He whispered the words to her and her heart turned over. She shouldn’t want to hear him say he wanted to kill Paolo with his bare hands, but somehow, his stark admission lifted some of the guilt that rode her so hard.

8

“SIENA. Baby. Open your eyes.”

She heard the voice from a distance. Familiar. Warm. Sweet. That velvet heat cut through the cold terror forcing her heart to pound and her pulse to go wild.

“That’s it, mi vida, open your eyes. Look at your man.”

So sweet, that voice. Rough. Sexy. All man. Reassuring and solid. She felt the brush of his mouth over her eyelids. Her lashes fluttered as she made the supreme effort to lift them. To see his face. The remnants of the nightmare clung to her, so that her mouth was dry and her stomach hurt. Down the side of her leg, pain flashed, but already, it was fading, driven away by that mesmerizing voice and the brush of Elijah’s mouth.

She opened her eyes and there he was. Close. So close. So beautiful. His jaw strong, dark with a two-day stubble. His cheekbones high. His dark features all man. His hair—she loved the wild, unruly hair that was so Elijah. He was wild, and his hair marked him that way.

His eyes were dark with concern, but he smiled at her, his teeth very white, his lips defined. “Sweetheart.”

The single word turned her heart over. Without thinking she lifted her hand and traced his lips. “You have a beautiful mouth, Elijah,” she whispered. Her heart pounded hard. From the nightmare, or from how close he was, how gorgeous he was. How much of a dream man he was. She tasted the echo of her nightmare in her mouth. The terror. The moment the leopard dragged her down. The sound of the gun. The sight of her grandfather. Paolo kicking her with his elegant, Italian, pointed shoes.

“No, baby.” His eyes intent on hers, he pulled her finger into his mouth, his tongue curling around it, distracting her completely from the web of terror she’d been trapped in. He shook his head, releasing her, but his hands went back to framing her face. His eyes darkened even more. “He doesn’t get any part of you. Not when you’re awake and not when you’re asleep. Give him to me, everything he said. Everything he did. Give all of it to me.”

There was no looking away from the intensity of his eyes. He was wholly focused on her, his gaze holding hers captive.

“I don’t know how.” She wanted to. She was tired of being afraid. So very tired of it. She hated fearing going to sleep, knowing Paolo would be there. Knowing guilt over her grandfather’s death would eat at her. Knowing fear would consume her.