Murder Game (GhostWalkers #7)(8)
Author: Christine Feehan

“I don’t know you well enough to call you by your first name.” She said it primly as she moved to her left, toward the natural rock staircase that led away from the basin.

Kadan kept pace, matching her shorter strides perfectly, as if they were slow dancing together. He crowded her personal space just a little, testing to see how she would react.

She stopped abruptly, but didn’t move out of his strike range. “Are you purposely trying to intimidate me?”

He let a brief smile curve his mouth, giving her a short glimpse of bare teeth. “You should be intimidated. What the hell were you thinking, going to sleep out in the open without a stitch on and no weapon close to you?” He kept his voice controlled, but there was a whip in his tone, and she flinched under it.

“I’m well aware it wasn’t smart. I’ve been out here for some time and got careless.”

There was something in her tone that irritated him—no remorse, not an apology, just an acceptance of stupidity. Stupidity got a person killed. One moment of inattention could kill an entire team. He crowded her a little more, wanting her scared, because in spite of that flinch, there was no fear in her eyes.

Tansy let him come near her, not once looking at the knife in the scabbard on his belt. There was no safety thong tying down the hilt, she’d already ascertained that, and the moment he got close enough, she struck, spinning, hand going for the weapon in a blur of speed and moving away just as fast. Except . . . she didn’t go anywhere. His hand clamped down on hers, capturing her fist around the hilt, his strength enormous, refusing to allow her to draw the weapon and pinning her in place. He held her rigid against his body, one arm locked around her throat, the other keeping her fist tight around the knife.

“What do we do now?” he asked, his voice low. Her scent filled his mind and body. Cinnamon. She smelled all woman and cinnamon—a lure that refused to let him go—and his body responded. Hell, he was past caring that she knew, not the way her soft body was molded against his.

She swallowed. He felt the movement against his forearm, but there was no panic, no struggle. She even relaxed into him, her free hand coming up to hook into the crook of his elbow, one finger pressed lightly against his pressure point, and that told him a lot about her.

“Now you let go of me.”

Tansy should have been concentrating on getting free. Her mind and body should have been waiting for a moment when she could break loose, but her hand was wrapped around the hilt of a knife—one that was not new, but had gone into combat with this man and surely had been used. She didn’t feel anything—nothing at all. There were no whispers to taunt and torment her, no tunnel sucking her in, no black oily void to drag her under and suffocate her. She’d never been this close to anyone—not even her parents—without having something rippling in her mind. She was so astonished she could barely remember she was standing in the grip of an enormously strong stranger with no one around to help if she couldn’t control the situation.

“And if I don’t let go?” he asked, lowering his head to inhale her scent again. Cinnamon and sin filled his lungs. Of course he was going to let her go, but not until she learned her lesson. A little fear would be good for her. She needed self-preservation to kick in. Where he was taking her, every single sense had to be honed razor-edged sharp.

The words whispered so softly in her ear, the warm breath fanning her cheek, snapped Tansy out of her shock. Let go! She blasted her way into his mind, slamming her fingers hard on his pressure point, jerking his elbow down so she could slip free, even as her foot kicked back to rake down his shin.

Nothing happened. His arm remained locked tight around her throat; his body didn’t even rock from hers, and her heel never touched him. Her mind actually recoiled from his, as if she’d bounced off—hard. Hard enough to set her head pounding.

“Who are you?” For the first time there was a tremor in her voice.

He let her go, stepping away from her, yet holding her hand so she couldn’t withdraw the knife. “Now, you understand, you aren’t the only one in the world with hidden talents.”

Very carefully she flexed her fingers, indicating she wanted to let go. Instantly he responded, removing his hand from hers to allow her to drop her arm. Tansy didn’t look at him, but she knew he’d felt her hand tremble. She detested showing weakness, but she’d never had anyone resist her so completely. She needed to keep him distracted while she led him to her camp, where she had a weapon or two that might afford her some protection.

“Just tell me who you are and why you’re here.” She started toward the trail again and this time he fell into step beside her. When he made a movement toward the inside of his shirt, her breath hitched, but he only pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, holding it out to her.

His eyes fascinated her. Midnight blue, so blue they were almost black, unblinking and intent, much like those of the predator she’d been studying for the last year. He focused completely on his prey, and right now that was Tansy. He held her mesmerized, unable to look away from him until he allowed it.

The movement of the wallet allowed her to tear her gaze away from those dangerous eyes, and she glanced with dismay at his identification. FBI. Only she didn’t believe it. Everything about him screamed military. She shook her head. “I’m not buying your story.” She started up the trail with a forced sigh. “Just tell me what you want and get off my mountain.”

“I need your help.”

Her heart stuttered. The breath caught in her lungs and stayed there. Fear skated through her body. Her throat closed, panic rising while she battled with the sudden roaring in her mind as a door creaked open and voices began to spill out. She shook her head, afraid to speak, afraid she might scream, afraid once she started she would never stop. She counted her steps instead, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, forcing her mind to go blank, forcing air through her lungs while she mutely shook her head.

“Tansy?” There was concern in his tone.

She’d gone pale beneath her tan, and little beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. Tansy wiped them away with a leaden hand, holding the door closed while it shook and moaned, pushing hard against her will. “Go away.” Her voice was a mere whisper of sound.

He kept pace easily, even though he wasn’t walking on the trail, but in the rougher, thicker grass. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”