The interview went on for some time until finally Marcellus rose, indicating it was over and they were free to go. "Our doctor will be in shortly to take the necessary tests for DNA and then we're finished here."
Mariko nodded. The council, like Ricco, seemed convinced she really was a Tanaka. They hadn't said so, but she was adept at reading people, and every one of them believed her to be from the legendary family. She didn't know what to feel about that.
She was extremely happy the rest of the Ferraros were gone when they emerged from the office. She felt drained and not able to face anyone. Only the bodyguards waited to escort them back to the house.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mariko was quiet on the way back to Ricco's home. He glanced down at the top of her bent head as she sat beside him in the backseat of the car. "I was going to tell you about the decision to go to Tokyo as soon as we got home. Stefano makes up his mind fast. He wants to talk to Osamu." There was no guilt or remorse in his voice, only a quiet explanation. "We both feel there is a high probability she's involved."
She felt there was a high probability as well, although she didn't want to believe it. She looked down at her hands--at the scars from Ryuu's biting her. She hadn't thought about his tiny little teeth in years. She thought she made up the closet incident to explain the scars.
"Why does she hate me so much?" It came out a whisper. She turned her head to stare out the window at the glittering lights of the city as they drove through the streets. The day had passed while they laid his father to rest, had a reception with the townspeople and then the separate meeting with the riders. She hadn't even been aware the sun had set and night had fallen. Now, suddenly, she felt that the sun had set on all of it, her newfound confidence in herself and her secret desire that Ricco Ferraro hadn't been rescuing her when he proclaimed to the world that they were to be married--that somehow he could miraculously become a one-woman man.
"She raised two boys who committed a brutal murder. You were a daily reminder. Why you were placed in her home, I have no idea. My guess, if I had to make one, is that it was all about penance."
She nodded, still staring out the window. What was there to say? Osamu had hated her. Sometimes she hated Ryuu. Most of the time the woman had loved him. She'd set up conflict between Ryuu and Mariko so that he would side with Osamu against her, feel guilty and then be angry at Osamu. Like Mariko, Ryuu was always off-balance. Osamu had been very good at keeping both that way.
Ricco shifted in his seat, reaching for her, drawing her against the protection of his body. She didn't resist. He was warm and felt invincible. She let him hold her because she needed holding. She felt a little guilty over that. They'd buried his father today. Hers had been dead for years, yet he was comforting her.
"You didn't eat much," he said softly, his fingers sliding through her hair. "Are you hungry?"
She should be taking care of him, not the other way around. She felt vaguely ashamed that she could only stare out the window, feeling his hands in her hair, and his body solid against hers. Sometimes she felt completely invisible, as if she not only worked in the shadows but lived there--and she'd wanted to. Like now. Except that Ricco could see her no matter where she was, invisible or not. He could always find her.
"No." She wasn't the least bit hungry. She was sad. Very, very sad. She'd been living in a dream world with him, and it wasn't going to last. She knew the truth somewhere in her head, but her heart had refused to listen and she'd let him in. He was there, inside of her, and she knew she'd never get him out.
Living with Osamu had been a child's nightmare. She'd never understood why the woman would take in two children off the street she despised so much. Osamu had said their mother was a whore and that she had abandoned them. Mariko had been beaten "for her own good," to get the devil out of her. She didn't dare wear clothes or makeup that might be considered attractive to a man. She'd never felt attractive until she met Ricco Ferraro.
"Mariko," he said softly. "Tell me what you're feeling."
It was the last thing she wanted to do. She didn't know what she was feeling--although sorrow was close. He had stolen her heart with his care for her. The way he seemed to cherish her. He made her so much more than she was when she was with him. He gave her a confidence in herself as a woman, as a human. He made her feel beautiful and intelligent. He listened to anything she said. He wanted her to speak.
"Mariko."
Her name whispered over her skin. Slid inside her. Wrapped around her heart. How could she leave him? Leave a dream? A fantasy? If she didn't, no matter what happened with her brother, she knew the longer she stayed with Ricco, the more it would tear her apart when she left. She'd have to leave for her own self-respect. She couldn't be in love with a man who would eventually despise her. She'd lived with that all her life and she was done with it.
"I'm okay. Just thinking. The interview must have been difficult for you."
"In a way it was freeing. Just as it was when I told my family. I carried those secrets and the fear that they would all be targeted. They were, but I realized it wasn't through my fault. I did what had to be done. I saved two children. I would do it again even knowing what would happen. Telling the council made me feel vindicated."
He brought her hand to his mouth and scraped at the pads of her fingers with his teeth. She went damp, her sex clenching. He could do that so easily without even trying, his mouth hot against her cooler skin--his teeth moving over her flesh and leaving behind a trail of sparks.
The car pulled through the gates leading to his home, after making its way slowly through a crowd of photographers. Flashes went off continuously while Emilio and Enzo searched through a series of security screens on their phones before taking them all the way up to the house.
The reporters had had a field day speculating that the Ferraro family had gone to war with another crime family, and that the Saldis had sided with the Ferraros. Of course the news media had picked up the story and run with it. Sensation sold, true or not.
