Ghostwalker 05 - Deadly Game

a bomb had gone off inside of it. She turned her face away from his, determined not to be taken in by his false concern.
    He shifted even closer; she could tell by his scent. It was suddenly everywhere, all around her, inside of her. She felt the warmth of his breath on her temple, the feather-light touch of his lips. His lips were soft except for one slight rasp over her skin, making her aware of the knife scar running across his mouth. That light rasp sent heat curling through her body. Her womb actually spasmed. She didn't want to respond to him. She didn't want to feel anything at all other than the need to escape. She didn't want to feel guilty for having used a razor-sharp blade, reminding him of the way his body had been so mutilated.
    "It's all right, Mari. No one blames you for making a try. It's what we all do, what we're trained to do. At least wait until you're a little stronger and we sort this entire mess out. You wouldn't get very far the way you are right now."
    If she waited until she was stronger, they'd have the time to make certain there was no chance of escape. As for being stronger, her body was repairing itself faster than they guessed. The leg was bad – she might not be able to use it – but there were ways…
    His lips brushed her ear this time. "I'm reading your mind, you know."
    She jerked her hand in reaction. Ivy, before Whitney had killed her, had been able to read people as well as objects, simply by touching them. It was more than possible that Ken had that talent. And then he would know how she felt when he touched her.
    Humiliation rose and mixed with anger. She whipped up her broken hand without thinking, aiming for his nose, wanting to smash it into his skull. He was her enemy and she would not buy into the attraction between them again. Or maybe she was just mortified because there was no mutual attraction between them; it was entirely one-sided.
    He caught her wrist with almost casual strength, slamming both arms above her head and pinning them there, bringing his body nearly over the top of hers in a much more dominant position. It made her seethe with anger. She had to fight back the impulse to lunge forward and bite him like a rabid animal – or maybe claw the clothes from his chest to see if the web of scars she was certain covered his chest and belly disappeared lower into the narrow hips and across his groin.
    "Stop struggling."
    "Get off of me."
    "Calm down first. I just saved your life, you ungrateful little wretch."
    He was laughing at her. Damn him to hell, he was laughing at her. She could see a glint of humor in his eyes. He didn't smile or change expression, but she felt his laughter, and it made her want to explode – or maybe press her mouth to the softness of his, just to feel the caress of that heated rasp once more.
    Furious with herself, she nearly came up off the bed, adrenaline pouring through her body, but there was no give in him. She remained pressed against the gurney as if he didn't notice her struggles. "You. Get. Off. Me." She bit out each word from between clenched teeth. "I swear I'll tear out your heart with my bare hands."
    His brilliant gaze drifted slowly, almost possessively over her face. "You don't want to be talking to me that way; you're turning me on."
    Her heart accelerated and her breasts tingled with anticipation. His chest was so close. A breath away from her aching nipples. It was perverted to feel like this, to be a man's captive, to have him slam his elbow into her head and still have her body react like a cat's in heat. In that moment she hated herself, hated the way she despised Brett and the other men. She understood now, understood how desire could take over every sense and push aside discipline and training, until all one could think about was assuaging a chemical need.
    Did he know? Was he feeding the addiction deliberately with his nearness? If so, he was playing a very deadly game. She forced her body to relax and looked up at him, frowning, hoping she looked intimidating. "Black widows eat their lovers."
    He released her wrists and drew a finger down her cheek, the pad of his finger sliding over her lips, lingering as if he belonged there. When she looked at him, when he touched her, she felt the anger slide away before she could catch and hold on to it. He did something to her, made her feel whole and at peace. Maybe it was a psychic talent peculiar to him.
    Could Whitney do that to a person? Could he make it so that