Cat's Lair

by Christine Feehan

  "It's Cat, right? Malcom calls you Cat. You're his favorite student. I've never known him to have a favorite. I'm Ridley Cromer."

  She closed her eyes briefly. Thunder roared in her ears. Her brain short-circuited. His voice was pitched so low that it seemed to slide beneath her skin and find its way directly into her bloodstream like some strange new drug. No one touched her. No one dared. He had broken that taboo. She didn't know how to feel about it.

  "You're quick. Very fast," he went on, as if she wasn't the rudest person in the world for not answering him. "I couldn't help but watch you sparring the other day. You were wiping up the floor with men ranked much higher than you. Men with a lot more experience. It was a thing of beauty."

  A thing of beauty. She would hold that close to her and think about it when she was alone. A compliment. Coming from someone who clearly could best anyone in the dojo, probably including Malcom, it was very high praise. Still, she couldn't stand there being an absolute idiot.

  She finally found her wits and gave the door a desperate twist, flashing what she hoped was a careless smile of thanks over her shoulder at him. She yanked open the door, but found when she stepped back she stepped right into him. Right into him.

  His body was as hard as a rock. It was rather like smashing herself against an oak tree. His arms came around her automatically to steady her. The heat radiating from him nearly burned right through her clothes.

  To her absolute horror, she banged the door closed again as she threw herself forward and away from him. She nearly ran into the heavy glass, but his hands were suddenly at her waist, gently moving her away from the door.

  One moment she was heading for danger; the next he had literally lifted her and put her a foot away from the door.

  "Kitten, you'd better let me get that."

  Color rushed up her neck into her face. To her everlasting mortification, she could hear male amusement in his voice. She was an idiot--a tongue-tied idiot--and he'd think she was crazy. Still--she gulped air--that was for the best. He'd just dismiss her, hopefully never look at her again. Not with those eyes. Those beautiful, antique gold eyes. Who had eyes that color?

  He pulled the door open and held it, waiting for her to go through. Thankfully she found her legs and moved past him, once again throwing a small, hopefully thankful smile at him over her shoulder. She walked stiffly to the counter and shoved her things beneath it on the other side.

  She was absolutely certain someone needed to file away books in the back where no one could see her. Someone else could make the coffee tonight and she'd just go hide.

  "Cat, great, you're here." David Belmont, the owner of Poetry Slam, threw her an apron. "Get to it, hon. Everyone's been complaining because apparently my coffee doesn't taste like yours. I've watched you a million times and I do exactly the same thing, but it never comes out like yours."

  "You don't like making coffee, David," Catarina replied, and put on her apron. Which she found hilarious because he owned the coffee-house.

  The moment she was behind the coffee machine, David moved into position to take orders and money. Clearly there he was in his element, chatting up the customers, remembering their names, talking them into some of the bakery goods sold with the coffee. He even remembered the poetry or short stories they wrote. He was awesome with the customers, and she was awesome with the coffee. They made a great team.

  She didn't look up when anyone ordered. It was part of her strategy to keep in the background. The mouse in the coffee-house. Unfortunately, because she was great at making any type of coffee drink, the customers were aware of her. She was the reigning barista, and the customers had begun to fill the coffee-house nightly.

  She had worked hard to learn what she needed to in secret. She read, watched countless videos and committed coffee books to memory. Before that, she'd had to learn to read. She was a little smug about it. Rafe would never, ever think to find her in a bookstore/coffee-house. Never. She was poor little illiterate Catarina.

  She kept her eyes on the espresso machine when she heard Ridley give his order in a soft, low tone that set a million butterflies winging in her stomach. She already knew exactly what he wanted, just as she did with most of the regulars. He hadn't been coming in all that long, but she was aware of every breath he took--just as the other women were. She certainly remembered what he liked for coffee.

  She knew exactly where he sat without looking up. He always pulled out a book, usually on mediation or essays from a Zen master, while he drank his coffee. He savored coffee. She'd watched him, sneaking looks of course, and he always had the same expression on his face. She knew she put it there. She might not be a conversationalist, but she made spectacular coffee.

