Shadow Reaper

by Christine Feehan

  She inclined her head, surprised that he would forgo any reference to her surname. Female devil. She'd kept the devil character out of defiance. If she was being strictly truthful, sometimes she was the devil. She noticed he hadn't given her permission to call him by his first name, but then he would be her employer if she got the position.

  "You have no experience, yet you want to be a rope model. Why?"

  She'd known she would have to answer that and she could tell the strict truth. She pushed the book across the table to him. "I never knew my mother. This is all I have of her. She was a rope model in Japan."

  He continued to look at her, not at the book, although his palm dropped to the cover. "Tell me about your mother."

  Her breath caught in her throat. She knew very few facts, most of which weren't good, but she was determined to be honest. "She traveled to Japan with the express purpose of finding a rope master. She was very interested in the art." Make that the erotic elements, if those raising her told the truth. It had been a terrible scandal, her father dishonoring his family by wanting to marry her. That had been the story she'd been told, but when she'd done the research, looking for him . . .

  "Her name?"

  She fought to keep the color from rising. Of course she should have started with that. Why was she allowing him to shake her usual composure?

  "Maria. Maria Hammond. She met my father there and they wanted to marry." To the horror of his entire family. According to what she'd been told, her father had reputedly nearly destroyed his family with his choice. Her mother had been everything his family had predicted and more. In the end he hadn't married her and she'd lived on the streets, making her living as a whore. She'd abandoned Mariko and her brother to the streets and had taken off.

  "The name of the rope master?"

  She hesitated. She was no longer certain he was her father. There was a long silence. "I prefer not to say."

  Ricco kept his eyes on her for a moment and then he spun the book around and opened it. He studied the photographs. "This appears to be Eiichi Hayashi's work."

  Mariko had traced her mother through the names in the book, but the rope master was dead. He'd died of old age, and his children had told her that he'd had numerous models over the years and had never married any of them. Mariko suspected the story she'd been told wasn't altogether the truth, but she'd met dead ends everywhere she'd turned. Eiichi was too old to be her father.

  She inclined her head, waiting for his denouncement, but again he surprised her by remaining silent, waiting for her to continue.

  "Is that what you're hoping to do?" Emilio asked. "Marry your own rope master?" There was the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  She flinched. She'd heard that note of derision so many times growing up, children taunting her about her American mother. Her "family," the ones so gracious and honorable to take in two orphans, was harsh with her for her own good so she wouldn't become the whore her mother had been.

  "Emilio." Ricco's voice was very low, but it was a whip, lashing at the other man.

  She never wanted him to use that tone with her. It was terrifying, and she wasn't a woman to be terrified by much of anything. Her family had been strict, at times bordering on brutal, and she should have been used to such a soft but harsh reprimand. Clearly, Ricco was a force to be reckoned with.

  "I've got this. Thank you for your help."

  It was a dismissal and Emilio instantly stood. She didn't want him to leave her alone in the room with Ricco Ferraro. It was dangerous. The tension in the room was tangible and growing more so every moment. Mariko kept her head slightly down, just as she'd been taught since she was a child, a respectful position when the men were talking, but her eyes were moving, noting everything about them, body positions, the way they moved, Emilio like a fighter, Ricco like a panther.

  This was the most difficult thing she'd ever done. Sit quietly, absolutely still, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life with the exception of once, but that was a very long time ago when she was a child. She was an adult and fully capable of choosing her own fate. She had come to this place determined to get this job--and she was still determined. She just hadn't expected to feel so defenseless or susceptible to Ricco Ferraro.

  There was silence after Emilio closed the door, leaving her alone with the panther. She counted her heartbeats but refused to raise her eyes. Her body was already humming, alive, a strange rhythm she'd never felt before, one that not only alarmed her but puzzled her. Physical attraction to date, at best, had been mild. This was anything but mild. It was shocking in its intensity, her body reaching for his. She could barely breathe with him so close. She'd never been so aware of another human being.

