Wild Fire

by Christine Feehan

  Now he was faced with seeing her every day. Teaching her the ways of their people. How to protect herself in the rain forest. He had no idea how to stop wanting her. How to stop needing to kiss her and just try to be casual and indifferent around her. Not only did he have her and her emerging cat to worry about, but the kid was going to need training and looking after. He sighed. His life had turned very complicated, yet he felt more alive than he ever had.

  Isabeau was close. Her warmth. Her scent. Her cat. He lifted his face to the rain and let it drop on his face, trying to cleanse his mind of her. She was swamping his senses. Driving out all sane thoughts until he was going to be useless to Rio and the others if he didn't get a handle on his cat. And damn it all--he couldn't blame the out-of-control emotions all on his cat. The man was feeling the same driving hungers--the same desperate need.

  He'd fallen so hard for her. So fast. He'd been in too deep before he'd even realized she was burrowing into his heart and soul, winding around his bones and pressing her stamp deep into them, invading every blood cell until he couldn't escape her lure. There was no way to free his soul once he'd fallen in love with her. He'd destroyed everything between them, shattered her in one horrible blow, but he hadn't managed to disentangle himself from her in the process.

  He knew being leopard mates played a huge part in the physical draw between them, but he loved her. The man and leopard both loved her. There was no one else for either of them and there never would be. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of her laughter. That little note in her voice had always managed to arouse him and soothe the beast in him at the same time. There were so many facets to her, so many intriguing parts to her character. He loved everything about her, everything from her generous heart to her nasty temper.

  "Conner?" Isabeau called down to him. "Come and eat."

  He looked up because he couldn't stop himself. One hand was wrapped around the post as she peered down at him. Her waist-length hair was unbound, flowing a little with the meager breeze moving through the canopy. Her jeans and tee emphasized the lush curves of her body, and he felt his cat purr low in his throat at the sight of her.

  "I'll be right up. I'm going to poke around a little, see what turns up."

  She put her hand on her hip, drawing his attention to the fact that she wasn't using her injured arm. "Nothing's out there, Conner. No one would ever find this cabin unless they knew where to look. There are enough cats here to smell anything within miles. Just come up and eat."

  It wasn't so much her words as her tone that had him moving fast over the rotting vegetation to grasp the vine. In the midst of all the men, she was nervous without him there. And any way he looked at it, that was a good sign. He went up fast, hand over hand, using his leopard's enormous strength to pull himself up to the porch. He dragged up the ladder after him so that there were no signs to give them away. Even if someone found the small makeshift shower, it was ice cold and no more than a crude but effective rain carved out of a sparse waterfall rushing down the slope.

  He straightened slowly and drank her in. She stood, a little hesitant, but she didn't retreat. She was waiting for him. He watched her inhale deeply, and involuntarily draw his scent into her lungs. His body tightened in reaction. He supposed he'd have to get used to the relentless ache. His gaze dwelt on the puncture marks on her neck; satisfaction welled up that he'd given the kid enough of a beating that he'd feel it for days. She looked a little bruised and battered, but beautiful, with her exotic looks and cat's eyes.

  Isabeau blushed. "You're looking at me that way again."

  "What way?"

  "Like you're about to pounce on me any moment. I'm looking for a little comfort, not an ambush of some sort."

  He moved in close to her, reaching to tuck strands of hair behind her ear, the brush of his fingers gentle. "You were courageous tonight, when the kid grabbed you. You didn't panic."

  She flashed a tentative smile. "I knew you'd come. He was so shocked to see me there, at first I think his intention was to get me out of the line of fire, but just then Adan stepped out of the brush with his darts. I think it was clear that I knew Adan, and Jeremiah used me as a shield. He could smell the other leopards and knew he'd walked into a bad situation."

  "Are you making excuses for the kid?" Unable to stop touching her, he stroked his fingers down the long fall of silken hair.

  "He's pretty bruised."

  "He's damned lucky he's alive," Conner pointed out. He took her elbow and tugged her back away from the edge. "Don't defend him. He should have known better than to put his claws in you."

