Wild Cat (15 page)

Jake grinned, looking at ease and relaxed, not at all like the man in his office. “She's brought him to his knees, Emma.”

Siena blinked rapidly and glanced at Elijah, uncertain how to react. She didn't have his heart, and he certainly wasn't on his knees. That was one thing she knew for certain. He had told Detective Madison they were planning to be married. Was that the story Drake had come up with to keep her safe?

She realized Elijah still had possession of her hand and
she tugged, trying to get free. Instead, he brought her knuckles to his mouth.

“Since I can't deny the truth of what you're saying, I'll just kiss my woman and be happy she's in my home,” Elijah said.

“I was sorry to hear about your grandfather, Siena,” Emma said. “I know he raised you. Are you doing okay?”

Siena nodded. She wasn't thinking too much about it yet. Every day the reality of his death sank in a little more. “I haven't really processed his death. I was there that night, up in my room. We'd had a fight.” Her throat closed at the admission. She didn't know why she'd blurted that out, but she couldn't take it back.

Emma's face grew even softer. “That makes it all the harder for you.”

Elijah steered her to a chair opposite Emma's, put a gentle hand to her belly, and she sank into it. He snagged one of the beers Jake had brought, and perched on the arm of her chair just as Jake had done. Even she could see the very line of his body was protective.

Siena swallowed the lump forming. She didn't know how to take Elijah this way. She was completely unprepared for his dual personality. “I'm pretty certain I'm responsible for his death.” She said it more to Elijah than to Jake and Emma.

Drake sat in the chair beside hers and he swung his head toward her, suddenly alert. Jake leaned closer to her. Emma shook her head as if denying the statement.

Elijah reached down and threaded his fingers through hers and pressed her hand to his thigh. “Why would you think that,
mi vida
?”

His voice was so gentle she had to blink back tears. How could he be so sweet to her? How could she believe he was real? She'd never had sweet before, not even from her grandfather, and she had no idea what to do with it.

She pressed her lips together, knowing they were all looking at her. Knowing she'd brought it on herself and she had
to face the reality of what had happened that night. She had no idea why the sight of Emma, pregnant, with Jake hovering so close to her, had given her the courage to tell them, to tell Elijah, but she knew it was Elijah she was telling. It was Elijah she was confessing to. It was Elijah she needed absolution from.

“Paolo was Nonno's choice for me. He had planned that we get married. I came home that night, and Paolo was waiting for me and he was furious.” She glanced up at Elijah. Met his eyes. He knew why. He would know his scent was all over her and Paolo would know they'd had sex.

Elijah pressed her hand tighter against his thigh as if he could shield her—shield both of them from what was coming. He took a long swig of beer.

Her eyes on Elijah, she continued. “Paolo beat me up. Not just slapped me. He used his fists on me. He kicked me.”

Emma gasped. “Oh my God, Siena. That's terrible. Your grandfather must have been furious.”

“That's what I thought.” Siena soldiered on. “He wasn't. He called me names. Horrible names. I told him I would never accept Paolo as a husband. I told him to give the estate to Paolo if that was what he wanted, but I would never, under any circumstances, marry Paolo after what he did to me. Paolo was in the room. He heard everything and he knew I meant it. So did Nonno
.
”

Drake leaned forward in his chair. She sensed the movement but she kept her gaze locked with Elijah's. His features had darkened, but it was impossible to read his expression. His eyes were flat and cold and so dark it took her breath away.

“My grandfather acknowledged my proclamation and indicated I would always be his heiress and he would accept my decision. I left the room and went to mine. I overheard Paolo arguing with him. A little while later I heard the gunshots, and I raced downstairs. Paolo was at the entrance of the sitting room and Alonzo was heading up the stairs toward me. My grandfather was dead.”

She couldn't look away, waiting for condemnation. Clearly Elijah would understand what she was saying. She had made her declaration, her grandfather had accepted it, but Paolo hadn't. Rather than allow her to choose her husband, he had killed her grandfather.

“How was that your fault, honey?” Emma asked.

Still looking at Elijah, she answered. Truthfully. “Had I just accepted my grandfather's choice of husbands, I believe he would still be alive.”

