Shadow Reaper (Shadow Riders 2)

"I've never . . ." She trailed off.

"I know." He did. He was grateful he had this to give her--something erotic and intimate in exchange for everything she gave him.

Ricco brushed a kiss onto her temple, and then swept more down the line of her jaw to her neck. Moving back in front of her, he tied off the line above her wrists and reached for more rope. The harness looked good on her. He'd chosen to use a diamond pattern and wanted to continue it in the corset he was forming for her.

He measured out the length of rope in his mind to get it perfectly. Already his hands were moving. He quickly wrapped just below her waist where the sweet lace of her panties began, weaving the line into the diamond corset. Using a lark's head knot, he wrapped more rope, careful to keep tension without in any way restricting her breathing. Using a half hitch at her belly button, he tied off the waist lines and pulled to tighten. He ran the doubled line between her legs, front to back, taking extreme care to lay ropes against her sex. He didn't want it tight, nor did he use knots that would have added stimulation. He didn't want it against her clit, that experience would be too much for her second time, although she was extremely responsive in the ropes.

The panties were barely there, a thong only, so he took great care to make certain her skin wasn't burned or pinched as he worked. He wanted to make this a pleasurable experience for her. He wanted every movement in the ropes to heighten her awareness of him all around her, surrounding her with him, to make her feel as if the rope's embrace was truly his hold on her, making her secure. Using another half hitch, he tied off the line at her back.

He slid the rope along her lower lips and then worked it from her back to her front, creating a series of diamonds on her body, all the way around. He used red rope for the diamonds so that the pattern ran through the black, setting the color off and drawing attention to the red lace barely covering her mound and her breasts.

Mariko gasped and writhed in the ropes, her eyes meeting his in shock as the double ropes moved lovingly over her sex. He directed her into position again and she yielded with absolute grace, her body following the guidance of his hands like a dance partner, almost as if she knew where he would place her just by the ripple of his muscle and his steady breathing. Their connection was growing with every diamond he laid against her skin. All the while his fingers brushed against her, judging the temperature of her body, always aware of her state of health. Right now, her desire was heightened, her need for him growing.

With every length of the rope, he was wrapping himself around her. Claiming her. The coils were an extension of him, his desire and lust. His growing love for her and his need to protect her. He gave her diamonds because to him she deserved diamonds. She was a treasure he cherished.

He guided her with his hands, knowing every movement of her body sent that rope sliding over her pulsing sex. He couldn't touch her as he wanted yet. He couldn't use his hands and mouth to bring her pleasure, but he knew other ways and he used them. Ruthless. Wicked. Allowing passion and art to flow together. Talking to her without words. Hoping she understood where his heart was going. His soul. He was laying it out for her as surely as he laid the rope against her skin.

He stood in front of her, looking at his work, the contrast of red and black, the lace and emphasis on her breasts and sex. She looked beautiful, even more so than when he'd started. Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright with desire.

"Are you comfortable? Enough for me to photograph you?" He stayed close to her, absorbing her heat. Her scent.

She touched her tongue to her lips, moistening them. "Yes."

"I'm going to kiss you, because if I don't, I don't know if I'll survive the next few minutes." It wasn't a question. He didn't ask for permission this time. He told her because that was fair.

He pulled her to him, using the ropes to bring her into his body, deliberately allowing the diamonds to rub deliciously over her body as the double ropes sliding between her lips sent darts of fire straight to her sex. His mouth settled over hers, and instantly he was gone. Transported. There was a kind of paradise in the sweetness of her taste. The velvet heat of her mouth.

He heard himself groan. He was so far gone on her. His body hurt from constant arousal, but this was for her. To show her how beautiful she was. How powerful. How much he wanted her. That he was giving himself to her. All of him. Bad and good. He kissed her over and over, deliberately shifting her in his arms to keep her arousal high. He rubbed his chest tight against her nipples, stimulating them as well. When he knew he wouldn't be able to pull back if he didn't stop, he lifted his head and pressed his forehead to hers.