All the while, as the car moved through the eager photographers and reporters, Ricco kept his arm over Mariko's head, keeping her face pressed into his chest so none of the cameras could capture her image. Despite her emotional turmoil, the protective gesture made her feel cherished. That was part of his charm, part of the reason so many women--including herself--fell for him.
The moment they were inside the house, she moved away from him. "I think I'll take a hot bath, Ricco," she informed him. She needed the respite from his constant presence. He was overwhelming. Intense. There was disappointment on his face, but he didn't try to argue with her or talk her out of it. Because he left the decision up to her, courage had her lifting her chin. "After, I would very much like to do more Shibari with you."
She was determined to seduce him. He had stated he was going to seduce her, but it was going to be the other way around. When he put the ropes on her, she was always drowning, totally drenched in desire for him. It wasn't the ropes, it was the dark lust she saw in his eyes, the deep passion there when he looked at her. She was totally determined that she would have her time with him before she left. She felt very brave telling him she'd like to have a rope session with him.
His eyes lit up. "When you're ready, Mariko, come into the studio. I'll set up the lights and find some appropriate music."
"Do you have a preference for what you'd like me to wear?" She kept her voice low, looking at him through the long sweep of her lashes, hoping he would cooperate.
"How daring are you feeling?"
Before she lost her courage, she answered, "Very."
It was the right answer. His eyes darkened. He gave her that look she'd come to crave. He was totally focused on her as if she were the only woman in his world. For the time she had with him, she was going to be that woman.
"There's a black lacy robe hanging in the closet. Wear that. Nothing else. Hair up. Red lipstick. Eyes smoky. Sexy."
He was pure Ricco, the one she was
so familiar with. His voice was a velvet command that made her shiver with need and want to give him every single thing he asked for--and more. She heard the promise of passion and paradise. She'd never known paradise before--never experienced true joy--but before she left him, before she walked away from her one chance at happiness, she was determined to discover that elusive feeling with him.
She'd lived in a stark, ugly environment her entire life. Ricco accepted her just as she was. He had known why she was there--to kill him--and yet he hadn't judged her. He didn't care if her blood wasn't pure one way or the other. She took a deep breath and nodded her head, to let him know she understood what he wanted before she turned and walked down the wide hall to her suite.
She loved her suite. The large bedroom with its dressing and sitting rooms was so beautiful she couldn't help wandering around each time she entered. She always went to the glass doors leading into the gardens with the views that took her breath and made her feel at peace. Even now, when she should be nervous, she just felt certain. Absolutely certain.
She ran her bath and added the wonderful smelling beads of oil Ricco had left for her there before stepping into the water. So many small touches. She appreciated each of them, but more than anything, she appreciated the confidence he'd given her to be who she was. To make her own decisions. Every step of the way, Ricco had stood back and encouraged her to make choices. He made it clear from the moment she walked into the interview room that she was in control.
Being in his ropes had taught her about the exchange of power. About beauty and the concept of sensuality. Art. Being a woman. Confidence. Above all else, trust. She understood why her mother loved being a rope model. It was freeing. She felt as if she were soaring when she was with Ricco Ferraro and he'd wrapped her up in himself--in his ropes. She also was very aware that she would never allow any other human being to tie her. It was all about her connection to him--and what he needed.
She was careful with her makeup, using a sheer, barely there foundation. She made up her eyes in a smoky, sultry look and added red lipstick to her pouty lips. She stayed naked while she pinned her hair in an elaborate swirl that would come down the moment he pulled out the long, decorative pins.
The robe was sheer stretch lace. Black. Delicate. It flowed down her body as if the material lived and breathed, a sensuous garment that slid over her curves to the floor. There were three pearly buttons at her breasts, but the entire rest of the robe was open so that with every step it opened and closed and slid over her bare skin, making her aware of her femininity and the power she wielded as a woman.
As she made her way to the studio, she knew she wanted this time with Ricco more than anything else in her life. This was her claiming him. Choosing him. She wanted him with every breath she took. Every step toward him. Every step took her closer to what she wanted.
She took a deep breath when she reached the studio doors. There would be no going back from this moment, but she knew she would never be sorry. She was that certain that Ricco Ferraro would always be the man for her--even when she knew she wouldn't be the woman for him forever. But she would be now.
She pushed open the door and stepped through, surprised by the moody music and the dim lighting. Ricco was shirtless, wearing only a pair of soft, drawstring pants. They molded to his butt and hung lovingly on the powerful columns of his thighs. He had his back to her and was looking over the coils of rope. They were all different textures and colors.
He turned to look at her as she came up behind him. She saw his eyes widen, then go dark with sensual hunger and need. She loved that she could put that look in his eyes. He had a rope in his hand, one with several knots already tied on it. She raised an eyebrow and indicated the rope. It was gleaming, midnight black. Made of cotton.
His smile was wicked. "You'll see. You look . . . beautiful. Sexy. Beyond my imagination. Thank you, Mariko, for knowing I needed this even before I did. Already, the ropes are grounding me."
She wasn't certain what the sight of the rope sliding through his hands was doing to her--or the knots . . . She'd felt the vibration of the rope in their earlier sessions and the sensation had been almost more than she could bear. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like with knots . . .
