Ghostwalker 09 - Ruthless Game

reacted aggressively, raking at him, snarling with his demands.
    Drake lifted his nose to the airways, drawing the night deep into his lungs, drawing in— her . His heart skipped a beat and then began to pound. Every nerve ending in his body came to life. Need punched low and mean, a wicked, unexpected blow that staggered him. Her scent was al uring, captivating, unleashing a deep, primal command impossible to ignore.
    The animal in him leapt hard, chal enging the man. Fur rose beneath his skin in a wave of demand, leaving behind a terrible itch. His jaw ached and he felt the slide of canines pushing into his mouth. He tried to breathe, tried to calm the lethal beast pushing so close to the surface. His muscles rippled, contorting before he could get himself under control. He’d experienced his cat’s edgy need before, but not like this, not this dangerous, the temperamental leopard pushing so close he couldn’t distinguish between man and beast.
    His mind became a haze of red, primal instincts drowning out civilized man. Drake had always had enormous strength, holding back his animal side with more discipline than most of his kind, but this time the struggle for supremacy was more like mortal combat. Bones ached and his left leg pulsed with wrenching pain. Strangely it was the pain that al owed him to hold on. He was out in the open, a danger to any male—human or leopard—near him. He kept his face in the shadows and simply breathed in and out, relying on the simple mechanics of an automatic reflex to keep the wild animal caged.
    “Just for now,” he whispered—a promise he intended to keep no matter the cost. His leopard had been caged long enough. “Wait a little longer.”
    The beast subsided, snarling his reluctant obedience, more, Drake was certain, because the al uring scent had drifted away on the night breeze than because the man was stronger. He wanted to fol ow that scent—he needed to fol ow it, but it was as elusive as the females of his kind always were. The sexy fragrance was gone and he was left with a clawing need and an aching groin as the scent gave way to the normal smel s of the river’s edge.
    “Mr. Donovan? Drake Donovan?”
    He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the melodic sound of a woman’s tone. She had the sultry lilt of Cajun country in her voice. He turned his head slowly, not believing any woman could match that voice. He didn’t know what he expected, but he sure as hel hadn’t expected his reaction to her. That same low, mean, wicked punch to his groin, the same assault on his raw senses he’d experienced earlier repeated itself even harder.
    She stood several feet from him but he was instantly aware of everything about her. His senses were heightened by his leopard, he had no doubt about that, but this time his reaction was al man. She wore faded and ripped blue jeans and a short tee that clung to her curvy form lovingly. Her face was young, but her eyes were old. Her hair was thick, a dark blond, but heavily streaked with silver, gold, and platinum strands. Beautiful dark chocolate eyes spiced with golden flecks seemed at odds with the sun-kissed hair that was worn in a ragged, jagged cut that would never have suited anyone else, but somehow only enhanced her appearance.
    Drake could barely breathe, knew he was staring, but couldn’t stop himself. She stood there, just looking at him with a curious expression on her face, waiting for an answer. Her lashes were long, and she had a tiny scar on her chin and melting dimples. Her mouth was a thing of fantasy, ful lips like a fascinating bow, her teeth smal and white, although her canines were sharper than normal. He had a strange urge to drag her into his arms and taste her.
    She regarded him with a mixture of reticence and wariness. “I’m Saria Boudreaux, your guide. You are Drake Donovan aren’t you?” She tilted her head to one side, studying him with concern. “If you don’ feel good from the trip, it’s al right. We can wait before we get you back on the water. Maybe get you somethin’ to eat?”
    Her accent curled in his stomach. He could feel the reaction pulse through his groin. “I’m fine, Miss Boudreaux. I’l be staying at the Dubois Inn, as you recommended. You said it was close to the canals and marshes I’l be visiting?” He’d made certain the bed-and-breakfast she’d recommended was rarely visited and near the bayou, where there were groves of trees, marsh, and swamp. He’d rented the