Ricco sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, spilling thick dark strands over his forehead. “I guess that’s it, Emilio. I didn’t spot anyone I was wild about, but I’ll go over the applicants again and see if anything hits me.” That was pretty much a lie, and any one of his brothers or his sister would know he wasn’t about to go through those applications again.
“The one whipping off her shirt was good,” Emilio pointed out with a grin. “I’m keeping her phone number and address.”
“She’ll expect you to tie her up,” Ricco warned.
“I can do that.” Emilio rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. “I hate sitting around. Even with all the models coming in, seriously, Ricco, this isn’t my thing. Next time, have Enzo help out.”
Ricco knew there wouldn’t be a next time. He knew none of the applicants were going to work out. He was going to go home and toss every single one of the submissions in the fireplace. That last ray of hope he’d held out had died a violent death when the very last model had sat there chewing gum with her mouth open and with the top three buttons open on a shirt three sizes too small, all while her hand kept straying to Emilio to stroke his arm suggestively.
Every one of the models had thought Emilio to be the rope master. They’d advertised a good wage, stating the photographs would be used in a book but would be exclusive to the rope master. Out of three hundred applicants, only about fifteen were clearly models with experience in rope art.
A timid knock on the door had them both turning as a woman clutching a book in her arms pushed halfway in. “Am I too late?” There was a note of apprehension in her musical voice.
Ricco went absolutely still. The pitch was low and sweet. That tone pushed into his chest, right into his center, as if it were a key unlocking something tight and hard in him. He moved his hand over his heart as an unknown emotion seized it hard, wrenching, twisting, forcing that lock to open so that his own music could be heard pounding in his ear, beating like a lost drum seeking the right rhythm.
He inhaled sharply as something he didn’t understand spread through him like the rays of the sun, driving out the pressure that was always with him, always weighing on him. He couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever known, but it was so strong it was overwhelming. He had to hear her again. Had to be close to her. It wasn’t a want so much as a need.
He remained locked in place, his gaze drifting over her body, taking in every detail. She was unexpected. Not the tall, slim woman he’d always imagined he wanted. She wasn’t short and delicate, either, but somewhere in between. She wasn’t a redhead, and he’d always thought that his favorite. She had curves and pale skin; her eyes were large, hazel, and shaped like a cat’s. Sh
e had blond hair and was graceful, a bit fragile-looking, reminding him of an exotic flower. She looked mixed race to him, part Asian–Japanese perhaps–in spite of her coloring. He never would have looked in that direction after so much trauma, yet every cell in his body responded to her.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Emilio said. “Interviews are closed.”
The woman stood there, right in the center of the doorway, clutching the book to her chest. She was taller than both Emmanuelle and Francesca, but lacked the height of the supermodels he often dated. It was impossible to tell how long her hair was. The shiny blond mass was swept up with long hairpins in some intricate style he couldn’t begin to figure out, but it left her neck bare and vulnerable. Her skin was flawless. Soft looking. Beautiful. Already his palms itched for his rope. Red, he thought, to complement her skin and that glossy blond hair.
At Emilio’s answer, the woman took two more steps inside the room, right under the blaze of lights they’d purposely set up. His heart, now a pounding drum, nearly stopped. The lights threw her shadow into sharp relief behind her on the wall. The shadow was dark and thin but threw out strong tubes, feelers reaching toward other shadows. When there were none, the feelers reached farther for connections, elongating, seeking, prompting another step from her.
His breath caught in his throat as the tube slid along the floor, moving through shadows until it connected with the shadows where he stood. It hit like a freight train. Jarred him. Shook him. Filled his cock with hot, urgent need. Lust was sharp and terrible, almost uncontrollable. He felt that same wild pounding in his heart hammering right through his cock. He knew she felt it, too. Her head came up as if scenting danger and her eyes moved around the room warily.
“Come in,” Ricco managed, but he didn’t know how he could speak in a normal tone. No part of his body seemed his own, not even his voice. He was grateful for his strict training. He kept all interest from his tough features when his entire being reacted to her.
