Leopard's Kiss (Shadow Guardians) (Shadows Guardians Book 1) (4 page)

And now he'd lost her, making him a double failure. Failure to fulfill his contract to kill, and failure to fulfill his promise to save.

He had to find her.
Now.

* * *

A
nya sprinted
through the screaming crowds, ducking around people as she raced down the street, frantically scanning the crowds for the woman from the bar. Black tee shirt. Blue jeans. Black hair. It seemed like every woman was dressed like that, but none were the one person she needed to find. Her heart was hammering desperately, and tears were burning in her eyes. This was her chance to find Julia. She couldn't miss it!

Ahead of her, she saw a flash of movement slip around the corner of a building. "Wait!" She shouted over the roar of the crowd, sucking in air as she pushed herself to run faster than her body felt like it could go. She skidded around the corner, tripped on something, and her ankle gave out. She crashed hard to the cement, pain flooding her left ankle and leg. She ignored the pain and stumbled to her feet, frantically scanning the quiet street of luxury boutique storefronts that were closed for the evening.

The street was empty.

Where had she gone? Where was she?

Something soft brushed against her leg, and she jerked her gaze down. A tangled black nest was piled up on the sidewalk. She recognized the glistening black fibers immediately. They were the same satiny tresses she'd seen on the woman. Elation exploded through her. The woman had come this way! Anya grabbed it off the ground, her fingers clenching the polyester fibers as she ran forward. "Hello?" she called out. "Where are you? Please help me!"

The street was empty and isolated, the perfect place for them to meet in privacy. "Hello? Talk to me!" Tears burned in her eyes as she raced along, looking into every doorway, peering down every alley, but there was no other sign of the woman she'd worked so hard to track down.

Finally, agonizingly, she stopped. Her legs were trembling from running so hard. Her breath was heaving in her lungs. She couldn't lie to herself anymore. The woman was gone. "Julia!" she screamed her friend's name, even though she knew it was useless. "Where are you? I—"

Chills suddenly prickled down her spine, and she whirled around, her heart freezing when she saw the man who had kissed her at the bar standing directly behind her, his dark eyes boring into her. His trench coat flapped around his calves, and a hole gaped open in his shirt, right over his heart. His chest was bloody, but it looked intact, despite the fact she'd seen the demon's hand sticking out of it. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and his legs were powerful beneath his jeans. His dark eyes were relentless, and she could still remember what his lips had felt like when he'd kissed her. A silken seduction of desire and dangers...

Oh,
God.
It was happening again! She leapt backward, clutching the wig to her chest. "Get away from me." She immediately wove the mental safeguards in her mind as she backed away from him, looking around frantically for someone, anyone, she could ask for help.

"Who wants you dead?" His deep voice rolled through her, powerful and ruthless, but again, with that same underlay of culture and refinement that made her envision him sitting at a white-linen tea with scones served on elegant china, discussing polo strategies and the status of his vineyard.

"You, apparently." She slid her hand into her back pocket, and wrapped her fingers around her phone, trying to get her thumbprint aligned properly to unlock it. If she could dial 9-1-1, then they could track her phone, hopefully before he killed her. "Why do you want me killed? I know you went there for me. Why?" She pressed her thumb on the divot, hoping that she'd aligned it correctly. She continued to edge away from him, toward the middle of the street, hoping that a car would drive by and have to stop to keep from running over her.

"I don't
care
if you die," he clarified, making a distinction that didn't feel all that important to her at the moment. "I was paid to kill you. Someone else cares."

She froze then, staring at him as his words sank in. "Someone
paid
you? And you took the money? What kind of value system is that?"

His gaze didn't waver. "And then someone had a backup assassin with the knife blade, and I'm thinking that the demon was sent for you as well. No one
ever
double-books one of my kills, and yet you were triple-booked." He studied her thoughtfully, as if she were a great science experiment he was curious to investigate "Why is that? Is it that you're so difficult to kill? Or is it
that
important that you die?"

She stopped edging away from him as his question sank in. Three assassins had been sent to kill her? A chill raced down her spine, and this time, it had nothing to do with sexual awareness of him, and everything to do with a deep foreboding. Warily, she glanced up, scanning the rooftops. Where there were three, there could be more. "Why are you talking now, instead of killing me?" She pressed her phone screen where the emergency call button would be if she'd managed to get it right.