  "Look at me."

  She didn't dare lift her eyes to his. She had to gather her courage first before she went into battle. This one she had to win or she might be dishonored for all time.

  "If you can't even look at me, Mariko, how do you expect this to work?"

  His tone was mild, but there was a hint of a reprimand in it and she winced. She didn't like that voice, but it wasn't because she wasn't used to the tone, it was more she didn't want to disappoint him--or herself. Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his.

  At once she fell into those dark, dark eyes. She'd never seen anyone with eyes so compelling. Her heart drummed even louder. Fight or flight? She was frozen and couldn't do either. She touched her tongue to her lip, a leftover childhood habit she'd been beaten for. The moment she did it, she was ashamed of herself. She forced air through her lungs and held his gaze.

  "That's better. You said your mother was a rope model so you know what it entails." He made it a statement.

  She nodded just slightly.

  "You're going to have to actually speak to me."

  She was an idiot to think she could do this, but she was already in the situation. She hadn't expected to feel anything. Certainly not attraction. To hell with her childhood and all the voices whispering in her head. She moistened her lips, watching him watch her. That slight action of her tongue on her lips, the nervous giveaway. "Yes." The single word came out low and husky.

  His lashes didn't so much as flicker. He had long lashes. Beautiful lashes. His mouth was pretty amazing as well. It was just that he was far more daunting than she'd expected.

  "Have you seen a performance?"

  She nodded. He kept looking at her. Waiting in silence. The color slid under her skin. "Yes."

  He remained silent.

  "After I was given the book, I studied the art and went to several demonstrations. I guess I wanted to feel closer to her." She'd wanted to understand her mother.

  "What did you think?"

  What had she thought? She'd been taught that her mother was a slut. A whore. That she'd destroyed an entire family, dishonoring them. She'd been told time and again that her mother had made her living whoring, that she had abandoned her two children to the streets. It hadn't been an image she wanted to think about. Until now. Until she learned everything she knew might not be real. The ground had shifted out from under her and now she was here, trying to figure out what she could do next.

  "I thought the art was beautiful. I didn't understand why or how she could do it." The photographs were stunning. But to be tied up at someone's mercy. That was disturbing. Mariko wasn't certain she could actually do it.

  "For this to work, you have to trust me. Implicitly. You have to know that I would always take care of you in any circumstance."

  She blinked. The breath caught in her lungs and felt trapped there. She trusted no one. Especially not a man like Ricco Ferraro. She'd done her homework before applying for the position. No one else seemed to know Ricco was the rigger, but she'd suspected all along. There weren't that many real rope masters in the United States.

  He waited, and she couldn't think of a single thing to say. No one took care of her. Not ever. She took care of her brother, but no one took care of her. She wasn't even certain what tha
t meant to him.

  He moved then and her heart clenched so hard in her chest she feared she might have a heart attack. All he did was step forward, but she couldn't breathe.

  "You know that we have to get to know each other fast. The contract is for six months."

  "I thought three." The words came out strangled. She sounded like a scared little mouse and that annoyed her. She wasn't a mouse.

  "Six." It was firm. "Six, and you live in my house. With me. You would have your own suite of rooms within the house."

  She shook her head and went to stand. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of there. The moment she moved, he did as well, stepping back to allow her to get up. She didn't expect that. Why? She wasn't his prisoner. She was applying for a position she wanted. No, needed.

  "Are you staying?"

  His voice was pitched low. Mesmerizing. She loved music and she responded to musical notes. This was different, but no less perfect. He had the kind of voice that made a woman go soft and damp. That made her want to do anything he said. Even her. She'd thought she was immune to anything like that until this moment.

  "Do you want me to stay?" She held her breath. She needed his answer more than she needed air.

  "Yes."

  She didn't understand how she could be so affected by his voice. By that simple answer. She took another breath. "I honestly don't know if I can do this." She didn't know. That was the truth. She was walking on eggshells, giving him as much truth as possible without revealing the dark secrets shadowing her every step.