Her gaze jumped from Emilio to him. He was in the shadows and she probably hadn’t spotted him immediately. She hesitated, and he couldn’t blame her. He was intimidating and knew it. The Ferraros were born intimidating. Time seemed to stand still as he waited for her to obey his order. It had been an order. Ricco was used to obedience from everyone around him–obedience and deference. When he spoke, he expected and got an instant reaction.
Emilio glanced at him sharply, heaved a resigned sigh and sank down into the high-backed chair at the conference table. He beckoned to the woman. “I guess you’re not too late, sweetheart.” He indicated the chair across the table from him. “Did you bring a portfolio? Anything with your picture?” He held his hand out for the book.
Mariko Majo could barely breathe through the need rushing through her veins like molten lava. She didn’t understand what was happening. One moment she was perfectly fine, a little worried she was not going to get the extremely important interview, and the next, she was overwhelmed with need–with a hunger she’d never known. For the first time in her life she had the urge to turn around and flee. She knew danger when she saw it, and Ricco Ferraro was pure danger.
The two men were both waiting. She lifted her chin and forced her body into movement. She hadn’t expected Ricco Ferraro to be in the interview room. She knew the hotel belonged to the Ferraros but not one woman had come out of the conference room talking about him. She knew it was him because, of course, she’d seen photographs of him; who hadn’t? He was in all the magazines, online and paper both. He had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man and she could see why he would deserve it. He was gorgeous. Stunning. Scary.
She took several steps into the room, but then the door swung closed behind her and her heart jumped and then began to pound. Fear had a distinctive taste. She glanced back at the door. She wasn’t a coward, she never had been, but the Ferraros were reputed to be in organized crime, a dangerous family to have anything to do with. She felt a little desperate trapped in the room with the two very intimidating men. It was whispered that they could hear lies. She had secrets. Too many. The last thing she needed was for one of the Ferraros to ask her questions.
No one spoke, not to encourage or discourage. This was her decision and both men made that very clear. She tightened her arms around the book she held as if that could give her the necessary courage. Mariko was not a woman afraid of much, yet in the presence of Ricco Ferraro, she found herself trembling. That wasn’t a good start. Straightening her shoulders, she walked across the floor toward the conference table. It was large and intimidating, just like the men.
“I didn’t bring a portfolio. I’ve never been a model, but my mother was. She died long before I ever had the chance to know her.” Her voice was low and very soft, a soothing, pleasing sound, cultivated by the elders as she grew. Now, she didn’t know how to raise her voice. She wished she could. She was raised to sound seductive, pleasing to a man’s ear and body. She didn’t want to attract undue attention, not when she was alone in a room with the two men, one an obvious Ferraro, the other clearly related.
Emilio sighed again and glanced up at Ricco. “I can do this and catch up with you later.” The idea had been not to ever allow the models to know who the rope master was. If they knew it was a Ferraro, they would have had even more women looking to fill the position, hoping they’d have a chance of seducing him.
The hotel was often used by businessmen for a variety of meetings. No one would think twice about interviews being held there. It would not be unheard of for a Ferraro to be spotted in the hotel or talking to one of the men using the room. Most of the models had been disappointed that they hadn’t seen one of the famous family members.
Mariko held her breath. She wanted Ricco out of the room, yet she didn’t. She was confused with the way her body had suddenly come to life, every nerve ending aware of him. His eyes were dark and hooded, giving nothing away. He looked invincible. Disinterested. She was a mass of nerves and he was totally in control. She wanted to run, but she needed to do this–to convince them she was perfect for the job.
She’d watched the other models leaving one by one. They were mostly American, although not all. Some were from Brazil and Mexico. A couple had been from Spain and Argentina. There had been an Icelander. She was gorgeous.
Most were beautiful, with lots of height–something she didn’t have. The moment she thought that, the voices rose to taunt her. She was mixed–Japanese and American. Nothing. A nothing. A nobody. The kanji in her last name meant “female devil.” She didn’t even know what her real last name was because she’d dishonored the family simply by being born.