  She forced herself to make fifteen more coffees before she looked up. Her gaze collided with his. All that beautiful, perfect, molten gold. She almost fell right into his eyes. She blushed. She knew she did. There was no stopping the color rising into her cheeks. He gave her a faint, sexy smile. She looked down without smiling back, concentrating on her work.

  One look and her stomach did a crazy roll. What was wrong with her? She didn't have physical reactions to men. It was just not okay. She couldn't ever be stupid enough to wish for a relationship. She'd get someone killed that way. In any case, she'd be too afraid. She didn't even know what a relationship was.

  But he was darned good to look at, she acknowledged with a secret smile. Darned good. The familiar rhythm of the coffee-house settled her nerves. The aroma of coffee and fresh baked goods swept her up into the easy atmosphere. Once the poetry slam started, darkness descended. There was usually little joy in the poems, but she enjoyed them all the same.

  Bernard Casey, a regular who was usually first up at the microphone, accepted his caramel macchiato from David, took one sip, and pushed his head over the counter the way he did each evening.

  "Hey, coffee woman. Heaven again."

  She shot him a smile. It was safe to smile at Bernard. He loved coffee, his poems and little else. "Hey coffee man, glad you think so." He only looked at her once a day, and that was when he gave her the nightly compliment.

  It was their standard greeting. Bernard waved and settled at his usual table right in front of the microphone, making certain he would be the first and last poet of the night.

  *

  RIDLEY observed Catarina over the top of the book he no longer had any interest in. She was beautiful and she was scared. Very scared. She thought she'd managed to downplay her looks, but a man would have to be blind not to see through her baggy clothes and attempts to tame her wild hair.

  Her sunglasses didn't hide the perfection of her skin, and when she took them off and looked at a man with her exotic cobalt blue eyes, the color a deep intense violet at times, ringed with those long dark lashes--well--the punch was low and it was just plain sinful.

  And then there was her mouth. Full lips like a cupid's bow. Turned up at the corners just slightly. Her lower lip could make a man go to his knees and fill his nights with erotic fantasies. When her lips parted and she gave a small, distracted smile, the one that meant she wasn't seeing you, any man worth his salt couldn't help but take on that challenge. When she smiled, like she'd just done to Bernard, the strange poet who poured out his feelings for her through his poems, Ridley knew a man would kill for her.

  She was nothing at all like he expected her to be. He watched her at the dojo with Malcom during her lessons and training sessions. She was focused. Intelligent, which, when fighting, was important. She was quick, her reflexes good, and she moved with a fluid grace that took his breath away. He wasn't the only man in the dojo who stopped what he was doing to watch.

  He expected her to be a man-killer. She should have been. She had the face and the body. She had the voice. She had a soft drawl, barely there, the kind of drawl that reminded him of drifting down the bayou on a lazy summer night with the sky above him dark and a thousand stars shining overhead and a woman, naked in his arms.

  Sh
e should have had all the confidence in the world. She had confidence when she sparred with any man Malcom put her against, and so far she'd wiped up the floor with them no matter their rank. She was that fast. She had confidence behind the espresso machines and she had every reason to. She had confidence when she walked home at three o'clock in the morning and she shouldn't.

  But she didn't look at men. She didn't talk to them. There was no flirting. He'd never seen her flirt with anyone. Not a man or a woman. She was definitely a puzzle, and one he wanted to solve.

  He'd deliberately stepped up close to her, crowded her space, to see what she'd do. She hadn't defended herself. She hadn't told him to get the hell away from her. She froze. Breathless. Terrified. She'd confused the hell out of him, and that didn't happen very often. She'd intrigued him, and that happened even less often. She'd also done something insane to his body.

  He was a man always in control. Always. Control defined him. He was a man and lived his life as a man. He was tough and liked things his way, and he always got what he wanted. He was single-minded that way. Women, especially man-killers, didn't do a thing for him. But Catarina . . . The moment her soft body had come up against his, the moment he'd touched bare skin, everything hot and wild and hungry in him responded. He wanted her. And he wanted her for himself. Exclusively. That had never happened before.

