Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 126060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“I wouldn’t do that. If he doesn’t want me as a partner, I wouldn’t force him.”
“If he doesn’t want you as a partner, he’s an idiot. It was an honor to meet you, Amara. I’m certain we’ll meet again very soon.” He gave her a rider’s salute and sauntered out, taking his papers with him.
Amaranthe turned over and buried her face in the cool pillows. At least he was going to recommend to Jean-Claude that she stay. Had she been forced to defy the council she would have, but it would have cost her position and she’d fought hard for it.
She desperately needed to go back to sleep. She didn’t want to take anything for her headache, not on top of the silly drug she’d had embedded in the roof of her mouth. Only riders working alone in dire circumstances, those who might be subject to torture with no way to reach a shadow to save themselves, were given a tablet as a last resort. She had never expected to have to use one. Worse, she never expected to place another rider in jeopardy—especially an innocent one.
She covered her eyes and rocked back and forth. The light streaming in through the windows hurt. Everything hurt. Maybe she did need something after all. She wasn’t nearly as tough as she thought she was.
There was a soft knock on the door. She didn’t lift her head or answer.
“Ms. Aubert? I’m Dr. Veneto. I’ve been treating you. I imagine you aren’t feeling the best right at the moment. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She was grateful he spoke softly. She indicated the windows, and he immediately pulled the drapes, darkening the room.
“I hurt everywhere, but the headache is the worst.”
“I can give you something for that.” She felt his fingers on her wrist, taking her pulse, then a stethoscope listening to her heart.
She shook her head. “I just want to sleep.”
“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 audience weep 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.”