Spider Game

by Christine Feehan

  He held himself together with a thread. That thread was nowhere near as strong as her silk. He had walked her into a trap. If he told her the truth, he knew what she'd do. He knew it with a certainty that had his belly tied into tight knots and that hellhole of pure cold yawning so wide. Cayenne would ditch them all and try to go after the assassination squad herself. She'd pit herself against them without hesitation, and he couldn't allow that.

  Because of him, she was there in town, facing a termination squad. His team surrounded her, but if he made her a part of that, she'd be in even more danger. The photographer might get a picture of her before he was ready, before he had all of her protection in place and then she'd be in even more danger. Because of him. Just like his family.

  If his father hadn't hated him so much, maybe they'd all still be alive. If his uncles hadn't hated him, maybe his aunt would be alive. If something happened to Cayenne, because of him, he knew there was no survival. Nothing left for him. He'd taken a chance without even knowing he was going to. He'd gotten in too deep before he'd ever realized he'd opened himself up for that.

  He couldn't give her up. If he was any kind of a man, he would, but he couldn't. He didn't have that kind of strength. He could only see this through, this day where everywhere he turned there was danger to Cayenne and he was so paralyzed with fear for her that he couldn't do anything but hold himself together the only way he knew how--distancing himself from every emotion he had.

  Cayenne let go of Trap the moment they entered the store, her gaze sweeping around the large room. Shelves of shoes and boots lined the walls. In the middle, dividing the room, were two rows of seats, the rows back to back. A man came out of the back and stopped dead, staring at her. He was significantly shorter than Trap and much more slender. He didn't have those wide shoulders or that thick, muscular chest, but she recognized that some might consider him good-looking. His face was too soft for her to think that, as was his body.

  For Cayenne, Trap was the ultimate male and no one else seemed to compare to him. She loved that he towered over her. That his hands were big and his arms and chest were amazing and thick with ropes of muscle. She loved his tapered body where his ribs narrowed into his waist and hips. She loved that he was such a big man but could move in absolute silence and disappear into the dark in the same way a much smaller man could. His hair was amazing, always a bit unruly, thick like a lion's mane, and blond, in direct contrast to the clerk's dark short hair. His hair--and his tag said his name was Alain Daughtry--was spiked with some kind of hair product that made it stand straight up. His choice of hairstyles didn't inspire running one's hands through it, or curling fingers into it when his mouth was . . .

  Stop.

  A low, burning fury in Trap's mind shook her. She glanced up at his face. Totally expressionless. Eyes so cold they sent a chill through her, yet she could see a blue flame burning beneath the glacier there.

  You do not ever picture another man's mouth between your legs. That's mine.

  She burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. He sounded like he might throw her over his shoulder and march her right out of the store, as if Alain Daughtry, some clerk with the "ew" factor very much in evidence, could be a threat. She forgot about being angry or hurt and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. She was beginning to suspect that Trap's bursts of jealousy hid something much deeper.

  I was picturing your mouth between my legs and remembering how delicious it felt when I tunneled my fingers in your hair. I'm very fond of your hair.

  He stared down at her for what seemed like forever. She couldn't look away, and she had the odd sensation of drowning.

  You're seriously going to say something like that to me in the middle of a shoe shop with my boys not two feet away?

  Another mistake. She sighed. She had no idea what she'd done wrong again. Apparently honesty isn't what you're looking for, Trap. Maybe you'd better tell me the rules, because I'm totally lost.

  She brought her hand up to her hair in agitation, running her fingers through the red hourglass that rose and settled back into the thick black. Alain inhaled sharply, drawing her attention. His gaze was on her breasts. He actually licked his lips, and she could smell the testosterone flooding his body. The scent of musk rose, offending her.

  She detested this trip. There was nothing remotely fun about shopping and if she never did it again, she would be quite happy.

  "Can I help you?" Alain asked, hurrying over.

  He moved close. Too close. Right into her personal space. She found it difficult to control the venom. She glanced up at Trap for guidance. He didn't look at her, but he caught her arm and pulled her in close, away from the clerk.

