He deliberately lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying you think I have foul moods?”

“I think it’s entirely possible, yes,” she teased.

Something squeezed his heart hard so that he felt an actual pain in his chest. She wasn’t looking at him as if he was loathsome. It wasn’t complete and utter love like he’d seen in her eyes before, but it was a start.

Isabeau looked away from Conner’s focused eyes. He was looking at her with that possessive, hungry look that always made her so crazy for him. She wanted a truce, but she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. And she didn’t want to betray her father’s memory. She didn’t like being inside the cabin, so close to so many people she didn’t know. She hadn’t realized how comfortable she felt with Conner.

She’d thought she didn’t trust him, but the moment he was no longer at her side, she’d panicked. “The rain sounds different up here.”

He nodded without taking his gaze from her face. She could feel his eyes burning a brilliant gold right through her.

“When I was young, I used to sleep out here on the porch so I could hear it. I love the sound of the rain,” Conner admitted.

She sank down onto the wooden planks and looked around at the leaves sheltering the cabin from view. “I’ve always found the rain soothing, but there’s a pattern to the way it hits the leaves that makes it sound different. I can almost hear it set to music.”

Surprise crept into his expression. “I used to think that. I’d lie awake listening and add in instruments to create my own symphony.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

Conner sat beside her, drawing his knees up, back to the wall of the house. He shrugged his shoulders, looking a bit uneasy. He lowered his voice, keeping an eye on the door. “I play a couple of instruments. It was mostly me with my mom. Being alone a lot we read books, did a lot of school-work and we both liked to learn to play whatever we could manage to get our hands on.”

“So your mom played too,” she prompted, surprised that during all their conversations he’d never told her about his mother, his life or his music. Important things. Things a lover should have known. She wanted to look away from him, upset that he hadn’t shared who he really was with her. Their time together had been the most wonderful of her life, yet it hadn’t been real. He hadn’t been real. The man sitting there, slightly uncomfortable, exposing his vulnerable side was the real man. She couldn’t look away though; she was fascinated, once again mesmerized.

Conner was a hard, dangerous man and he carried that aura like a shield around him. He’d always seemed invincible—impenetrable. She’d never seen a chink in that armor until now—this moment. His face was the same. The strong jaw, the scars and weathered lines, the fierce burnt gold of his eyes, the sensual mouth that would drive any woman crazy—all showed a man with absolute resolve. But his eyes had gone different. Softer. Almost hesitant. She couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“Yes, she played,” Conner admitted, his tone dropping even lower. There was a soft note that was all leopard mixed in with his human voice.

Isabeau watched him swallow, his gaze moving over the broad leaves surrounding them, hiding them from the rest of the rain forest.

“She loved the violin.”

“Did you play the violin?” She couldn’t stop herself from learning whatever she could about the real man, not the role he played.

“Not the way she could play.” He had a faraway look in his eyes when he turned his head back toward her. There was a small smile on his face as if he was remembering. “She used to sit out here with me while the rain came down and she’d play for hours. Sometimes the animals would gather so she had a huge audience. I’d look out and the trees would be covered with monkeys and birds and even a sloth or two. She was gentle and beautiful and it showed in her music.”

“She taught you herself? Or did she send you for lessons? And where would you even find schools and music teachers? You couldn’t have lived here for long.”

“We stayed to ourselves. When we left our village . . .”

Isabeau caught a note of pain in his voice. The boy was remembering some childhood trauma, not the man.

“We kept to ourselves for several years. My mother didn’t want to see anyone. She was very strict about schooling and she was smart. If you look in the wooden boxes beneath the benches, you’ll find they’re filled completely with books. She was a good teacher.” A slight grin touched his mouth. A little mischievous. “She didn’t have the best student to work with.”

“You’re extremely intelligent,” she said.

He shrugged. “Intelligence had nothing to do with being a wild boy out in the middle of the rain forest thinking I was king of the jungle. She had her hands full.”

Isabeau could imagine him, a curly-haired towheaded boy with golden eyes, leaping from tree branch to tree branch with his mother chasing after him. “I can imagine.”

“I snuck out a lot at night. Of course, I didn’t realize then that, being an adult leopard, she could hear and smell better than me and knew the moment I moved. I learned a few years later that she trailed after me, making certain nothing happened to me, but at the time, I felt very brave and manly.” He laughed at the memory. “I was also feeling pretty cool that I’d managed to put it over on her that I was out every night playing in the forest.”