Burning Wild (7 page)

JAKE
found Emma’s apartment building with little problem. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the small living space. Small? Hell, it was tiny. The furniture was old and worn with use, the china was chipped and cracked. The couple had nothing. He stalked through the four rooms. This entire apartment would fit into his master bedroom. Frustration grew with each step and he paced back and forth, prowling like the caged cat he was. There was something here he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something he needed to understand,
had
to understand. It was a burning drive in his gut.

Everything was very neat and clean, so much so he found himself throwing out the dead roses in the little vase. They seemed an obscenity in the atmosphere of the apartment. He paced restlessly again, quick, fluid steps of sheer power. There was a key but he was missing it. He halted abruptly. Pictures were everywhere, on the walls, the desk, a small bureau, and there was an album sitting on a coffee table.

He studied one of the photos. The couple was looking at each other, as they seemed to be in every other picture, as if they only had eyes for each other. Their expressions were genuine, love shining brightly between them until it was almost tangible.

He traced Emma’s lips with a gentle fingertip. He had never seen two people who looked so happy. It was in their eyes, it was in their faces. Emma took his breath away. In most of the pictures she wore little or no makeup.

She was very small, almost too slender, with an abundance of flaming red hair framing her fragile heart-shaped face. He had never had the slightest attraction to skinny women—he preferred lush curves—but he couldn’t stop staring at her face, her eyes. He touched her picture again, tracing the outline of her face, his other hand gripping the cheap frame until his knuckles were white. He put it down abruptly.

The kitchen was filled with baked goods, including a hardened loaf of bread that had obviously been baked from scratch. The bathroom held two toothbrushes, one white, one blue, side by side in a container. There was a pregnancy test kit right next to the small soap dish. In the corner of the mirror, someone had written “Yes!” with lipstick.

In the bedroom, without a qualm, he went through their clothes. Andrew’s shirts were a bit threadbare, but every button was in place, every tear neatly repaired. Every shirt was clean and ironed. He found a jacket with tiny embroidered stitches on the inside seam.
Someone loves you.
He stared at the words, feeling a yawning chasm of emptiness welling up inside him.

Jake Bannaconni was elite. He had superior intelligence, strength, vision and sense of smell. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, flowing like water, fluid and controlled. He was one of the youngest billionaires ever reported by
Forbes
, and he wielded vast political power. He had the savage, animalistic magnetism of his species and the ruthless logic required to strategize and plan boardroom battles. He could mesmerize people with the sheer strength of his personality; he could attract and seduce the most beautiful women in the world, and frequently did so; but he could not make them love him. Yet this . . . this
mechanic
had commanded love from all those around him. It made no sense.

What had made Andrew Reynolds so damned special that he could inspire that kind of love? That kind of loyalty? Hell, Jake couldn’t claim love or loyalty from his own parents, let alone anyone else. As far as he could see, Reynolds hadn’t given his wife a damned thing, yet everywhere he looked he could see evidence of their happiness.

He touched Emma’s brush, strands of red hair gleaming at him like spun silk. His gut clenched. Longing nearly overwhelmed him. More than longing. Black jealousy assailed him. He’d heard his kind had that dangerous trait, but never once in his life had he experienced it. The emotion, so strong, was so intense it left a bitter taste in his mouth, knotted his gut and gave a killing edge to his already volatile temper. Andrew and Emma’s life was a fairy tale. A fucking fairy tale. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. She didn’t have decent clothes. Every pair of her jeans was faded and worn. There were only two dresses hanging in the closet.

He found books on birds everywhere, an amateur design for a greenhouse aviary drafted by a feminine hand. He folded the drawings carefully and slipped them inside his coat pocket. He found a notebook that fascinated him. Every charcoal drawing was of leopards in various poses, some half sketched, some highly detailed. The pad was older and well worn, as if someone had looked at it often.

