Wild Cat

by Christine Feehan

  She became aware of her breasts heaving, pulled right out of her camisole. With a trembling hand she started her car and drove a little recklessly away from the house, down the long winding drive, her jeans still in one hand, her breasts exposed, her blood and his seed staining the driver's seat under her.

  She didn't care. She had to get out of his sight and she did, driving almost to the gates where she stopped the car, got out and was sick. She had to crouch down to empty her stomach. Her shaky legs barely held her up. The first time she'd come home from grad school was on her break several months earlier. That had been normal; she always returned home on her breaks.

  Her grandfather had asked her to take a case of his reserve to one of his oldest friends, Don Miguel, a man his age who often graced their table, played dominoes with her and spent a great deal of time laughing. She was very fond of him. She'd stayed at his home for an hour, played their favorite game before kissing his cheek and leaving. She left for school the next day. Her first day back to school, her grandfather called her and told her that Don Miguel was dead. She hadn't asked how because the man was in his eighties. Everyone knew he had a bad heart. She should have asked.

  She bit back a sob and pressed her hand to her mouth again. The second visit she'd been called home because her grandfather was ill. The flu, it turned out. He'd asked her just before she left to deliver a case of his best reserve to another friend, Carlo Bianchi, a man who had actually worked for him for a long time. He'd started his own businesses and become very successful, but the two men remained good friends. She'd stayed an hour, laughing and joking with him. She liked him too. He was her grandfather's age and always treated her like a granddaughter. Three days later she learned he had died--that someone had broken into his home and shot him.

  Siena had come back home for his funeral. Her grandfather had spoken at the funeral, in fact, he'd gotten so choked up that Siena had gotten up and taken over his talk for him. He had quietly wept through the entire service. She had stayed close to her grandfather, worried that he might become ill at the death of such a close friend on the heels of the first that had come only a few weeks before.

  She found a bottle of water in her gym bag, rinsed her mouth and spit, wishing she hadn't removed her gym clothes when she had gone upstairs to change before she had left the house. Then she pulled her camisole up over her breasts, trying to smooth out the material with shaking hands. The fabric was torn, shredded around the cups, but she managed to cover up. She rinsed her mouth a second time, trying to keep her brain blank, but she couldn't.

  The third time she'd delivered her case of reserve was to Luigi Baldini, a man in his sixties, one she didn't know as well as her grandfather's other two friends, but he came often to the house to consult with her grandfather on several business dealings. He was always very polite. She'd stayed a few minutes, given him the congratulations from her grandfather on his latest business coup and left. She didn't know he was dead until two months later when she came back for another short weekend.

  She pressed the water bottle to her throbbing head. She was in no state to drive. Her body felt used up. Shaky. Achy. She hurt in places she didn't know she had and worse, she could feel him inside of her, stretching her, leaving skid marks. She knew she would carry Elijah's mark on her. She also knew she never wanted to see him again. She never wanted to repeat what happened between them with anyone else. Ever. She couldn't get his voice out of her. The worst I ever had. Don't even know how to suck cock.

  The fourth time she'd delivered wine had been to Angelo Fabbri. Angelo was the son of her grandfather's best friend. Angelo had taken over his father's restaurant when his father had a massive stroke a few years earlier. She'd known Angelo since she could remember. He had bad luck in his relationships and she could never figure out why. He seemed like a good man. She had met him at his restaurant after hours to give him the wine, had coffee, talked for a while and then hugged him good-bye.

  Angelo had been on his way home, the day's take in his car, when someone who had been hiding in his backseat shot him in the back of the head. The police had questioned her. She had been the last person to spend time with him. They wanted to know if she'd seen anyone out in the parking lot, or near his car. The wine was in the trunk. She didn't understand how Angelo could have put the wine in the trunk of his car and not see the robber.

  She'd cried for days over Angelo's death, her grandfather trying to console her. Never once had it occurred to her that any of those deaths were related. Not one time did she put it together that she had been the last person to see all four men. The deaths were weeks and months apart. Could her grandfather really have had those men killed? Murdered? His friends? Men who sat at their table with them frequently. Could he really be such a monster and she not know?

