Rapture Untamed (Feral Warriors #4)(2)

Pamela Palmer Rapture Untamed

"I want you to head up a team to catch them, Tighe," Lyon said. "I don't have to tell anyone here how critical it is that we destroy those things as quickly as possible."

The thought that Olivia was to be one of the ones to stop this threat excited her all over again. She'd been a member of the elite Therian Guard for more than three hundred years, since its inception, but this was the first time she'd ever worked with the Feral Warriors. To her knowledge, this was the first time the Ferals had ever accepted the help of any non-Feral Therians.

Olivia shifted in her chair, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them the other way, studiously ignoring Jag. Yet it didn't seem to matter. Just being in the same room with him made her feel restless. Fidgety. It did today as it had that first day. She and her men had come to Feral House at Lyon's request to discuss the possibility of their working together. As she was talking with Lyon, Jag had walked right up to her, slid his arm around her shoulder, and squeezed her breast, suggesting she accompany him upstairs and spread her legs for him.

In the shape-shifter's defense, he'd been attacked by malicious magic and had genuinely needed a good sexual cleansing to get rid of it. To be honest, had he approached her with a wink and a smile, and a little respect, she might well have done as he asked. Therians were nothing if not sexual. And even as rudely as he'd acted, her body had responded, leaping with excitement at his touch, his nearness, his scent.

But he'd shown her no respect, and she'd responded by smiling at him coldly while driving her spiked heel halfway through his instep.

That should have been the end of it, but Ferals were a stubborn lot, and this one, she suspected, was worse than most. As she met his gaze now across the conference table, her mouth lifted in a cold, taunting smile, silently reminding him of that meeting, of her painful retaliation. But instead of earning herself the scowl she'd hoped for, laughter lit his eyes, a devilish gleam that told her the feel of her breast in his hand had been worth the pain. And would be again.

A thrill skittered through her traitorous body, and she turned away. She had far too much pride to be drawn to a male with a lousy attitude and a foul mouth, but her body couldn't have cared less. Jerk or not, the man possessed a raw sexuality that sizzled across her skin, seeping into her pores.

Determined to ignore him, she let her gaze travel. Beside Jag sat Wulfe, his badly scarred face set in lines of concentration. She wasn't sure how a quickly healing immortal could end up with scars like that, but wasn't about to ask. He'd greeted her cordially enough when they were introduced, but his manner was diffident, almost as if he'd expected her to be put off by his scars.

Beside Wulfe, Lyon's mate, Kara, played beneath his protective and loving eye with the kitten perched on Skye's shoulder. Skye was Paenther's mate and a Mage, though one with a soul, and a particularly sweet one at that. Directly behind the two women, Paenther stood with his arms crossed over his chest like a fearsome bodyguard, the impression ruined by the hint of a smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth every time his gaze landed on his mate.

The Ferals were nothing if not protective. An extremely tight, close-knit brotherhood.

Except, she sensed, for Jag.

As hard as she tried, she couldn't ignore him a moment longer, and she found his eyes still boring into her with that unnerving stare. If he weren't in human form, she was certain his tail would be swinging slow, snapping back and forth as he watched her like a cat waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Definitely uncivilized. Not that she needed civilized. Not at all. Especially not in bed.

But she absolutely demanded respect. And from what she'd seen and heard about this Feral, he respected no one. Her body might be intrigued by the man, but her pride called the shots. Jag was just going to have to find some other woman to stalk. This one wasn't interested.

If only her wayward gaze would stop making a liar out of her.

Jag couldn't remember the last time he'd been this intrigued with a woman.

Beneath hard brows, he studied Olivia, his gaze taking in the trim pantsuit, this one deep tan with a dark green sweater underneath. Though he couldn't see them beneath the conference table that separated them, he knew that on those slender feet she wore pumps, or whatever the hell women called them - with four-inch heels. He'd noticed them right off when she'd walked into the room, his instep giving a throb of recognition. The memory made him smile. Damn, he liked a tough woman.

He watched her sitting across the table, her gaze toward the front of the room as she pretended to ignore him. Her bright red hair, thick and straight, hung just to her shoulders, making his fingers itch to know if it felt as soft as it looked. Her features were even and pretty, but nevertheless gave off an impression of strength - her chin determined, her mouth firm and haughty, her gray eyes sharp as glass and cool as a winter sky.

Those eyes flickered over him now. Her gaze tried to dismiss him, yet couldn't keep from returning over and over again. Any more than his could stay away from her.

He'd never been partial to redheads, and feature by feature, there was nothing particularly special about this one. But Olivia proved a prime example of the sum of the parts being greater than the whole. The woman was stunning, and she turned him on in a way he couldn't pretend to understand. From the moment he first saw her, she'd lit a fire in his blood that showed no signs of going out.