Lair of the Lion by authors_sort Read Free Book Online Page B

voice.
    "If you save mio fratello, I will not have to feign affection for you, Don DeMarco. It will be so. I have given you my word. Please make the arrangements. Every moment counts, as Lucca's health is failing, and Don Rivellio has ordered his death at the end of this moon's cycle." She sank back into the chair to keep from collapsing into a pitiful heap on the floor.

    "I would not make promises you cannot keep, Signorina Vernaducci. You have not yet seen your bridegroom." There was a grimness to his voice, a hard, implacable warning.
    He moved forward then— she felt him moving rather than heard him—but she didn't turn her gaze away from the fire. Suddenly she didn't want to see him. She wanted to be alone to give herself time to regain her strength and courage. But her legs were far too shaky to carry her from his quarters. He strode into the edge of her vision, tall and muscular, a powerful, fit male, reaching upward to allow the falcon to settle onto a perch built into an alcove far from the fire. And then he was walking toward her. As he approached she became aware of how silently, how quickly, how fluidly, he moved.
    He reached for the small teapot on the table between the two chairs. For one horrible moment Isabella saw a lion's huge paw with dangerous claws. She blinked, and the paw, only an illusion of her terrified imagination, became his hand. She watched as he poured the liquid into two cups and handed her one.
    "Drink this. You will feel better." His voice was gruff, almost as if he regretted the small kindness.
    Gratefully closing her hands around the hot cup, she accidentally brushed his skin with her fingertips. At the slight contact a whip of lightning leapt into her bloodstream, arcing and crackling, sizzling hot. Shocked, she nearly jumped away from him, her startled gaze flying upward to lock with his.

Chapter Three
    Isabella found herself staring into strange, liquid amber eyes. They were mesmerizing. A cat's eyes. Wild. Mysterious. Hypnotizing. Blazing with some emotion she couldn't fathom.
    His pupils were intensely pale and unusually elliptical in shape. Still, she felt she had seen those eyes somewhere before. They weren't altogether unfamiliar to her, and she relaxed, a small smile curving her mouth.
    His hand suddenly cupped her chin, forcing her to continue to meet his fierce gaze. "See me, bride. See your bridegroom. Take a good look at the bargain you have made." His voice had a deep, rumbling note to it, that undertone of growling she had noticed before.
    Isabella did as he said. She began to inspect him. His hair was thick and oddly colored.
    Tawny, almost golden, it framed his face and fell below his shoulders, where it darkened to appear as black and shiny as a raven's wing. The need to touch the thick luxurious mass was so strong, she actually lifted her hand and did so in the lightest of caresses.
    He caught her wrist in a hard, unbreakable grip. She could feel his great body trembling.
    His eyes became turbulent and dangerous, watching her with the unblinking, unnerving stare of a predator locked onto its prey. She saw his features then, the long, obscene scars etched into the left side of the face of an angel. Wicked and frightful, they ran from his scalp to his shadowed jaw, four of them, as if some wild animal had raked his cheek, tearing the flesh right down to the bone. And he did have the face of an angel, absurdly handsome, a face any artist would want to capture on canvas for all time.
    His grip tightened until she thought he might crush her bones, his eyes becoming wilder, narrowing dangerously, fixing on her face as if he were about to leap upon her and devour her for some terrible misdeed. He bent toward her, his perfectly sculpted mouth snarling, a warning growl rumbling in his throat.
    As she continued to gaze at him, his features changed, blurring oddly so that for a moment she thought she was staring into the face of a great beast, its muzzle open to show sharp white