Imelda Cortez was tall and thin, very fashionable, but she reminded Isabeau of a praying mantis, an insect ready to strike her prey the first chance she got. Imelda’s gluttonous gaze slid dismissively over Isabeau once, but moved quickly on to the men in the group—a new supply of men for her voracious appetite. That told all of them that Imelda wasn’t leopard, or even part leopard. She would have known Isabeau was close to the Han Vol Dan and therefore her biggest threat. The two rogue leopards would be consumed by her presence. Their duty to Imelda would be second to their need of mating with a female leopard in the throes of the Han Vol Dan.

Imelda moved across the room, aware all eyes were on her. She pursed her lips and made a little clucking noise, shaking her head. “This is no way to treat Philip’s guests, Martin.” She slid her fingers playfully down Conner’s arm. “Who do we have here?”

Isabeau’s cat gave a fierce snarl, but subsided under her growing control. Conner didn’t even so much as glance at Imelda. His gaze remained fixed and focused on Martin’s. There was a threat there, very real, and Martin didn’t dare move, not even with Imelda clearly giving him the signal to back off.

“Conner,” Marcos said in a low tone. “I think he has the message.”

Conner took a step back immediately, never taking his eyes from Martin. The rogue leopard stepped back as well and broke the stare, looking at his employer. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Imelda gave a sniff of contempt and handed him a handkerchief. “Mop up. You look ridiculous.” She glided close to Conner, and ran her finger down his chest this time, a blatant invitation, her breasts nearly touching him, her perfume engulfing him, her eyes devouring him. “Very few men can get the better of my guards.”

Martin stirred as if he might protest. Imelda’s hand came up and she waved languidly. “Go away, Martin. You’re boring me.”

Martin glanced at Isabeau, his eyes glittering dangerously and then he looked once more to his boss. Hatred flared briefly, and he turned abruptly, signaling the other security guards, who dispersed to various spots in the room. Only then did Conner look down at Imelda. Isabeau held her breath. There was no expression whatsoever on his face.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He moved in silence back toward the wall where the shadows in the room swallowed him.

“Oh my,” Imelda said, fanning herself. “You have good taste in protectors, Marcos. I’m Imelda Cortez.”

Marcos bent gallantly over her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Imelda—may I call you Imelda?”

“Of course. I believe we’ll be great friends.” She flashed him a lovely smile, all teeth and flirty pouting lips.