"I missed my window to kill you," he said softly, still watching her. "The rush is over. Late by one minute is no different from late by ten minutes. I'm already late."

"Why do you care why they're after me?" She pressed her screen again, her heart pounding, as she scanned the area again. Suddenly, every shadow seemed to be undulating. Every piece of trash blowing made her jump. And every roof seemed the perfect spot to launch an attack. What had Julia been into? What had she inadvertently walked into by hunting for her?
Three
assassins? What was going on?

"Because I have a decision to make about whether to kill you." He was watching her inch away, not making a move to follow her. His muscled body rippled with confidence and capability, and she had no doubt that he'd be able to grab her in a split second, just like he'd done at the bar. She hadn't even seen him coming, but then his hand had been around her wrist and she'd been against his chest, without her even knowing how it had happened. Kinda like how he'd snuck up behind her on this street. It was as if he were made of shadows and death, and everything that was most definitely not nice.

"You should decide not to kill me," she said. "That's a good decision. Go feed the homeless instead of taking money to kill people. It probably won't save your soul, but at least you can feel better about yourself." She decided finally that she had to take advantage of the fact he wasn't in the mood to kill her right then. He could change his mind at any second.

Quickly, she spun around and began to walk down the street, away from him, back toward the melee from the bar.

He fell in beside her, shortening his stride to keep pace. He was so tall, looming over her, like a cloud of doom. "They'll be looking for you if you go back there," he offered conversationally.

She stopped, staring at the crowds racing around at the end of the street. "The assassins?"

"I hunted you down easily after you left the bar. Granted, I'm talented that way, but so are they, if they're any good at their job." His voice was soft, hesitant, as if he were trying to decide the best way to converse with her. Was he testing out different intonations on her, to see which one would get her to fall into his arms again?

A voice crackled behind her, and she spun around. The street was empty.

He stared at her, his face like stone. "It's the speaker on your phone. You dialed 9-1-1 and the operator is asking you questions."

She jerked her phone out of her pocket, and saw that he was right. She raised the phone to her ear, surprised he wasn't trying to stop her.

"If I choose to kill you, help will never come in time," he said casually. "I don't need to stop you from talking to them. The police are no threat to me, or to the others who are looking for you."

A chill gripped her at his matter-of-fact tone. She could easily see how he was a man who dealt in death. The way he spoke of killing her was so emotionless it was chilling. "My name is Anya Diaz," she said into the phone. "I'm in front of Angela's Cafe in the Back Bay. Someone is trying to kill me. Please hurry." The operator started asking questions, but Anya's words died in her throat when she saw him looking past her, his eyes narrowed.

Slowly, she turned. Striding toward her was the demon, its eyes glowing red, its handsome, human face contorted in rage.

"Twice," it snapped. "Twice you messed with my mind, Black Swan. For that, you die before I kill her."

"Oh, God." She froze, her heart pounding real fear. It was closing fast, its fingernails lengthening into claws.

"It seems we both have a decision to make," the trench coat man, apparently called Black Swan, said to her, keeping an eye on the demon. "I have to decide whether to save you again, and you have to decide whether to trust me."

"Trust you?" She glanced at him. "Why would I trust you?"

"Because I recently accepted an offer to become your guardian for a brief time. I'm beginning to understand why you need one, though I don't know yet why you are so vitally important to so many powerful beings." His gaze swept over her. "Kill you or save you. A complicated question of many levels and implications, and I don't have as much information as I need to make an informed decision. I never make decisions without full information, so, for the moment, your best chance of staying alive is me."

The demon was getting closer, less than twenty yards away. She knew she didn't have time to run from either of them. All she knew was that she had to stay alive, or Julia would never be found. She had no one else to look for her. She couldn't outrun them. She couldn't outfight them. Her only chance was help. "Be my guardian," she suggested to him. "I'm worth it. You can always kill me later if you decide that's the best choice." It wasn't much of an offer, but she had a feeling that her guardian/assassin wouldn't make a long-term commitment to her well-being.

