Taking the Stage

Chapter Two

The princess was late.

It was their fourth “private” rehearsal time. After their first night, he’d settled for introducing her to each of the cats, encouraged her to run her long, nimble fingers over their silky coats and ignored the possessive surge of fur that writhed under his skin. His cat wasn’t interested in watching her pet others, much less the meek and submissive cats under his command.

Anthony diNapoli interlaced his fingers behind his back and bent in a long stretch, palms facing the ceiling. The muscles in his shoulders burned from the pull, until one by one, his vertebrae popped, easing his stress. The relief was instantaneous. His gaze flickered to the stage with impatience. It was too bad he couldn’t relieve other issues as simply.

But Anthony kept it under control.

Miss Roseâtre might be a showgirl now, but she still carried the smell of bronze blades inherent to her race.

Amazon.

He could hardly believe his luck. The sting of losing to his uncle had left him alone and without a Pride in a world hostile to lone shifters. It required delicate negotiation and the backing of a strong group to travel through warring territories without offense.

Anthony possessed neither the skill for negotiation nor the backing of a Pride. So he was forced to beg, borrow and steal the goodwill of others to sponsor his travels. That meant he must cross some territories in hours or pay an exorbitant amount in tithe to those Packs and Prides where he worked.

The Arcana Royale was neutral territory. Anthony need pay nothing to the Pack controlling the Las Vegas territory nor a tribute to its reigning vampire prince, as long as he remained within the confines of the casino property. The casino had even negotiated his travel arrangements. The casino boasted everything he could need: income, sanctuary, and with the amount of power they controlled, significant perks like his suite. The gambling didn’t interest him, nor did the tourists and other paranormals. He wanted a home for his cats, and time. His job provided him with both. It was altogether satisfactory. Except for one self-entitled princess.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the distant sound of expensive shoes click-clacking against concrete announced her impending arrival. He straightened, taking the time to scratch Nalini’s neck.

The maternal female was of a slighter build and boasted the only dark eyes of all his handpicked Pride members. A sweet female, Nalini could set even the most high-strung audience member at ease. A domesticated pet housed in the body of a feral predator.

As if sensing his concern, Nalini butted her head under his hand, stroking her cheek against the rough denim of his leg, scent marking him, demonstrating solidarity, affection and affinity. She never challenged his authority in human or cat form.

If only he could domesticate the princess as easily.

Roseâtre needed to practice sliding her lithe, long body down the back of a cat tonight and despite the blood roaring in his ears, Anthony knew it was better to rehearse with Nalini.

For now.

The Amazon-turned-showgirl seemed to have timed her entrance, appearing from the shadows wrapping the back of the stage. Her black leotard molded every sensuous curve and highlighted the smooth, long torso from the swell of her breasts to the roundness of her hips. His immediate erection applauded her supple form, but his mind rebelled at the black.

Always black.

The woman needed to dress in richer, warmer tones that would give color to her pale, soft flesh. He pictured her in Earth tones that brought out the flickers of green in her hazel eyes or jeweled sheaths that he could unwrap, inch by silken inch, to explore her creamy skin.

He allowed his gaze to rake over her, appreciating the clean, easy lines of her posture as she strolled across the stage. No. She owned the stage and allowed it the grace of her presence.

Her feet glittered and sparkled. He lifted both brows, curious and amused by yet another pair of shoes. Her boring black leotard might be the same night after night, but the shoes were always different. High heels decked out with shiny baubles and smelling of cold, hard diamonds and gems.

“Good evening.” Her voice was the cool winds of autumn brushing aside the drizzling heat of summer.

“You’re late, princess.” Irritated by his own reaction, he nudged Nalini aside and stood.

“I’m well, thank you. And how are you?” She paused a few feet away, denying him access to her precious bubble.

Too bad.

He closed the distance between them in three long strides, prowling around her. The heels added inches to her height, but he was the largest male born to his Pride. He understood the advantage of size and exploited it.

“Lose the shoes, princess.”

“Why?”