“Accept a man who beat you?” Emma said.

She nodded, still not looking away from Elijah. Her heart beat too fast. She still couldn't read him.
Say something. Anything.
She was terrified of his reaction. Of his judgment.

Elijah put down the beer bottle, framed her face with both hands, leaned down and took her mouth. He kissed her hard. Long. Wet. Deep. He kissed her possessively. His mouth demanded a response.
Demanded.
There was no coaxing. No gentleness. This was Elijah. Rough. In total command.

His kiss was unlike anything she could ever imagine. Just as it had the first time, his kiss ignited a firestorm in her. The world receded until there was only Elijah and his mouth. His perfect, unbelievable mouth and his extraordinary ability to kiss. She kissed him back, her mind melting. There was no thinking. No worrying. There was only the perfection of his mouth and the absolute ecstasy it brought.

He lifted his mouth first and when hers chased his, he kissed her again before pressing his forehead to hers. “Fuck, baby. I want to kill that bastard with my bare hands. You didn't do this. He did.”

He whispered the words to her and her heart turned over. She shouldn't want to hear him say he wanted to kill Paolo with his bare hands, but somehow, his stark admission lifted some of the guilt that rode her so hard.

“S
IENA.
Baby. Open your eyes.”

She heard the voice from a distance. Familiar. Warm. Sweet. That velvet heat cut through the cold terror forcing her heart to pound and her pulse to go wild.

“That's it,
mi vida
, open your eyes. Look at your man.”

So sweet, that voice. Rough. Sexy. All man. Reassuring and solid. She felt the brush of his mouth over her eyelids. Her lashes fluttered as she made the supreme effort to lift them. To see his face. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her, so that her mouth was dry and her stomach hurt. Down the side of her leg, pain flashed, but already, it was fading, driven away by that mesmerizing voice and the brush of Elijah's mouth.

She opened her eyes and there he was. Close. So close. So beautiful. His jaw strong, dark with a two-day stubble. His cheekbones high. His dark features all man. His hair—she loved the wild, unruly hair that was so Elijah. He was wild, and his hair marked him that way.

His eyes were dark with concern, but he smiled at her, his teeth very white, his lips defined. “Sweetheart.”

The single word turned her heart over. Without thinking she lifted her hand and traced his lips. “You have a beautiful mouth, Elijah,” she whispered. Her heart pounded hard. From the nightmare, or from how close he was, how gorgeous he was. How much of a dream man he was. She tasted the echo of her nightmare in her mouth. The terror. The moment the leopard dragged her down. The sound of the gun. The sight of her grandfather. Paolo kicking her with his elegant, Italian,
pointed
shoes.

“No, baby.” His eyes intent on hers, he pulled her finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around it, distracting her completely from the web of terror she'd been trapped in. He shook his head, releasing her, but his hands went back to framing her face. His eyes darkened even more. “He doesn't get any part of you. Not when you're awake and not when you're asleep. Give him to me, everything he said. Everything he did. Give
all
of it to me.”

There was no looking away from the intensity of his eyes. He was wholly focused on her, his gaze holding hers captive.

“I don't know how.” She wanted to. She was tired of being afraid. So very tired of it. She hated fearing going to sleep, knowing Paolo would be there. Knowing guilt over her grandfather's death would eat at her. Knowing fear would consume her.

“Look at me,
mi amorcita
, sweetheart. Really look at me. I'm not the kind of man another man messes with. I'm standing between you and anyone who wants to hurt you. I'm putting myself there.”

God.
God.
He felt like he owed her because of what happened between them. He was the type of man who would do that too, put himself in harm's way because he felt he'd done something wrong. She let herself really look at him, taking in everything from the width of his shoulders to the heavy muscles of his bare chest. He was a man who looked
invincible. Looked as if he could stop bullets. But he couldn't. Her grandfather couldn't.

“Elijah, you don't owe me anything. I was doing exactly what you accused me of doing when you threw me out. I was there to distract you so Marco could get in to kill you. I don't want you to put yourself in harm's way for me.”