  Marco worked for him. He'd been around as long as she could remember. She knew Marco would never act on his own. He was quiet, unassuming, but his eyes were watchful and often very cold. Not necessarily when he looked at her or her grandfather. Marco had headed the team of men rescuing her when she was kidnapped that first time when she was ten. He'd held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth once they found her, shielding her from the sight of the bodies of the dead men. He always watched over her grandfather, and cared nothing for the business, only for the protection of Antonio Arnotto.

  Elijah clearly had been waiting for him ever since she'd driven up. He knew a hit man would be coming, and he probably knew who that man was. Her face turned scarlet. Her heart shifted in her chest and her stomach lurched alarmingly again. Elijah had deliberately had sex with her. He hadn't been overcome with passion as she had been. Another sob escaped. She'd been a complete and utter fool. The worst I ever had. She knew she would never get his assessment of her abilities out of her mind until the day she died. He'd branded her in more ways than one. Don't even know how to suck cock.

  "Oh. My. God. What did I do?" she whispered. There was no taking it back. No way to change what happened. How did she live with it? With being the distraction that allowed her grandfather to have his friends murdered? With wild, dirty sex that she wasn't any good at. With Elijah knowing what she was, a whore her grandfather sent out to distract his friends while he sent someone to murder them.

  With shaky hands, she pulled on her jeans. She was sore and achy. Worse. That horrible, disgusting hunger was beginning to build again. She hated herself. She hated her grandfather. She hated her life, and most of all she hated Elijah. She wasn't the person he made her out to be. He had to have known it was her first time. She couldn't have been whoring herself out for her grandfather. And if her grandfather was guilty of being the man it had been rumored he was--what did that say about Elijah? He ran in the same circles.

  She got back in the car barefoot. He could keep her beautiful strappy green sandals that gave her four inches when she wore them. She never wanted to see them again. Or the camisole or her bloodstained jeans. She was going home to inform her grandfather Marco was dead. Then she was packing her bags and leaving.

  She cried all the way back to the estate. Parking in the cavernous, heated garage, she ran up the back stairs and let herself in that way, going through the kitchen, hoping to avoid everyone. She needed a shower, although she didn't think she could ever scrub hard or long enough to erase what had happened. Erase the feel of Elijah's hands and mouth. She couldn't brush her teeth long enough to ever get the taste of him out of her mouth, or the scent of him out of her lungs.

  Siena hurried through the house to the stairs leading to the upper story. The more she thought about it, the less she wanted to confront her grandfather and the more she wanted to just leave. She dashed at the tears still falling and skidded to a halt as she entered her bedroom. Paolo sat on the edge of her bed. His gaze jumped to her face and he looked--terrifying.

  His face was dark, almost red with anger. The anger radiated throughout her room, filling the air until she nearly choked on it.

  "What are you doing in here?
" she asked.

  Even as she spoke, she found herself looking beyond him to the bed where he sat. Her comforter, the one her grandmother had given her, was shredded, great long tears right down the center of it. She looked around her. The room was in shambles. The walls had rake marks, as if a giant cat had scraped its claws from ceiling to floor, peeling paint and wood off in strips.

  "Shut the door."

  Her heart seemed to stop for a minute and then began to pound. She tasted fear in her mouth. Paolo looked--evil. When she didn't move, he stood up, stalked to the door and slammed it closed behind her. He came close to her, inhaling her scent as he walked around her.

  He was close. Too close. She felt his body heat. His rage. She wanted to move, but her feet refused to cooperate. She could actually hear herself screaming inside.

  "I can smell his stench on you," he spat out.

  She remained silent, the tremors seizing her body worsening. Something terrible was happening and she didn't know how to stop it.

  "Did he fuck you?"

  She took a breath and remained silent.

  "Did you let him fuck you?" Paolo roared the question, his voice like thunder, his features contorted with anger.

