“That would be best.”
CHAPTER THREE
Amaranthe looked everywhere and at everyone in the room but Geno. He could feel how uncomfortable she was being the center of attention. Stefano and Elie sat across from her in the high-back leather chairs. He was seated directly facing her. For the moment, Val and Dario were in another part of the house, so she felt as if she could speak freely.
As usual, Stefano had his legs sprawled out in front of him and his fingers steepled together. Elie simply waited, as he already knew what to expect. Geno had set up the furniture so when Amaranthe sat in her chair and he sat in his, the light hit both perfectly so that if he shifted minutely, their shadows touched. It was a shit thing to do, but he didn’t care.
He’d made so many mistakes with this woman. He’d spent time looking at the YouTube videos of her ballet performances, studying every move. She danced with passion. With exquisite sensual fire in every line of her body. Every character she portrayed was authentic, making her audienceweep or applaud for her. It was no wonder she was sought after. Her reviews were phenomenal, and she deserved every accolade. He didn’t know that much about ballet, but he knew body movement, and there was beauty and control in her lines.
He replayed every moment he had been locked in her mind in the interrogation room. He’d been so wrapped up in the fact that she’d been holding something back from him. Once their shadows had connected, he’d been shocked at the intensity of the physical chemistry between them. He hadn’t been expecting that. The sexual pull had grown in power the more their shadows had tangled together, making it difficult to think clearly.
When he was alone in the evening before the morning meeting, he took his time replaying the things he saw in her mind, and he was able to study her character traits without the interference of his brutal sexual need of her. Despite her diminutive size and the beautiful, graceful dancer she was, she excelled at being a shadow rider. She was experienced, deadly, and very, very confident.
Amaranthe didn’t seek out friendships—not in the dance world and not in the rider world. She moved from one city to another far too often. Her relationships with those around her were superficial at best. She hadn’t sought out Geno Ferraro and didn’t plan to, not unless she had no other choice.
“Who are you?” he asked her in the same voice he’d used in the interrogation room. Soft. Compelling. Insistent on answers.
“I’m Amaranthe Aubert, but friends call me Amara. Both my parents were from the Archambault line.” She glanced at Geno and then shifted her gaze away quickly. “I have no family left, and the Archambaults took me in and trained me. I do love to dance and trained in ballet just as hard as I trained at riding from a very young age.”
Elie frowned and leaned forward. “When you sayyoung, how old were you?”
“I lost my parents, the last of my family, when I had just turned four. Jean-Claude took over my training.”
Elie swore and leapt up, pacing across the room. He glared at Stefano. “I thought you told me Jean-Claude learned his lesson after he fucked up my life. He specifically trained her to investigate extremely dangerous riders. Her cover was her dancing. She had no family, so she was a perfect candidate for him. A fucking four-year-old.”
For a moment, anger swirled beneath the surface, but Geno shoved it down. Amaranthe had no family. There was no question Jean-Claude had taken advantage. The Archambaults were ruthless. He knew because they had trained him to be ruthless. He never could have become the leader of his family and the New York riders if they hadn’t given him the skills they had. Amaranthe would most likely be dead if she hadn’t been given the elite training she’d been given—or Jean-Claude could have trained her to be a regular rider or one of his riders.
Stefano asked the question burning in Geno’s mind. “I’m not certain I understand the difference between an Archambault assassin sent out and someone like Amaranthe.”
Elie sat back in the chair. “The Archambault investigators use computers, just as our investigators do when complaints are made against a shadow rider or a member of the shadow-riding family. If that complaint is determined to be legitimate and the rider or member of the family needs justice served, a rider is dispatched, and the sentence is carried out.”
“Amaranthe is not one of those riders.” Stefano made it a statement.
