Shadow Reaper (Shadow Riders 2)

She opened the French doors and stared out. It was a cool night, the breeze moving the leaves and branches around, casting shadows across the ground. Something moved at the far end of the garden and she took several steps outside to get a better look. At once her shadow connected with the others and raced toward the ones at the farthest end.

She recognized Ricco before she saw him. The connection between them had grown that strong--so strong when their shadows touched, it sent a jolt of heat rushing through her. His head came up and he spotted her immediately . . . or had he known the moment she opened her door and stepped into the courtyard? That was more likely. She didn't feel surprise on his side at all.

"What are you doing up, Ricco? I thought you'd gone to lie down for a while." At least her voice was pleasant. That was one attribute in her favor.

She had never been exactly desirable in Japan. She towered over the women there--and some of the men--but she'd always had a melodic voice. Osamu Saito had despised that about her as well, saying she tried to use her voice to seduce men. She'd become afraid to speak, just in case she'd incur Osamu's wrath. The beatings were difficult. She found she had a temper, and she wanted to rip the broom handle from Osamu's hands and give her a taste of her own medicine. She hadn't, of course, because she might have been banned from shadow riding and it was all she had, but more, she'd made a deal with Osamu to keep her from beating Ryuu.

"I rested for a while. I'm glad you're up. I'm in the mood to work." Ricco's voice came out of the shadows, low and intense. Sexy.

Her heart jerked hard in her chest. Fingers of fear crept down her spine. She'd applied to be his model, at his beck and call any time day or night for the next few months. She'd done that. Given her word. Signed a contract. Always her word had been gold. She would never go back on that with him if she could manage it. Fear wasn't the problem--she could deal with nerves. It was the excitement welling up in her that frightened her most. The unfamiliar emotion was too strong. Too needy. Too everything she was unprepared to deal with.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get yourself ready. Hydrate, use the bathroom, dress in one of the one-piece things hanging in your closet, no underwear please. I'll take a few photographs because even if I don't use them for the book, I want to document your journey for you and this first session is an important one. In later sessions, we'll have a makeup artist here, but this one is just for us. Me, to get rid of the building edginess that always means I need to do rope art or I'm going to do something crazy, and you, so you realize I would never hurt you and you're always safe with me."

"Something crazy?" She had to ask.

"I can be an adrenaline junkie. Fast cars. Climbing. Jumping out of planes."

Fast women--but she wasn't going there. She couldn't. She had to stick to her plan as closely as possible. This might be her first and last session. One-piece things? When had they been put in her closet? She'd locked her doors.

Without a word she turned and went back inside. She needed to get her breathing under control. Her heartbeat was wild, a drum that wouldn't stop pounding. It wasn't fear of being tied and vulnerable as it should have been. There was some trepidation, but Ricco wasn't a man to force a woman to do anything. He wouldn't need to. A woman would want to do anything he asked of her.

She moved through her room to the closet, opening the double doors. She had brought very few clothes, but now there were several dresses, wraps, jeans and sweaters, and three of the one-piece, skintight suits all in her size. There was also lingerie that looked as if it would fit her as well. She'd had to provide her stats on the application. That had included her height, weight and clothes size.

She turned and glanced at the dresser. It was tall and ornate, beautifully appointed. Slowly, she crossed over to it and pulled out a drawer. It should have been empty, but it wasn't.

Mariko lifted the underwear from the lined drawer. The dresser was made of cedar and smelled delicious. The panties were sheer lace, covering her front--barely--but leaving her buttocks bare. She took a deep breath and picked up the matching bra. As a woman, she should have the courage to wear such things. She should be proud of her body, no matter what the type, and walk with confidence, but she felt ashamed. It had taken every ounce of discipline she had to force herself to walk with her head up and her shoulders straight always--but she had done it.

Courage and discipline. Courage was being afraid and doing the task anyway. She wanted this for herself. She'd told herself she was doing it to get close to Ricco Ferraro, but she'd researched him very carefully and as far as she could see, even before she met him, he was a good man. Wild. An adrenaline junkie just as he'd admitted. Not a good bet for a husband--ever--but a good man.

She walked to the mirror and stared at herself. Her father, according to Osamu, had been Japanese, her mother American. Her brother looked Japanese. She didn't look anything like them. Like any of them. She was used to being ridiculed, ignored, beaten and made fun of. She didn't understand why looking different had warranted all that.

She touched her pale skin with shaking fingers. Her blond mane was a legacy from her mother. She had large hazel eyes, with long sweeping lashes, and a pouty mouth with full red lips. Her nose was straight and she had good bone structure--that was what had made her mother so photogenic.

Where her mother had been five foot ten, she'd only managed to hit five foot six. It was annoying to be in the middle. Not short, not thin, not tall and not model material. She felt clunky next to the small women moving silently through the house growing up in Japan. She always seemed too big for everything.

She knew she was going to die and that knowledge made her question everything about her life, the family she never had. Even her love for her brother. As they'd grown up, Osamu had by turns loved and hated him. He'd grown confused. Osamu had told them Ryuu's twisted body was Mariko's fault. She'd blamed Mariko for his inability to ride the shadows. Ryuu had sometimes sided with his sister, but as he grew up, more and more, he tried to get Osamu to love him, often going against Mariko to prove to Osamu he was loyal to her.

