Fire Bound

by Christine Feehan

  Casimir shrugged. "You've got my word." He leaned across the warmth of the fire, his gaze caught for a moment. His eyes were molten, a liquid silver, nearly the same color as Ilya's, the youngest brother. His hair was nearly pitch-black. Strange streaks of silver radiated through, indicating that at some point something sharp had sliced along his skull and left behind those five thin lines. He kept his hair cropped short and neat. He had a strong jaw, covered with stubble.

  His features were cut with angles and planes. Three scars ran from his chin to the top of his skull, thin slices, as if whatever had managed to cut into his head had also found his face. The scars were barely there, but they kept his face from being model beautiful.

  "Tell me about your lives. Everything. What you've been doing all these years and what you're doing now. I've got less than an hour before I have to go, and I may never see you again. Talk."

  2

  Sometimes life was pure irony. Casimir Prakenskii was an assassin. A premier, elite assassin. He'd been an assassin since his fifteenth birthday. He'd been in training practically from birth to be anyone - anyone at all - with the exception of Casimir Prakenskii. He didn't even know who Casimir was. He wouldn't recognize the man if he looked in the mirror.

  The role he found himself in was unexpectedly more difficult than he had anticipated. Simple enough on the surface, he'd certainly played such roles before - enough that this one was second nature to him. A bodyguard on the estate of Luigi Abbracciabene. He usually could slide into any position easily, but Luigi kept only a very few men on the Abbracciabene estate.

  The house and grounds weren't overly large, but the estate was guarded by two roving men, not a team. Still, he managed to be in the right place when one of the bodyguards "unexpectedly" came down with a "serious illness" and decided to take leave. He'd been briefed and knew his target was coming for a visit and fortunately, he had a couple of weeks to get his cover in place.

  His quarry was beautiful. There was no other word for her. Beautiful. She didn't laugh often, but when she did, every head turned toward her. It wasn't difficult to keep an eye on her because she liked to be outside, and her hair gave her away. When the sun poured down on her, her hair looked like a living flame. Sheets of thick red hair framed her delicate oval face. Her eyes were startling blue. Not blue green, but a true deep sapphire blue framed by thick red-gold lashes she rarely bothered to darken with mascara.

  She had noticed him immediately and made inquiries. She didn't live there. She hadn't been there in over a year, but she still noticed he wasn't a regular in the household. For some strange reason, he found that sexy - that she seemed to notice things other women wouldn't.

  She had come right up to him to introduce herself. Close. Unafraid. He'd never been affected by a woman before, not even when he slept with one, but there was no denying the instant attraction. She felt it too. He saw it in her eyes just for the briefest of seconds. Her breathing changed. One inhale. Two. That was it, but he'd noted it. Remembered. Would always remember that moment because, for him, it was significant. He'd felt the pull of their chemistry, and so had she. She was covering it and ignoring it, just as he was.

  For the first time in his life, staring down into those amazing blue eyes, he wished a woman could see Casimir Prakenskii and not the man he was portraying. He didn't want this woman affected by a fictional character, a bodyguard who would do his job and walk away never to be seen again. He wanted her to see him - whoever the hell that was.

  Her voice was soft, pitched low and melodious. The notes sank right through his skin and branded her into his bones - not a good start for a man like him. He was a master of disguise and, along with that, he was a master of his emotions, but he found himself listening for the sound of her voice wherever he was, inside or outside the house. He didn't allow her - or anyone else - to see his reaction to her; he tucked it away to bring out later to savor. It was a gift. Feeling. Anything at all besides loneliness and despair. Feeling for a woman was a gift.

  She'd been there a week. He'd accompanied her security detail into town when she went with her uncle Luigi, which was nearly every day. She liked to wander around town. He knew it wasn't her hometown. She'd been born in Ferrara, the only child of Marcello and Elisabeta Abbracciabene. Her name then had been Giacinta and she'd been a true Celtic throwback, just like her mother with her flaming red hair and her incredible blue eyes. His information had included pictures from her childhood along with her extraordinary history.

