Wild Cat(201)

By: Christine Feehan





Trap nodded slowly. “I can take care of myself.”



“Yeah, under most circumstances, but if you’re wrong about her, this woman could kill you, Trap. I couldn’t harm Pepper. I doubt you could hurt Cayenne.”



Trap’s gaze turned glacier-cold. “You’ve always been sensitive, Wyatt. You don’t like anyone pointing that out because you think that makes you feminine.” He spoke entirely dispassionately, no judgment or expression in his voice. “That’s what makes you such a good man. You care about people. You always have. I stopped caring when my own flesh and blood murdered my family. I couldn’t allow myself to feel. If I did, I wouldn’t survive. If this woman who is supposed to be my woman decides to kill me, she’s an enemy. She isn’t mine.”



“She’s scared, Trap.”



He nodded. “I know that. I know she’ll fight the attraction – and me. That isn’t the same as wanting to kill me.”



“When a wild animal is threatened – cornered – they often strike out. She’s never known freedom or kindness. She has no idea how to live in the world. She’s been locked up, experimented on, which means needles and God knows what else. She’s never had anyone give her compliments or romance her. She knows nothing but enemies.”



“I have a brain, Wyatt,” Trap said. For the first time impatience crept into his voice. “I’ve had a lot of time to think this through.”



“I don’ want you to do something you’ll regret, or worse, do somethin’ that will get you killed.”



The ice-blue flame in Trap’s eyes deepened. Nearly glowed. “She’s mine,” he said softly. This time there was a wealth of expression in his voice. Possession. An underlying anger. That strange shimmer slid into the room again, filling the space where air had been, completely at odds with his intention to reverse whatever Whitney had done to tie Cayenne to him.



“Doesn’ seem to me that you’re so willin’ to sacrifice your own happiness, or hers, to keep those uncles of yours in the shadows. Maybe you ought to consider courting her publicly. Get yourself in the tabloids, let the paparazzi take a gazillion photos of the two of you. That would bring them straight here. Right into a team of GhostWalkers waitin’ for them.” Wyatt flashed a cocky grin, knowing Trap was the most camera-shy man he’d ever encountered. “Whitney already knows where she is. It isn’t like he’d suddenly find her.”



Trap looked thoughtful as he took another pull on his beer. “That’s not a bad idea. She isn’t so easily compromised either. They try to tangle with her and she’d kill them in a heartbeat. I’ve been trying to find them for years.”



“Maybe they’re dead.”



Trap shook his head. “Not a chance. They’re out there, living the good life. Once I find them, I’m going to kill them.”



Again his voice lacked expression. Still, that shimmer hung in the air. Trap took another drink and glanced toward the piano. If he played, it would get him through the last couple of hours before Thibodeaux shut the place down.



The door opened and the night breeze drifted in. Along with it came the scent of rain. Of storms. Of her. Of Cayenne. She was there. At last. He lifted his gaze, and for one moment, indulged his need to drink her in.

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