  "Of course you don't. You don't know me at all. You have to get to know me before you'll have faith that I'd never hurt or harm you in any way."

  He took her hand, closing his very gently but firmly around hers, and led her out away from the table. Grasping her shoulders, he turned her until she was facing the door. "Stand here for me. I don't want you to move."

  Mariko found she was trembling. His touch was terrifying. Not because he hadn't been gentle, but because she felt the absolute command in him, telegraphed through those warm, strong fingers. It was impossible not to think what it would be like to have those fingers stroking caresses over her skin. She tried to shut down those thoughts, but they refused to leave her. She didn't want to look at him just in case he could read her most intimate desire.

  Ricco moved then, like a stalking panther, circling her slowly, silently. When he moved behind her, out of her sight, she nearly panicked. It was all she could do to keep from running to the door. He had positioned her right in front of it, almost like he was daring her to make a run for it.

  She felt him. His breath on the nape of her neck. The skim of his finger from the nape of her neck down her spine. His touch was so light it was barely there. Did she imagine it? If so, the caress was so real it sent flickering flames licking at her skin. She didn't want to move. She wanted to show him she was strong. She was powerful. She could be what he needed. She was what he needed.

  "Put your hands out in front of you. Palms together as if you are praying."

  His voice was even and low. A mere whisper, but if she thought he was commanding before, now she heard the real thing. No one could possibly disobey that soft, powerful tone. A whisper of trepidation slid down her spine. At the same time, she felt her sex clench, go damp.

  She was slow to bring up her hands but he didn't look impatient. He simply waited. Never once had she been restrained. "I thought we would get to know each other."

  None of the other models coming out of the room had said they'd been tied by Ricco Ferraro. She was certain they could never have resisted bragging about it. That was what Shibari was, wasn't it? She hadn't thought about the fact that she'd be placing herself in such a vulnerable position. That she'd be helpless, and entirely at his mercy.

  Ricco moved in front of her in that silent way of his. He was too strong. Too powerful. Too scary. It wasn't just his looks--and he was a striking male. It was the predatory vibe he gave off. The look in his unblinking stare, so focused on her. Now he had a rope in his hand. This one was red and it slid through his fingers as if a part of him. At once she was mesmerized by that single movement. She couldn't look at anything else. The rope appeared an extension of him, coiling, uncoiling, slithering, just as suddenly coming alive with sheer power.

  "We are getting to know each other, Mariko. You should know yourself as well. This is an exchange of power. We're in it together. You must be able to talk to me. Let me know what is uncomfortable, what you like. What you don't like. What frightens you. What makes you feel as if you're flying."

  Did people actually feel that way in the ropes? She couldn't imagine it. Still, she had committed to this, but if she allowed him to tie her hands, she would be in such a bad position. She glanced around the room. The shadows had lengthened just a little bit, telling her time was slipping away. He was patient. He didn't speak again, didn't try to persuade her, leaving it entirely up to her to make the decision.

  Taking a breath, she extended her arms to him, her palms together. Her heart was wild now, and she felt a little faint.

  He didn't slip the rope over her wrists like she thought he would. He leaned into her, his mouth against her ear. "Breathe for me, Mariko. Just breathe."

  The rope slid along her cheek, a whisper of silk. It moved down her throat to caress her bare skin where her top exposed her shoulders and neckline--and it was a caress. It felt sensual. She found herself shivering. His breath had been warm, his lips brushing her earlobe. Ricco Ferraro was far more dangerous to her than she'd ever imagined, in ways she hadn't even considered and wasn't in the least prepared for.

  There was no way to deny that voice. She forced air into her lungs, afraid if she didn't, she might faint, or worse, disappoint him and herself.

  "That's my girl."