  The child had supposedly died with her parents. Luigi had managed to keep her existence from the world, and he'd sent her away when she was eighteen. She'd returned as the artist Lissa Piner. Luigi introduced her as someone important to him, like a daughter - or a niece - and she was to be treated that way. All the men seemed to accept that Luigi and Lissa had a relationship and Luigi considered her family.

  He never heard her coming, she was that soft on her feet when she moved around her uncle's home. But he felt her. He knew where she was at any given time in the house, that was how aware of her he was. He had time to drape himself casually against the wall, a pose he knew annoyed her because she always made a comment about how easy his job seemed to be. He noticed she didn't say much to the other bodyguards as they spent their time playing pool or video games in the recreation room. Just him. And he liked that it was just him. Even if she was reprimanding him.

  She always smiled at him as she came into the room, her bow of a mouth, lips full and red without adornment, curving into a soft smile that didn't quite reach her blue eyes. He'd thought about her mouth far too much. The shape of it. The way her lips appeared satin soft, giving him one too many fantasies. Leaving him restless at night. He could sleep anywhere, any time. He'd learned it was necessary in his line of work, but nearly impossible with her haunting his dreams.

  Small white teeth flashed at him, while her eyes studied him. Carefully. Taking in everything. He was tall, wide-shouldered, but lean. That was one of the many gifts he had. That leanness allowed him to gain weight overnight or shed it, depending on the role he played. His sinewy body was deceptive in that it hid the enormous strength he had. He carried not an ounce of fat on him and was athletic. He was all muscle, with long ropes of sinew below his skin.

  He had scars. A lot of them. Not, strangely enough, from his profession. He wasn't a man to get caught - most of the time. Most of the scars were from his training. It had been brutal, there in the schools he attended. He had been difficult. Defiant. He took to the weapons and hand-to-hand combat training with ease. Excelling. He was very good at his seduction training. But schooling, languages, that bored the hell out of him. Still, he learned, because if one didn't, one died.

  He had learned to torture and what it felt like to be tortured. He'd never forget the feel of knives slicing into his flesh. The burns. The electrical shocks. Sometimes, he woke in the night, sweat pouring from his body, his gun in his fist, the taste of blood in his mouth from biting down hard to keep from making a sound.

  His parents had been murdered for their politics - they'd been too outspoken about the reforms that were needed in their country. His parents loved Russia and wanted to see the government work for its people. Instead, a hit squad had come calling. Casimir and his six brothers had been taken to the schools.

  The man running the schools, Kostya Sorbacov, hadn't wanted to take a chance on them being loyal to one another so had separated them. He wanted their loyalty to him, to his orders. He was the power behind the throne.

  The brutality and sheer cruelty of the training methods employed had ensured that many of the students, most like him - sons or daughters of those killed for their opposition - had died during training. Others - like him - learned not to feel. Never to show emotion. He became exactly what they wanted, because if he didn't, they would kill one of his brothers. He knew what kind of death that would be. Slow. Tortured. He'd seen - and learned - how to administer that kind of death.

  Like their parents, each
of the Prakenskii brothers had psychic gifts. Those gifts were strong and enabled them to survive and thrive in the brutal environment. He had survived, but sometimes, like now, he wondered at what cost. He had no home, no name, no past and no future. He moved through the world, slipping in and out of identities, and none of them were real. Not. A. Single. One.

  He kept his gaze on his target while he went over the facts of his prey in his mind. The woman now called herself Lissa Piner. She'd been born Giacinta Abbracciabene and had fled Sicily nearly six years earlier and gone to the United States where she'd become Lissa Piner. She'd joined a therapy group for women who had lost a family member to murder and felt responsible for that murder. He didn't understand why she would feel responsible - she'd been a child when her parents were murdered - but in a way he was glad she had.

