Christine Feehan 5 CARPATHIAN NOVELS

by Christine Feehan

She opened her mouth to protest and he took possession. The kiss was rough, the edge of his fear and anger still riding him hard. His tongue drove deep, sliding into her mouth and taking her over, using her own passionate nature against her. She had done what no man had ever done, knocked him on his butt with a thought. A thought.

  Need burned deep and hot in him. Lust rose sharp, consuming him with the desire to dominate her, to bring her so much pleasure she would never think to leave him, never think to deny him anything. He bit gently at her lower lip, caught it between his teeth and tugged, licked at her pulse and kissed his way down her neck and over to her throat. She breathed in, a harsh sound of need that sent his body into a hard, knotted ache. The rush of hot blood filled him, and he closed his eyes to better absorb the feel and texture of her. Soft and pliable, moving against him like so much silk. Filling every empty place in his heart and soul. He kissed her again, the miracle called woman.

  Heat and his scent surrounded her. His erection pressed hot and thick against her stomach. His lips were firm and warm, his kiss rough and arousing. She’d always pictured sex with the man of her dreams as being gentle and slow, but heated passion flared hot and bright inside of her, arousal building into something frightening. Her heart hammered loud and hard, storming against his chest. Her muscles contracted and clenched. Her body turned to liquid, fiery heat.

  She ached for him. The need so strong she slid her hand under his shirt to touch his bare skin, to feel his heart beat. Her heart picked up the rhythm of his. Blood pounded and tiny flames licked over her skin.

  He pulled away, black eyes glittering down at her. “Do not interfere again.”

  She blinked up at him, shocked at how easily he controlled her. “Damn you for that.” She wiped at her mouth, trying to remove the desperate aching need, the brand he’d put on her, but the taste and feel of him remained. She stepped back, slapped at his hand when she stumbled and he steadied her. “You owe that man an apology. A huge apology. He saved my life twice and sure doesn’t deserve to get beat to a bloody pulp because he was escorting me back to the house.”

  It amazed her that she could talk. Her body burned from the inside out. She stole a look at him. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with hunger and arousal. He looked every inch the predator. Dangerous and hungry—starved for the taste and feel of her.

  “Do I?” His gaze flicked to where Luiz was beginning to sit up. “He knew you belonged to me.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone but me. And he saved my life. You weren’t here to play hero.” She was appalled at the accusation in her voice.

  His gaze softened. “You were afraid without me.”

  She was afraid for him, and that made it worse. She swallowed hard and spread her hands out. “Look. I’m used to a semblance of control in my life. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before.”

  She was dependent when she’d never been. She needed time to think, to just be quiet, yet she couldn’t bear the idea of being away from him. And that was more frightening than anything else, because she wasn’t a woman to give up her independence.

  Manolito stopped the words burning to be said. She did belong to him—as he belonged to her. But the confusion and weariness on her face turned his heart to mush. She stood there, looking soft and kissable and thinking she was tough, and all he wanted to do was hold and comfort her.

  Instead, he stalked across the ground and reached down to yank Luiz to his feet. The man swayed unsteadily and managed a half grin.

  “You pack a punch.”

  “You are lucky I did not kill you.”

  Luiz nodded. “Yeah, I got that.” He looked past Manolito to MaryAnn. “Are you all right?”

  A soft warning rumbled in Manolito’s throat. “It is not necessary for you to inquire after her state of being when I am here.”

  “I think it is,” Luiz said.

  “That’s because he has manners,” MaryAnn snapped. “Thank you so much for your help, Luiz. Especially for saving my life.” She turned and walked away. The cave man could keep up or not, but she was close enough to the house that she recognized the Jeep trail. She could just follow that.

  Manolito shrugged when Luiz’s eyebrow shot up. “She’s very good at reprimanding me.” For a moment, amusement flickered in his eyes.

  “I have a feeling she’ll need to be,” Luiz said, rubbing his jaw. “She’s amazing.”

  Manolito’s face darkened, the brief flash of humor fading away. “You do not need to find her amazing. And keep your clothes on, jaguar.”