"Thank you, Mariko. Thank you for this." She'd come to him. Initiated their session. Given herself to him to keep him from pounding out his anger on the heavy bag.

She lifted her long lashes and looked into his eyes. He saw her surrender there and his heart stuttered in his chest and he had to let go of her before he lost all control.

"You have to know I want you with every breath I take," he admitted.

She smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Resolutely he turned away to get the camera. He spent the next forty minutes photographing her. Positioning her. Watching her desire rise with every frame he took. Every movement of the ropes. The flush on her skin. The need in her eyes. Her breathing. He captured the moments on film knowing he would never let another living soul see her this way. She was for him. This was private. An intimacy only between the two of them. He also knew he would put some of these pictures on canvas and hang them in his private studio.

Just as he was putting down the camera, judging that she was near her limit and still had to allow him to untie her, his phone vibrated. Not the normal vibration, but the one that was programmed in by Taviano--his genius of a brother who came up with all sorts of gadgets for them. He glanced down at his phone. Emilio. This particular vibration meant one thing: they were under attack.

He caught up the shears he always had on him when working and hurried to her. Wrapping one arm around her, he began to carefully cut away his ropes. "I know you're exhausted, Mariko. You should be lying in my lap, my arms around you, holding you close while you come back slowly, but we don't have time. The enemy has found us here and we're going to be in a fight any minute. I'm going to cut you loose and carry you to the chair. I want you to drink water and then put on my T-shirt."

Mariko nodded, clearly struggling to come out from under the effects of the ropes. "I'm with you, Ricco."

Dio, he loved her. Right then. That fast. She was somewhere deep in subspace, floating in a web of sensual delight, and just like that she was his warrior woman, prepared to fight at his side. Who wouldn't love a woman like that?

The ropes dropped to the ground and he lifted her into his arms and took her to the chair. For one moment he cradled her to his chest and brushed her forehead with his lips. "Drink. Hydrate. The T-shirt. I have no doubt you can fight in your lingerie, but I prefer to be the only man who ever sees you like this."

She nodded, blinking rapidly, reaching for the water bottle, preparing herself, not asking questions, trusting him to get the information they needed to stay alive.

CHAPTER TEN

Teresa Ventura smirked to herself as she pulled on the long gloves, all the while watching herself in the mirror. Her plan was getting closer to fruition. She hadn't thought it would take so long, nor did she think she would like it so much, but Phillip Ferraro was nearly in her net.

For an older man, he wasn't half bad. He certainly had all the moves and put her up in the best of places. Her high-rise apartment had a fantastic view of the city and anyone living there was treated as if they were made of money. The jewelry he bought her was worth a fortune. Now, all she had to do was convince him to get rid of his wife and marry her. She'd have the entire fortune.

"Teresa. What are you doing in there?"

She liked the impatience in his voice. He was always so eager to see her. "I've got a surprise for you, h

oney," she called back and then winked at herself in the mirror.

She looked good. Better than good. Her thigh-high stockings were sheer black. Her garters, sexy lacy black. She had a great figure. She'd learned in high school the benefits of working out and looking fantastic. Switching on the music, she found the rhythm and danced out of her bedroom.

She was good at dancing. She'd gotten a job in a strip bar and made a ton of money dancing, but it wasn't nearly as lucrative as this venture could be. She began a bump and grind, going to the floor, coming back up again, slowly stripping the glove from her right arm and hand.

Phillip stood in the middle of the room, just where he'd been when she'd danced in. He looked stunned. Good. It was time to step things up. They'd hit a plateau and she needed to up the ante so he'd do his part.

Phillip watched Teresa's striptease from the center of the room. He'd come to tell her it was over. He'd use Eloisa, of course; it always worked when you convinced a mistress that your wife was psycho and capable of anything. He was merely trying to protect his beloved by leaving her. He always left his mistresses happy, weeping but happy with the money he settled on them.