She wasn’t beautiful, or like any of the women she’d seen Ricco with in the magazines. There were two in particular he favored. Twins. The Lacey sisters–both actresses. She’d read all about them numerous times, the fact that the tabloids had caught them all naked in a hot tub together had been splashed across every tatty little rag and gossip magazine. She forced that image out of her mind. She had one shot at this and she had to make it right. Already she’d made a bad impression by being late, waiting too long to make up her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she continued forward, keeping her steps soft and light. She knew how to keep the nerves out of her face and voice, but she’d never felt under such scrutiny. Ricco had one scar across his face, a long line that ran from his left eye almost to the corner of his mouth. He was handsome, but in a rough, all-male way: the shadow along his stubborn jaw, his high cheekbones, straight nose and amazing eyes. Those dark eyes took in far too much but remained flat and ice-cold. He was reputed to be the most violent of the five brothers, and looking at him, she believed it.
“I’ll stay,” Ricco said. “I might have more questions.”
Her heart jerked hard. She kept walking, feeling as if she might be headed to her doom. She didn’t look around her, but she’d noted the exits the moment she’d entered the room. She had given the huge room a quick glance, taking in everything. She wasn’t one to walk into a fancy hotel and be dazzled like most of the women leaving had been. She’d deliberately waited and watched fro
m the lobby as the hopeful models had exited. None seemed particularly certain they’d gotten the job. She hadn’t been all that sure of trying out for the position and she wanted to make certain the opportunity was a legitimate one.
“Sit.” Ricco waved his hand toward the chair across from the other man. “I’m Ricco Ferraro. This is my cousin, Emilio Gallo.”
Ricco was definitely in charge. He was making that very clear. Emilio glanced up at him again, one eyebrow raised. So, Ricco hadn’t conducted the other interviews. That wasn’t good. Why had she ever thought she could do this?
She pushed the application across the table to Emilio but she knew Ricco was looking at it as well. “I’m Mariko. Mariko Majo.” She bowed her head, her gaze sliding away from his in shame. That was unusual for her, she usually stared defiantly, daring anyone to notice her name. To comment. Still, she watched Ricco carefully from under her long feathery lashes. She’d perfected that particular art many, many years earlier.
His gaze drifted over her face so that she had to fight to keep color from rising. Very slowly his hand, large and strong with long fingers, turned the application toward him. All the while his eyes remained on her face, and then his gaze dropped to the writing. His features went utterly still.
He knew. He could read those characters and he knew what her last name meant. The name she’d been given, not born with. She didn’t know her true last name; that had been taken away from her and her brother. Humiliation almost had her snatching the paper out from under his hand, but pride won out and she lifted her chin and her gaze to his face, steeling herself for his snide comment. Let him judge her. She was used to it. She lived with disapproval every day of her life.
“May I call you Mariko? I prefer not to be formal.”
She inclined her head, surprised that he would forgo any reference to her surname. Female devil. She’d kept the devil character out of defiance. If she was being strictly truthful, sometimes she was the devil. She noticed he hadn’t given her permission to call him by his first name, but then he would be her employer if she got the position.
“You have no experience, yet you want to be a rope model. Why?”
She’d known she would have to answer that and she could tell the strict truth. She pushed the book across the table to him. “I never knew my mother. This is all I have of her. She was a rope model in Japan.”
He continued to look at her, not at the book, although his palm dropped to the cover. “Tell me about your mother.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew very few facts, most of which weren’t good, but she was determined to be honest. “She traveled to Japan with the express purpose of finding a rope master. She was very interested in the art.” Make that the erotic elements, if those raising her told the truth. It had been a terrible scandal, her father dishonoring his family by wanting to marry her. That had been the story she’d been told, but when she’d done the research, looking for him . . .
“Her name?”
She fought to keep the color from rising. Of course she should have started with that. Why was she allowing him to shake her usual composure?
“Maria. Maria Hammond. She met my father there and they wanted to marry.” To the horror of his entire family. According to what she’d been told, her father had reputedly nearly destroyed his family with his choice. Her mother had been everything his family had predicted and more. In the end he hadn’t married her and she’d lived on the streets, making her living as a whore. She’d abandoned Mariko and her brother to the streets and had taken off.