  "That's not your business," she replied in a whisper. She couldn't look at him. She could never look at another man again.

  "You fucking whore."

  He slapped her hard, the blow sending her flying. She landed on her side, beside the dresser, facing away from him. She didn't see the immaculate Italian leather shoe coming at her. She felt it though, kicking her twice, and then he rained blows on her with his fists. She curled into a ball, hands over her face as he beat her. She sobbed. Pleaded. He didn't stop for what seemed an eternity but could only have been a couple of minutes.

  Finally. Finally, there was no more, just the sound of his heavy breathing and her broken sobs. The worst of it was she didn't know if she was crying because she hurt everywhere, or because of the terrible things Elijah had said to her, or seeing Marco, a man she actually liked, dead on the floor in a pool of blood. She was utterly and totally humiliated. Utterly and totally beaten down. She'd never felt so small or so scared in her life.

  Paolo crouched close to her, gripping her hair in his hand and pulling her head up so he could look down into her face. "You. Belong. To. Me. If you insist on acting like a slut, I'll treat you that way. This is what sluts get, so make up your mind what you're going to be, Siena. My adored wife, or my slut I use any way I see fit."

  There was disgust in his voice. So much. He made her feel filthy. She didn't understand her behavior with Elijah. She'd never done anything like that in her life. Never. She'd never even dreamt of having sex like that. Wild. Abandoned. Out of control. But just the thought of Elijah had her body burning, wanting more. Paolo was right. She was a slut and a whore. She was everything he said, and she wasn't any good at it either. She would never--ever--make that mistake again. She felt vulnerable, fragile, and Paolo had just taken anything she had left of herself away from her.

  Paolo released his grip on her hair, spit in her face and then was gone, leaving her lying there, hurting so bad she didn't think she would ever be able to move, with spittle running down her cheek. Her stomach lurched. The waves of itching grew stronger as if something raced beneath her skin, pushing and shoving to escape. She hurt so bad everywhere, but now, she was aware of every joint, her knuckles, her knees, her ankles and even her jaw. She rolled, trying to get to her knees. The moment she did, she began to vomit. She couldn't even get to the bathroom.

  Once she was able to stop the terrible retching, she crawled toward the bathroom and the cool tiles. Her clothes hurt her skin. She couldn't stand the weight of the fabric, and her body temperature seemed to be soaring. The burning between her legs was back. Horrible. Needy. Her body wanted him--Elijah. She despised herself--and him.

  Siena pulled herself into a sitting position and then shakily, using the sink, pulled herself to her feet. Her face was already swelling. There was blood streaking down her face from several cuts where Paolo's knuckles had split her skin open. Her camisole was torn from Elijah, the material in tatters, exposing the tops of her breasts. There were bruises forming there as well. Every breath she drew was painful.

  She yanked down her jeans and kicked them away from her. Wetting a washcloth she cleaned the evidence of her innocence and Elijah's possession from between her legs and thighs, but she couldn't take away the feeling of him there inside, filling her. She pulled off the ruined camisole and let it drop to the floor while she stared at herself in the mirror, hardly recognizing herself.

  She had to tell her grandfather. No, she had to show her grandfather what his beloved, first-in-command had done to her. Then she had to confront him about Marco. She wiped the spit from her face, her stomach lurching again dangerously.

  Her movements clumsy, she dragged on a T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans and went slowly down the stairs, using the bannister to keep herself upright. Each step jarred her bruised ribs so she wrapped her arms around her middle as she walked into her grandfather's sitting room, her face still bloody, her breath hitching in her lungs with every step.

  Paolo stood just inside her grandfather's sitting room. She felt the instant tension in the room as she moved inside, bloody, swaying, holding her arms around her bruised ribs. Her grandfather looked up slowly, his old, faded eyes moving over her face and then going back to Paolo. She didn't see censure there, only resignation.

  Paolo licked at the blood on his knuckles, but said nothing, his eyes on her. She waited, her gaze fixed on her grandfather. He should be yelling. Ordering Paolo out. Instead, his gaze came back to her and he shook his head.