Was he worth dying for? The answer was yes. Ryuu was her only family, and she loved him with everything in her. It didn't matter if that love wasn't reciprocated every moment of the day; it was in her heart--and his. He was her only family and the only person in the world she had. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't try to save him. On the other hand, she couldn't murder a good man to trade for her brother's life.

So that led her to this moment. She needed to know she'd done at least one of the things important to her. She wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. One time. From the moment Osamu had shown her the books with her mother as a rope model portraying all kinds of rope art from simple to bondage and suspension, she had studied that art. She knew the history. She'd gone to demonstrations. She had found herself moved by the various rope masters and how they treated their models--as if their partner were the only person in their world. Osamu's taunts had backfired. Just once, even if it wasn't real, she wanted to feel as if a man saw only her. No one else. For those moments, she was his world. His canvas. He saw beauty in her.

She began to remove her clothes in front of the mirror. She didn't have the slender, beautiful body the other women in her household had had. She was all curves. Full, firm breasts; wide, curving hips; she even had a butt. How many times had Osamu made fun of her butt, saying they could serve tea on her bottom. For one moment, in defiance, she considered going to Ricco in a bra and those indecent panties, but she couldn't make herself do it. It was bad enough to go with no underwear, even covered by the one-piece thing he wanted her to wear. There were three of them--red, black and white.

Mariko forced herself to pull on the black catsuit. It was tight, the nearly sheer, stretch lace material molding to every curve and emphasizing her narrower rib cage and waist. She could barely look at herself in it. It showed every single flaw she had, and that was her entire body. She nearly ripped it off an

d sank to the floor in a flood of tears, but that wasn't allowed in her world. She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue.

She was very aware of time passing. Ricco had said they didn't have much time. What did that mean? He didn't call out to her or try to hurry her in any way. She used the bathroom and spent time on her makeup. She'd learned from another shadow rider, a young sixteen-year-old girl from England. The girl had taught her in secret, because if Osamu had found her with makeup, there would have been hell to pay.

Again, she stared at herself in the mirror, afraid to move. Her inclination was to run. To just disappear into the night. Never see Ricco or his family again. Never think about this moment of utter terror. She was attracted to him and she didn't want him to see her as weak or ugly. She didn't want him to know she'd come there with the thought to kill him. She had so many secrets to hide.

It would be so easy to leave, but she couldn't pass up this one moment in her life. Face herself. She wanted truth. She'd been seeking the truth of her past, the truth about herself. Squaring her shoulders, head up, she turned away from the mirror. She was one of the best riders in Japan. She knew she was and had confidence that she could kill a man.

Could she find the confidence to look into her own soul? To be a woman and feel like a woman just once? She'd chosen this path because her mother had thought the art form beautiful. In studying the history and learning about each rope discipline, she had come to find beauty in it. She wanted to be a part of that before she died. She would become part of both her father's and mother's history and culture. She loved that idea. She just had to find the courage to do it.

Ricco was waiting in the studio. Lights were muted, which surprised her, and there was music playing, something soft and easy. The room, like all the rooms in his home, was spacious. Mirrors went from floor to ceiling on one wall. Cameras were in cases and there was an open closet full of props. Her heart pounded when she saw the rigging overhead that told her he might at some point want to suspend her from the ceiling.

He had his back to her, his hands moving over the coils of rope on the wall. There were all types of materials in various colors and he seemed to absorb the textures of each as his hand moved over the bundles. She was mesmerized by the way he touched them, almost a caress she could feel on her own skin. There were far more ropes here than in his room.

She shivered and rubbed at her arms, wishing she could hide her breasts and the way her nipples pushed against the material of the skintight suit. It wasn't the cold, although the studio was cool. Her body had reacted to the way he smoothed his palm over the ropes. She held her breath as he turned, watching his eyes, needing to see that first expression, afraid it would be disgust and she would be humiliated all over again. She steeled herself. She was used to humiliation. She could handle it. But not from him.

Her eyes met his as the thought raced through her mind. For one moment his mask slipped and she saw his eyes go dark with desire. Every line in his face was etched with a sensuality that kept her breath trapped deep in her lungs. No one had ever looked at her like that in her life. Then the mask was back in place and he was stalking her. Like a great, fluid jungle cat.

She watched him come toward her, his muscles rippling beneath his tight tee. The material stretched over his chest so she could see the defined muscles beneath as he approached her. He looked utterly confident. The scrapes on his arms and face didn't detract from his good looks at all. If anything, he looked even tougher.

"You look perfect, Mariko," he greeted. "Absolutely beautiful."

No reprimand for being late. For taking her time. For almost running away. She was ashamed that she'd considered that idea--just opening the French doors and disappearing into the night. He circled her, his body heat reaching her. Enveloping her. His scent surrounding her.

"You're nervous."

