Taking the Stage

Chapter Ten

Anthony’s nostrils flared. Where once tangy citrus, dates and the musk of feminine desire had caressed his nose, only a whiff of porcelain remained. Roseâtre sat frozen, his blue shirt bunched around her waist, one long leg stretched out on the bed, the other hanging loose.

She didn’t breathe.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t live.

Coiled rage vibrated through his cat, claws raking the inside of his skin. The beast demanded that he fix it, that he return Roseâtre. Anthony couldn’t agree more. With tender fingers he touched the three slices he’d cut horizontally across her biceps. They were red, discolored and angry against the pale, doll-like porcelain state of her skin.

The surface of her flesh was ice to the touch. Too smooth. Too lifeless.

“Come to life again,” he ordered, gruff emotion clogging his voice. The gold wristbands and collar glowed, warming imperceptibly, but she didn’t move.

Lunging off the bed, he was careful not to disturb her. What would happen if she fell? Would she, like ancient statues in half-forgotten temples, simply crumble? Would she shatter? His mind whirled with violent possibilities. He found the house phone tucked away in the base of another tree.

Damn clever magicians masking common items in the rainforest suite. He dialed the Midnight Mystery Lounge, gaze pinned on the slender column of Roseâtre’s neck. She faced away from him.

Could she hear him?

“I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m just calling downstairs to…” He broke off when the jangling ring interrupted and was answered immediately.

“She’s fine, Mr. diNapoli. She will resume her human form at sundown.” The simple statement sent a fresh wave of rage roaring through his blood. Heidi might have impressed him with her no-nonsense attitude and brusque manner, but how could anyone be so cavalier?

“What the hell is wrong with her? What did you people do?”

“It’s not important. What’s important is that she will be herself once more when the sun sets.”

It was a measure of control that kept him from cracking the phone in half. “I have a right to a straight answer.”

“Actually, Mr. diNapoli, you have the right to demand those answers from Roseâtre, not from me. If you can’t handle it, I’ll send Stan up to collect her so she can awaken in her own suite.”

“No.” He didn’t have to think it over. He’d eviscerate any man that tried to walk in and take her away.

“Fine. Then I suggest you get some rest. We have approximately eleven and a half hours till sunset. Considering you’ve rehearsed six of seven days this week, I’ll give you and Roseâtre the night off. I’ll expect you both, promptly, tomorrow evening.”

And then she hung up.

Anthony stared at the phone, his fist clenching until it broke into three pieces.

She posed the night off like it was a gift. Then reminded him he still had a job to do.

Bitch.

“Your boss is a piece of work,” he told Roseâtre’s still form, circling the bed to gaze at her glassy eyes. A mournful keening swelled in his throat. The cat didn’t understand.

Hell, Anthony didn’t either. He considered the key, but she’d been adamant about leaving the collar and bands in place. He couldn’t seem to sit still.

Anthony paced from one side of the small clearing to the other. A questioning yowl came from the direction of the path, but Anthony waved Nalini and the other females off. His distress was calling to them. But he didn’t know how they’d react to Roseâtre’s porcelain prison.

He couldn’t afford to find out the hard way.

Did he use the key or not?

Would that free her?

What would he do if it didn’t?

What would she do if she discovered his choice?

The thoughts collided, tumbling over and over. He’d won their sparring match. By the laws of her people and his, she belonged to him. The cat growled in fierce agreement.

“Fine. I’ll leave them where they are, but when you wake we’re removing them. Together. I don’t know what oath holds you to those bands and I don’t care.” That was a lie. Of course, he cared.

He scowled, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Fine, I care, but only because it matters to you. But you’re going to let me help you.” He stabbed two fingers in her direction, the command vibrating through him. She might be silent, still, locked in the prison of magic so deep and ancient he had no explanation for it, but he understood the slave bands.

That command would linger.

By the gods she would hate him.

But she’d have to be alive to do so, and he would gladly suffer her fury to see the light come back into her eyes, the fierce pleasure of her grin and the wild energy of her being pulsing around him.