  "My girl needs shoes. She wears a size five. I'd like to take a look at those ruby boots, the lace-up ones with the heels, those two pairs of heels." He indicated a black pair with red soles and a red pair with black soles. The red pair had a small black bow on the toe and straps that ran up the ankle, the black peeking around the red. "Also a pair of hiking boots and walking and running shoes. And"--Trap paused until he got the clerk's full attention--"you can stop ogling my woman. You deal with me. You talk only to me, and you don't touch her. I'll try the shoes on her feet. You got that?"

  His voice was low. Dangerous. So dangerous, the tone sent another shiver down her spine. Still, the venom retreated. She didn't have to protect herself from a slimy man who couldn't control his lust when a female customer came into his store. Alain took one look at Trap's face with the lines of rough carved deep, then his gaze jumped to the two men on either side of the door, not hiding what they were. He nodded over and over and turned to scurry into the back room.

  "Sit there, Cayenne," Trap said. He gestured toward the seat farthest from the windows and doors.

  She sank into the chair and Trap knelt at her feet. He removed the boot with the paper inside and rubbed his large hand over her foot.

  "You'll need stockings as well."

  "I don't need the heels," she whispered, glancing toward Draden and Gino. "I don't go anywhere I could wear them. Just the hiking boots and running shoes."

  I like heels, and I'm going to like them on you. You can wear them for me when we're alone. Later, you'll need them.

  Need them for what? She wasn't going to ask. She was done asking questions. She didn't understand what he meant, but it didn't matter, because she was never going to repeat this experience again if she could help it. She just wanted it over with. She wasn't going to protest again. In fact, she was going to sit quietly, endure the torture, and the moment she was back in her home, she was going to her little cave, surrounded by her webs and curl up and just be alone where she could breathe. And that would be after she kicked Trap very hard in the shins.

  His hands were warm on her feet, his fingers massaging her calves and heel while they waited. Trap was such a mixture of contradictions that she felt confused, unable to read him. He looked cold. He felt cold. But his touch was completely at odds with both those things.

  She didn't look at him. She didn't look at the two men standing on either side of the door. She kept her gaze fixed on the plate glass window, looking across the street to the man fitting a zoom lens to his camera. He seemed excited. Very excited. His gaze hadn't left the shop since they'd gone in it, and she watched him as often as possible.

  Alain returned with boxes of shoes and set them down beside Trap. "I didn't realize who you were, Mr. Dawkins. It's an honor to have you in my store."

  "Doctor Dawkins," Trap corrected, without looking at the man. "And put your cell phone away. You take a picture of my woman or me, one of my men will remove your cell phone from you. If you've already taken a photograph without my consent or knowledge, you'd better delete it now, because if I see that shit on the Internet, or in a magazine, my men will come back to your store and fuck you up. Do we understand each other?" Trap turned his head and met the clerk's eyes.

  Alain stumbled back, his face losing color. "You don't understand. You com
e into my store and I get a photo, I can advertise big with that. Makes me exclusive."

  "You snuck a picture from the back room?" Trap's voice was mild. His hands continued to open boxes and pull out heels even as the room seemed to go down in temperature and an icy menace invaded.

  He slipped the black heel onto Cayenne's foot, over the small little nylon socks Alain had tossed down with the boxes. The shoe fit like a glove. There was a small silence. The tension in the room increased. Draden stirred, and Alain's gaze jumped to him. Trap put the second shoe on Cayenne and held out his hand as he got to his feet.

  Alain whipped out his cell phone. "I only got a picture of your back. It wasn't a good angle," he confessed hastily and showed it to Trap. "I'm deleting it now." He continued to hold out his phone so all three men could see he'd removed the picture.

  I take it you're some big deal. Somebody worth photographing. She kept her voice neutral when she felt hurt all over again. He had known she didn't want to shop for shoes or anything else. He also knew it was difficult for her not knowing what to expect. He still hadn't made it easy by disclosing information to her. He hadn't even told her that much--that he was known in the outside world.

