Shadow Reaper
Page 27
She opened the French doors and stared out. It was a cool night, the breeze moving the leaves and branches around, casting shadows across the ground. Something moved at the far end of the garden and she took several steps outside to get a better look. At once her shadow connected with the others and raced toward the ones at the farthest end.
She recognized Ricco before she saw him. The connection between them had grown that strong – so strong when their shadows touched, it sent a jolt of heat rushing through her. His head came up and he spotted her immediately… or had he known the moment she opened her door and stepped into the courtyard? That was more likely. She didn’t feel surprise on his side at all.
“What are you doing up, Ricco? I thought you’d gone to lie down for a while.” At least her voice was pleasant. That was one attribute in her favor.
She had never been exactly desirable in Japan. She towered over the women there – and some of the men – but she’d always had a melodic voice. Osamu Saito had despised that about her as well, saying she tried to use her voice to seduce men. She’d become afraid to speak, just in case she’d incur Osamu’s wrath. The beatings were difficult. She found she had a temper, and she wanted to rip the broom handle from Osamu’s hands and give her a taste of her own medicine. She hadn’t, of course, because she might have been banned from shadow riding and it was all she had, but more, she’d made a deal with Osamu to keep her from beating Ryuu.
“I rested for a while. I’m glad you’re up. I’m in the mood to work.” Ricco’s voice came out of the shadows, low and intense. Sexy.
Her heart jerked hard in her chest. Fingers of fear crept down her spine. She’d applied to be his model, at his beck and call any time day or night for the next few months. She’d done that. Given her word. Signed a contract. Always her word had been gold. She would never go back on that with him if she could manage it. Fear wasn’t the problem – she could deal with nerves. It was the excitement welling up in her that frightened her most. The unfamiliar emotion was too strong. Too needy. Too everything she was unprepared to deal with.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get yourself ready. Hydrate, use the bathroom, dress in one of the one-piece things hanging in your closet, no underwear please. I’ll take a few photographs because even if I don’t use them for the book, I want to document your journey for you and this first session is an important one. In later sessions, we’ll have a makeup artist here, but this one is just for us. Me, to get rid of the building edginess that always means I need to do rope art or I’m going to do something crazy, and you, so you realize I would never hurt you and you’re always safe with me.”
“Something crazy?” She had to ask.
“I can be an adrenaline junkie. Fast cars. Climbing. Jumping out of planes.”
Fast women – but she wasn’t going there. She couldn’t. She had to stick to her plan as closely as possible. This might be her first and last session. One-piece things? When had they been put in her closet? She’d locked her doors.
Without a word she turned and went back inside. She needed to get her breathing under control. Her heartbeat was wild, a drum that wouldn’t stop pounding. It wasn’t fear of being tied and vulnerable as it should have been. There was some trepidation, but Ricco wasn’t a man to force a woman to do anything. He wouldn’t need to. A woman would want to do anything he asked of her.
She moved through her room to the closet, opening the double doors. She had brought very few clothes, but now there were several dresses, wraps, jeans and sweaters, and three of the one-piece, skintight suits all in her size. There was also lingerie that looked as if it would fit her as well. She’d had to provide her stats on the application. That had included her height, weight and clothes size.
She turned and glanced at the dresser. It was tall and ornate, beautifully appointed. Slowly, she crossed over to it and pulled out a drawer. It should have been empty, but it wasn’t.
Mariko lifted the underwear from the lined drawer. The dresser was made of cedar and smelled delicious. The panties were sheer lace, covering her front – barely – but leaving her buttocks bare. She took a deep breath and picked up the matching bra. As a woman, she should have the courage to wear such things. She should be proud of her body, no matter what the type, and walk with confidence, but she felt ashamed. It had taken every ounce of discipline she had to force herself to walk with her head up and her shoulders straight always – but she had done it.
Courage and discipline. Courage was being afraid and doing the task anyway. She wanted this for herself. She’d told herself she was doing it to get close to Ricco Ferraro, but she’d researched him very carefully and as far as she could see, even before she met him, he was a good man. Wild. An adrenaline junkie just as he’d admitted. Not a good bet for a husband – ever – but a good man.