“I'm telling you to look at me, Siena. See who I am. I'm that man you're afraid of because I can be that scary man when I need to be. And I'll be him for you—to protect you any way I have to. I'm taking your nightmare. I'm
choosing
to stand between you and any enemy because I choose you. Every time, my choice is you, and it has been for years. I don't want you ever to feel fear again—not from Paolo Riso, not from anyone. Not ever again.”

Just because Elijah ordered it didn't mean the fear would go away, but somehow, looking into his eyes, that terror inside her diminished. The tight coils in her belly unraveled. She found herself breathing easier. Looking at him. She didn't have a clue where the fear went, only that lying beside him, feeling his hard body surrounding hers, his arm locked around her, his gaze so intense and dark with real emotion, she knew she could let it go for the first time.

He must have seen the relief on her face, or felt her body relax. Satisfaction crept into the hard lines cut into his face. “Is it gone? The nightmare?” He closed the two-inch gap between their faces, his lips brushing back and forth across hers. Coaxing.

He didn't have to work hard to get her to open for him. The moment her lips parted, his tongue swept inside, and the last of the nightmare was gone. He could kiss. Seriously kiss. And he did. Her fingers found his hair and dove deep. She kissed him back, losing herself in him the way she always did. Melting so she didn't think. Only felt. Every cell in her body responded to Elijah's kisses.

His arm locked around her waist, pulling her tight against the front of his body. She felt him wrapped around her, so
close. So hard. So hot. But careful. She had ignited, gone a little wild, a little out of control. His mouth did that to her. He
felt
wild. Out of control, but he never once brushed against her leg or hurt her back when he pulled her closer.

He lifted his head and stared down into her face, eyes intense as he studied her closely, looking for signs of distress.

“Thank you, Elijah,” she whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Her heart was pounding all over again. Her belly somersaulted. All good. “Thank you for making that go away for me.” Her nightmare. Not even a small aftertaste was left. He'd driven it away with his mouth, his tongue and his hand so tight in her hair. He'd driven it away by the strength of his will, and his beautiful declaration that he stood between her and Paolo.

“Are you okay, baby?”

The room was dark. The bed was warm. His soft, sexy voice, roughened with sleep, curled her toes and melted her insides. His body was hot, so tight against hers, and the leopard snarling and tearing at her had been driven back.

“Yeah. I'm good.” She was and she wasn't. The nightmare was gone, but she was very, very aware of him. Her body had suddenly come alive and taken notice of the fact that he was hot. Sexy. And male.

“Then settle.”

She had the unexpected urge to laugh. That was so the Elijah she was coming to know. Sweet as honey one moment and demanding the next.

“And if I can't?”

“Then I might have to do something about it,” he warned softly. “You need your sleep. Doc said to make certain you give your body the time it needs to heal.”

His soft warning sent a little thrill through her body. There was something very sensual about waking up next to him. He was hard and hot and smelled all male when she inhaled deeply. She silently cursed her back. The stitches were gone and the rake marks were healing, but lying flat on her back would be a problem because they were still sore.

She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. She was actually thinking about positions. Sheesh. Her body was beginning to feel the slow burn that had gotten her in so much trouble before. The burn that didn't allow her to think. Only feel.

“Stop.” He breathed the word. “I'm not a fucking saint, Siena.” Even as he ordered it, his hand moved up her bare thigh, proving to both of them that he wasn't.

His voice had roughened more. His gaze grew even darker and more intense. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her body moved restlessly against his.

“I'm not looking for a saint, Elijah,” she whispered.

He groaned and took her mouth again. She should have protested. She knew she shouldn't have invited his mouth or his hands or the slow, beautiful assault on her body, but the moment she had him back, she slid right into meltdown mode. Her brain turned to slush. Her body caught fire.

Elijah's hand continued to move up her left leg, her uninjured one, with exquisite languor, giving her plenty of time to protest. She didn't. She kissed him back harder, pouring herself into his kiss. Seeking his heat. Seeking oblivion. Bliss. She found it there in his mouth, in his touch.

“There comes a certain point,
mi amor
, where there is no turning back. I've been with you every day for nearly three weeks, and it hasn't been easy keeping my hands off of you,” he warned.