  She didn't know why she considered the teams invisible for the most part--like she was. People who lived in the shadows. She needed to rethink giving herself to this man. She didn't know him. She'd let herself be carried away by the way he'd treated her, the kindness and of course, the way he made her feel physically and emotionally. No one had ever really seen her until he had, but that didn't mean she knew him. He certainly didn't know her.

  Still, she squared her shoulders as she stood up in the high heels; she was a warrior and no one could take that away from her. Not Whitney. Not Trap. Certainly not any enemy. What the hell? The shoes killed her sense of balance. She stood still, feeling them out. Finding the perfect way to stack her core over them so she could walk without falling. She let go of Trap's hand, not looking at him. Not wanting to look at him. He'd put her in this position, and for reasons only he knew, he'd abandoned her.

  She took a cautious step, trying to look as if she'd been wearing heels all of her life. She had a strong core and a good sense of balance. Once she'd calculated that with the way her foot was tilted, the height of the heel bordered right on the edge of her ability to keep from stumbling, she knew if she walked slow she could pull it off. If the heel had been one inch shorter, it would have been easier. Trap could do the calculations as easy as she could and he would have known that when he chose the heels.

  Thankfully she made it across the room, walking to the back shelf rather than toward the windows. When she sat down, again without looking at Trap, he removed the heels, handed Alain both the black and red pairs and proceeded to try the boots on her. Thankfully the heels were lower and much more stable. She liked the way they looked, they were comfortable, but still felt heavy on her feet. She didn't voice her opinion, nor did Trap ask for it. He handed the boots to Alain.

  The running shoes were next. Trap put them on her, this time after demanding socks. The shoes were much more comfortable than the heels, although she had to admit, even with the small heel on the boots, she liked them the best. Money exchanged hands. Trap purchased both pairs of heels, the boots, hiking boots, and two pairs of the running shoes along with multiple pairs of socks.

  Relieved that it was over, Cayenne didn't say a word as Trap put the shoes on her feet and had Alain put her old boots in with the packages. She watched as Gino went through the door first, did a sweep of the street and then nodded. They followed, Trap's arm around her, clamping her to his side, one hand shielding her face. Draden brought up the rear, packages in one hand.

  Instead of turning back toward their SUV, Gino led the way down the street toward more shops.

  "What are we doing?" Cayenne asked.

  "Shopping." Trap's voice was clipped.

  She glanced up at his face. No expression. Eyes as cold as ice. He looked tough. Chiseled. Gorgeous. His blue eyes were so striking and his hair unruly, a darker shadow just beginning to appear along his jaw. There was something about the way he moved, something fluid and catlike that appealed to her. She loved the ripple of muscles beneath his tight tee, the way his shoulders were so wide and his hand, the one covering her face, actually was big enough to shield it.

  "You said shoes," she reminded, eyeing the little fancy boutique he was heading for with distaste. She wanted to be back in the swamp where she could breathe, smell information in the air and see what was coming at her. Here, in the city, everything was too close. There were too many cars, too many people, buildings too close together with little alleyways and places an enemy could hide.

  She kept her gaze on Trap's face as she made her protest. He didn't so much as glance down at her, not even to show her his mask.

  "You said shoes. I said shopping. You need clothes. We're getting them."

  His voice was clipped. Almost irritated. Cayenne didn't bother to protest further. It wouldn't get her anywhere, and at least inside the shop, they were off the street and more protected. The man across from them followed, snapping pictures with his camera, clearly elated, and that bothered her more than anything else. She could accept enemies. More than likely, the enemies were hers, not Trap's. But if he was famous, if there was a reason for the camera and he hadn't told her, that was wrong.

  Just out of curiosity, are you on some kind of medication? Or maybe you suffer from a disorder such as bipolar? I've read of these things.

  Why would you think that?

  She knew he was looking down at her, but she refused to look up. I can't imagine.