  "That wasn't as bad as being shot," she said, attempting a small laugh.

  He didn't smile--couldn't smile. A few more inches . . . "That man is dead. Jeremiah is very lucky. I wasn't in a good mood."

  Isabeau burst out laughing. "Really? I would never have guessed."

  He loved the sound of her laughter. He loved that she could laugh. Standing there battered and bruised with punctures in her neck, defending the kid who did it, he felt respect rising like the sun. The image struck him as pertinent. He hadn't felt as though he was anywhere near the sun for a long time, and suddenly the world around him was bright again and that had everything to do with Isabeau.

  He deliberately lifted an eyebrow. "Are you saying you think I have foul moods?"

  "I think it's entirely possible, yes," she teased.

  Something squeezed his heart hard so that he felt an actual pain in his chest. She wasn't looking at him as if he was loathsome. It wasn't complete and utter love like he'd seen in her eyes before, but it was a start.

  Isabeau looked away from Conner's focused eyes. He was looking at her with that possessive, hungry look that always made her so crazy for him. She wanted a truce, but she didn't want to make a fool of herself. And she didn't want to betray her father's memory. She didn't like being inside the cabin, so close to so many people she didn't know. She hadn't realized how comfortable she felt with Conner.

  She'd thought she didn't trust him, but the moment he was no longer at her side, she'd panicked. "The rain sounds different up here."

  He nodded without taking his gaze from her face. She could feel his eyes burning a brilliant gold right through her.

  "When I was young, I used to sleep out here on the porch so I could hear it. I love the sound of the rain," Conner admitted.

  She sank down onto the wooden planks and looked around at the leaves sheltering the cabin from view. "I've always found the rain soothing, but there's a pattern to the way it hits the leaves that makes it sound different. I can almost hear it set to music."

  Surprise crept into his expression. "I used to think that. I'd lie awake listening and add in instruments to create my own symphony."

  "Do you play an instrument?"

  Conner sat beside her, drawing his knees up, back to the wall of the house. He shrugged his shoulders, looking a bit uneasy. He lowered his voice, keeping an eye on the door. "I play a couple of instruments. It was mostly me with my mom. Being alone a lot we read books, did a lot of school-work and we both liked to learn to play whatever we could manage to get our hands on."

  "So your mom played too," she prompted, surprised that during all their conversations he'd never told her about his mother, his life or his music. Important things. Things a lover should have known. She wanted to look away from him, upset that he hadn't shared who he really was with her. Their time together had been the most wonderful of her life, yet it hadn't been real. He hadn't been real. The man sitting there, slightly uncomfortable, exposing his vulnerable side was the real man. She couldn't look away though; she was fascinated, once again mesmerized.

  Conner was a hard, dangerous man and he carried that aura like a shield around him. He'd always seemed invincible--impenetrable. She'd never seen a chink in that armor until now--this moment. His face was the same. The strong jaw, the scars and weathered lines, the fierce burnt gold of his eyes, the sensual mouth that would drive any woman craz
y--all showed a man with absolute resolve. But his eyes had gone different. Softer. Almost hesitant. She couldn't help but be intrigued.

  "Yes, she played," Conner admitted, his tone dropping even lower. There was a soft note that was all leopard mixed in with his human voice.

  Isabeau watched him swallow, his gaze moving over the broad leaves surrounding them, hiding them from the rest of the rain forest.

  "She loved the violin."

  "Did you play the violin?" She couldn't stop herself from learning whatever she could about the real man, not the role he played.

  "Not the way she could play." He had a faraway look in his eyes when he turned his head back toward her. There was a small smile on his face as if he was remembering. "She used to sit out here with me while the rain came down and she'd play for hours. Sometimes the animals would gather so she had a huge audience. I'd look out and the trees would be covered with monkeys and birds and even a sloth or two. She was gentle and beautiful and it showed in her music."

  "She taught you herself? Or did she send you for lessons? And where would you even find schools and music teachers? You couldn't have lived here for long."