  During those sessions she'd met five other women she'd become fast friends with. In fact, they'd developed a family and bought a farm together. Lissa was a loner. She hadn't allowed anyone into her life until she'd met those women. He liked that she had them. He knew what it was like to live completely alone, off the grid, living a lie. He would die that way, without friends or family. He was glad she wouldn't.

  She was coming toward him. Into the room. His body recognized the fact that she was in the vicinity, long before he actually saw her. She radiated heat. Maybe it was the hair, all that glorious hair, or the passion inside her she kept bottled up and contained. He saw it. He felt it. She could hide it from everyone else but not from him.

  Lissa Piner walked right up to him. Close. So close his lungs filled with her scent. The fragrance was elusive, barely there, just enough for a man to want to get even closer so he could pull more of her natural perfume deeper. He couldn't remember the name of the flower it reminded him of.

  Her eyes, that vivid, vibrant blue, remained steady on his face. On his eyes. He wore contacts, of course, dark brown ones, to fit with his image of dark hair. She had to tilt her head up to look him in the eye. He kept the scars and his hair hidden from the world. Tomasso Dal Porto didn't have those scars or that silver-streaked hair.

  "Good morning, Tomasso," Lissa said.

  His gut tightened. He didn't like the little purr in her voice. She had acknowledged him every single time she saw him, just as she did every other worker on her uncle's estate, but somehow, the way she treated him was very different. The way she watched him. So closely, as if she knew he was something other than what he appeared.

  He was wary of her now. He didn't let his unease show on his face. His cover was solid. His character was solid. His accent was perfect. He had a history, and even he believed he was Tomasso Dal Porto.

  Casimir inclined his head, his dark gaze sweeping over her a little insolently. She didn't rise to the bait as she usually did. Her eyes would get even bluer and her mouth would set in a perfectly sensual line right before she delivered some reprimand, although he was fairly certain she wasn't aware of that. His alarms shrieked at him that he was in trouble in more ways than one. "Good morning, Signorina Piner."

  She pressed her lips together. "How many times do I have to ask you to call me Lissa?"

  He shrugged. "It isn't done." None of the other bodyguards would dare be that familiar with her. Her uncle wouldn't like it. He wasn't about to get singled out. He didn't like that she had begun, over the last two days, to insist he call her by her first name.

  She leaned closer to him, her mouth near his ear. If she'd been taller, she could have touched him, but her head came up to the middle of his chest. "Coward," she murmured softly. So softly it would be impossible for anyone else to hear had they not been alone in the room.

  He didn't reply. He kept his expression completely blank, giving nothing away. Damn, but up close she was even more potent. All that bottled-up passion in her wild, blue gaze. Her hair felt like silk where it brushed his arm. He didn't have physical reactions to women, yet he found himself having to fight his cock. Just with the warmth of her breath and her scent surrounding him, he was growing hard. Full. Without permission. Something he hadn't done since he was seventeen and had been lashed so many times, the lash tearing open his flesh until he learned total discipline and control over his body.

  "I'd like to take a walk around the grounds, and I need you to accompany me."

  There was a slightly imperious note in her voice. She wasn't asking. He raised an eyebrow and managed to stand straight with a fluid graceful movement that brought his body right up against hers deliberately. He felt her breath hitch. Her vivid blue eyes went wide and then deepened in color. He had the mad desire to see what happened when he thrust deep into her and made her come apart for him. He let that show. Just for a moment. A glimpse, no more.

  "I like that you need me, Signorina Piner." He kept his voice low. Sensual. Pouring meaning into his choice of words. Deliberately baiting her by using her surname.

  Faint color stole up her porcelain skin. Her skin was a work of art, yet he was certain no painter would ever do it justice. He held her gaze a long moment and then he smiled and indicated she precede him. Lissa stared up at his face a heartbeat longer and then she turned abruptly and headed for the door. He didn't walk beside her, but fell into step behind her, annoying her even more.