That voice. She loved how low and intimate his tone could be. How commanding. She was strong. She needed stronger. "Yes." He'd made it a statement, just as he had said she was beautiful, as if she knew it and he was just acknowledging it. As if it were the truth. She heard the ring of honesty in his voice, but then he'd hit his head numerous times.

"It's okay to be nervous, Mariko. You're entering a journey that is both sensual and artistic."

He moved behind her and touched her shoulder. She jumped and immediately felt ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Talk to me. Communication is very important between us at all times." He bent his head as he lifted the hair from the back of her neck. "For instance, I find your neck incredibly sexy. You look both vulnerable and sensual with your hair up. With it down, you look wild and beautiful. Just as sensual, but in a completely different way."

She closed her eyes as his breath touched the nape of her neck. So warm. So male. He made her aware of every cell in her body because each went on alert when he was close. She was a rider and trained in every aspect of warfare, of engaging an enemy, defeating them. She knew anatomy, knew every pressure point. She knew the exact angle one had to use to break a neck.

She had absolutely no knowledge of what he was doing to her or how he could arouse her with just his voice and a gesture so small as the brush of his fingers on her body. He had barely touched her shoulder, lifted her hair, spoke in that low, compelling voice, and her body was aroused. Her breathing came in soft, ragged pants. He couldn't fail to notice, he was far too tuned to the human body--especially a woman's.

"I want to do a breathing exercise with you, but I will be touching your body. You have to get used to my hands on you and I need to know how you breathe so I never restrict you when we're working together. Any time you're uncomfortable, you need to say so. I have to trust that you'll communicate what you're feeling at all times. If I lay a rope incorrectly and it hurts you, I have to know."

He was still behind her, his mouth against the nape of her neck, lips brushing tiny caresses with every word he said. That voice, so low and velvet soft, smoothed over her skin like his lips, until she couldn't separate the two sensations. Already her breasts ached with need and she grew damp between her legs.

"Mariko." His voice was gentle. "I need to know you're all right with me touching you intimately."

Just the way he said intimately was intimate. She wanted to groan and her mouth had gone suddenly dry. She not only wanted him to touch her, she needed him to do so. She swallowed hard and nodded. Slightly. A bare affirmation with her head because that was all she could manage. He didn't move. He didn't drop her hair back into place. He stayed behind her, his body very close to hers but without touching other than his hand and his breath. He simply waited.

"Yes. It's all right." She needed his touch more than she needed to breathe. How she managed to give him what he needed to continue, she didn't know. For the first time in her life she felt weak with wanting. With need. Yet at the same time, she did feel sort of attractive. She was aware of herself as a woman, as feminine, when she'd always felt masculine. He'd given her that, and she'd be forever grateful.

His fingers curled around the bicep of her right arm. His touch was firm. Possessive. Held her captured there. "I'm going to put my hand on your upper chest. I want you to just breathe normally. Feel my breath moving in and out with yours. Just let yourself feel those sensations, Mariko."

He placed his left palm gently on her just above the curve of her breasts. She'd never been so aware of her breasts in her life. How they could ache with need. Burn for him. For touch. His touch. She became aware of his body, standing directly behind hers, his hand guiding her back into his chest, her buttocks pressed against him. He was hard. All muscle. Heat enveloped her. Her body seemed awash in sensation.

His cock pressed tightly against her, right into the small of her back, a sword there, a male weapon, an instrument of pleasure, she didn't know which, but she wanted to find out. She knew he wanted her, was very aroused, but then, he seemed to be very sexual and she was certain one couldn't separate this practice from sex and ar

t entirely. It was a sensual bonding between two people. Intimate beyond belief. Very, very erotic. Had all his models felt this way? Had he wanted all of them?

"Relax, farfallina mia, breathe for me."

Little butterfly. She liked that. She forced air through her lungs and then let herself become aware of his chest rising and falling. It felt like a dance between them. She followed naturally. Easily. He kept his hand on her arm, strong and confident so that she felt safe with him.

"That's my woman. I'm going to put my hand on your breasts," he warned.

My woman. Did he call every rope model that? She told herself not to react, to keep breathing, to not wrap herself in his words. His palm slid from above her breasts, over the curve to cover her nipples with his palm. He just pressed heat there, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. He stood quietly, letting her get used to the feel of his hand on her. He was still behind her, taking more of her weight than she should have been giving him, but her legs were trembling.

Ricco's face nudged aside her heavy fall of hair so his lips could whisper against the nape of her neck. "You're doing great. Keep breathing as normally as possible. Feel me breathing with you."

She did as he asked, mostly because the flare of pleasure she got from his praise shocked her. No one ever praised her. She excelled as a rider. Excelled in every area of training, yet not one instructor had ever praised her. Her fellow riders avoided her for the most part. They were never rude. None of the instructors or riders were rude, but they made it clear she was alone. She thought she would always be alone, until this moment. Even among the riders, she was the daughter of a whore, abandoned to the streets. She'd always be mixed race and not quite good enough.

She breathed in and out for him. For herself. To be someone strong and courageous. To be different because she needed to be different just once before she died. She needed to feel the freedom of arousal, and he gave her that. She wasn't certain how, but he did, but that connection between them was extremely strong and compelling.