Savage Nature - Christine Feehan [64]
He captured her fingers and brought them to his mouth to gently bite at her fingertips. “You have a very skewed view of relationships, Saria. I’m certain there are men who boss their woman around, but some men are looking for partnerships. If I’m attracted to you as you are, with your independence and opinions, why would I want to change you?”
“I always wondered that—why men would want to change women.”
“I don’t,” he said firmly, nibbling on her fingers.
“So I was wrong when I thought you were upset this mornin’ because I went into the swamp by myself? You didn’ think I needed my brother’s permission?” There was a challenge in her voice.
“I never thought you needed anyone’s permission, honey, but there’s a killer running around loose and you know it. The fact that the letter disappeared from the post office and ended up tacked to your boat was a clear warning that the killer knows you found the bodies. And then there’s the little matter of a male leopard attacking you. Common sense tells us you’re in danger and shouldn’t be wandering alone out in the swamp—especially if no one knows where you are.”
She stayed quiet a few moments. He tangled his fingers in the silky strands of her hair. Thick, like most leopards, she kept her hair fairly short and rather chopped. On her he thought it looked good.
“I did take that into consideration,” she admitted. “Ordinarily I might have stopped goin’ into the swamp, although, to be truthful, I’m not certain how long I could stay away.”
He understood. Her leopard needed the swamp.
“But I have the chance of a lifetime with my photography. If I blow it, I’m back huntin’ gators, and believe me, it’s difficult work. I need my own money. I don’ want my brothers to think they need to support me. I received an advance for this job, more than I’ve ever made in a year, and if I complete it, there’s triple that. I have no real choice.”
He wasn’t going to argue with her. Of course there was a choice, but she was building a career. Photography was not only her livelihood—but something her nature demanded she do. She’d taken money and made a commitment. She wasn’t the type to renege on a commitment—one of the things he particularly found most attractive. No, he wouldn’t have tried to forbid her to enter the swamp, but he sure as hell would have protected her.
The wind shifted slightly, carrying just the trace of a scent. Very carefully he caught her shoulders and eased her into a sitting position. He turned his body, placing himself squarely between Saria and certain danger. He could smell the mixture of fury and leopard rising.
8
THE man striding toward Drake and Saria was dressed in jeans and a light T-shirt, looking casually handsome as only someone with money could manage. Dark glasses shaded his eyes, but Drake could read the fury in his scent, the movement of his body and the fists clenched tightly against his thigh. He was armed—the gun was in a holdout strapped to his leg, but Drake smelled the gun oil from a recent cleaning.
Drake stood up, an easy fluid motion, and reached behind him to offer his hand to Saria. He pulled her up easily and retained possession of her hand, keeping her tucked slightly behind him. The waves of anger coming off the approaching stranger were personal, rather than anger at them for trespassing.
“Armande Mercier,” Saria whispered.
Armande’s face darkened. He clearly heard her. If Drake was reading him correctly, his leopard was close, fighting for control.
“What the hell are you doing, Saria?” Armande demanded, striding right up to them, cutting into Drake’s personal space, obviously expecting him to step back. The move was practiced, an intimidation that had worked well for him in the past.
Drake hel fury s ground, remaining nearly nose to nose with the man. “Saria is guiding me through the swamp. I’m Drake Donovan, Mr. Bannaconni’s representative.” He poured authority into his voice. This man had been with the others the night