  An older woman with glasses hanging around her neck like a necklace hurried over to them the moment they entered the stores. Her high heels were on the very edge of being too high, but she walked without the least bit of a problem, as if she'd been born in them. She looked elegant with her very sophisticated suit. Her skirt was just below the knee and houndstooth with a matching short jacket. She wore a black silk shell beneath the jacket. Her nametag said Mrs. March on it, and somehow, even the nametag looked elegant on her.

  "Dr. Dawkins, I didn't realize you were in town. Welcome to my store." She beamed at him, not bothering to pretend she didn't know who he was.

  "I recently purchased a home here," Trap said easily. "Out near the Fontenots' place. Nonny told me you were the one to come to for help. My fiancee needs clothes, jeans, shirts, sweaters, dresses and underwear."

  Mrs. March widened her smile as her gaze swept Cayenne. Trap loosened his hold on her so she could step away from him, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, determined to get through this nightmare as well. She had no idea what to do and Trap wasn't giving her guidance, but the woman seemed to know what she was doing.

  "You're very small. I've got some things in your size, but a limited variety. I can special order anything you need." Mrs. March spoke directly to Cayenne.

  Cayenne took a breath and forced a smile. "Thank you, I appreciate that." Her voice came out low, but it came out. She didn't glance up at Trap. She refused to rely on him for any kind of cues. He wasn't giving them, and Gino and Draden were facing the street, Gino by the door, Draden closer to them. Closer to Trap, she noted, almost as if he were Trap's bodyguard. She knew Mrs. March noted that, and it only served to make Trap more important to her.

  The saleswoman bustled around, pulling out soft blue jeans and little camisoles. Sweaters were thinner and softer even than the other jeans. The sweaters were pullover, one that fell off the shoulder and another that clung to her curves. Mrs. March added tank tops and underwear, beautiful little sexy bras and lacy thongs and boy shorts that Trap indicated without consulting Cayenne.

  She noted that Mrs. March remained professional at all times. She didn't try to be overly friendly. She didn't fawn on Trap. She didn't even pull out her cell phone and try to get a picture of him. Most of her conversation was directed at Cayenne. Trap did stay close to her, and twice when
she couldn't think of an answer to Mrs. March's question, he stepped in smoothly and answered for her, making it seem as though he was just part of the conversation.

  The amount of clothing Trap purchased was alarming. She didn't know if she could wear all those clothes, let alone where she would wear them. Still, she remained silent, not even protesting telepathically to him. She wanted to go home, to her lair. She needed to be alone and think about this side of Trap. This person who wasn't at all what she thought him to be.

  It wasn't that he was cruel, like her guards. He hadn't abandoned her--although it felt a little as if he had. It was his aloofness. He was so withdrawn and emotionally gone. That was it. He was without any emotion whatsoever. He could turn it off so easily, while she struggled with unfamiliar feelings in an unfamiliar setting.

  Don't, Cayenne. Let it go until we're home.

  Obviously, she'd been broadcasting her distress, and poor him--she was upsetting him. This was one of the most difficult things I've ever done and you're supposed to have my back. You don't. Not. At. All.

  Damn it, let's get through this and we'll talk at home.

  She didn't deign to look at him. She decided if he could show no emotion toward her, or anything else, she could do the same. She was very polite with Mrs. March, mainly because the woman was the consummate professional and made shopping easy. Unlike Alain, she didn't get any perverted vibes off of her at all. Mrs. March liked doing her job. She enjoyed helping others and she knew clothes. She had confidence in her ability to see what would look good on others and she took satisfaction in making others look good.

  Mrs. March insisted on her trying on a short dress with a clingy skirt, emphasizing her curves. She felt a little ridiculous coming out of the dressing room, barefoot, no panties, the dress backless so that she felt the swish of her long hair slithering down her back and pooling in the curve of her buttocks. The material and the silk of her hair felt--decadent. Her heart actually pounded when she stepped in front of Trap. Waiting. In spite of everything, hoping, maybe even needing a reaction.