Lair of the Lion

so.
    "Often enough. I liked to roam the hills. Padre was afraid I would run into wolves."
    Truly, her father had been afraid he would never find his wild child a wealthy husband.
    Isabella pushed the thought away swiftly, lest the don see the fleeting sadness in her eyes.
    His intent stare seemed capable of reading every nuance of her posture and expression.
    Don DeMarco leaned toward her and gently brushed some tendrils of her hair away from her face. The unexpected gesture made her pull away from him, and something sharp scratched her from her temple to the corner of her eye. The edge of his ring must have scraped her skin. She gasped with the sudden pain, reaching up to cover the damage with her palm.
    He stood up so fast, his teacup went crashing to the floor, shattering and spilling its contents. The puddle took on the ominous shape of a lion.
    At once Isabella's heart pounded fearfully, and she tilted her head to look up at the don.
    His eyes blazed dangerously, his mouth looked cruel, edged with a snarl, and that curious growl rumbled in his throat. The scars along his cheek became red and vivid. Once again the strange look of the lion blurred with his face so that for a moment she was staring at a beast and not a man.
    "What do you see now, Signorina Vernaducci?" he demanded, a kind of fury running through his body, filling the room with danger. Even the falcon on its perch flapped its wings in alarm. Don DeMarco's fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still, holding her prisoner.

    She blinked up at him, bringing him back into focus, unsure what she had done to warrant such a reaction. "I'm sorry, signore, if I have offended you in some way. I meant no insult." In truth she couldn't even remember what she had said that could have set him off.
    His fingers were a tight fist in her hair, yet there was no pressure, just the sharpness of his ring digging into her skin. She stayed very still.
    "You have not answered my question." His voice was pure menace.
    "I see you, signore. " She stared steadily into his catlike eyes.
    Don DeMarco remained still, his gaze locked with hers. She could hear her own breathing, feel her heart pounding. He let out his breath slowly. "You have not offended me." His fingers left her hair reluctantly.
    "Why, then, are you so upset?" she asked, puzzled by his strange behavior. Her skin throbbed where his ring had pricked her.
    His fingers settled around her slender wrist, prying her hand from her temple. A thin trail of blood trickled down her face. "Look at what I have done to you through my clumsiness. I injured you, perhaps scarred you."
    Relief flooded her as she understood that he was angry with himself, not with her, and she laughed softly. "It's a small scratch, Don DeMarco. I cannot believe you would be upset over such a trivial thing. I've skinned my knees numerous times. I do not scar easily," she added, aware he was probably sensitive because of his own terrible scars.
    She tugged at her hand to remind him to release her. "Allow me to clean up the tea and pour you a fresh cup."
    His thumb was stroking her sensitive inner wrist as he towered over her. The sensation was shocking, little tongues of fire licking up her arm, spreading over her skin until she was burning with some unnamed need she had never experienced. His eyes were staring at her with far too much hunger.
    Don DeMarco's fingers tightened possessively around her wrist. "You are no domestica in my home, Isabella. There is no need for you to clean up the mess." He bent toward her, a slow, unhurried assault on her senses.
    Isabella's body clenched in reaction to his nearness. He came even closer, until his wide shoulders blotted out the entire room around her. When she inhaled, he was there in the air, filling her lungs. He smelled wild. Untamed. Masculine. His eyes seemed to devour her face. She couldn't look away from him, nearly hypnotized by his gaze. When he lowered his head to hers, his strangely colored hair brushed her skin with the sensation of silk. She felt his tongue at her temple, a moist caress as he removed the trace of her blood. The touch should have repulsed her, but it was the most sensual thing imaginable.
    An abrupt knock at the door spun him around, and he leapt away from her with a catlike movement that took him halfway across the room, landing so lightly she didn't hear his feet on the tiles. There was something menacing in the set of his shoulders. His hair was a