“The name of the rope master?”
She hesitated. She was no longer certain he was her father. There was a long silence. “I prefer not to say.”
Ricco kept his eyes on her for a moment and then he spun the book around and opened it. He studied the photographs. “This appears to be Eiichi Hayashi’s work.”
Mariko had traced her mother through the names in the book, but the rope master was dead. He’d died of old age, and his children had told her that he’d had numerous models over the years and had never married any of them. Mariko suspected the story she’d been told wasn’t altogether the truth, but she’d met dead ends everywhere she’d turned. Eiichi was too old to be her father.
She inclined her head, waiting for his denouncement, but again he surprised her by remaining silent, waiting for her to continue.
“Is that what you’re hoping to do?” Emilio asked. “Marry your own rope master?” There was the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice.
She flinched. She’d heard that note of derision so many times growing up, children taunting her about her American mother. Her “family,” the ones so gracious and honorable to take in two orphans, was harsh with her for her own good so she wouldn’t become the whore her mother had been.
“Emilio.” Ricco’s voice was very low, but it was a whip, lashing at the other man.
She never wanted him to use that tone with her. It was terrifying, and she wasn’t a woman to be terrified by much of anything. Her family had been strict, at times bordering on brutal, and she should have been used to such a soft but harsh reprimand. Clearly, Ricco was a force to be reckoned with.
“I’ve got this. Thank you for your help.”
It was a dismissal and Emilio instantly stood. She didn’t want him to leave her alone in the room with Ricco Ferraro. It was dangerous. The tension in the room was tangible and growing more so every moment. Mariko kept her head slightly down, just as she’d been taught since she was a child, a respectful position when the men were talking, but her eyes were moving, noting everything about them, body positions, the way they moved, Emilio like a fighter, Ricco like a panther.
This was the most difficult thing she’d ever done. Sit quietly, absolutely still, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life with the exception of once, but that was a very long time ago when she was a child. She was an adult and fully capable of choosing her own fate. She had come to this place determined to get this job–and she was still determined. She just hadn’t expected to feel so defenseless or susceptible to Ricco Ferraro.
There was silence after Emilio closed the door, leaving her alone with the panther. She counted her heartbeats but refused to raise her eyes. Her body was already humming, alive, a strange rhythm she’d never felt before, one that not only alarmed her but puzzled her. Physical attraction to date, at best, had been mild. This was anything but mild. It was shocking in its intensity, her body reaching for his. She could barely breathe with him so close. She’d never been so aware of another human being.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t dare lift her eyes to his. She had to gather her courage first before she went into battle. This one she had to win or she might be dishonored for all time.
“If you can’t even look at me, Mariko, how do you expect this to work?”
His tone was mild, but there was a hint of a reprimand in it and she winced. She didn’t like that voice, but it wasn’t because she wasn’t used to the tone, it was more she didn’t want to disappoint him–or herself. Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his.
At once she fell into those dark, dark eyes. She’d never seen anyone with eyes so compelling. Her heart drummed even louder. Fight or flight? She was frozen and couldn’t do either. She touched her tongue to her lip, a leftover childhood habit she’d been beaten for. The moment she did it, she was ashamed of herself. She forced air through her lungs and held his gaze.
“That’s better. You said your mother was a rope model so you know what it entails.” He made it a statement.
She nodded just slightly.
“You’re going to have to actually speak to me.”
She was an idiot to think she could do this, but she was already in the situation. She hadn’t expected to feel anything. Certainly not attraction. To hell with her childhood and all the voices whispering in her head. She moistened her lips, watching him watch her. That slight action of her tongue on her lips, the nervous giveaway. “Yes.” The single word came out low and husky.
His lashes didn’t so much as flicker. He had long lashes. Beautiful lashes. His mouth was pretty amazing as well. It was just that he was far more daunting than she’d expected.
“Have you seen a performance?”
She nodded. He kept looking at her. Waiting in silence. The color slid under her skin. “Yes.”