  He liked to watch her walk. She was always silent. Graceful. He couldn't imagine her ever stumbling. She moved like a ballet dancer, fluid and poised. Confident. She was small and even slight, but he was observant and he could see the way her muscles moved beneath her amazing skin. She had a great ass, and he liked the way she swayed when she walked, the material from her long skirt shaping and falling suggestively. She was a very sensual woman. She turned heads everywhere she went, but he hadn't noticed her flirting with anyone. The closest she ever came was with him, and it wasn't flirting. Just that small reaction she couldn't always hide.

  She led the way to the gardens and then stopped and waited for him. There was a definite challenge on her face. Her chin had gone up; the blue eyes narrowed. "Which one are you?" she demanded in English.

  He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're asking me," he answered in fluent Italian. Perfect accent. He looked like a native. He acted like one. His movements were flawless. He never stepped out of character. Never.

  "Yes, you do," she hissed. "I'm not playing this game with you. Gavriil contacted you, didn't he? And don't you dare lie to me or I'll go to my uncle and have him throw you out so fast your head will spin."

  Gavriil, of course, had initiated the contact with him and supplied him with all the information necessary to shadow Lissa Piner, but she couldn't possibly know that. None of his brothers would ever give him up to their women, no matter how enamored with them. They were used to protecting one another, and he was on assignment.

  "It had to be Gavriil. He's so..." She broke off, paced away from him, all fluid energy. She turned again to face him and glared, her fingers closed into two tight fists. "Overbearing." She spat the word at him. "Arrogant. Dominant. I refuse to have you watching over me. Babysitting me."

  He looked confused. Brought his hand up to the nape of his neck, frowning. Massaging. "It is my job to look after you. Don Luigi has insisted you have a bodyguard at all times..."

  "Not Don Luigi, you oaf. Gavriil. Your brother. He sent you. I know that he did. Probably every last one of them is in on it. You are definitely a Prakenskii," she accused. "I should have known he would do something like this."

  One week and she'd discovered his identity. That wasn't good. He'd stayed alive by being a master of disguise. He rubbed at his neck muscles, shaking his head. Frowning. He could play poker with the best of them. "How many brothers do I have?" There was just the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. Amusement and confusion. It was a work of art, that tone. He could see the sudden wariness in her eyes, as if for just a moment she doubted herself.

  She lifted her chin at him. The gesture was a clear challenge and it brought out something unexpected - and wicked - in him. The need to tame.
To dominate. She was all fire. A living flame, so beautiful she took his breath away.

  "You have six brothers, as if you didn't know."

  He raised an eyebrow at her. Quirked his lips as if the superior male was hiding his laughter from the silly little female. "Six? I didn't think I had any siblings, but now that I have six I think I need to know where I fall into the mix. Am I the oldest? Youngest? Please give me more information on my family."

  "You're in the middle, which makes you the most obnoxious."

  He burst out laughing. "I see. If you wanted my attention, cara, all you had to do was say so. You didn't have to make up an elaborate scheme." He swept his hand down the length of her long red hair, shaping the back of her head, down her spine to the curve of her very sweet ass. He allowed his hand to linger there.

  To her credit, she didn't move away, but she went very still. Something shifted inside him, warning him. She had been just that little bit uncertain. Off-balance. Defending herself and her idea that she might know who he was. Now she was acutely aware of him again. The man. The man he didn't see himself. The man he didn't know. Casimir Prakenskii. That man without a real identity. Or a home. Or a family. Him.

  She saw too much. Far too much. Vision like that could get a person killed.

  He remained silent, his gaze on her face. He shifted closer, subtly, aware they were alone. She had deliberately ensured no one was in sight or hearing of them. He wanted to scare her into backing off. She didn't seem to scare easily. She didn't step away. Didn't move a muscle. Her gaze drifted over his face and then jumped back to his eyes.