He could appreciate a good striptease, and Teresa had always been excellent. He'd first seen her at a strip bar. She had a good body and a mouth on her that wouldn't quit, but he was bored out of his mind. He was getting too old for this, and Eloisa was getting ready to dump him. He read the signs easily. She'd gone from hurt to angry to indifferent, and now there was a new resolve in her.

Eloisa. Right from the beginning, he'd manipulated her into believing he loved her. Over the years, he found, to his shock, that just might be true. Phillip's phone buzzed annoyingly. He didn't bother to answer it. It was probably the bodyguards. He'd given them the slip to come here, but he'd be back soon. Eloisa was making noises about being on alert, but that was just silly. He was a rider and no one could find him in the shadows.

"Phillip!" Teresa reclaimed his attention. She pouted beautifully. "You aren't watching and I did all this for you."

All what? Put on her working clothes? He was damn tired of lies. His lies. His mistresses' lies. Did Teresa really think she was the only woman he had? Or that he would put her above Eloisa? The phone buzzed again, and sighing, he reached into his pocket.

Something thunked hard against the window. It was so loud the sound drowned out the music. He glanced up, and Teresa stopped her dance in mid-grind. The thick glass spider-webbed out from a single source right in the center as if something large had hit it. Maybe a bird. As both stared, a little in shock, two men rappelling from the roof kicked in the window with their heavy boots, shattering the glass and sending shards exploding through the room like missiles. Both had automatic weapons and wielded them with ease, obviously from long practice.

Red and orange spray erupted from the muzzles and Phillip went over backward. He saw Teresa on the floor, her body looking like a broken rag doll, stained bright red. He looked down at his chest. Nothing registered. Not pain. He wasn't certain what had happened. A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see a man with a gun standing over him. The man lifted the gun and aimed it right at his face. A thousand regrets rushed through his mind, the main one Eloisa.

He was a selfish man, a womanizer, and the shadows represented a way for him to carry out his affairs. He'd never once been decent to Eloisa. He knew what she went through, she'd tried to open up to him, tried to make their marriage real, but he had only thought about the fun he could have. Even after they lost their son, Ettore, and Eloisa had needed him, he had turned away from her. He regretted that. He regretted so many things.

I'm dead and I never told her I loved her. He attempted to rise, but he couldn't feel his legs or arms. He could only watch as the man slowly squeezed the trigger and then there was nothing.

*

The party was in full swing at the Windship Club, one of the most prestigious in Chicago. The event was all about wining and dining the local celebrities so they'd write fat checks for the latest charity Windship was backing. Taviano and Giovanni Ferraro knew it really was about the women, drugs and drink. Vittorio lay in a hospital bed, cut up all to hell, and they were supposed to be snorting coke off a woman's belly, drinking champagne and taking the women into the next room for a quick blow job, or worse, having one crawl under the table and go for it right there in the plush lounge.

Harvey Windship was a sick prick with far too much money. Taviano had never liked the man and Giovanni had a terrible aversion to him. More than once throughout the last hour, Taviano had to be the one to restrain his brother when Giovanni wanted to kick Harvey's ass--and Taviano was known for his bad temper. He couldn't wait to see his brothers and point out just which Ferraro had had to be the peacekeeper.

Laughter erupted all around them and Taviano made certain to put a fake smile on his face. He was good at that. All the Ferraros were. They played out their lives in front of the paparazzi. Very early they learned the art of smiling at parties they didn't enjoy, surrounded by people who weren't their friends.

Harvey flung his cut crystal glass into the fireplace and laughed loudly as it shattered, the remaining alcohol making the flames flare for just a moment. "Gina, get over here," he called.

His wife giggled drunkenly and obeyed, her stiletto heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. She teetered and then fell into her husband's lap when he grabbed her wrist and yanked her down to him. "Having a good time, honey?" he asked, nuzzling her neck.