He remained silent.
“After I was given the book, I studied the art and went to several demonstrations. I guess I wanted to feel closer to her.” She’d wanted to understand her mother.
“What did you think?”
What had she thought? She’d been taught that her mother was a slut. A whore. That she’d destroyed an entire family, dishonoring them. She’d been told time and again that her mother had made her living whoring, that she had abandoned her two children to the streets. It hadn’t been an image she wanted to think about. Until now. Until she learned everything she knew might not be real. The ground had shifted out from under her and now she was here, trying to figure out what she could do next.
“I thought the art was beautiful. I didn’t understand why or how she could do it.” The photographs were stunning. But to be tied up at someone’s mercy. That was disturbing. Mariko wasn’t certain she could actually do it.
“For this to work, you have to trust me. Implicitly. You have to know that I would always take care of you in any circumstance.”
She blinked. The breath caught in her lungs and felt trapped there. She trusted no one. Especially not a man like Ricco Ferraro. She’d done her homework before applying for the position. No one else seemed to know Ricco was the rigger, but she’d suspected all along. There weren’t that many real rope masters in the United States.
He waited, and she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. No one took care of her. Not ever. She took care of her brother, but no one took care of her. She wasn’t even certain what that meant to him.
He moved then and her heart clenched so hard in her chest she feared she might have a heart attack. All he did was step forward, but she couldn’t breathe.
“You know that we have to get to know each other fast. The contract is for six months.”
“I thought three.” The words came out strangled. She sounded like a scared little mouse and that annoyed her. She wasn’t a mouse.
“Six.” It was firm. “Six, and you live in my house. With me. You would have your own suite of rooms within the house.”
She shook her head and went to stand. She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out of there. The moment she moved, he did as well, stepping back to allow her to get up. She didn’t expect that. Why? She wasn’t his prisoner. She was applying for a position she wanted. No, needed.
“Are you staying?”
His voice was pitched low. Mesmerizing. She loved music and she responded to musical notes. This was different, but no less perfect. He had the kind of voice that made a woman go soft and damp. That made her want to do anything he said. Even her. She’d thought she was immune to anything like that until this moment.
“Do you want me to stay?” She held her breath. She needed his answer more than she needed air.
“Yes.”
She didn’t understand how she could be so affected by his voice. By that simple answer. She took another breath. “I honestly don’t know if I can do this.” She didn’t know. That was the truth. She was walking on eggshells, giving him as much truth as possible without revealing the dark secrets shadowing her every step.
“Of course you don’t. You don’t know me at all. You have to get to know me before you’ll have faith that I’d never hurt or harm you in any way.”
He took her hand, closing his very gently but firmly around hers, and led her out away from the table. Grasping her shoulders, he turned her until she was facing the door. “Stand here for me. I don’t want you to move.”
Mariko found she was trembling. His touch was terrifying. Not because he hadn’t been gentle, but because she felt the absolute command in him, telegraphed through those warm, strong fingers. It was impossible not to think what it would be like to have those fingers stroking caresses over her skin. She tried to shut down those thoughts, but they refused to leave her. She didn’t want to look at him just in case he could read her most intimate desire.
Ricco moved then, like a stalking panther, circling her slowly, silently. When he moved behind her, out of her sight, she nearly panicked. It was all she could do to keep from running to the door. He had positioned her right in front of it, almost like he was daring her to make a run for it.
She felt him. His breath on the nape of her neck. The skim of his finger from the nape of her neck down her spine. His touch was so light it was barely there. Did she imagine it? If so, the caress was so real it sent flickering flames licking at her skin. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to show him she was strong. She was powerful. She could be what he needed. She was what he needed.
“Put your hands out in front of you. Palms together as if you are praying.”
His voice was even and low. A mere whisper, but if she thought he was commanding before, now she heard the real thing. No one could possibly disobey that soft, powerful tone. A whisper of trepidation slid down her spine. At the same time, she felt her sex clench, go damp.
She was slow to bring up her hands but he didn’t look impatient. He simply waited. Never once had she been restrained. “I thought we would get to know each other.”