  He looked down at his arms, at the tattoos he'd acquired so painstakingly over the years. He looked rough and mean. He knew that. It served him well to look that way. He deliberately wore his hair longer than most. He served notice to other men just who he was and what he was capable of. Men got the hell out of his way when he was after something. Especially a woman.

  Women were easy for him. He didn't have to work hard at all and that was okay, but it never lasted more than a night or two--not for him anyway. But this woman . . . She'd burn up in his arms, and it wouldn't be enough. He got that already just by looking at her. So did every other man who came near her. The difference was, most of them would step back and wait for a signal that was never going to come. That was definitely not the way to handle a woman like Catarina. A man had to take over and be decisive about it.

  Catarina felt the weight of Ridley's gaze on her. She knew he was watching her without even looking up. Her body responded just as if he was standing in front of her. For one moment she felt restless, achy, in need even. That something wild crouched inside of her stretched. Her skin itched. She couldn't breathe and her skull felt too tight. For one terrible moment, her skin went hot and that terrible burn began between her legs. She could barely breathe with the need and hunger.

  Horrified, she dragged off the apron and tossed it to David. "I need a break, just a short one."

  Even here in her sanctuary, the one place she could go and be around others, her past tried hard to drag her down. She was aware of Ridley's attention settling on her instantly, alertly, but she didn't so much as glance at him. Her past was too close. Even from a thousand miles away, he was controlling her. She couldn't look at another man without something inside of her turning ugly.

  The book aisles were narrow, the stacks rising from floor to ceiling. She wound her way through them to the back door and pushed it open. The night air hit her face, cool and refreshing, enfolding her in its blanket of darkness. She drew in several deep breaths and stepped outside. The cool air felt good on her skin. She dragged the hat from her hair and sank down onto the steps leading to the back door.

  Strangely, she'd always had great night vision, and this last month she'd noticed it had gotten even better. She liked that she could see in the dark. She loved the night. There was an entirely different world going on at night and she was part of it. That made her part of something. And Rafe couldn't take that away from her.

  "Kitten?"

  She had to stifle a scream as she twisted, nearly throwing herself off the stairs. Ridley stood behind her, in the doorway, his tall body solid, both terrifying and safe. He stepped next to her and closed the door, sinking down onto the step beside her.

  "Are you all right? You went very pale in there."

  His voice could mesmerize. At least it was mesmerizing her. She nodded, because his eyes refused to leave her face, drifting over her intently.

  He frowned suddenly "Are you afraid of me? All this time I just thought you were shy, but you're afraid of me." He made the last a statement.

  She looked away from him. Thankfully whatever was inside of her, threatening to burst free, had subsided along with the terrible need to feel Ridley's hands and mouth on her body.

  His fingers settled gently on her chin and he turned her face toward him. "I wouldn't hurt you. You don't know me, but I would never harm a woman. I'm not like that. I'm new in town and you're at the dojo and make fantastic coffee, that's all. I wanted a little company. Just to talk to, Cat. That's all. End of story."

  It was impossible to look into his eyes and not believe him. Up close she could smell him, and he smelled nice. Very nice. Very masculine. His lashes were long and thick, framing his incredible golden eyes. His tattoos were just as intricate and intriguing as he was. They crawled up his arms, drawing attention to his amazing and very defined muscles.

  He was still looking at her and hadn't blinked once. His fingers remained firm but gentle on her chin. She'd forgotten that she'd been so mesmerized by his eyes. Catarina forced air into her lungs and smiled. Before she could speak he shook his head.

  "I saw the genuine thing, Cat. You smiled at Bernard. You gave him the real smile, the high voltage one that can knock a man off his feet at two hundred yards. I don't want a pretend smile. Give me the real thing or don't smile at me at all. I'm telling you again, I don't hurt women."

