bantering devotion that Grif and Allie shared.
He was glad of that, and he despised himself for it.
He sat down and buttered a piece of cold toast, returning Allie’s cheerful greeting. Gillian was absorbed in studying the intricate floral pattern of the tablecloth. Toby watched Ross out of the corner of his eye and pushed the remnants of his egg around on his plate with his fork.
“I want to thank you again