  Her heart jumped at his praise--that soft note of encouragement, of approval, even admiration. He knew she'd never done this before and he was willing to see her through it. She had to hand it to him. He wasn't a man trampling on his model to get her to do as he wished.

  "Look at me. Look at my eyes when I tie you. I want to see your expression, to know if you're okay. If you're not, I'll know and I'll remove the rope immediately."

  It took courage to lift her gaze to his. Not because it would send him permission to tie her wrists, but because looking into his eyes was a very dangerous endeavor. A woman could get lost there, and Ricco Ferraro wasn't a man to trust with one's heart. She knew that much from her research of him.

  She stared into his dark, dark eyes--so dark they appeared black. Gorgeous. Compelling. Intense. She almost forgot what he was doing, but then the silk moved against her bare skin, sliding sensually, an extension of his fingers. Not just his fingers, she realized; an extension of him. That was why the rope felt so powerful and sensual touching her skin.

  She expected to feel claustrophobic and afraid, but she didn't. Not as long as she was looking into his eyes. She could read people, hear them for what was beneath their words, not just the pretty things they said. Looking into Ricco's eyes, she knew she was safe with him. She felt safe. More, she felt free. It was strange, that feeling of freedom, as if by tying her, he had released her spirit--beaten down, so encased in the beliefs of others, what was right, what was wrong, what she was--so that she could just be. Simply be.

  "Look at your wrists. They're so delicate, so feminine. Your skin is extraordinary. To me, you're like a beautiful flower. Your fingers are strong, yet you look so fragile. Tell me what you see when you look at the ropes against your skin."

  She could barely force herself to look away from his eyes. His hands were over hers, his thumb sliding along the back of hers, a small, light brushing, back and forth, that she felt deep inside her most intimate spot. It was as if he'd made a connection between him, her hands and her sex.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she dropped her gaze from his eyes to her hands. The red rope stood out against her bare skin, but instead of looking bizarre or ugly, the knots we
re intricate and beautiful. They formed two wrist bands, wide and lacy, lying against her wrists like delicate cuffs. His hands enveloped hers, holding her with exquisite gentleness, almost as if he really thought her that fragile flower and he guarded her with care. That made her feel a fraud, but she couldn't bring herself to pull away from him.

  "Are you uncomfortable?"

  Was she? In so many ways, but not the way he meant. She'd never felt more sensual. More attracted to a man. More intimidated or exhilarated. This was a dance between them, and it could end up fatal to her--or to him--but it was beautiful and she didn't want it to end.

  "No." That wasn't strictly the truth and her gaze jumped to his. She not only felt the censure but saw it. His disappointment. That hurt. An unexpected arrow. She shook her head. "No, but yes. The ropes aren't uncomfortable. I thought I would have claustrophobia, but I don't."

  "Do you suffer from claustrophobia?"

  That was a mistake to admit. He might not want her, and suddenly she wanted the position because she was certain she needed it to learn things about herself she had never known and would never again have the opportunity to find out. She nodded reluctantly. "Sometimes."

  "Do you know why?"

  It was impossible to ignore that soft, captivating voice. It played along her nerve endings, setting them on fire, making her so aware of him. Of her. Of the rise and fall of her breasts, of the fact that he was taller, broader and stronger. That his personality was unexpected. She thought he might be mean. A bully. Using his power and wealth to push others around. He didn't need to do that. He had that voice, so low and sensual--a temptation to sin. Put the voice, his eyes and his body together, and any woman might be lost. She certainly was.

  When she didn't answer immediately, he tugged very gently on the rope so that she was forced to take a step into him. At once she was surrounded by his masculine scent. He smelled clean. Fresh. Outdoorsy. A powerful waterfall in a forest. Up close, he was daunting, and much more sensual. Every breath she took drew him deeper into her lungs until she didn't know where she left off and he started.

  The red silk connected them. The ends had never left his hands. He controlled movement without seeming to do so. That shook her. He wasn't obvious about it, but he had complete control. "I require an answer, Mariko."