He glanced at her. "Excellent point. I will reserve the right to kill you later, should I deem it appropriate." He held out his hand. "Shall we go? I prefer not to fight unless I'm getting paid to do it."

Again, with the cultured tones that were the antithesis of the dangerous predator in leather and denim that had hunted her down. Was she really going to put her safety in his hands? He'd tried to kill her—

A flash of light whipped past her, and she yelped, jumping backward as her potential guardian snatched a knife out of the air, a split second before it plunged into her heart. She stared at the knife in his hand. He'd tried to kill her once, but saved her three times. She was going to have to go with the odds. "Okay." She put her hand in his. "What now?"

"We disappear." He yanked her over to him, swept her up in his arms so she was anchored against his chest. "Hang on. I've never done this with a passenger."

She didn't have time to ask what. She had time only to lock her arms around his neck, and then he took off like a streak of lightning, moving so fast that the world became a blur, and all she could do was hang on for dear life.

S
he smelled incredible
.

She felt right in his arms.

She made him want.

She made him crave a lot of things. Her. Sex. An endless night of bare skin and long kisses. All of it. Now.

What he did, however, was dump her on the couch in one of his safe houses and back up until he was standing on the other side of the room. Slade folded his arms over his chest and stood with his weight even on both feet, ready, watching her, curious.

He hadn't conversed extensively with a woman in a long time. He didn't know how they thought. He wanted to know why she affected him like she did. He needed to know why she was so important. And he was burning with the need to know what it would be like to kiss her again, without the goal of killing her. He wanted to kiss her just to see what it would be like.

She righted herself on the couch, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her shirt was stained with his blood, as was her left hand, where she'd reached for him when he fell. He considered that. He'd been in the process of killing her, and yet she'd reached for him when he'd been attacked.

It was unwise, indicating a lack of attention to her well-being and personal safety.

But at the same time, he found it immensely interesting. "Why did you reach for me?"

She glanced around the room, rapidly assessing their surroundings, which were no more than a single room, furnished only with a couch and a blanket. "What are you talking about?"

"When the demon took my heart, and I fell. You reached for me even though I'd been about to kill you. Why?"

She looked at him, her brows knit as she considered his question. "I don't know. Instinct. You'd been hurt terribly. What was I going to do, drop you?"

"Yes. I was trying to kill you. When you get a chance, you run. Do you understand?"

She stared at him, and then a slow smile spread across her face. For a split second, he was too shocked to do anything but stare. Her smile was absolutely riveting. Her smile was genuine, directed at him, of her own free will, without guile or manipulation.

He'd never had anyone smile at him like that before. Women smiled because they wanted to coax him into their beds. Men smiled to try to defuse his aggressiveness or win his favor. His prey smiled because he projected their fantasies into their head. No one had simply
smiled
at him before.

He liked it. It felt good. It felt like she'd poured sunshine into his body.

So he frowned. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because the fact you're instructing me on how to save myself indicates that you've decided to go with the guardian option. I'm really glad to hear that."

His frown deepened. Was she right? He hadn't intentionally made a decision. The cost of keeping her alive when he'd taken a great deal of money to kill her was high. It violated his honor and his reputation, and that was beyond unacceptable. And yet, the cost of letting her die was to forfeit his life, which was equally unpalatable. Was it better to die with honor than to live without it? He'd never considered that before. He'd always intended to live with honor and hadn't entertained any other possibilities. "Maybe I should kill you."

"My name is Anya Diaz," she interrupted.

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't do names."

"Too bad." She stood up, walking across the floor toward him. "I'm not a nameless, faceless victim," she said, coming to a stop in front of him, less than a foot away. She was much shorter than he was, but the fact she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye didn't seem to deter her. "I'm a real person," she informed him, "and you don't get to pretend I'm not."

He studied the play of emotions in her eyes. Passion, energy, fire. He was wildly intrigued by her. Was she unusual, or was it simply that he'd never taken the time to notice anyone in the way his no-win-decision was forcing him to. "I know you're real," he said.