She walked to the mirror and stared at herself. Her father, according to Osamu, had been Japanese, her mother American. Her brother looked Japanese. She didn’t look anything like them. Like any of them. She was used to being ridiculed, ignored, beaten and made fun of. She didn’t understand why looking different had warranted all that.
She touched her pale skin with shaking fingers. Her blond mane was a legacy from her mother. She had large hazel eyes, with long sweeping lashes, and a pouty mouth with full red lips. Her nose was straight and she had good bone structure – that was what had made her mother so photogenic.
Where her mother had been five foot ten, she’d only managed to hit five foot six. It was annoying to be in the middle. Not short, not thin, not tall and not model material. She felt clunky next to the small women moving silently through the house growing up in Japan. She always seemed too big for everything.
She knew she was going to die and that knowledge made her question everything about her life, the family she never had. Even her love for her brother. As they’d grown up, Osamu had by turns loved and hated him. He’d grown confused. Osamu had told them Ryuu’s twisted body was Mariko’s fault. She’d blamed Mariko for his inability to ride the shadows. Ryuu had sometimes sided with his sister, but as he grew up, more and more, he tried to get Osamu to love him, often going against Mariko to prove to Osamu he was loyal to her.
Was he worth dying for? The answer was yes. Ryuu was her only family, and she loved him with everything in her. It didn’t matter if that love wasn’t reciprocated every moment of the day; it was in her heart – and his. He was her only family and the only person in the world she had. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to save him. On the other hand, she couldn’t murder a good man to trade for her brother’s life.
So that led her to this moment. She needed to know she’d done at least one of the things important to her. She wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. One time. From the moment Osamu had shown her the books with her mother as a rope model portraying all kinds of rope art from simple to bondage and suspension, she had studied that art. She knew the history. She’d gone to demonstrations. She had found herself moved by the various rope masters and how they treated their models – as if their partner were the only person in their world. Osamu’s taunts had backfired. Just once, even if it wasn’t real, she wanted to feel as if a man saw only her. No one else. For those moments, she was his world. His canvas. He saw beauty in her.
She recognized Ricco before she saw him. The connection between them had grown that strong – so strong when their shadows touched, it sent a jolt of heat rushing through her. His head came up and he spotted her immediately… or had he known the moment she opened her door and stepped into the courtyard? That was more likely. She didn’t feel surprise on his side at all.
“What are you doing up, Ricco? I thought you’d gone to lie down for a while.” At least her voice was pleasant. That was one attribute in her favor.
She had never been exactly desirable in Japan. She towered over the women there – and some of the men – but she’d always had a melodic voice. Osamu Saito had despised that about her as well, saying she tried to use her voice to seduce men. She’d become afraid to speak, just in case she’d incur Osamu’s wrath. The beatings were difficult. She found she had a temper, and she wanted to rip the broom handle from Osamu’s hands and give her a taste of her own medicine. She hadn’t, of course, because she might have been banned from shadow riding and it was all she had, but more, she’d made a deal with Osamu to keep her from beating Ryuu.
“I rested for a while. I’m glad you’re up. I’m in the mood to work.” Ricco’s voice came out of the shadows, low and intense. Sexy.
Her heart jerked hard in her chest. Fingers of fear crept down her spine. She’d applied to be his model, at his beck and call any time day or night for the next few months. She’d done that. Given her word. Signed a contract. Always her word had been gold. She would never go back on that with him if she could manage it. Fear wasn’t the problem – she could deal with nerves. It was the excitement welling up in her that frightened her most. The unfamiliar emotion was too strong. Too needy. Too everything she was unprepared to deal with.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get yourself ready. Hydrate, use the bathroom, dress in one of the one-piece things hanging in your closet, no underwear please. I’ll take a few photographs because even if I don’t use them for the book, I want to document your journey for you and this first session is an important one. In later sessions, we’ll have a makeup artist here, but this one is just for us. Me, to get rid of the building edginess that always means I need to do rope art or I’m going to do something crazy, and you, so you realize I would never hurt you and you’re always safe with me.”