None of the other models coming out of the room had said they’d been tied by Ricco Ferraro. She was certain they could never have resisted bragging about it. That was what Shibari was, wasn’t it? She hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d be placing herself in such a vulnerable position. That she’d be helpless, and entirely at his mercy.
Ricco moved in front of her in that silent way of his. He was too strong. Too powerful. Too scary. It wasn’t just his looks–and he was a striking male. It was the predatory vibe he gave off. The look in his unblinking stare, so focused on her. Now he had a rope in his hand. This one was red and it slid through his fingers as if a part of him. At once she was mesmerized by that single movement. She couldn’t look at anything else. The rope appeared an extension of him, coiling, uncoiling, slithering, just as suddenly coming alive with sheer power.
“We are getting to know each other, Mariko. You should know yourself as well. This is an exchange of power. We’re in it together. You must be able to talk to me. Let me know what is uncomfortable, what you like. What you don’t like. What frightens you. What makes you feel as if you’re flying.”
Did people actually feel that way in the ropes? She couldn’t imagine it. Still, she had committed to this, but if she allowed him to tie her hands, she would be in such a bad position. She glanced around the room. The shadows had lengthened just a little bit, telling her time was slipping away. He was patient. He didn’t speak again, didn’t try to persuade her, leaving it entirely up to her to make the decision.
Taking a breath, she extended her arms to him, her palms together. Her heart was wild now, and she felt a little faint.
He didn’t slip the rope over her wrists like she thought he would. He leaned into her, his mouth against her ear. “Breathe for me, Mariko. Just breathe.”
The rope slid along her cheek, a whisper of silk. It moved down her throat to caress her bare skin where her top exposed her shoulders and neckline–and it was a caress. It felt sensual. She found herself shivering. His breath had been warm, his lips brushing her earlobe. Ricco Ferraro was far more dangerous to her than she’d ever imagined, in ways she hadn’t even considered and wasn’t in the least prepared for.
There was no way to deny that voice. She forced air into her lungs, afraid if she didn’t, she might faint, or worse, disappoint him and herself.
“That’s my girl.”
Her heart jumped at his praise–that soft note of encouragement, of approval, even admiration. He knew she’d never done this before and he was willing to see her through it. She had to hand it to him. He wasn’t a man trampling on his model to get her to do as he wished.
“Look at me. Look at my eyes when I tie you. I want to see your expression, to know if you’re okay. If you’re not, I’ll know and I’ll remove the rope immediately.”
It took courage to lift her gaze to his. Not because it would send him permission to tie her wrists, but because looking into his eyes was a very dangerous endeavor. A woman could get lost there, and Ricco Ferraro wasn’t a man to trust with one’s heart. She knew that much from her research of him.
She stared into his dark, dark eyes–so dark they appeared black. Gorgeous. Compelling. Intense. She almost forgot what he was doing, but then the silk moved against her bare skin, sliding sensually, an extension of his fingers. Not just his fingers, she realized; an extension of him. That was why the rope felt so powerful and sensual touching her skin.
She expected to feel claustrophobic and afraid, but she didn’t. Not as long as she was looking into his eyes. She could read people, hear them for what was beneath their words, not just the pretty things they said. Looking into Ricco’s eyes, she knew she was safe with him. She felt safe. More, she felt free. It was strange, that feeling of freedom, as if by tying her, he had released her spirit–beaten down, so encased in the beliefs of others, what was right, what was wrong, what she was–so that she could just be. Simply be.
“Look at your wrists. They’re so delicate, so feminine. Your skin is extraordinary. To me, you’re like a beautiful flower. Your fingers are strong, yet you look so fragile. Tell me what you see when you look at the ropes against your skin.”
She could barely force herself to look away from his eyes. His hands were over hers, his thumb sliding along the back of hers, a small, light brushing, back and forth, that she felt deep inside her most intimate spot. It was as if he’d made a connection between him, her hands and her sex.