She raised her brows and set her hands on her hips, lifting her chin defiantly. "No, I meant, I'm
real
, as in I care, I love, I hate, and I deserve to be alive and to be valued for who I am. I'm not simply a physical object that you can kill and dismiss. That's what I mean by real. "

He blinked. "Oh." He didn't really have an answer prepared for that statement.

She met his gaze with steely resolve. "My mother was murdered six months ago."

He felt the depth of her grief, a soul-shattering horror that had brought her to her knees.

Shit. He didn't want to know this. He didn't want to feel it. And he didn't want her to feel it, either. No one should feel pain. Not him. Not her. Not anyone who didn't deserve it.

He immediately reached out to her mind, trying to shut down her grief, but she was ready for him, her mental barriers locking him out, keeping him from taking away her memories. "No," she snapped, shoving her palm into his chest, careful, he noticed, to avoid the place where the demon had clawed him. "You don't get to control me anymore, and you don't get to hide from the truth of what you do. I'm someone's daughter. I'm someone's best friend. I matter, and you don't get to pretend I don't. If you kill me, you will be killing
me
, not a nameless, faceless victim. Do you understand?"

Swearing, he stepped away from her, striding across the room. "I'm not in the business of details. I don't care." It was his mantra, but even as he said it, he felt a tug, a need to learn more about her, a rabid desire to let her become the living, breathing, woman she was trying to show him.

Shit.
He couldn't live like this. He couldn't survive in that world.

"Well, I do care!" She spun toward him. "My mother's best friend was a woman named Marjorie. They were..." she paused, and he looked sharply at her, sensing a shift in her. "They were being hunted their whole lives," she amended, clearly having changed her mind about what she'd been about to reveal, which made him want to know what she'd decided not to tell him. "Marjorie's daughter, Julia, was my only friend, my best friend. The four of us lived on the run, moving from place to place, making a home wherever we were at that moment."

"What were they hiding from?" He watched her now, wanting to know what she'd chosen not to tell him. He probed her mind ruthlessly, but she still had him locked out.

"Stop it!" She glared at him. "I'm excellent at protecting my mind, and you're not getting in there again, even if you try to win me over with kisses designed to melt my brain."

Heat rushed to his cock instantly at the thought of kissing her again, and he swore, disgusted by his lack of self-control. "My kisses are designed to soothe the psyche," he said. "I don't melt brains."

"They don't soothe the psyche. They ignite more passion than any woman should be subjected to," she snapped, apparently extremely irritated by that fact. Personally, he found it deeply satisfying that she'd been as turned on by the kiss as he had, even if she'd been envisioning someone else during the kiss. "My mother and Marjorie were killed six months ago. Julia and I escaped. We went into hiding, just as we'd been taught. But then, two weeks ago, Julia disappeared. No one else knows she's gone. Only me. If I don't find her, no one will. She's all I..." Her voice broke, and tears swam in her eyes for a split second, before she cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "She's all I have left. I have to find her."

Her tears got to him. He wasn't used to tears. He always went straight for the death kiss, flooding his victims with peace, serenity, and lust. Negative emotions weren't his thing, and he had no defenses against them. He felt wildly unsettled, thrown off his foundation by this bold woman who should have already been dead. Instead, she was in
his
safe house, challenging him at every turn, refusing to stand down to the legend that bred such fear into so many.

She was making him feel off-kilter, and he didn't like it. He did, however, find that there was something about her that compelled him deeply, which meant that her tears felt real to him. For the first time in his life, he wanted to acknowledge someone else's pain. He wanted to help her. Offer comfort. Ease her anguish. But how? He cleared his throat, searching his mind for the appropriate words. "I'm sorry." Yes, that was it. That was what people said.

She eyed him. "You didn't even attempt to make it sound like you meant that. Don't patronize me. I like it better when you're honest. I have no energy for platitudes." She took a deep breath, then walked back over to the couch and sank down on it. The weariness in her body was evident in the slump of her shoulders, and the shadowy weight of her aura. She closed her eyes and pressed her face to her hands, silently coping with her own trauma.

Slade grimaced and ran his hand through his hair, watching her fight to regain her composure. She was so fragile compared to him. Vulnerable. And yet, she held herself with the courage of the boldest soldier, fighting for honor and love.

He killed for money.

She fought for love.