He spent another hour in the apartment, not really understanding why, but he couldn’t pull himself away. He was a man who needed freedom and open space. He was intensely sexual, drawing women and bedding them whenever, wherever he wanted. He’d never considered having a woman of his own, yet looking around that tiny nothing apartment made him feel as if all the money in the world, all the political clout, all the secrets of what he was and who he was, all of it was nothing compared to what Andrew Reynolds had had.

Jake closed and locked the door. Someone had to look at him that way—not just someone. Emma. He couldn’t walk away and leave her. The thought of another man finding her, possessing her, sent rage careening through his mind. Inside, he roared a protest. Emma should have been nothing to him, but he couldn’t get the sight or scent of her from his mind.

He wanted the damned fairy tale. He could be patient. He was methodical and completely ruthless. Once set on a course of action he was implacable, unswerving. No one, nothing, stayed in his way for long. A grim smile touched the slightly cruel edges of his mouth. He played to win, and he always did. It never mattered how long it took. He always won. He wanted what Andrew had. He wanted Emma Reynolds—not some other woman; Emma—and he would have her. Nothing, and no one, would stand in his way.

3

“I’M thirty-three years old today, Emma,” Jake announced as he walked into her hospital room. He placed the items he’d brought from her apartment on the small table near her bed. He’d deliberately waited three days before visiting, although he made certain she heard his voice in the hall. Chelsey had expressed concern several times that Emma wasn’t eating and seemed very upset.

Emma’s gaze jumped to his face, her fingers plucking at the sheet covering her.

“It’s a hell of a thing to be my age and have a baby I don’t know how to take care of. I’ve studied all kinds of things and speak several languages, but I never thought to learn how to change a baby’s diapers. They’re going to release him in another few days and then what am I going to do?”

Jake picked up her brush and crossed the room to her side. “You look a little pale to me. Are they still giving you pain medication?”

Emma moistened her dry lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. He dug through his pocket and held the lip balm out to her, expecting her to take it. “I found this in your bathroom and figured you might want it.”

Emma took the tube from him, her fingers brushing his palm. She was trembling. He waited for her to coat her cracked lips before he spoke again. “Can you scoot up or do you need for me to help you?”

Emma looked startled, frowning at him. “Why?”

“I’m going to brush your hair. I’m probably not any better at that than changing diapers, but it might make you feel human again.” Jake poured authority into his voice, acting very matter-of-fact, as if he brushed her hair every day.

She swallowed and looked around a little helplessly, as if she didn’t quite know what to do. He gave her no choice and reached across the bed to gently lift her body into a sitting position before he slid in behind her and seated himself on the bed. His thighs wrapped around her hips. A sense of haunting familiarity washed over him, as if he’d done this a million times. His fingers slid into the mass of tangled hair and that too felt familiar.

Jake took a breath and drew the scent of her into his lungs, the woman—who belonged to another man—that he meant to keep for himself, to steal. “Emma?” His voice took on an inquiring tone. “Are you all right?” He dropped his hands to her shoulders.

Emma shook her head.

“Tell me.” He ran the brush through her long hair, careful not to pull. He’d never brushed a woman’s hair in his life, yet it felt as if he had. Instinctively he held the silken strands above the knots so it wouldn’t pull on her scalp as he brushed. He knew she had a tender scalp, and for a moment he heard her laughing explanation, as if she had spoken aloud, that the curls made her sensitive. They’d never once talked about brushing hair, but the memory was in his mind, clear and vivid.

Emma felt his hands in her hair and she closed her eyes, realizing she’d been waiting for him, needing him, needing his strength. It upset her that she needed anyone, and she was ashamed that she couldn’t seem to cope on her own. She couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t face her apartment without Andy, and now . . . Her chest ached. Her heart felt so heavy she was afraid she’d choke with the need for air.

“Emma.” His voice held an edge, a command. “Tell me.”

“The doctor said the baby is at risk and I have to be on bed rest.”

There. She’d said it aloud. Finally faced the terrible news because he was there. A complete stranger. Why had she been waiting for him? She’d been angry and hurt that he’d stayed away so long. She’d barely been aware of the doctors and nurses bustling around her, trying to be cheerful, but she’d been acutely aware of him each time he’d been in the hallway outside the nursery looking at his baby. And she’d overheard the nurses gossiping endlessly about how sexy and hot he was.