  "We stayed to ourselves. When we left our village . . ."

  Isabeau caught a note of pain in his voice. The boy was remembering some childhood trauma, not the man.

  "We kept to ourselves for several years. My mother didn't want to see anyone. She was very strict about schooling and she was smart. If you look in the wooden boxes beneath the benches, you'll find they're filled completely with books. She was a good teacher." A slight grin touched his mouth. A little mischievous. "She didn't have the best student to work with."

  "You're extremely intelligent," she said.

  He shrugged. "Intelligence had nothing to do with being a wild boy out in the middle of the rain forest thinking I was king of the jungle. She had her hands full."

  Isabeau could imagine him, a curly-haired towheaded boy with golden eyes, leaping from tree branch to tree branch with his mother chasing after him. "I can imagine."

  "I snuck out a lot at night. Of course, I didn't realize then that, being an adult leopard, she could hear and smell better than me and knew the moment I moved. I learned a few years later that she trailed after me, making certain nothing happened to me, but at the time, I felt very brave and manly." He laughed at the memory. "I was also feeling pretty cool that I'd managed to put it over on her that I was out every night playing in the forest."

  "It must have built your confidence though. As much time as I've spent in the rain forest, I stay in camp at night."

  "I was a kid, Isabeau. I hadn't learned all the dangers in the forest. Mom would tell me and I'd just shrug my shoulders and think it could never happen to me. I was invincible."

  "Most kids think they are. I know I did. I liked to climb on the roof of our house at night. Any place high. My father would get so upset once he found out. I forget how old I was when I first started. I think he said around three."

  He flashed a companionable grin at her. "That was the leopard in you. They like to go up all the time. The higher the better."

  "And I took tons of naps. I was always sleepy in the day."

  He nodded. "And up all night. Mom actually made me do lessons at night when I was a teen. She said I'd do my best work then."

  "And you played music at night?"

  "I couldn't sleep sometimes--most of the time. And she was . . . sad. We'd sit listening to the rain and then we'd come out here with our instruments. She'd have the violin and I'd have a guitar and we'd play together. Most of the time the animals would come. A few times I glimpsed leopards, but they never came close and she pretended not to notice them, so I followed her lead."

  "I wish I could have met her."

  He blinked and his expression settled into the familiar mask. "She would have loved you. She always wanted a daughter."

  "You said she was killed by Suma? Why? Why would he kill a female leopard?"

  His jaw hardened. "Suma killed her in the village. She tried to defend Adan's family."

  Her breath caught in her lungs. "That was your mother? I heard you tell Jeremiah that Suma killed your mother, but I had no idea that was the Marisa I knew from Adan's village. I did meet her--more than once, but of course I saw her only as a human, not a leopard. She was so sweet to me. She treated me as a daughter." She felt burning in her eyes and looked away. "For a while she made me feel less lonely. I was pretty broken up." Her throat burned. Maybe he'd believe it was over the death of her father. She'd been shocked--traumatized, but Conner's deceit had shattered her.

  He stared at her almost in horror. "You spent time with my mother?"

  As if that was all he heard and he didn't seem happy about it. Isabeau tried not to be hurt all over again, but it was a blow nevertheless.

  "She often would come to my camp with Adan's grandson, or even by herself, and she sometimes stayed several days with me. She would bring a little boy with her. They'd even go out looking for plants with me. She was very knowledgeable. Sometimes all I had to do was sketch a plant and she'd identify what it was and where it was as well as the various uses for it. She could take me right to it. She never mentioned playing the violin though." She made an effort not to sound defiant.

  "My God." He scrubbed his hands over his face and then he stood abruptly.

  She caught the sheen of tears in his eyes before he leapt from the platform to the ground below, leaving her alone.

  7

  SHE knew. His mother knew he had betrayed his own mate. Shame was a living, breathing entity. Bile rose as he landed in a crouch on the forest floor. Thunder pounded through his skull. He had scent-marked Isabeau a thousand times, so deep he knew his scent was in her bones, and his mother would have known the moment she was close to Isabeau. Had she died believing he had betrayed and abandoned his mate the way his father had done her?

