Savage Nature
Page 99
He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he dressed. She was pacing, all pent up restless energy, her anger driving her in spite of the exhaustion he could see on her face. When she crashed, she was going to crash hard. He took a deep breath to still his prowling leopard.
“Clearly I need to get to know Charisse better. If you stand for her, Saria, there must be a lot more to her than I know. Everything points to her. The scent expertise, the disturbing flower, the lack of scent at crime scenes, the opium, all of it, and yet in the face of all the evidence, you persist in believing in her innocence. I trust you and your judgment. If you think she’s innocent . . .”
“I know she is,” Saria defended staunchly. “Someone is setting her up to take the fall. Charisse wouldn’t know a setup anymore than she would be capable of being a drug dealer. She’s childlike in a lot of ways.”
Drake nodded his head, trying to put childlike with the woman who had approached them on their picnic in her pencil-thin skirt, high-heeled boots and silk blouse that clung to and accented every curve. Charisse had appeared poised and confident, polished even. Her nails were perfect, her slender legs encased in silk, and her makeup impeccable . . . until her brother had snapped at her. She’d cried like a child and Saria had comforted her. That had seemed affected and out of character to Drake. Which was the real Charisse?
“I’ll keep an open mind,” he promised. He had no idea how he was going to accomplish that, but he would try—for Saria—he would try. He knew if she was wrong it was going to be a terrible blow to her, and he had a terrible feeling in the pit of his belly that Saria didn’t have very many people in her world that she loved as much as she obviously did Pauline and Charisse.
Saria dragged a comb through her hair. “I would appreciate that. I know you feel the evidence is damnin’, Drake, but it really is all circumstantial.”
He refrained from pointing out that Charisse was the brilliant chemist and clearly the brains in the Mercier family. Arguing would only cause Saria to dig her heels in. He didn’t want the hole to be so deep that if she was proved wrong, she couldn’t get out of it.
Saria walked down the stairs with him, but she didn’t hold his hand. She even walked a step behind him. His leopard roared at him, angry with the small separation between them and Drake couldn’t help but agree. He’d been damned diplomatic. The tension pouring off Saria didn’t help soothe his leopard either. His female’s care was paramount at all times and dissention just didn’t work between leopards. It made the shifter edgy, moody, difficult to deal with—not a good circumstance for him when he was about to sit down with what probably was a criminal mastermind.
At the bottom stair he turned abruptly, blocking Saria from stepping down. His hands settled on her waist. “Kiss me.” It was an order, not a request, and he frankly didn’t care how it came out.
She pulled back subtly. “Here?a step behe are people in the next room. The door’s open.”
“Right here. Right now. I need to know you’re with me. Kiss me. Kisses don’t lie, Saria. I need this.”
Saria’s enormous eyes widened. Darkened. Her long lashes fluttered. Her fingers linked behind his neck and she leaned her body into his. “Kisses don’t lie? All right then. If you’re certain you need this.”
She didn’t wait for him. She took his mouth, her lips brushing gently across his, her tongue teasing the seam of his so that he opened his mouth immediately to her. The world dropped away. The anger. The tension. There was only the pouring of love from her mouth to his. He took her passion—her unspoken commitment to him—straight to his heart and locked it up tight.
“Saria! How very unseemly of you.” The female voice hissed with displeasure.
Saria didn’t startle or pull away from him. She finished kissing him as though no one had interrupted them, her mouth loving his. When she lifted her head, she looked only at him—straight into his eyes. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles before turning to face the woman who had spoken.
Drake thought he was beyond all shock. He had traveled the world and seen a lot of sights, but Iris Lafont-Mercier was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. It was the last thing he expected. She looked young enough to be Charisse’s sister. He knew leopard women often aged gracefully and even if Charisse was in her early twenties, Iris had to be fifty or more. Her skin was perfection, without a single wrinkle. Her hair was a thick mass of spun gold and if there was gray, it looked like threads of silver among the gold. She had a beautiful figure, looking as if she’d never had a child in her life.
She was waiting for his reaction. She was used to the admiration of men and counted him as no exception. There was no doubt in his mind that Iris manipulated every single man in her life without mercy. Drake kept his expression absolutely blank, nor did he allow his eyes to flick over her with any interest.
“You must be Mrs. Mercier,” he said deliberately.
Saria’s fingers dug into his palm, but he only brought her hand to his chest, pressing it right over his heart in reassurance. Had she trembled? Could Saria be a little afraid of Iris Mercier’s sharp tongue?
“It’s Iris Lafont-Mercier, actually,” Iris replied in a slightly superior tone. “Pauline is my sister. Our family can be traced back hundreds of years.”