Slowly, reluctantly, she dropped her gaze from his eyes to her hands. The red rope stood out against her bare skin, but instead of looking bizarre or ugly, the knots we
re intricate and beautiful. They formed two wrist bands, wide and lacy, lying against her wrists like delicate cuffs. His hands enveloped hers, holding her with exquisite gentleness, almost as if he really thought her that fragile flower and he guarded her with care. That made her feel a fraud, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from him.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
Was she? In so many ways, but not the way he meant. She’d never felt more sensual. More attracted to a man. More intimidated or exhilarated. This was a dance between them, and it could end up fatal to her–or to him–but it was beautiful and she didn’t want it to end.
“No.” That wasn’t strictly the truth and her gaze jumped to his. She not only felt the censure but saw it. His disappointment. That hurt. An unexpected arrow. She shook her head. “No, but yes. The ropes aren’t uncomfortable. I thought I would have claustrophobia, but I don’t.”
“Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”
That was a mistake to admit. He might not want her, and suddenly she wanted the position because she was certain she needed it to learn things about herself she had never known and would never again have the opportunity to find out. She nodded reluctantly. “Sometimes.”
“Do you know why?”
It was impossible to ignore that soft, captivating voice. It played along her nerve endings, setting them on fire, making her so aware of him. Of her. Of the rise and fall of her breasts, of the fact that he was taller, broader and stronger. That his personality was unexpected. She thought he might be mean. A bully. Using his power and wealth to push others around. He didn’t need to do that. He had that voice, so low and sensual–a temptation to sin. Put the voice, his eyes and his body together, and any woman might be lost. She certainly was.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he tugged very gently on the rope so that she was forced to take a step into him. At once she was surrounded by his masculine scent. He smelled clean. Fresh. Outdoorsy. A powerful waterfall in a forest. Up close, he was daunting, and much more sensual. Every breath she took drew him deeper into her lungs until she didn’t know where she left off and he started.
The red silk connected them. The ends had never left his hands. He controlled movement without seeming to do so. That shook her. He wasn’t obvious about it, but he had complete control. “I require an answer, Mariko.”
She closed her eyes to block him out but at once she heard the cries of pain. The screams of a woman. A man’s voice as he died. Images rose, the crack in the closet door. Her arms around her baby brother. Her hand over his mouth to try to keep him from crying and giving their hiding place away. The streaks of blood running like dark shadows across the floor.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. It was all too real. All too close. She kept the door closed on her persistent nightmares, but now she was bringing it all to the surface and she couldn’t go back. No matter what, there would be no going back to her other life.
“I have dreams of being locked in a closet when I was a child. I have nightmares about it nearly every night.” He would hear the truth of that if all the rumors about his family were true. It was said one couldn’t lie to a Ferraro, so she had no choice but to share her memories when he asked.
He removed the ropes and massaged her wrists, looking for marks on her skin. There were none, which didn’t make her as happy as she would have thought. Belonging to him would be incredible, but he wasn’t a one-woman man, and she would never accept less.
Ricco stepped away from her, coiling the rope easily in his hands without looking at it, proving it was an extension of him. “I will require you at all hours of the night. I don’t sleep very well and I want to be able to practice my art anytime the mood strikes. I’m compensating you well for your time. You’ll have your own rooms. During the time you’re with me, you will have no other relationships. I made it clear in the ad that if you were married or seeing someone, not to apply.”
“I’m not,” she said.
“You have only to sign the papers. Read them carefully. My lawyer drew them up and he’s very, very thorough. I think we’ll suit each other, but I want you to be happy with the arrangement.”
He was waiting and she had to answer. Take that last irrevocable step. She would have her own room, her own place where no one could get to her. She would be able to think without panicking. She’d do whatever was necessary, but it had to be the right thing, no mistakes. What she was doing was very, very dangerous, but she had no choice.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I think this arrangement will suit me just fine.”
“How soon can you move in?”
“Immediately. I don’t have much. Just my personal clothes and a few items.”
“I’ll give you the address and a key.”
It was done. She had gotten the position when all odds seemed stacked against her. She didn’t smile because the consequences were too severe, but she was elated. She had stepped on the path she needed to be on.