  His voice was pure velvet. She shivered, his tone smoothing over her skin. "I'm sorry. I'm not afraid of you." A blatant lie. "I just don't talk much." That was lame. More than lame. She was a total idiot, but maybe that would save her.

  Ridley's fingers slid from her chin. He didn't move, his thigh tight against hers on the narrow steps. "Unfortunately for you, Kitten, I am very adept at knowing a lie when I hear one. I've done my best to reassure you, but talk is cheap. I guess I'll just have to show you I'm a nice guy."

  She was certain he was not. Oh, not like Rafe Cordeau. Not like that. But he was dangerous. She knew dangerous men, and this one sitting beside her was no domestic kitty cat. He was a tiger, all raw power and razor-sharp focus. But he wasn't bad dangerous. He was just plain scary dangerous. And a heartbreaker.

  She sighed, hating that she actually felt the loss of his fingers on her skin--hating that every single cell in her body was aware of him. He was a good ten years older in years and experience. There were scars. There were the tats. There was the cool confidence and the lines in his face that only seemed to add to his masculine beauty.

  She knew what he saw when he looked at her. She'd always looked young and she was barely twenty-one. He would consider her someone he had to look after, just as Malcom did. That was safe. She needed safe, especially around this man.

  "Maybe I am a little afraid of you," she forced herself to admit. "I've seen you in the dojo and you're rather terrifying." That much was true, and if he really were as adept at reading lies then he'd have to hear the sincerity in her voice.

  "That's a place of practice. This is a coffee-house. Unless you're going to stand up in front of that mic and read off some really bad poetry, I don't think you have a thing to worry about," he assured.

  There was a drawling amusement in his voice, one that made her want to laugh with him, but it was as sexy as all get-out, and she couldn't make a noise. Not a single sound for a few seconds. She cleared her throat. "I'm not good at talking to people."

  "You talk just fine to Malcom. In fact, you laugh when you're with him. It's the only time I've seen you actually laugh."

  Her heart jumped. She tensed and knew he felt it. Still, as hard as she tried she couldn't relax. Had he been watching her? Why? What did that mean? She bit
down on her lower lip, a little afraid that she was so paranoid even such a simple statement could make her want to run.

  "Malcom isn't people."

  "I know he's your friend," Ridley conceded. "He's very closed-mouth about you and protective."

  She turned her eyes on him. Fixed. Focused. Alert. "Were you asking him questions about me?"

  "Of course I was. You're beautiful. Mysterious. A turn-on in the dojo. When you move, honestly, Kitten, I've never seen anything like it. You're fast and fluid and hot as hell. You put James Marley down with one punch. One. You hit him exactly on his weak spot and dropped him like a ton of bricks. Your eyes are amazing, and so is your hair. You have the most beautiful face I've ever seen. Are you telling me Malcom doesn't get asked about you regularly? Women like you don't walk the streets alone at night. That's just asking for trouble."

  Her breath slammed out of her lungs. "You followed me?" That couldn't be. She would have known.

  "Every night that you lock up and walk back to the warehouse. Did you really think I'd let a woman walk alone that time of night? Any woman? But especially a woman like you? No fuckin' way."

  Something in his eyes made her shiver. Hot. Angry. A flash, no more, and then quickly suppressed. He really didn't like her walking alone at night.

  He had been at the coffee-house every night the past two weeks until three A.M. But she hadn't seen him or heard him or even felt him following her. And that was bad. She couldn't afford to miss a tail. She had a sixth sense about that kind of thing, and yet he had followed her every single night.

  "I can take care of myself."

  "Cat, even Malcom will tell you that you aren't being realistic. You're good, there's no question about it, but you're small. A man gets his hands on you and you're done. You're smart enough to know that. You can defend from a distance, but if he knows what he's doing he's going to get past that guard and tie you up. Why don't you drive your car? That would be much safer."

  She wasn't about to tell him gas cost the earth. He didn't need to know her personal finances, but she wasn't wasting precious gas when she could walk to and from work. It just wasn't that far.