She didn’t want to cry anymore. She wasn’t even certain she could. All day long, all night, all she could do was think of Andy, miss him, pray he’d died quickly, without pain. Now she was terrified of losing his child, of not having a way to take care of herself or the baby. She had no one to help her. She was completely and utterly alone in the world.

“What are they saying is wrong?”

His voice was calm and the sound of it steadied her. His hands moved through her hair with the tug of the brush and somehow even that motion soothed her. She took a gulp of air and found she could think better with him close to her.

“I have some internal injuries and they think my body won’t hold the baby as it grows. I’ll have to be on complete bed rest by my fourth month.”

The brush stroked through her hair a few more times before he put it down and divided her hair into three strands. “We can get a second opinion, Emma. It’s not hard to fly someone in. If he agrees, then you’ll just do whatever it takes.”

“How?” She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “I don’t have Andy to help me. They operated on my leg; I can’t walk, I can’t work. I don’t have a clue what to do.” She detested sounding so pathetic.

He tugged on her hair until she turned back away from him, her shoulders sagging. “We’ll do just what we’re doing now. Help each other. I’ve got money and a big house if you need it.”

She stiffened. “I don’t need a handout.” She did, though. That was what was so humiliating. She was practically begging for a stranger to settle her life. She knew she was doing it, but she couldn’t stop herself, not with this man. Who was he? Why did he feel so familiar and strong?

She covered her face with one hand. He’d suffered a loss as well. Shaina. The name tasted bitter in her mouth. Shaina and her drunken friend had killed Andy. Strange, she could see pain in Jake’s eyes sometimes but never feel it, while it coursed through her veins along with grief, carrying her on a tide of sorrow so strong she was afraid she could never feel happiness again.

“You know there will be a settlement,” Jake said. “You’ll have plenty of money. I can get my lawyers to continue working on it for you. Once you have that, you won’t have to worry about money for a while. There should be plenty to take care of you and the baby.”

“Blood money. Money can’t replace Andrew.” She jerked forward, away from the comfort of his touch.

His hands tightened in her hair, tugging at her scalp, and she gave a little squeak.

“Settle down. I’m not the one you’re mad at,” Jake pointed out. “And whatever the reason, the money will help with the baby. And you’re going to need it, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just take care of that little detail for you until you can come to terms with it.”

“Whatever.”

Her voice was low, but triumph shot through Jake at her acceptance of his help. He wanted to take away her sorrow, yet a part of him was amazed and gratified that she could actually feel sorrow. He had been upset over his great-grandfather’s death, but not half as upset as she was over her husband’s. It fascinated him that she was capable of loving someone so deeply that her life was shattered when he was gone. Try as he might, Jake could not feel sorrow over Shaina’s death.

He found himself not liking that side of him, that cold, unemotional part of him that would take advantage of a woman as genuine as Emma. From the little information he’d gleaned from the hospital staff and the apartment, he’d discovered Emma was an independent woman with strong opinions and a sense of fun. But right now she seemed vulnerable and fragile, weighed down by grief and loss. The harsh realities of his world had long ago taught him no one could be so genuine, but though he kept thinking he would find a way to trip her up, he had not been able to. If she was an actress, she deserved an Oscar.

Beneath his hands he felt her stiffen, go on alert, turning her head toward the door.

“The baby’s crying,” she said. “Can you bring him in here?”

Jake frowned. He had the ability to hear and sort sounds due to his “other,” and he instantly recognized the cry of his son. He was leopard, his brain automatically recording sounds and conversations, sorting through data and registering facts around him, yet Emma had heard the cry and instinctively turned toward it before it had registered with him.

His chest suddenly felt heavy, and in his ears, his blood thundered. His mother never once had responded to his cries, not when he’d been an infant, and certainly not when he’d been a toddler. This woman, this stranger, had more regard for his infant son than Jake did. He felt shame and guilt and confusion—something that happened a lot in her presence.