Rio kicked the door closed with the toe of his boot, and jammed the barrel of his gun against Adan Carpio’s temple. He knew better than to threaten the life of a leopard’s mate. “If she moves, you die.”

Conner half turned. He could barely move, his body trembling, the shock registering along with her absolute loathing.

Liar. The word lived and breathed between them.

Conner inhaled and took her loathing into his lungs. Her eyes never left his face. Burned over him, over the four scars there, branding him all over again.

Betrayer.

Time slowed down. Tunneled. He was aware of every detail of her. Her face. That beautiful, oval face with nearly luminescent skin, so soft a man wanted to touch her the moment he saw her. Her large eyes. Golden sometimes. Amber really. Or green. Emerald. Depending on how close her cat was to the surface. Her lashes, so long and curly, a sweep of fringe that accented her catlike eyes.

Isabeau Chandler.

She’d haunted him on the nights he managed to get a few hours’ sleep. That long, sleek tawny hair, so thick. His fingers remembered tunneling through it. Her mouth, full lips, soft beyond anything he’d ever known. Talented. Inviting. A fantasy mouth. He could feel her lips on him, moving over his body, bringing him paradise. Completion. Peace. Her body. All feminine curves, every bit as alluring as her face. His.

Damn her to hell. She belonged to him. Not to the son of a bitch standing beside her with his cocky arrogance. Her body was his, her smile, all of her, every damn inch belonged to him alone. The man with her hadn’t moved a muscle. Conner didn’t really look at him, didn’t care who he was. After all, he was already a dead man, and she should have known it. The law of the jungle. Higher law. Their law.

Conner felt every muscle lock into place. His head turned slowly, inch by slow inch in the stalking freeze-frame motion of a large jungle cat. He held himself still, his leopard barely held in check, dwelling on the strong fingers wrapped around hers. He shifted his gaze, a single sound escaping—rumbling up from inside his raging leopard, into his chest to come pouring out his throat. It was low. Chilling. There was nothing human in that sound. An animal’s hatred. A leopard’s challenge. One male to another. The low growl carried through the room, cut through the conversation and music so that all conversation ceased.

“Don’t do it,” Rio warned. “Step back while you have the chance,” he cautioned the man.