She began to remove her clothes in front of the mirror. She didn’t have the slender, beautiful body the other women in her household had had. She was all curves. Full, firm breasts; wide, curving hips; she even had a butt. How many times had Osamu made fun of her butt, saying they could serve tea on her bottom. For one moment, in defiance, she considered going to Ricco in a bra and those indecent panties, but she couldn’t make herself do it. It was bad enough to go with no underwear, even covered by the one-piece thing he wanted her to wear. There were three of them – red, black and white.

Mariko forced herself to pull on the black catsuit. It was tight, the nearly sheer, stretch lace material molding to every curve and emphasizing her narrower rib cage and waist. She could barely look at herself in it. It showed every single flaw she had, and that was her entire body. She nearly ripped it off and sank to the floor in a flood of tears, but that wasn’t allowed in her world. She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue.

She was very aware of time passing. Ricco had said they didn’t have much time. What did that mean? He didn’t call out to her or try to hurry her in any way. She used the bathroom and spent time on her makeup. She’d learned from another shadow rider, a young sixteen-year-old girl from England. The girl had taught her in secret, because if Osamu had found her with makeup, there would have been hell to pay.

Again, she stared at herself in the mirror, afraid to move. Her inclination was to run. To just disappear into the night. Never see Ricco or his family again. Never think about this moment of utter terror. She was attracted to him and she didn’t want him to see her as weak or ugly. She didn’t want him to know she’d come there with the thought to kill him. She had so many secrets to hide.

It would be so easy to leave, but she couldn’t pass up this one moment in her life. Face herself. She wanted truth. She’d been seeking the truth of her past, the truth about herself. Squaring her shoulders, head up, she turned away from the mirror. She was one of the best riders in Japan. She knew she was and had confidence that she could kill a man.

Could she find the confidence to look into her own soul? To be a woman and feel like a woman just once? She’d chosen this path because her mother had thought the art form beautiful. In studying the history and learning about each rope discipline, she had come to find beauty in it. She wanted to be a part of that before she died. She would become part of both her father’s and mother’s history and culture. She loved that idea. She just had to find the courage to do it.

Ricco was waiting in the studio. Lights were muted, which surprised her, and there was music playing, something soft and easy. The room, like all the rooms in his home, was spacious. Mirrors went from floor to ceiling on one wall. Cameras were in cases and there was an open closet full of props. Her heart pounded when she saw the rigging overhead that told her he might at some point want to suspend her from the ceiling.

He had his back to her, his hands moving over the coils of rope on the wall. There were all types of materials in various colors and he seemed to absorb the textures of each as his hand moved over the bundles. She was mesmerized by the way he touched them, almost a caress she could feel on her own skin. There were far more ropes here than in his room.

She shivered and rubbed at her arms, wishing she could hide her breasts and the way her nipples pushed against the material of the skintight suit. It wasn’t the cold, although the studio was cool. Her body had reacted to the way he smoothed his palm over the ropes. She held her breath as he turned, watching his eyes, needing to see that first expression, afraid it would be disgust and she would be humiliated all over again. She steeled herself. She was used to humiliation. She could handle it. But not from him.

Her eyes met his as the thought raced through her mind. For one moment his mask slipped and she saw his eyes go dark with desire. Every line in his face was etched with a sensuality that kept her breath trapped deep in her lungs. No one had ever looked at her like that in her life. Then the mask was back in place and he was stalking her. Like a great, fluid jungle cat.

She watched him come toward her, his muscles rippling beneath his tight tee. The material stretched over his chest so she could see the defined muscles beneath as he approached her. He looked utterly confident. The scrapes on his arms and face didn’t detract from his good looks at all. If anything, he looked even tougher.

“You look perfect, Mariko,” he greeted. “Absolutely beautiful.”

No reprimand for being late. For taking her time. For almost running away. She was ashamed that she’d considered that idea – just opening the French doors and disappearing into the night. He circled her, his body heat reaching her. Enveloping her. His scent surrounding her.

“You’re nervous.”

That voice. She loved how low and intimate his tone could be. How commanding. She was strong. She needed stronger. “Yes.” He’d made it a statement, just as he had said she was beautiful, as if she knew it and he was just acknowledging it. As if it were the truth. She heard the ring of honesty in his voice, but then he’d hit his head numerous times.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Mariko. You’re entering a journey that is both sensual and artistic.”

He moved behind her and touched her shoulder. She jumped and immediately felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Talk to me. Communication is very important between us at all times.” He bent his head as he lifted the hair from the back of her neck. “For instance, I find your neck incredibly sexy. You look both vulnerable and sensual with your hair up. With it down, you look wild and beautiful. Just as sensual, but in a completely different way.”

She closed her eyes as his breath touched the nape of her neck. So warm. So male. He made her aware of every cell in her body because each went on alert when he was close. She was a rider and trained in every aspect of warfare, of engaging an enemy, defeating them. She knew anatomy, knew every pressure point. She knew the exact angle one had to use to break a neck.

She had absolutely no knowledge of what he was doing to her or how he could arouse her with just his voice and a gesture so small as the brush of his fingers on her body. He had barely touched her shoulder, lifted her hair, spoke in that low, compelling voice, and her body was aroused. Her breathing came in soft, ragged pants. He couldn’t fail to notice, he was far too tuned to the human body – especially a woman’s.

“I want to do a breathing exercise with you, but I will be touching your body. You have to get used to my hands on you and I need to know how you breathe so I never restrict you when we’re working together. Any time you’re uncomfortable, you need to say so. I have to trust that you’ll communicate what you’re feeling at all times. If I lay a rope incorrectly and it hurts you, I have to know.”

He was still behind her, his mouth against the nape of her neck, lips brushing tiny caresses with every word he said. That voice, so low and velvet soft, smoothed over her skin like his lips, until she couldn’t separate the two sensations. Already her breasts ached with need and she grew damp between her legs.