Shadow Reaper (Shadow #2)(64)

       
         
       
        



He brought her into the studio and walked across the room to the small refrigerator in the corner. Reaching in, he took a bottle of ice-cold water out and returned to her. "The bathroom is over there." He indicated a door with one finger. "This is going to take longer than last time and I want you comfortable. You can get prepared while I ready the room."



He walked away from her and she stared after him, caught in his spell. She didn't understand how he could be so intimidating and so gentle at the same time. So commanding, and yet his voice was velvet soft. He moved with grace, like a large jungle cat, every muscle rippling beneath the thin material of his clothing. He was barefoot and he didn't make a sound as he crossed the room to select music. He was no longer looking at her, but she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him, and that somehow centered her.



She tried the cap on the bottle, found it loosened and drank. It was the little thoughtful things, she decided. He had done that before, loosened the cap so she didn't have to. Opening doors. Walking with her on the inside on the street. Making her feel special and never leering at other women when she was with him.



She contemplated that as she went into the bathroom. When she'd been with him in the restaurant, various women had been trying to make eye contact with him. He had focused on her. He'd been sweet to the waitress, although firm with her. There were a lot of good things about Ricco Ferraro. He might like to live his life in the fast lane, but when he was with someone, he took care of them.



She secured the kimono tighter and stepped back into the studio, found a place to put down the water bottle and caught a glimpse of herself in one of the long mirrors. Her face was flushed. Her hair was a little wild. Her eyes were bright, and the color of her lipstick emphasized the pout of her lips  – the pout Osamu had pointed out a million times, sometimes slapping her and calling her a "whore just like your mother." It was the natural shape of her mouth  – there was little she could do about it. She hadn't considered that the lipstick would make her mouth even more noticeable. She'd been thinking in terms of what Ricco would like for his rope art.



Or had she? Osamu's voice screeched in her head, a long litany of insults she suddenly couldn't block out. She wrapped her arms around herself, ashamed that she'd come to him dressed in the red lace bra and panties. Osamu was right about her. She hadn't been thinking about rope art. She'd been thinking about Ricco Ferraro.



Movement caught her eye as he turned and looked at her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. His handsome features went from relaxed to scary, the lines deepening, his eyes twin black diamonds, hard and cold and very, very piercing as he strode toward her, bundles of black and red ropes in his hands. 



"Fuck," he spat out, the sound dark and ugly.



Mariko felt his fury as he strode across the room, the first aggressive move he'd ever made toward her. His rage was tangible, filling the spacious room, an ominous warning of his black mood. She couldn't help but think the ropes were an extension of him, depicting the storms that raged in him in the color and texture of the various coils.



She stood her ground for two reasons. First and foremost, she was a shadow rider  – an elite rider  – and had confidence that she could defend herself if she needed to. Automatically her mind was already cataloging targets on him. Second, she believed absolutely that he would never hurt her.



Ricco kept coming until he was standing directly in front of her, in her space, so close their bodies were touching. He dropped the coils of rope on the floor and reached for her, his palm curling around the nape of her neck. Possessing her. When he did that, touched her neck, she knew he was connecting them together. Giving her his power. Taking hers. Exchanging. She felt empowered when he did that. Centered. Grounded. More, it made her feel as if she belonged to him and he to her  – that there was only the two of them and he saw only her.



"In this room there are two people, Mariko: You. And me. No one else. Ever. Do you understand?" He pulled her hand up to his bare chest, her palm over his heart, her flesh touching slashing scars that told her he had saved her. "You and me. She will never be welcome here. I swear to you, I'll deal with her."



Just like that he made Osamu small and unimportant, because he knew. He saw the real Mariko, everything about her, even her insecurities, and he still wanted her. She could see that in his eyes, feel it in his touch.