  Luiz’s grin widened. “Women can’t help but be impressed.”

  “I doubt it feels good to have one’s heart ripped out of one’s chest, but if you like I can arrange for you to find out.”

  Luiz laughed at him. “She may just rip your heart out, Carpathian. Take care.”

  Manolito looked down at the blurred shadow of his hand. He was still in both worlds, but he was seeing much more clearly and his form was more substantial than it had ever been. Luiz hadn’t noticed, and jaguar people were not only observant, but they could read things in the forest few others could. And they’d spot another of their kind instantly…

  He caught up with MaryAnn. “He did not call you jaguar, and if you had even a small trace of blood, he would know.”

  Her dark eyes went stormy. So she still hadn’t forgiven him. Deep inside, lust uncurled claws and raked him sharply.

  “I’m not jaguar. I told you that.”

  He dropped behind her to take a good look at her bottom encased so snugly in denim. His heart nearly stopped. The woman was built like a woman should be, all curves and temptation.

  “Stop it,” she hissed and sent him another smoldering look over her shoulder. “I’m so mad at you right now, nothing you do is charming.” Because she knew it wasn’t about his lack of manners or his arrogant, ridiculous behavior, it was about her behavior. Whether she liked it or not, she was different inside. Whether she liked it or not—whether she even admitted it or not—she was burning and aching for this man, only this man, to touch her, to be inside of her. His obnoxious dominating ways should have repelled her, but instead she found him fascinating, mesmerizing even. And that shouldn’t have been acceptable.

  “I cannot help it if I find you attractive,” Manolito protested. “Looking at you puts ideas in my head. I am more than happy to share them with you.”

  “Well don’t. Sex isn’t the same thing as love, Manolito, and couples, husband and wife and lifemates, are supposed to be in love. That’s how it works.”

  “You will learn to love me,” he said, confidence stamped on his too-handsome face. “It will come with time.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she muttered, stomping up the walkway on her wobbly heel. Yeah. Because it was all about him. She was supposed to learn to love him. That’s how things worked in his world, but not so much in hers. When she had raw, passionate sex with this man, she wanted him to love her.

  She was halfway to the door when she really looked at the towering palace he and his brothers called a vacation home. A retreat. Yeah. Who retreated to a place the size of an apartment building? She stopped abruptly at the door. It was a freaking palace. She sighed and rubbed her temples. Man, she needed to be home, back in the real world.

  Manolito reached past her to open the solid double doors and gesture for her to go in. “Please enter my home.”

  MaryAnn drew a deep breath and took a step back, shaking her head. Nobody, but nobody, lived this way. She stood in the middle of the huge double doorway, staring at the gleaming marble entryway. She had forgotten what the house was like, or maybe she hadn’t noticed when she’d first arrived because she’d been too grief stricken. Set in the middle of nowhere, it was like a palace of days gone by.

  “I’m so not setting a foot on that floor,” she said, backing away from the door. And she had great shoes, too, shoes meant for walking on a floor like that. Great
shoes—well, she used to. Her beautiful boots were ruined and muddy, the left heel loose and wobbly. She wasn’t going to take a chance on scratching the gleaming marble floor that stretched for miles. Her entire house in Seattle could fit into the entryway.

  Behind her, Manolito pressed a hand into the small of her back and gave her a little push forward. “Get inside.”

  Okay, the shoving thing was not working for her any more than his penchant for issuing orders. Besides underscoring the fact that he was the biggest jerk on the planet, every time his fingers brushed her body, every nerve in her system simply went haywire. Her body refused to listen to her brain screeching macho jerk alert.

  Even though she couldn’t stop the shiver of excitement and the slow burn that spread through her veins like a drug each time he touched her, he wasn’t getting away with ordering her around the way he obviously thought he could.

  “I know you didn’t just shove me,” she snapped, tossing her long, thick braid as she glared at him over her shoulder.

  It was a mistake to look at him. His gaze burned over her—into her. No one had eyes like that or such a sinfully sensual mouth—or a house like this. She wasn’t into opulence and decadence. She wasn’t impressed by it or comfortable with it. And she certainly wasn’t into hot, arrogant men who gave orders as naturally as other people breathed.