He believed in honor. She was the one who lived it. The way she lived made him into a lie.
Shit.

He turned away and braced his palms on the steel wall, trying to reestablish his equilibrium. There were no windows in this safe house. Just a single door, which was invisible to anyone unless he was in their mind, making them see it. He hadn't been to this hideaway in a long time, because it was old and cramped, barely furnished, a throwback to his early days, when money had been scarce and all he'd wanted was a place to sleep deeply without having to watch his back.

He'd been ten years old the first time he'd slept here.

Ten. A child who hadn't yet killed anyone, a kid who had been so consumed with the need for revenge that nothing else had mattered.

And now he was back, with a woman he was supposed to play guardian to. What did that even mean? Was the fact he'd saved her life enough? Or was there more? How long did the assignment last? He didn't even know. "What does the word guardian mean to you?" he asked aloud.

She didn't answer.

He turned and looked over his shoulder at her. She was still sitting on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the opposite wall. When he looked more closely, however, he could see that her stare was anything but blank. She was thinking intently, her mind flying through options, sorting out her next steps...exactly as he was doing.

He watched her, fascinated, as emotions raced across her face while she considered and dismissed options. She was utterly unaware of his scrutiny, too focused on her own problem-solving to watch him.

Irritation rippled through him. He'd already tried to kill her once, and he'd openly admitted he hadn't decided whether to abort the mission. Yet, she'd dismissed him as a threat and was taking no precautions against another attack? Did she have no sense of self-preservation whatsoever? He scowled. "Anya."

She didn't even look at him, her lips moving silently while she talked to herself.

"Anya." He repeated her name, and still she didn't notice him.

"Anya!" He leapt across the room, grasped her arms, and lifted her against the wall, pinning her there with his body.

Her eyes widened, and she froze. "How do you move so quickly?"

He blinked. "What?"

"That was so fast. What are you? Part cheetah? Are you a shifter?"

"Hell, woman. Are you thick?" He pressed his body more tightly against hers, and slid his hand through her hair, tangling his fingers in her tresses so he had a good grip. "Don't you understand the situation you're in?" He bent his head, trying not to think about how good it felt to be pressed up against her. "I'm an assassin assigned to kill you, and you're not paying any attention to me." His mouth hovered over hers, a fraction of an inch from her lips. "I could kill you in a heartbeat, and I still might. One kiss and you're mine. You need to be protecting yourself, not asking me about my feline heritage."

She sighed, her breath warm against his mouth. "I'm not an idiot. If I sat on that couch ready for you to attack me, it would make no difference. I have
no chance
against you if you decide to kill me, but by being so tense and ready, I would quickly drain myself of what little reserves I have left. So, why worry about it? If you decide to help me, then I need a plan. If you ditch me here, I need a plan. And if you do change your mind and decide to kill me in the future, I'd better have figured something out by then. But right here, right now? I can't stop you."

He narrowed his eyes, trying desperately to wrap his mind around her logic. "Why aren't you trying to plead your case? Change my mind. Beg for my mercy."

She smiled then, that same honest smile that made his body tighten. "Because you're a merciless assassin. You've trained yourself not to process that kind of thing. I'm sure people beg for their lives the moment you walk in the door, and you don't even notice it. The only thing that will reach you is if you see the real me, if you feel me in your heart. That's all that will stop you, so the best thing I can do is just be me." She searched his face, making no attempt to squirm free or pry his fingers from their threatening hold on her hair. "You already see me differently," she said softly. "I can see it in your eyes. They aren't as cold. They're less black when you look at me now. They're softer. Not much, but a little."

He swore under his breath, making her smile widen. "See?" she said. "You're already struggling with the idea of killing me. I can see the conflict on your face."

"No." He met her gaze. "I'm not struggling with that decision. I've tabled it for now. What I'm struggling with is the fact that you awaken a burning lust inside me that makes me want to throw you on that couch, rip your clothes off, and bury myself inside you a thousand times until my need for you is sated. That's what I'm struggling with."

She blinked, and heat suddenly ignited between them.

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that. What the hell was she doing to him? He was an icon of discipline and focus. He didn't get uncontrollable hard-ons for women, and he didn't lust after the females he was supposed to kill.