The day was endless, interminable. He paced. He swam. He ate what was left of their dinner. The food tasted of ashes and the scents of the forest were too false. His mind could latch on to nothing save the doll awaiting the sunset.

The grass around his bed was flattened, dented with the imprint of his bare feet. He’d stripped out of his jeans to swim and left them in a pile next to the pool.

Shifting, the cat stretched and resumed the man’s circuit, tail twitching. He paused at her bare leg, brushing it gently for fear of harming her. He even whuffled his breath down to her bare, still toes and swiped them with his tongue.

To his disappointment, she didn’t flinch.

The cat finally tired of pacing and waiting. He ignored the phone when it rang, settling down to sit and watch, tail thrashing back and forth.

Sundown approached.

His fur tingled. Nose quivering, he opened his mouth to taste the air. A shiver of feeling scraped an icy-hot path across his teeth and tongue like spearmint. Unexpected, but not unpleasant.

Motion trembled the hand on the bed. His gaze fastened on to the long, slender fingers as they flushed pink and clenched the sheets. The color spread rapidly over her, the porcelain flaking away in sparks of magic.

The cat became a man, fur melting away until it was his curled fists resting on the bed. Roseâtre’s eyes blinked once, then twice, as her chest lifted, filling the air with the sweet, swift sound of her breathing.

“Hello.”

He swallowed the tremulous word off her lips, kissing her with a fierce intensity. Her lips parted under his, welcoming the invasion of his tongue as he swiped it against her teeth, dueled with her tongue and drank deep of the flavor that was Roseâtre.

All of his good intentions slipped away as he ripped the shirt apart, not willing to leave her lips to pull it over her head. She seemed to be a more than active participant. He groaned as her hands stroked over his shoulders, nails grazing his biceps and then across his chest. Sliding his arms under hers, he lifted her until she could wrap her legs around his waist. He broke from the kiss long enough to meet her pleasure-drenched gaze.

“Tell me.” The words were gruff, hoarse with need. He fought the urge of his body to buck.

“Take me,” Roseâtre whispered, sliding her hand between them. His cock jerked as she closed her hot palm around it and then she was urging him to her and he was enveloped in slick, hot folds.

It would be fierce. His body demanded speed and he didn’t want to wait to mark her. She braced her feet flat on the bed behind his kneeling legs, pelvis dipping to meet his thrusts. He glided his hands up her back, testing the heat of her skin.

He plunged his fingers into her hair as his body drove into hers. She tilted her head, back curving. Small sounds rocked from her throat as he surged up, pushing deeper. The inner muscles of her sex clung to him, squeezing him until he could barely see.

The musk of her permeated the air, driving away the magical stink of her imprisonment. Her body goaded his, riding him with abandon. Her head tilted back, her mouth open to the faux sky above and her breasts brushed his beard.

His balls tightened unbearably, the pressure building to a fever pitch. His mouth opened, capturing a puckered nipple and suckling it until he felt her convulse. And still he drove into her, torturing the nipple until it was full, plump and pointed.

Her nails ripped into his shoulders, scoring deep and his release burst free. His heart slammed into his chest as he continued thrusting, the need to fill her primal. He surged upward, still buried, and slammed her back against the bed, his mouth going to the swell of her breast.

“Anthony…” Her voice shook. But the beast in him wouldn’t be dissuaded, pushed away or rejected.

Not now.

Not after mourning her loss throughout the day.

She writhed beneath him, his cock swelling full once more, even as he rode the cusp of his orgasm. His body wanted his mate. Wanted her marked. Wanted his scent all over her. No one would mistake her for anything else.

He pinned her hands to the bed, driving deeper with long, even strokes. His tongue swirled over the curve of her breast, her body strained against his, hips rising to meet him and he accepted the surrender for what it was.

With the cat’s roars echoing in his mind, Roseâtre’s orgasmic shouts of pleasure humming in his ears and the scent of their bodies coming together filling his nose, Anthony bit down.

Marking her.

Mine.