Wolf Tales II (Pt. 2)

258 Pages·2006·0.76 MB·English

by  Kate Douglas

Wolf Tales II

Wolf Tales II

KATE DOUGLAS
APHRODISIA
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

P r o l o g u e
-
San Francisco, California—January 1986
A gun-metal-gray sky closed in upon the small group of
mourners standing near an open grave. Ulrich Mason
glanced down at the tiny hand clasped in his and won-
dered once again how any father went about explaining
death to a six-year-old.
Mommy’s gone to live with the angels? That, of course,
raised the question of why Mommy loved the angels more
than she loved Tia or Daddy. God needs Mommy in
heaven? How could God possibly need Mommy more
than they did? Mommy belonged here, alive and laughing,
her strength a tangible support in the structure of their
lives.
The small fingers wrapped in his large hand trembled.
Ulrich took a deep breath and closed his eyes against the
pain.
Damn you, Camille!
How the hell could she leave them like this? Damn her,
she’d done things her own way, in spite of the risk.
How the hell was he going to survive without her?
And what about Tianna? Ulrich leaned down, lifted his
daughter easily, and held her tightly against his shoulder.
2 / Kate Douglas
The expected, “I’m a big girl, Daddy. Put me down,” went
unsaid. Instead he felt Tianna’s bony little frame shudder,
heard her soft, broken sigh, then lifted his chin to make
room for the defeated press of her head against his throat.
She tucked herself tightly under his jaw. Tianna’s wild frizz
of blond curls, so beautiful against her deeply bronzed
skin, tickled his ear.
The minister’s soft words floated in and out of Ulrich’s
reality. Caught in the rhythm of Tianna’s warm breath
against his throat, he inhaled her clean, fresh-soap, little-
girl scent. He was only peripherally aware of the scuffling
and quiet movements of the few mourners standing
around the grave and the steady hum of traffic on a nearby
freeway.
Ulrich let his memories wander back to Camille. Warm
and alive, she paused just outside his consciousness, smil-
ing that secretive, seductive smile that had caught and held
him so neatly just eight short years ago.
He felt her warmth, her love, her strong, courageous
nature, and, most of all, her amazing sensuality surround-
ing him, holding both of them close. Camille’s beautiful
eyes, caught somewhere between green and gold, sparkled
in the sunlight. She raised her hand, her silky skin shades
darker than their daughter’s, and beckoned him, calling.. . .
A soft tap on his shoulder yanked Ulrich back. He
blinked, noticed the minister had closed his Bible, saw the
other mourners now talking quietly among themselves.
Ulrich turned slowly to see who had touched him, who
had dragged him away from visions of Camille.
A tall, powerfully built young man wearing Marine
Corps dress blues stood beside him.
“Captain Mason?”
Ulrich shifted Tianna’s slight weight in his arms. She
sagged against him, asleep finally after so many sleepless
nights. “Yes. I’m Ulrich Mason.”
WOLF TALES II / 3
As tall as Ulrich and darkly handsome, the mourner
could have been any young marine officer, though there
was something about him, something Ulrich sensed be-
neath the clean-cut surface. A friend of Camille’s? A lover?
Ulrich didn’t recognize him—at least, not at first.
“I . . .” The man looked away, down at his sharply pol-
ished shoes, back at Ulrich. “I am . . .”
The truth exploded in Ulrich’s mind, took the breath
from his lungs. Suddenly made sense in a most horrible
manner. “You are the one who shot my wife.” Ulrich nod-
ded at the man’s stricken look. “I thought so.”
“I am so sorry, Captain Mason. It was a horrible acci-
dent, it was . . .”
“It was inevitable.” Ulrich sighed and rubbed his chin
against Tia’s silky crown. Suddenly he felt much older
than his forty-three years, and very, very tired. He stared
into the younger man’s amber eyes, eyes very much like his
own, very much like Camille’s, and knew exactly what he
had to do.
“You ...this... all of it makes Camille’s death even
more tragic, if that is at all possible.” With one last glance
at the dark scar in the earth, the final resting place for his
beloved wife, Ulrich turned away.
The young man waited, obviously confused. Ulrich
stopped. “Aren’t you coming?”
“With you?”
“Of course.” Impatient now, facing the path he knew
his life must take, Ulrich shifted his small daughter’s
weight in his arms and led his wife’s killer across the wet
grass toward the parking lot.
Ulrich tucked the soft blanket under Tianna’s chin,
brushed the tangled strands back from her forehead and
left a light kiss on her temple. He watched her a moment
as she settled into sleep, so much like her mother in spite
4 / Kate Douglas
of her lighter brown skin and yellow hair, it made his heart
ache. He backed away quietly with a prayer in his soul
that somehow they would find a routine, a way to go on.
Without Camille. He’d never imagined anything like
this. He’d always thought he would die first, of course . . .
but not for many, many years. A slight sound from below
caught Ulrich’s attention, brought him back to his place
here in his daughter’s doorway at the head of the stairs.
There was no use putting it off any longer. With a last
glance toward Tianna, Ulrich went down to talk with the
man who had changed all their lives with a single, well-
placed gunshot.
It felt terribly awkward, waiting here in the living
room, surrounded by photos, keepsakes, and the almost
palpable essence of the woman whose life he’d ended.
Waiting while her grieving husband put their beautiful
daughter to bed, wondering why he’d agreed to come
here, knowing there’d been no other choice.
Lucien Stone reached for a small portrait on the mantel
and looked into the eyes of Camille Mason. He’d seen pic-
tures of her, snapshots in color and black and white, pho-
tos the press had splashed all over the front page in the five
days since she had died, but not this one. Not one of her
smiling into the lens, laughter evident in the sparkling eyes,
the deep dimple on her left cheek. Damn, other than Tianna’s
lighter coloring, their daughter was the spitting image of her
mother. What was she now? Five, maybe six. ...Tianna
Mason was going to drive her father crazy someday . . .
along with every little boy in the classroom.
Luc was still staring at the photo when Tianna’s father
entered the room.
Carefully he set the picture back on the mantel and
turned toward Ulrich Mason. A rookie cop fresh out of
the marines, Luc had heard of Mason, though never met