  “It was a gentle aid to assist you into my home, as you seemed to be having trouble entering.”

  His voice slid under her skin and filled up every empty place inside of her. The deep-timbred rasp was wrapped in velvet and seemed to stroke over her skin. She set her teeth against the dark lure of pure sex.

  “I’m not going in there. You must have another house. A little one. Anything else.” Because he was planning on leaving her—again. He got her all hot and bothered, ordered her around, acted like a jerk, brought her to this—this—palace—and he was going to dump her. She could read it on his face. So screw him. She wasn’t going in. Being alone in the middle of the rain forest on an island, palace or no palace, was not happening again.

  She pushed back against Manolito’s hand. Maybe if she found Luiz again, he could help her find the airstrip and she could sweet-talk the pilot into flying her back to civilization. Provided there was a pilot. And a plane. She didn’t even know that, but Luiz might.

  A flicker of fury bloomed in Manolito’s black eyes, and he caught her up and tossed her over his shoulder, striding into the cool of the house, right past the entryway and double sweeping staircases and into an enormous room of marble and glass.

  Shock stunned her into silence, and then pure anger blasted through her veins. MaryAnn, who never resorted to violence, who didn’t believe in violence, who actually counseled against violence, wanted to beat the man into a bloody spot on the floor.

  It was utterly humiliating to be carried over his shoulder, her arms and legs dangling like spaghetti. She pounded on his broad back only to be further infuriated when he didn’t even flinch. “Put me down, right now,” she hissed, clutching the back of his shirt. “I mean it, Manolito. If someone saw me like this, I’d be so upset.” The thought was completely mortifying.

  “No one is in the house,” he assured her, not liking the distress in her voice. Anger was one thing, but not distress. “Riordan and Juliette must be with her sister and cousin in the rain forest. And since you asked so politely.” Manolito set her on her feet and stepped back, a smooth, fluid glide, just in case she took a swipe at him.

  MaryAnn straightened her jacket and blouse with great dignity. “Was that display of machismo really necessary?” Sarcasm dripped. If she couldn’t smack him like he deserved, she could take him down with words. She was very good at crossing verbal swords.

  Manolito stared down at her furious face. She was so achingly beautiful with her perfect coffee-and-cream skin, so soft he found himself brushing his fingers over her whenever he could get the chance. His. He tasted the word. Let it sink into his mind. She belonged to him. Had been made for him. She was his alone, and he would have her for all time.

  She’d given him back colors and emotions after hundreds of years without. And she had no clue what she was to him. She stood there in front of him, a small spitfire of a woman with her shiny midnight black curls and chocolate doe eyes, innocent and vulnerable. Need crawled through his body with savage, raking claws, merciless and dangerous, but something else was creeping into his heart. Something soft and gentle when he had long forgotten tender things.

  “It seemed an expedient way to get out of the early morning sun.”

  “Your mama sure didn’t teach you a thing about manners, did she?” She tried to maintain her anger, but it was nearly impossible when he was looking at her in that strange way—as if she was—everything. And fear was beginning to swamp her, the need to cry, because she could feel the resolution in his mind to leave, to go to ground. She couldn’t go with him, and that meant she’d be left alone.

  He took a step toward her, obviously reading her dismay.

  MaryAnn held up a hand to stop him, because if he touched her, she didn’t know how she’d react. She’d never, never even contemplated turning her body over to a man and allowing him to do anything he wanted, but Manolito could so easily make her want to do just that. He could make her want things she’d never dreamt of, and that scared her almost as much as the idea of being left there alone.

  “Look at my boots,” she said, to keep from crying, and sank down onto the chair to pull them off. “I loved these boots. They’ve always been my favorite.”

  He knelt down in front of her, gently pushing her hands away to remove the boots himself. She looked down at the top of his head, his hair silky midnight black and falling in disarray around his face and shoulders. She couldn’t stop herself from touching it as his fingers slid down her calf and sent shivers of awareness up her leg.