Harvey was a drunk. He liked his booze, and the more he drank the more amorous he got. He thought of himself as a player, although Taviano knew he genuinely loved his wife. It was his one saving grace. He put on lavish parties and raised millions of dollars for charity, so he wasn't all bad. It was just that his parties were . . . disgusting. Everyone attended of course. The cream of Chicago. Mostly, Taviano was certain, to see what Harvey would do next.

This party was the most garish of all. His wife liked furs so, to thumb his nose at those protecting wildlife, he had decorated the entire club in big-game trophies and real fur rugs and throws. It turned Taviano's stomach just a little, and when Harvey suggested to one of the girls to "do Giovanni" on the leopard skin rug in front of the fireplace, he almost let Gee hit the man. Instead, both laughed, playing their roles for the press. Giovanni declined and they wandered away to give themselves a respite from the man.

Now they were back in the lounge, once again seated in the plush chairs. "Have to go, Harv," Giovanni said. "Vittorio is in the hospital and we're each taking shifts with him." That was a lie and then it wasn't.

Stefano never left the hospital and wouldn't until Vittorio was completely out of danger, but the others came and went. They took care of business while Stefano and Vittorio were out of commission. Still, it was a good excuse and one Harvey would accept. The man was just drunk enough that he might make a scene, and that was the last thing either of the Ferraro brothers wanted.

Both men stood and Harvey tried to get to his feet, too, pushing his wife off his lap. She fell on the floor, landing on her butt. Harvey laughed, subsiding in his chair, his eyes on his wife as she struggled into a full sitting position, her legs sprawled out in front of her. She glared at her husband, who pointed and laughed more.

"Come on, Harvey," Taviano said in resignation. "You don't want to get locked out of your bedroom for a week, do you?" He leaned down to extend his arm to Gina.

Giovanni stepped forward as their two bodyguards turned toward the door where four men had attempted to enter but were stopped by the bouncers. They wore ill-fitting suits and long trench coats over the cheap material.

Two men in the chairs closest to Harvey snickered. "Look at those clowns. Think they can crash the party."

Simultaneously, Giovanni's and Taviano's phones vibrated in the complicated pattern Taviano had devised to alert each of his brothers when an attack on a family member was imminent or happening. Taviano was already leaning down. He dove toward the shado

ws under the coffee table, slamming Gina back down to the floor with one ruthless arm hooked around her neck.

Tomas and Cosimo Abatangelo, first cousins and bodyguards for the Ferraro family, both shoved Giovanni toward the shadows as they turned, pulling weapons, putting their bodies between the riders and the threat.

Gunfire erupted as the four men pulled automatics from under their coats and sprayed the room with bullets. Screams, cries of agony and the sounds of shattering glass along with the thundering roar of guns filled the room. Tomas leapt for the thick lounge chair as he fired at the man on the outside of the group. Fire raced up his leg and chest as holes blossomed there. He saw his target fall as he hit the floor.

His brother, Cosimo, landed hard just feet from him, his weapon still barking. The assailants separated, came around from all sides, clearly looking for the Ferraros, who were long gone. Tomas stared at the ceiling, waiting for the bullet that would end his life. Cosimo's gun had gone silent, and Tomas could hear him struggling for air, his lungs laboring.

When they couldn't find their targets, the three remaining men turned and hurried out of the club into the parking lot. In the distance was the sound of sirens. Clearly several people had called 911 from their cell phones to report the attack and they'd done it very quickly. The assailants raced toward their van. The driver brought the vehicle beside them, the sliding door open. One by one they dove inside, rolled to make room for the next one and sat up.

"Move this thing, Danny," Brady, the acknowledged leader, yelled, slamming the door shut.

He turned back to see Sean, the youngest of them, lying still on the floor of the van. He kicked at him with his foot. "What the hell. You hit?"

Terry turned his head to observe his younger brother, Sean. He crawled over to him. "Get going, Danny," he added his command to Brady's. "The cops will be here any second." He leaned down to listen for a heartbeat and straightened up quickly. "Shit. He's dead. I didn't even see him take a hit." He scrambled away from his brother until his back hit the wall.