Leopard's Wrath (Leopard People 11)

“Your bodyguards aren’t going to be very happy with you,” she said softly.

She smelled of rain. Of some exotic, spicy flower he couldn’t name. She’d been to a restaurant, and she’d been there with a man. He could smell the various scents on her. His leopard didn’t like that any more than he did, but he consoled himself with the fact that she had driven home alone. Due to his counterpart, he had an acute sense of smell, and he couldn’t detect the faintest scent of sex on her.

“They are bossy,” he agreed, deciding it best to just admit he had bodyguards. He was surrounded by them. There was no denying it. “I’m sorry I don’t have a towel, but you can use my jacket. That might help.”

“I don’t want to get it wet.” A little shiver went through her in spite of the warmth of the car.

He slipped his jacket around her. “No worries.” That was it. The extent of what he had to say. He just fell silent and tried not to stare, feeling as silly as his killer leopard had become.

“I’m Ania,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. May I call you Mitya?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He was grateful Sevastyan wasn’t in the vehicle with them. She had a Russian name and pronounced it with the faintest of Russian accents. His cousin would be immediately suspicious she was an assassin come to kill him. He wouldn’t have minded so much. His cat was content, and at that moment, so was he. It would have been a good moment to go out.

“I really do know how to change a tire,” she said, “but it was miserable out there and I do love this outfit. It would have gotten ruined.” Her fingers made a neat crease in the material and then folded it through her fingers as if she might be nervous.

It was a small gesture, but Mitya was trained in noticing the smallest reaction in those he interrogated, so reading her was easy. She was nervous being alone in the car with him.

“Why did you trust me enough to get into this vehicle with me?” he asked, his hand settling gently over hers to still her restless fingers. The silk of her skin was there. In spite of the cold, her touch made him warm all over. She didn’t pull her hand out from under his.

“You were nice enough to stop for me,” she replied. “No one else did, not that there were many people driving by tonight.”

“Where are you heading?”

She turned her head to stare directly into his eyes. He had the feeling he was being studied. He didn’t look harmless. If anything, he looked like the very devil. He didn’t have a reassuring smile he could send her. If he tried to smile, she’d probably leap from the car in fear. The best he had was the truth.

“Please don’t think you have to answer that. It was thoughtless of me to even ask. I’m not used to talking to women.”

Her eyebrow went up, lending her the most adorable expression he’d ever seen on a woman. She turned in the seat toward him, continuing to study him feature by feature. Her gaze drifted over the angles and planes of his face, noting every scar. His eyes were darker than most of the Amur leopards. Many had lighter blue-green eyes. His were a darker blue-green, almost a dark cyan. When he shifted, his eyes blended with the darker rosettes in his long, thick fur.

“I would expect that women fawn over you.”

He didn’t deny what was true. He’d always had his choice of women. “Only because they believe I am someone exciting or that I have money.”

“Exciting? You mean as in dangerous?” She gestured toward the bodyguards. “Or famous. Should I know you? Your name sounds familiar.”

He sighed. He was tired. Too tired. His body hurt so fucking badly he wanted to stab himself through the heart and get it over with. He was a shifter, and he didn’t take pain pills. If he was out of it, his leopard could escape and kill someone. He leaned back on the seat, enjoying the fact that she sat close and his leopard was satisfied just with her near. He was as well.

“I’m no one special, Ania. These women, once they learn this, no longer fawn.” He kept his smile to himself. One small trace of his leopard and those women were running for their lives. None wanted him. They wanted what he had. Or what they perceived he had—which was nothing of real value. His cousin Fyodor had something valuable with his wife, Evangeline. Timur, another cousin, had it with his woman, Ashe. He could offer a woman danger. Bullets. Death. He could offer her . . . him. He was no prize. He never would be.