She glanced over to the table where he'd set up the camera. He was going to capture her needs. She knew she would never be able to hide them, especially as he was already preparing to use the rope to stimulate her. She wanted him to see, wanted him to know she was aroused. For him.
She knew no other way to seduce him. Each time he'd had her in his ropes, he'd been aroused. He hadn't tried to hide it . . . but neither had she. Her skin had flushed a soft rose, her eyes gone wide with excitement and need. If she was honest with herself, Ricco seemed aroused every time he was with her, which meant he was that way around women. It was Mariko who was made different in the ropes. Because they were his. An extension of him. He wrapped her up with himself. With his power. He gave her a confidence she'd never had before. She knew she was beautiful to him when he created his art with her body as the canvas.
Ricco watched Mariko as she moved around the studio. He loved the way she walked, flowing feminine power she was unaware she had. Her hips swayed, calling attention to her beautiful form. She stretched, completely focusing on warming her muscles, getting her body ready for the vigorous workout of being in the ropes. It gave him the ability to watch her unnoticed. Everything she did, every move she made only served to heighten his hunger for her.
She was very symmetrical, something he found fascinating. He worked with symmetrical patterns because they were so pleasing to the eye. She was already aroused, her body in a heightened state, every nerve ending receptive to the rope--receptive to him.
The rope slid seductively through his fingers, an automatic motion now to ensure there were no kinks. He could tell the burn speed of a rope with that one movement. He felt for splinters, anything that might make her uncomfortable when he laid the rope against her bare skin. For him, her safety and comfort were paramount.
He found the center of the rope easily, his gaze still on Mariko. She moved him in ways he hadn't expected. It wasn't just the way their shadows connected; it was everything about her. He liked her silence. Her flashes of temper. He'd see it in her eyes just before her lashes covered the raw emotion. He loved that. Loved that beneath the serene, peaceful exterior, there was a wealth of passion and emotion. It came out the moment he put the ropes around her.
Watching her, the vision began to take shape, the way it always did. He could see the ropes laid against its beautiful canvas of curves. The halter. The corset. The colors. More, he intended to seduce her. To claim her. To make her believe his marriage proposal was real and he meant every word of it. He knew more secrets with ropes than most and they were all for his woman. He would take her to the very edge of ecstasy, hold her there and then take her to his bed.
He had tied other women, even women he had sex with--the Lacey twins more than once--but it had always been one or the other: sex or art. Never had he wanted to do both at the same time--until now. He'd contemplated it, but he hadn't wanted to taint his art with something he considered casual. His art wasn't casual. By the time he'd considered using Shibari for an erotic time with the twins, he was already so jaded he'd dismissed the idea.
Shibari had been the only thing left to ground him. He'd viewed sex separately. Now, there was no separating anything from Mariko and the way he felt about her. The way he needed her. He had to find ways to tie her to him before she decided to bolt--and she would. Any sane woman of intelligence would take one look at his reputation and run for the hills.
Mariko was intelligent and sane. She was going to come out from under the embrace of the ropes and then she'd want to leave him. He wanted her to look at him and see him. The man. Not just the rigger. That was part of him, but it wasn't all of him. He had to find a way to make her see--and love--all of him.
"Mariko."
Deliberat
ely he said her name low, an order, getting her attention. She froze and then turned toward him. He was already close, moving swiftly, using a panther-like fluid motion, deliberately mesmerizing her, forcing her to focus wholly on him. She blinked as he reached for her shoulders, pulled her slightly but very firmly toward him so she was a bit off-balance and had to lean her body into his. Her gaze never left his. She was drowning there. Swallowed whole by him--just the way he wanted.
Her skin was warm to his touch--warm from her bath. She smelled heavenly, a combination of citrus and vanilla. He found that a little ironic because what he was about to do to her was considered anything but vanilla. He inhaled, taking her into his lungs. She was already there, wrapped around his heart. He looked down at her, his heart jerking hard in his chest as she looked back up at him.
Her face was beautiful to him. Classic bone structure, exotic eyes with sweeping, feathery black lashes, and that mouth . . . that fantasy mouth. He couldn't resist bending his head to capture it. Her lips were perfect. Soft. Yielding. One hand went to her throat, his fingers seeking her pulse as he kissed her.
He didn't kiss women while he had them tied. He didn't make love to them or want to make love to them. They were part of his living art, something he needed to balance the rage with the poet in him. Then there was Mariko with her mouth and her smile and the way she moved up behind prey when she made a kill. Sheer poetry.
She tasted like she smelled, like orange blossoms and some exotic spice that blended so well with the vanilla, he was instantly addicted. He couldn't stop kissing her, his arm snaking around her, yanking her into him possessively. He felt possessive. A bit like a caveman. He now understood the urge to carry a woman off and claim her for his own. His need was primitive. Savage.
She kissed him back, and that was his undoing. If she hadn't, he would have found the strength to step back, to change his artwork from seductive to a quick image that would satisfy her, and he'd let her go back to her room alone. But she kissed him back. With her kiss, she took his heart and every bit of good he had in him. He was better with her. He knew he was. More. He was simply more.