  He raised his head and roared his anguish. She'd suffered enough without believing her only child--the son she loved--had repeated history. His father, Raul Fernandez, had thrown them--him--out, and his mother had chosen to go with him. In his anger at her decision to keep her child, his father had forced them from the village, their only protection, so that his mother had to make a home in the forest for her son. Conner knew his father had believed they would die alone there, and he'd cruelly left them to their fate. He despised the man with every breath in his body.

  The thought that his mother might think of him like that . . . He stripped off his shirt and jeans and willed his cat to the surface. He needed to run. To think. To not think. She had known. Of course she would befriend Isabeau and try to help her. Marisa Vega had a kind heart. There wasn't a mean bone in her body. She had mated with his father in good faith, believing he loved her as she loved him, but his true mate had died years earlier.

  At first Raul had insisted Marisa, twenty years younger than he, was in her next life and born early, and was truly his mate. He'd been lonely and wanted a woman and Marisa had been young and beautiful. He had courted her, made her love him, but after Conner was born, he became angry and resentful--filled with guilt--because all along, he'd known it wasn't true.

  Raul had hated the sight of Conner from the moment he was born, refusing to interact with him--the living reminder that he had betrayed his true mate. Conner would never forget the night his father had given his ultimatum to Marisa, stating coldly she must get rid of her child or go. When she refused to abandon Conner, Raul had told Marisa he didn't love her. Conner had been very young, still small, crouched outside the door, listening to the man say cruel, demeaning things to the mother he adored, and he had felt the first stirrings of his cat's terrible temper. The man had driven them both away using every means he could. Conner had known, with a child's intuition, that his father couldn't stand the sight or smell of him. Now, that same hatred had spilled over to his mother.

  Conner stood on his hind legs, his golden, spotted coat stretched to his impressive height as he ra
ked at the trees, shredding bark, leaving deep gouges, wishing he could do the same to the man who had hurt his mother so deeply. She had never been angry at Raul, never said a bad thing about him, but she'd kept Conner away from the village until he'd come of age. She'd asked him, as a favor to her, to go back and talk with his father, to try to make peace.

  Sap ran like a river and blood from his skin mingled with it as he dug through the thick wood, ripping and tearing, his anguish filling the night over and over again as he poured out his grief and rage. He never told her the things his father had said to him; he was a grown man and to hurt her more wouldn't have accomplished anything. He also didn't tell her that he'd beaten his own father to a pulp in the house where he'd been born, leaving Raul bruised and battered and bleeding there on the floor instead of throwing him out of the house as his father had done to his mother. He'd wanted to humiliate Raul in front of the villagers, but he knew Marisa wouldn't be happy with him, so he hadn't thrown him out the door for everyone to see he'd been defeated in combat--both as a cat and as a man.

  The rain poured down, a steady drizzle that showed no sign of letting up. He turned his face toward the sky and let the drops run down his cheeks, hiding any tears burning there. He'd known hatred, but his mother hadn't. She'd done her best to raise him to be like her, a gentle, loving creature who didn't hold grudges. She hadn't succeeded, and right at this moment he detested that he had many of his father's dominating, cruel traits.

  He couldn't bear the idea of his mother thinking he hadn't loved Isabeau. What if Isabeau had told her the story of his deceit? He swiped at a rotting log, rolling it over and sending insects in all directions. He kept tearing at the log, ashamed and disgusted with himself. He should have come home. Told her about Isabeau. Asked her advice. Instead, he'd slunk off to Drake, the only man who had ever treated him decently. Wanting what? Some kind of absolution? Knowing already what his mother would have said to him.

  Long, night-piercing roars and growls emerged from his throat, filling space from floor to canopy with the threat of violence. He'd hid like a coward far away where no one could see the way Isabeau had shattered him, broken him inside to little pieces. He'd been in too deep by the time he'd known who she was and he'd allowed their relationship to go too far. The two women he loved he had hurt. And his mother was dead . . .