  He was only helping her remove her boots, yet somehow that small gesture seemed sexual. She tried to pull her foot away, but he circled her ankle with strong fingers and held her still. “Don’t, MaryAnn. I have no choice but to go to ground. I do not want to leave you alone. It is the last thing that I want. If you continue to be so upset, you will leave me no other option than to convert you now and take you with me.”

  He raised his head, his dark gaze meeting hers. Her heart jumped as his tongue touched his lips and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  “Don’t even think about it.” Because she was thinking about it, and that just plain scared her to death.

  “Go take a shower. I will look after these boots for you,” he instructed. “The hot water will relax you and help you to sleep.”

  MaryAnn swallowed a protest and left him kneeling there on the floor, her boots in his hand. She didn’t look back, wouldn’t allow herself to look back, even though she was certain he would be gone when she came out.

  She turned the water on as hot as she could stand it, letting it pour over her sore, tired muscles while she cried. It was silly, really, but she couldn’t help herself after everything that had happened. A relief valve, but still her heart felt heavy. The shampoo took the poof out of her hair, and the conditioner smoothed it once again. She emerged feeling tired and lost and wanting Manolito more than she ever had, but she was determined not to cry anymore.

  She wrapped a towel around her and went into the bedroom to find something to sleep in. Manolito sat in the chair by the window holding up her boots. They were clean and shiny and looked new. For a moment, she could only stare in shock, clutching the towel to her as joy burst through her. Fresh tears burned, happy tears this time, but she swallowed them and managed to nod casually toward the boots.

  “You fixed them.”

  “Of course. You love them.” He set the boots down and held up a pair of high-heel sparkling red shoes that went with a little slip of a dress that clung like a second skin to her every curve. “I love these.”

  “You have good taste.”

  “Put them on for me.”

>   Her eyebrow shot up. “Now? I’m in a towel and my hair is soaking wet.” She had the mass of curls wrapped up turban-style, and she was suddenly self-conscious. “They look great with a dress I have, but I’m not so certain what effect they’ll have in a towel.”

  “Right now.” His voice was low, compelling, that hypnotic, sexy rasp that tightened her nipples and made her ache with need.

  She put her hand on his shoulder and slipped one heel on her foot, all the while watching his face. He looked mesmerized. Hungry. She slid the other red heel onto her foot and stepped away from him with confidence. The heels made her legs look great. How could they not? Towel or not, she had a good figure, and he was definitely appreciating it. He made her feel like the sexiest woman alive.

  He stood up, an easy casual ripple of muscles, his walk catlike as he advanced on her, nearly stopping her heart. His hand cupped her face, thumb sliding over her cheekbone. “You are so beautiful. I have no idea what I did to deserve you, but you take my breath away.”

  He bent his head and kissed her. It was a gentle, lingering kiss, his breath warm and his mouth coaxing. He trailed kisses down the side of her face to her neck, nuzzling her, nipping with his teeth and teasing with his tongue. Her blood thundered in her ears as his hot, seductive mouth roamed down her throat to the curve of her breast. Liquid heat pulsed between her thighs.

  Manolito tugged on the towel, and it dropped away from her body, leaving every inch of her bare to his hungry gaze. He stepped back to take in the sight of her, the expanse of satin skin and full, lush curves, achingly soft and inviting. His thumb brushed her sensitive nipple and she gasped in response. He drew a line from her chin to her navel. “I swear, MaryAnn, I have never seen a sight more beautiful in all my centuries of living.” Lust roughened his voice, but honesty turned it to velvet. He stepped back, his hand sliding down her arm until his fingers tangled with hers. He tugged so that she would take a step toward him.

  8

  Manolito slid his hand over the curve of her hip, the pads of his fingers lingering lightly on her skin. MaryAnn’s stomach muscles tightened. Small flames of arousal flickered over her thighs, spread up to her belly and teased her breasts. His eyes had grown hot and possessive, his mouth sensual, the edge of hunger sharper. She could barely catch her breath, her body craving his. Everywhere his gaze touched her, she felt it like a brand.