So easy to bait. He opened his mouth, letting the scent of her wash across his teeth, brush his gums and coat his throat. He savored the hints of sage, paprika and oregano tinged with the bite of bronze. Her long, sinuous figure was crowned with a cascade of deep black hair. He wondered what the sunlight would bring out in the dark mass, set off by a single lock of silvery white that fell from her center part to caress her right cheek.

“Because you need to be able to work your body along her back. The heels will hurt her.” Enticed, he caught the end of the white streak and rolled it between his fingers. It was as soft as the downy fur on the belly of any of his tigers.

A single white streak, amongst all the dark and cream.

“Stop that.” She slapped his hand, but her words broke in the center on a huff of breath.

Annoyed or aroused? He sampled a lungful of her scent and smiled. Definitely aroused.

He longed to flex his claws, but settled for curling his toes against the hard wood of the stage floor. Ignoring her earlier rebuff, he twined the white lock over two fingers and ducked his head down to run his nose over it.

It smelled different from the rest of her. Elements of mint, apricot, fig and date jostled together, creating an enticing fruity mixture.

Why is this so different from the rest of her?

No stink of bronze to bite at the back of his throat. No shimmers of desert winds luring him in to an oasis trap. Amazons crossed the Ural Mountains over the centuries, hunting his people for their pelts and coats. His great-grandfather served as a battle cape for their great queen.

He’d even seen the bitch wearing it on television.

So why did his princess smell of sweet, succulent fruits on these wickedly different strands of hair?

A shiver of motion and cool metal burned against the muscles of his thigh. He spared a glance downward. A silver spike, easily three inches long, pressed into the denim dangerously close to his groin. Where’d she hide that? His cock swelled at the challenge.

“Does my princess want to play?” Anthony’s chest expanded, his eyes narrowed as they drifted up the length of her. Close enough that the odd, icy warmth of her body teased and tingled the bare flesh of his chest and arms.

He almost wished he’d forgone the jeans. The silver spike pressed forward, digging into his flesh enticingly. He tugged the lock of hair, a schoolboy’s salute of appreciation, before releasing it. One hand plunging between them, to immobilize her wrist, Anthony wrapped his free arm around her middle to drag her against him.

His erection strained against his jeans, tormented by the press of soft flesh to his front. Anthony gazed down at her startled expression with amusement. A fleeting amusement as it turned out. She simply fell back over his arm, her legs twisting between his and hooking the backs of his knees.

Anthony rolled, attempting to take the brunt of the fall on his side and shield her, while keeping her vicious little spike from emasculating him. But his princess wasn’t done. No sooner had he shot an arm out to catch them, than he tumbled head over ass to land flat on his back, the princess straddling him.

The heat at the apex of her thighs burned into his chest as her knees dug into his forearms. The silver spike jutted threateningly at the soft skin of his exposed throat, forcing his head up.

“You know, princess, if you wanted to ride me, all you had to do was ask.” He grinned at the combination of lust and outrage racing like storm clouds over her features, wrinkling her nose, softening her lips and tightening her jaw.

Damn, she would be fun in bed.

With just an ounce of regret, he shoved up with his arms and dead lifted her weight, sending her flying over his head. Anthony bounded to his feet with a rolled push of his shoulders. He threw a hand out to keep Nalini still. The white tiger watched the wrestling with bored disinterest.

Roseâtre hit the stage with her shoulder and rolled to her feet, wobbling on her spiky little heels. A misfortune for his princess. Since the unsteadiness threw off her balance, he pounced. He plucked the spike from her fingers and tossed it off the stage to clatter on the floor of the empty orchestra pit.

They went down in a pile of arms and legs. He scissored her knees together with his own, his hands forcing her arms to the stage. Unsurprisingly, his strength was more than capable of grappling with hers. When her teeth snapped at his face, the cat inside slipped its leash.

He dropped his head to her throat and bit down gently, tasting the warm salt of her cool skin. Just hard enough to bruise, not tear. Delight speared him. Her writhing hips halted when he pressed the evidence of his arousal against her belly.

With the lightest of shakes, he let her get used to the danger of the man at her throat until the stiffness in her shoulders released. The relaxation of her body was a ploy. He spared a look up the curve of her jaw. He couldn’t quite make out her face, but he could almost smell the mutiny boiling within.