“Drake Donovan, ma’am,” he said. “Miss Pauline has mentioned you.”
“Clearly I need to get to know Charisse better. If you stand for her, Saria, there must be a lot more to her than I know. Everything points to her. The scent expertise, the disturbing flower, the lack of scent at crime scenes, the opium, all of it, and yet in the face of all the evidence, you persist in believing in her innocence. I trust you and your judgment. If you think she’s innocent . . .”
“I know she is,” Saria defended staunchly. “Someone is setting her up to take the fall. Charisse wouldn’t know a setup anymore than she would be capable of being a drug dealer. She’s childlike in a lot of ways.”
Drake nodded his head, trying to put childlike with the woman who had approached them on their picnic in her pencil-thin skirt, high-heeled boots and silk blouse that clung to and accented every curve. Charisse had appeared poised and confident, polished even. Her nails were perfect, her slender legs encased in silk, and her makeup impeccable . . . until her brother had snapped at her. She’d cried like a child and Saria had comforted her. That had seemed affected and out of character to Drake. Which was the real Charisse?
“I’ll keep an open mind,” he promised. He had no idea how he was going to accomplish that, but he would try—for Saria—he would try. He knew if she was wrong it was going to be a terrible blow to her, and he had a terrible feeling in the pit of his belly that Saria didn’t have very many people in her world that she loved as much as she obviously did Pauline and Charisse.
Saria dragged a comb through her hair. “I would appreciate that. I know you feel the evidence is damnin’, Drake, but it really is all circumstantial.”
He refrained from pointing out that Charisse was the brilliant chemist and clearly the brains in the Mercier family. Arguing would only cause Saria to dig her heels in. He didn’t want the hole to be so deep that if she was proved wrong, she couldn’t get out of it.
Saria walked down the stairs with him, but she didn’t hold his hand. She even walked a step behind him. His leopard roared at him, angry with the small separation between them and Drake couldn’t help but agree. He’d been damned diplomatic. The tension pouring off Saria didn’t help soothe his leopard either. His female’s care was paramount at all times and dissention just didn’t work between leopards. It made the shifter edgy, moody, difficult to deal with—not a good circumstance for him when he was about to sit down with what probably was a criminal mastermind.
At the bottom stair he turned abruptly, blocking Saria from stepping down. His hands settled on her waist. “Kiss me.” It was an order, not a request, and he frankly didn’t care how it came out.
She pulled back subtly. “Here?a step behe are people in the next room. The door’s open.”
“Right here. Right now. I need to know you’re with me. Kiss me. Kisses don’t lie, Saria. I need this.”
Saria’s enormous eyes widened. Darkened. Her long lashes fluttered. Her fingers linked behind his neck and she leaned her body into his. “Kisses don’t lie? All right then. If you’re certain you need this.”
She didn’t wait for him. She took his mouth, her lips brushing gently across his, her tongue teasing the seam of his so that he opened his mouth immediately to her. The world dropped away. The anger. The tension. There was only the pouring of love from her mouth to his. He took her passion—her unspoken commitment to him—straight to his heart and locked it up tight.
“Saria! How very unseemly of you.” The female voice hissed with displeasure.
Saria didn’t startle or pull away from him. She finished kissing him as though no one had interrupted them, her mouth loving his. When she lifted her head, she looked only at him—straight into his eyes. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles before turning to face the woman who had spoken.
Drake thought he was beyond all shock. He had traveled the world and seen a lot of sights, but Iris Lafont-Mercier was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. It was the last thing he expected. She looked young enough to be Charisse’s sister. He knew leopard women often aged gracefully and even if Charisse was in her early twenties, Iris had to be fifty or more. Her skin was perfection, without a single wrinkle. Her hair was a thick mass of spun gold and if there was gray, it looked like threads of silver among the gold. She had a beautiful figure, looking as if she’d never had a child in her life.
She was waiting for his reaction. She was used to the admiration of men and counted him as no exception. There was no doubt in his mind that Iris manipulated every single man in her life without mercy. Drake kept his expression absolutely blank, nor did he allow his eyes to flick over her with any interest.
“You must be Mrs. Mercier,” he said deliberately.
Saria’s fingers dug into his palm, but he only brought her hand to his chest, pressing it right over his heart in reassurance. Had she trembled? Could Saria be a little afraid of Iris Mercier’s sharp tongue?
“It’s Iris Lafont-Mercier, actually,” Iris replied in a slightly superior tone. “Pauline is my sister. Our family can be traced back hundreds of years.”
“Drake Donovan, ma’am,” he said. “Miss Pauline has mentioned you.”