“I wasn't asking you to turn back,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Just to be careful of me. Don't hurt me, Elijah.”

Elijah stared down at her. His face going soft. Tender even. She never thought to see that look on his face. When they'd come together before, both had been so hot, so out of control, the fire raging between them, that there'd been no time to look into his eyes, to see his face, to see him like this.

“You're safe with me, Siena,” he reiterated, his voice stroking over her skin, very much like his fingers. He reached for
her hair, the long thick braid that kept the mass of silk confined. She didn't protest when he pulled out the tie and used his fingers to unweave the strands, allowing her hair to cascade around her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Like silk.” His mouth settled over hers again. He gave her long, lazy kisses. As if they had all the time in the world. His hands dropped to the buttons of the shirt she wore—his shirt—and, even with his mouth burning his particular brand and taste into her mouth, never stopping, he managed to slide the buttons open so that her breasts spilled out.

Elijah kissed his way from Siena's soft mouth to her chin. He liked her chin. He'd spent some time studying her chin. She lifted it whenever her eyes flashed fire at someone. She'd been doing that as long as he could remember. He'd dreamt about her lifting her chin at him. The last time he'd seen her do that was at the club when some man tried freak dancing with her. She'd done that little chin lift of absolute defiance. The gesture brought out the leopard in him. What self-respecting leopard wouldn't want to tame his female when she gave him that little chin lift?

He kissed his way over her chin and along her jaw. Under it. Down her throat. She nearly purred, and the sound vibrated through his body, through his muscle and bone straight to his cock. Her skin was soft, like satin, and he inhaled her unique scent. He loved the breathy little sounds escaping and the way her body went boneless for him. This time he was careful. Very careful. Her first time should have been perfect, not him slamming her to the floor like a savage animal. He should have worshiped her body. Memorized it. Showed her how much she meant to him, not taken her in a heat he couldn't control.

“I love the feel of your hair against my skin,” he murmured softly. He kept her curled into him, off her back, off the injury to her right leg. Even so, her hair fell like a waterfall, pooling beneath them, rubbing along his bare shoulder and chest as
he kissed his way along her collarbone. He wanted to bury his face in all that silk. He dreamt of that too. The way it would feel. The way it would smell. Perfection, and it was.

Her hands moved over his back. Slow. As if she was memorizing every muscle there, the line of his body. He reveled in that simple touch, and he hadn't expected to. Her fingertips and palms moving over him shouldn't have felt sensual, but it was, that slow, almost leisurely exploration. His belly did a slow roll and heat rushed through his body from every direction to center in his groin. He liked that too. The blood moving through his veins in urgent need. The heat pooling, filling his cock until he felt fully, completely alive, not living in the half world where he had nothing. No one. Where he was alone even when he was in a room filled with others. She was finally in his bed where he'd wanted her—even needed her—all along.

He lifted his head to look down at her. She was beautiful, her face flushed, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, her breasts moving with every ragged breath. Such beauty, and she was giving it all to him. He knew she was afraid of him—afraid of his temper and his passion, but she still was willing to take that chance even though he hadn't yet earned it.

He nuzzled her breast, his tongue stroking her nipple. “You're so beautiful, Siena. So fucking beautiful I'm almost afraid to believe you're real. That this is real.”

Her hands slid along his hips and down his butt. He felt her light touch all the way through his body as if she were using a branding iron on him. Branding her name into his skin. Into his bones. He could have told her, her name was already there, inside of him. It had been for a number of years. He held his breath as she pressed her fingers into him, over him, her palm sliding over firm muscle to slide along the crease between thigh and buttocks.

Lifting the soft weight of her breast, thumb stroking caresses over her nipple, he trailed more kisses over the creamy slopes of her breasts and between, in the deep valley where he felt her pulse. Soft. Gentle. Taking his time because
he felt every shiver of her body. She was sensitive to his touch. To his mouth and hands.

He wanted her to hear him when he said she was safe with him. He was better at showing her than telling her. He couldn't resist the lure of her breast and he pulled her nipple deep into his mouth, tugging and rolling, using the flat of his tongue to stroke, the edge of his teeth to send flames dancing and the hard pull of his mouth to ignite a fire.