Her hands flexed, the muscles in her arms jerked in response. He tightened his grip. Amazons didn’t surrender. If he allowed her even an ounce of freedom, she would strike. Anthony held her firm, refusing to yield the advantage. The scent of her fed his burning desire to stroke his tongue against her flesh, to taste the sweet and the tart.

If she wants submission, she’ll damn well give it first.

Roseâtre’s hips bumped his and he growled, a low sound vibrating out of his throat. He longed to see her face, to see the expression in those hazel eyes. Was that an invitation?

The press of cold steel to the back of his neck and Nalini’s lazy growl told him the truth.

It was a distraction.

“Let her go, or I’ll take your head off.” The masculine warning was reinforced with the bite of steel into the soft juncture at the base of Anthony’s skull.

Reluctantly, Anthony obeyed, releasing Roseâtre’s throat but keeping his head still lest the blade penetrate his spine and sever it. Such a brutal injury could take years to heal, if it ever did.

“Nalini.” Anthony spoke the words in a gentle command, knowing the cat would back him up.

“…is smart enough to see the gun pointing at her and isn’t moving. Remember that when I allow you to stand, Mr. diNapoli. Now get off Roseâtre.”

Anthony’s biceps flexed. He waited for the blade’s pressure to ease before lifting his head to see Roseâtre’s sexy little mouth pinched into a smirk. She had the upper hand.

For now.

He rose carefully, aware of the blade and shifted away. He held out a hand to Roseâtre and to his utter surprise, she took it, allowing him to pull her to feet. She moved away from him, creating a gulf between them before the blade dropped from the back of his head. A sheath peeked up from the back seam of her leotard. That explained where she’d hid the slender spike. Glancing to his right, Anthony frowned.

The man gazing at him was of slender build with salt-and-pepper hair and almost kind eyes. He also held a wicked little Beretta in his hand and it was indeed pointed at Nalini.

“Do we understand each other, Mr. diNapoli?” The low threat hung in the syllables of the question. The man was curiously lacking in social scents.

No scent of soap. No scent of cologne. It was unnerving. It also explained the stealth of his approach. Intrigue warred with irritation, but the gun was a danger he couldn’t ignore.

“We do.” Anthony bowed his head slightly and the man paid him a similar favor. “And you are?”

The gun lowered and Nalini yawned, clearly no worse for wear from the potential threat.

“Thank you, Stan.” Roseâtre clued him in to the stranger’s identity.

“You’re welcome. I’ll return to my seat now if the two of you can behave.” Surprisingly, Stan gave Roseâtre a look of mild censure. “Heidi has been disappointed at how slowly this is going. You need to get over this inhibition.”

“It’s not my fault tall, blond and studly attacked me.”

Studly. Anthony smiled. He could work with that.

“Of course it isn’t and I didn’t see you draw a weapon on him first. Make this work, Roseâtre.” The man picked up the weapon in question and exited the stage with a gentle leap. Anthony’s gaze followed him until the shadows of the audience tables swallowed him up. Just how long had this Stan been watching their rehearsals? He’d been told the dancers had a guardian who looked after them, who traveled with them when they left the theatre, but he’d never met or seen him until now.

“Ugh.” The pure frustration in the syllable nudged him. He swung his gaze back to Roseâtre.

“What’s the problem now, princess?”

“You drooled on me.”

Laughter purred through him.

“Shall we have a truce then?”

“A truce?” Skepticism knitted her brows.

“Yes, a peace accord. An agreement to work together toward a mutual goal without eviscerating each other?”

“So I don’t poke you and you don’t poke me?”

Oh, no. There will be poking.

“How about I promise not to bite?” Anthony stretched, aware of her gaze roaming over him, and too much of a cat not to preen at the attention. Silver spike and wrestling match aside, he wanted to play out this game between them.

“Hmm, so I don’t poke you and you don’t bite me?”

He grinned slowly. This truce had benefits worth exploring. “Yes, but please feel free to bite me anytime you want me to poke you.”