  "Tell me you did not do this thing, Siena. You allowed the bastardo Lospostos to put his hands on you?"

  She flinched at the disgust in his voice, but she didn't move. Didn't respond. They couldn't make her feel any lower than she already felt. She wasn't going to defend herself. There was no defense. Still, there was no defense for what Paolo had done and certainly none for what her grandfather had done. They were all guilty of something.

  "I did not raise my granddaughter to puttaneggiare."

  Her breath left her lungs in a long rush. "To play the whore? To be a slut? You didn't? You just send me to your friends, men who have been at our dinner table, to distract them so Marco can slip into their home and murder them. You raised me to assist a murderer. All those rumors, Nonno, all those rumors about you are true, aren't they?"

  There was a long silence. Her grandfather exchanged a long look with Paolo.

  "Siena." He whispered her name, for the first time looking his age.

  Her stomach lurched. She'd been holding out hope that there was some other explanation, but she read the truth there. She saw it in his eyes. In the way he looked at her. In the exchange with Paolo.

  "He missed, Nonno. Marco is dead, and Elijah knows you tried to have him killed. In fact, he was waiting for it. He knows about the others." She kept her gaze on her grandfather, but she was fully aware of Paolo watching her closely. She forced her lungs to keep breathing, although every breath she took hurt.

  The others. Their friends. She still held out hope, even though she knew better. She didn't want to be a part of killing their friends. Friends who had laughed with her, believed she was simply visiting. They were glad. Grateful. She actually felt dirt coating her skin, grinding into her pores, making her ugly and filthy. Her own grandfather had used her to kill his friends.

  "I have enemies, Siena," her grandfather said softly. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to her, leaning down to tip her face up to his.

  She tried to jerk away, not wanting to feel his touch. Not wanting to be any part of him. Of his world. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. He caught her chin firmly, murmuring soothingly in Italian to her. His thumb touched one of the cuts on her face and he turned to look at Paolo. This time, the censure was there. Paolo glanced at the floor, managing t
o look ashamed.

  "I didn't know what I was doing, Tonio," Paolo said. "For a moment, I lost control."

  Paolo hadn't apologized. He hadn't lost control, not in the way he meant. She wouldn't forget what he'd said to her. His threat. She could be an adored wife or his slut, and he would treat her according to her choice.

  "Rafe Cordeau has disappeared, is presumed dead, and that has left a vacuum in the business world--a world you don't yet understand, Siena." With a sigh, her grandfather smoothed back her hair and returned to his seat. "Our world is made up of great danger. You know that. My son and your mother. Lost to me. To us. You nearly taken twice. I had to move to protect us. Elijah Lospostos is a man who would take what is not his."

  A low growl rumbled in Paolo's chest. Her gaze jumped to him. She was fearful, in spite of the fact that she still wanted to rip his face off. In spite of her defiance and the famous Arnotto temper he had aroused in her. She didn't want him to hit her again. Or kick her. She already hurt enough, and truthfully, she was afraid of him and what he might do to her.

  "You used me. Not only to target Elijah, but four other of our friends, men I knew from the time I was a small child. You're right, Nonno, I don't understand this world, nor do I want to." She lifted her head and stared him straight in the eye. "This man"--her hand swept toward Paolo--"this man punched me with his fists. He kicked me in the ribs with his shoes. He hurt me, and you do not punish him, you do not even reprimand him, and in failing to do that, you condone what he did. You speak of a marriage between us . . ." There was total contempt in her voice. "You show me I don't have your protection or his."

  "You do not understand. After your marriage . . ."

  She glanced at Paolo, her arm once more sweeping out, her hand shaking. "This is the man you want me to marry? Seriously? A man who would do this to me? You approve of him and his behavior?"

  Her grandfather's gaze softened and he shook his head. "Paolo is headstrong. Passionate. He didn't want you to go to the house of Lospostos, but I insisted. He knew better. He knew you were close . . ."