Elie shook his head. “She is not. If a shadow rider is deemed extremely dangerous and the investigators can’t find the truth through normal channels, an elite investigator is sent. They are rare. Only a couple. They go deep undercover. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. They conduct an investigation and send what they find and their conclusions to the Archambault investigators. An elite investigator notonly is trained differently, but they are often born with a unique sense about them, a gift, that is highly developed to follow a trail others can’t detect.”
“I understand you’re upset on my behalf, Elie,” Amaranthe said. “But there’s no need. I love what I do, and as a rule, I’m very good at it.”
Geno didn’t look at Elie or Amaranthe. He didn’t expect the sudden smoldering sense of possessiveness rushing over him at the sweet tone she used when she spoke to Archambault. She even addressed him by his first name. He knew Elie. They were close friends. Elie was married and madly in love with his wife, Brielle. Still, even knowing that, it didn’t stop the strange and very unfamiliar emotions welling up out of nowhere. Could he be jealous? Such a trait would be beneath him. The lack of control bothered him when he was a man always in control.
He shifted in his chair, so his large frame was caught in the light. Instantly, his shadow connected with Amaranthe’s shadow, coiling around hers. This time he was prepared for the brutal sexual need surging through his body. He kept his cold mask in place, as if he weren’t in the least affected, not even when she gave a shocked gasp and her gaze jumped to his. If she thought she was going to escape him because she was an Archambault, she had another think coming. He didn’t give a damn what Jean-Claude or anyone else decreed, no one was taking her away from him—not even her.
“You don’t understand the way the Archambaults work,” Elie said, his tone soft, at once calmer and more controlled. “They see the potential in children, even toddlers. That’s their gift. At least it’s Jean-Claude’s gift. If the child has no family, or the parents prefer not to have him or her around, all the better. You didn’t have a chance at any other life, Amara. You should have had a childhood, not a life of duty. And don’t tell me you had a childhood, because I know you didn’t.”
Geno was connected with Amaranthe, his mind touchinghers. He caught glimpses of her earlier life, small vignettes, a little girl forced to recite entire books in several languages while she punched and kicked a heavy bag. At night, alone in her bed, she would look at her feet—her toes were bleeding. His heart clenched hard in his chest. She didn’t have anyone advocating for her. At least he stood for his brothers, and they had been older than she had been when the Archambaults had begun her training.
Amaranthe moved in her chair, doing her best to move her shadow out of the light.If they ask me questions, I can’t answer them properly.
The intimacy of speaking telepathically added to the jagged white-hot lightning spiking between them. Every nerve ending was aware of her. Every cell in his body. Her breathless honesty was nearly as arousing as the way their shadows wrapped around each other so determinedly. He shifted back in his chair giving them both respite from the intense sexual tension.
Amaranthe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She raised her dark gaze to his and sent him a tentative smile before turning her attention back to Elie and Stefano and their questions.
“The council sent you to New York without so much as informing Geno that you were investigating someone in his territory?” Stefano pursued.
For the first time she looked uncomfortable. Geno wished he hadn’t pulled his shadow away from hers. He kept his gaze on her face. She had beautiful skin. Nearly flawless. There was one tiny scar along the right side of her chin, but one had to look very closely to see that little white line. Her lashes were very long and curved at the ends. She used them to veil her eyes when she didn’t want them to know what she was thinking.
“I was to establish my cover. I applied for a job in the theater, both in Little Italy and at the Ferraro Performing Arts Theatre Company. The International Council of Riders has suspected for some time that there is a group—afaction—that is undermining shadow riders. They use young kids as their eyes and ears in the neighborhoods to commit petty crimes and to turn the people against the riders. Of course, the neighborhood knows nothing about the riders, only those in authority, such as Geno or Stefano. This group seems to be able to sow mistrust over time, and they do a fairly good job. After they manage to turn the people against those who have been protecting them, the murders start. The conclusion was the murders were done by a shadow rider—or a team of shadow riders.”
“Was Geno a suspect? Was that why you didn’t go to him and let him know you were in his territory?” Stefano asked.
