For one horrible moment her fingers tightened on the hilt of the knife, but she could no more have shoved it into him than she could have done it to herself. He was a part of her. She hated herself, but he was a part of her and she knew she couldn’t live with the knowledge that she’d killed him.

Her mouth trembled. Her hands. And then her body. She ducked her head and tears fell on the backs of his hands where he gripped hers so hard. “Tell me what you want,” her voice barely a thread of sound as she capitulated, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She was lost and she knew it. “To get those children back. Tell me what you want, how to do it.”

His grip eased on her hands until she could slide them away. She rubbed her palms up and down her jean-clad thighs as if she could rid herself of the urge to rip and tear at him—or touch him.

“Keep doing that, as if it’s going to help you,” he said. “It isn’t going to stop the itch, little cat, and we both know it. You need scratching, you have one place to come. One, do you understand me?”

“I’d rather die.”

“I don’t care. You want me to get those children out, I’ll do it, but you don’t go near any other man.”

“You can’t dictate that to me.”

“You persist in thinking in human terms, Isabeau,” he said. He stepped close again, inhaling her scent, forcing her to inhale his. “I have news for you. I’m not human and neither are you. You’re in the rain forest, and here, we have a whole different set of laws. Higher laws. You’re close to heat, close to the Han Vol Dan, the first emergence of your cat. Her first need is your first need. No one touches you but your mate. And whether you like it or not, that would be me.”

“You’re crazy.” She jerked back away from him. “I’m human.”

He touched his face, drawing her attention to the scars there. Her brand. “You did this with your claws, little cat.”

She closed her eyes tight for a brief moment but not before he caught a glimpse of pain, of confusion and guilt. She shook her head in denial, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “How could I possibly do that to you?”

Conner knew she’d been so shocked by all the revelations that night. Her father dead on the floor—the evidence of his guilt all around them. One dead prisoner and two others weeping. The discovery that the man she’d trusted, the one she loved, used her to get to her father—that she didn’t even know his real name—the betrayal of that moment—the shock. She’d stepped toward him in spite of the restraining hands holding her back—more evidence of the power of her leopard—and she’d slapped him. Only in that split second, before her palm connected with his face, the pain had been so acute her cat had leapt to shield her, her hand shifting to a claw. She’d gone white, her eyes too large for her face, her knees nearly giving out so that he’d caught at her to keep her from falling, even with his face torn and ravaged, blood dripping steadily.

Isabeau had shrunk away from him and he could see clearly that over time, she’d convinced herself the entire thing hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. How could it be possible for a woman to shift even partially into a leopard?

She shook her head again. “My father was Dr. Arnold Chandler. He may have lost his way and done some things he shouldn’t have, but he was human. People don’t just change and grow claws.”

He heard the honest confusion and guilt in her voice and reached out to curl his fingers around the nape of her neck. “There are a lot of unexplained things in the world, Isabeau. You have dreams, don’t you?” His voice thickened, turned husky. “Of you. Me. The two of us in another time, another place.”

She looked more horrified than ever. Isabeau shook her head frantically, as if the stronger her denial the more she could make it real. “Never. No way. I would never dream about you. You’re a monster, someone who takes pleasure in preying on women.”

The lash of contempt hit him like a whip and his cat raged and snarled. One eyebrow raised coolly and his eyes bore into hers, held her so she couldn’t escape his focused stare. His head moved slightly and a purring growl rumbled in his chest as he moved his head close to hers. Her eyes went wide as his lips whispered over hers.

“You’re lying, Isabeau. I can smell your need of me. I can feel your heat. You want me more than you ever wanted me. And you dream of me, just as I dream of you.”

She shoved hard at his chest in an attempt to knock him away from her. He didn’t so much as rock and she put the roped muscles of her cat behind it unknowingly. He felt the punch of her palms, the bite of her claws, and his cat leapt to meet hers, snarling for supremacy. He caught her wrists in a steel grip and held her against him. The moment he did, he knew it was a mistake. His control was already far too thin.

They stared at one another, lips inches apart, his golden gaze locked on hers. Desire was raw and unrelenting. He expected violence when the emotion was there, fierce and passionate, arcing between them, but when his lips touched hers, there was only a whisper, as if from the brush of a moth’s wing, and God help them both, he didn’t know if she moved or if he had. The jolt was electric, shocking in its intensity, igniting an instant fire that raced through his veins like a storm.

“I hate you,” she hissed, tears in her eyes.

He felt the shudder go through her and there was no way for her to hide her body’s reaction to him. “I know.” He brushed back strands of her thick, tawny hair from her face. Tears caught on her lashes.