Wild Fire by Christine Feehan

little longer, a little sharper than they’d been before and ran her tongue over her own teeth just to check. They seemed normal enough and she was almost disappointed. His smile sent a flare of pride singing through her veins, and that was not tolerable so she kept her attention on the tree. “Then you know more than I do. Tell me how.”
    “Take off your shoes, tie them around your neck.”
    She hesitated, but he was already doing as he advised and she reluctantly followed suit, stuffing her socks inside the shoes and tying laces together so she could hang them around her neck. She felt silly, but she stood up and stood awkwardly waiting.
    “Tell me how this works first.”
    “I’ll be right behind you. You’ve seen cats climb. They use their claws to anchor themselves on the trunk. Leopards are enormously strong. You have her claws and her strength.”
    She held out her hands to him. “Does it look like I have claws?”
    He took her hand in his, turning it, examining it. Her hand looked small and a little lost in his. His touch was gentle, but when she involuntarily tried to pull away, he tightened his grip, preventing her escape. His fixed gaze holding hers, he lifted her fingertips to his face, deliberately brushing the pads of her fingers into the four grooves there, following the scars from one end to the other. “You have claws.”
    She moistened her lips again, her heart thudding. “I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t know.” She hated that she apologized; he deserved the scars, but she was still ashamed of the violence, of the way she’d been so duped, of the things she’d done with him—and still wanted to do. All of it. She ducked her head, half convinced he could read her mind. “I meant to slap you, not scar you.”
    “I know. And I don’t blame you,” he said, reluctantly releasing her hand. “I think of it as your brand on me.”
    Her womb clenched and then spasmed. Her reaction was totally inappropriate and upsetting, but still she found herself damp and aching. He mesmerized people. It wasn’t just her. She had to remind herself that if he turned that magnetic charm on Imelda Cortez, she would react exactly the same way. It wasn’t real.
    “Tell me how to do this.” It was her only out and, although it was terrifying, climbing to the canopy was better than thoughts of Conner Vega wearing her brand.
    “Step up next to the trunk. Pretend you’re a tree-hugger.” He slung the gun around to lie against his back, leaving his arms free.
    Isabeau did what he said. Instantly he stepped behind her, his arms coming around on either side of her, his fingers curving, tips against the trunk. She felt him against her back. It was—intimate. Shocking. When he took a breath, so did she. Every nerve ending went on alert.
    He tipped his head even closer until his lips were against her ear and his chin brushing her shoulder. “That’s right. Mimic what I do. Don’t be afraid. Don’t look down. Just climb with me. I won’t let you fall. Trust your cat. Talk to her. Now. Tell her to climb the tree. Tell her we need to escape the men and the fire. Feel her. Reach for her. She can’t emerge fully, but she’s already demonstrated to you that she’ll come to your aid.”
    It sounded so preposterous but she heard him whispering in her ear, or maybe it was her mind. Life or death. Survival of our mate. Take us up. It’s harder in this form, but she can’t fully emerge. Call to her. Let her smell you. Reassure her.
    Even as she watched, his hands curved into two claws. She smelled something feral—wild—untamed. The musk of a male cat in its prime. She felt the instant reaction inside her, her own cat leaping toward the scent, rising close, so close she felt hot breath in her lungs and strength pouring through her body. Adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream and she broke out in a sweat. Her skin itched and she felt fur sliding just beneath the surface of her skin. Her mouth ached, teeth