“Something crazy?” She had to ask.
“I can be an adrenaline junkie. Fast cars. Climbing. Jumping out of planes.”
Fast women – but she wasn’t going there. She couldn’t. She had to stick to her plan as closely as possible. This might be her first and last session. One-piece things? When had they been put in her closet? She’d locked her doors.
Without a word she turned and went back inside. She needed to get her breathing under control. Her heartbeat was wild, a drum that wouldn’t stop pounding. It wasn’t fear of being tied and vulnerable as it should have been. There was some trepidation, but Ricco wasn’t a man to force a woman to do anything. He wouldn’t need to. A woman would want to do anything he asked of her.
She moved through her room to the closet, opening the double doors. She had brought very few clothes, but now there were several dresses, wraps, jeans and sweaters, and three of the one-piece, skintight suits all in her size. There was also lingerie that looked as if it would fit her as well. She’d had to provide her stats on the application. That had included her height, weight and clothes size.
She turned and glanced at the dresser. It was tall and ornate, beautifully appointed. Slowly, she crossed over to it and pulled out a drawer. It should have been empty, but it wasn’t.
Mariko lifted the underwear from the lined drawer. The dresser was made of cedar and smelled delicious. The panties were sheer lace, covering her front – barely – but leaving her buttocks bare. She took a deep breath and picked up the matching bra. As a woman, she should have the courage to wear such things. She should be proud of her body, no matter what the type, and walk with confidence, but she felt ashamed. It had taken every ounce of discipline she had to force herself to walk with her head up and her shoulders straight always – but she had done it.
Courage and discipline. Courage was being afraid and doing the task anyway. She wanted this for herself. She’d told herself she was doing it to get close to Ricco Ferraro, but she’d researched him very carefully and as far as she could see, even before she met him, he was a good man. Wild. An adrenaline junkie just as he’d admitted. Not a good bet for a husband – ever – but a good man.
She walked to the mirror and stared at herself. Her father, according to Osamu, had been Japanese, her mother American. Her brother looked Japanese. She didn’t look anything like them. Like any of them. She was used to being ridiculed, ignored, beaten and made fun of. She didn’t understand why looking different had warranted all that.
She touched her pale skin with shaking fingers. Her blond mane was a legacy from her mother. She had large hazel eyes, with long sweeping lashes, and a pouty mouth with full red lips. Her nose was straight and she had good bone structure – that was what had made her mother so photogenic.
Where her mother had been five foot ten, she’d only managed to hit five foot six. It was annoying to be in the middle. Not short, not thin, not tall and not model material. She felt clunky next to the small women moving silently through the house growing up in Japan. She always seemed too big for everything.
She knew she was going to die and that knowledge made her question everything about her life, the family she never had. Even her love for her brother. As they’d grown up, Osamu had by turns loved and hated him. He’d grown confused. Osamu had told them Ryuu’s twisted body was Mariko’s fault. She’d blamed Mariko for his inability to ride the shadows. Ryuu had sometimes sided with his sister, but as he grew up, more and more, he tried to get Osamu to love him, often going against Mariko to prove to Osamu he was loyal to her.
Was he worth dying for? The answer was yes. Ryuu was her only family, and she loved him with everything in her. It didn’t matter if that love wasn’t reciprocated every moment of the day; it was in her heart – and his. He was her only family and the only person in the world she had. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to save him. On the other hand, she couldn’t murder a good man to trade for her brother’s life.
So that led her to this moment. She needed to know she’d done at least one of the things important to her. She wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. One time. From the moment Osamu had shown her the books with her mother as a rope model portraying all kinds of rope art from simple to bondage and suspension, she had studied that art. She knew the history. She’d gone to demonstrations. She had found herself moved by the various rope masters and how they treated their models – as if their partner were the only person in their world. Osamu’s taunts had backfired. Just once, even if it wasn’t real, she wanted to feel as if a man saw only her. No one else. For those moments, she was his world. His canvas. He saw beauty in her.
