4

FOR a long moment, Isabeau allowed her body to lean back into the comfort of Conner’s. It would be better to die trying to get away than to be shot down by Imelda Cortez’s assassins or killed in their fire. It was a good argument for trying to climb the tree—much better than wanting to please him—to prove to him that she had as much courage as he did—okay, to prove to herself. A matter of pride. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think of a leopard, to picture the large cat in her mind. She needed the sound of his voice, his encouragement.

“Tell me what she’s like.”

She felt rather than heard Conner’s swift indrawn breath. His lips whispered over the vulnerable spot between her shoulder and neck. “She’s beautiful, like you. Very intelligent, and that shows in her eyes. Everything was always a challenge to her and she could be very moody, one moment loving, the next, raking me with her claws.”

There was a soft, almost seductive note in his voice, and he didn’t seem to notice that he was talking as if he’d known her leopard intimately. “She loved the night, and often, we’d have to go out under the stars and just walk for hours. She’s wary of outsiders, slow to trust, smolders with fire. She’s so beautiful, Isabeau, and secretive, mysterious and elusive. She has such a quick, intelligent mind.”

“What does she look like?” The words were strangled. He was describing her personality, yet not. She identified with everything he said, and his voice had grown husky, sexy, as he articulated his intimate knowledge of her innermost, guarded self.

“She’s graceful. Petite for one of our kind. Her fire shows in her smoldering eyes right along with her intelligence. More gold than green, the pupils dilated and dark, shining, reflecting the light. Her eyes are piercing and gorgeous. Once seen, never forgotten. I can close my eyes and see them among all those dark rosettes scattering through her fur. She’s tawny, like your hair.” He nuzzled her thick hair with his face. “She’s sleek and muscled, with tawny, golden fur and patterns of rosettes that resemble the night sky she loves so much. Her paws are dainty, like your hands.”

His hands covered hers. “Do you feel her close to you?”

Isabeau did. The cat was nearly emerging, so much a part of her, it was nearly a memory. She could see the feline just the way he described, and her hands, trapped beneath his, ached and burned.

“It hurts, Conner,” she whispered, frightened.

“I know, baby.” His voice lowered an octave. Turned husky. “Remember the first time I made love to you? There was pain, Isabeau, but so much pleasure. Take a breath and let it out. Call her, just let it wash over you.”

His voice was pure black velvet, an irresistible seduction. His warm breath. His heat. His body pressed so tightly against hers. Every vivid detail of that first time. His hands on her. His mouth. The way his body moved in hers, so confident, so experienced, hard and strong and right, as if they were made for one another.

“Just let go,” he encouraged, just as he had so many months earlier.

His voice brought back a flood of memories, sending the crackling fire from the low- lying brush straight to the core of her body. She went damp. Her breasts ached, swelling with need, nipples hardening, desperate for his touch. His lips trailed kisses from her earlobe to her shoulder. His mouth nuzzled her, sending sparks of electricity leaping through her bloodstream.

Isabeau reached for the female cat lurking in her body. At once she felt the leap of response, as if her cat had simply been waiting. Her fingers and toes burned and sizzled, a red-hot fire. Involuntarily her hands curled. The skin felt as if it might split wide open. Her breath caught in her throat and she stiffened, feeling something moving inside her hands and feet. Just as she was about to pull back, Conner leaned down and sank his teeth into her shoulder, a bite very reminiscent of when he’d taken her virginity, distracting her, holding her in place, the pleasure and pain of it sweeping through her body, turning her liquid and acquiescent.

Stiletto-like switchblades burst through her skin, thick, hooked claws attached by a ligament to the bone at the very tip of each digit. The tiniest movement of her muscles and tendons allowed her to move her claws.

“Breathe, Hafelina, you’ve done it. We’re going up.”

Again there was no impatience in his voice, only pride. Isabeau trembled as he took her wrists and extended her arms over her head, anchoring her claws in the tree itself.

“You climb with your dewclaws. Trust in your cat’s strength. I’ll be with you every step of the way and I won’t let you fall.”

She believed him. Part of the reason she’d fallen so hard and so fast for him had been the way he made her feel completely protected. She couldn’t imagine anything happening to her as long as she was with him. No matter the circumstances, he was a man to inspire confidence.

She dug her claws into the tree. He stretched his own arms above hers, caging her in, making her feel safe as she pulled. She was shocked at the strength running in her body. It was exhilarating to climb with such ease, claws curling into the trunk, roped muscles sliding beneath her skin as she heaved herself upward toward the canopy. She didn’t look down, but up, at the broad branches interwoven like a highway. The thick veil of leaves hid the life of so many creatures hundreds of feet above the ground. It was an entire new world up there.

She nearly forgot about the fire and the guns. There was more of a wind and she smelled the smoke, shocking her out of her surreal experience and back to real life. That had always been the way it was when she’d been with Conner. Each thing they’d done together, every place they went, had taken on a life of its own. She’d almost been afraid to go to sleep, afraid she’d miss something. Life with Conner was vivid—electric—passionate—everything she’d always wanted.