Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,23

composure and walk out on my own power. Ethan retrieved my wrap and placed it around me, leading me outside. Once the cold air hit, I was better. Ethan hailed a cab and we piled inside.

“Feeling better?”

The abrupt change in character bewildered me. The panther exited and the gracious southern gentleman re-entered, but I sensed the predator waiting in the wings to spring. I turned, hoping to draw the gorgeous animal out again. “My old self again— tad warm in there.”

He didn’t make a move. He just sat there quietly, a mysterious little smile on that beautiful visage. Fully aware of the effect he had on me, yet patiently biding his time. What a tease.

My place was deserted when we got there, so I invited him in. He told me he couldn’t stay long. It was late. I’d used that excuse myself before, but this time I was the one hoping for more than a good night kiss, and although I look a lot like her, I’d made it clear I wasn’t Snow White.

I switched the lamp on, hanging my wrap carelessly on the back of the chair. Knowing I looked pretty tasty in the black satin, I sashayed over to him. From his lofty height, he smiled benevolently, a god on a mere mortal, and I approached to make a burnt offering of myself. Pure white Carrera marble, the cool planes of that face. But his chilly appearance was deceiving. As I pressed my body along his length, an inferno rose deep within, contained with exquisite control. Mmmm, he was hard and hot all over. I wrapped my arms around and tried to draw the fire into myself, but he touched me as if he were afraid I’d shatter to bits, taking reverential care as he placed his long warm fingers on my shoulders, only one elegant, teasing digit straying to stroke my decolletage.

“I must go back home for a while. I will return in April for you. Get rid of that leech.”

I cried out as his finger teased my nipple. “Yes-s-s, of course. I can’t stand him anymore.”

“A bird of prey requires a master falconer.”

I’ll stop at nothing until you’re mine.

That ardent promise, which in retrospect, sounded an awful lot like a threat, drained me of resistance. I was pulled in his orbit, a helpless satellite, Callisto to his Jupiter. He picked me up in those arms like a child, small, helpless, utterly trusting, and laid me down on the sofa, kneeling by my side, tongue tracing a moist, warm path from collarbone to ear as he lowered my dress over my shoulders and breasts.

“Kiss me!”

“A kiss to build a dream on,” he murmured, burying his face in my neck.

A jab of pain, like a pinprick stabbed into my neck and then oblivion… ”

Joe asked, impatiently, “So, that’s when he did it?”

She shook her head. “Wouldja let me tell this the way I want?”

FIVE

* * * *

“Next morning, I found myself on the sofa still clothed, tingling all over. If we didn’t make love, then I must have had the most incredible erotic dream.

Richard called, apologetic, begging me to join him for lunch at his place. He obviously planned on me as the entree and I didn’t want to go, but Ethan had ordered me to break it off as soon as possible.

Richard fell to his knees and begged, burying his head in my bosom, his fingers maggots crawling over my flesh. I extracted myself from his arms and left— but he wasn’t quite finished with me.

Ethan called from time to time and sent huge bouquets every day to my dressing room, the cards addressed to his “Bird of Prey.” Then, right before Ethan was due back, Richard got his revenge.

I awakened one morning, a few days before our last performance, very sick. I got up from bed, stomach flipping over, and ran to the bathroom to retch into the toilet. A cold sweat broke out as I sank to the floor, head between my knees. My period was almost two weeks late and I was always like clockwork. Now I had to call Richard. He agreed to meet me after the show that night. I didn’t tell why I wanted to see him. I really hoped I was wrong, but I was very scared.

At the theatre, I threw up again in the bathroom. Another actress ran to call the stage manager, a thin, intense, dark-haired man with a cigarette perpetually glued to his lips. The curtain was