Imelda swept into the room on her spiked crimson heels, her dark eyes alighting instantly on Conner, her hungry gaze devouring him in a slow, greedy perusal that drank in the broad shoulders and thick chest. There was no missing the aura of danger he exuded, and Imelda actually inhaled sharply, her breasts heaving, in grave danger of spilling out of the dress.

Isabeau’s cat went crazy, raking at her, clawing and growling, recognizing an enemy, desperate for the freedom to destroy her. For one terrible moment Isabeau was certain she wouldn’t be able to stop her leopard from emerging and killing the woman in a fit of rage. Her muscles contorted. Her bones popped. Pain burst through her jaw and her mouth seemed overcrowded with teeth.

No! You will not! She fought the leopard back. He needs us. Both of us. She filled her mind with Conner, drew strength from him, from her love of him. And she did love him with every fiber of her being. She would do this for him.

Imelda Cortez was tall and thin, very fashionable, but she reminded Isabeau of a praying mantis, an insect ready to strike her prey the first chance she got. Imelda’s gluttonous gaze slid dismissively over Isabeau once, but moved quickly on to the men in the group—a new supply of men for her voracious appetite. That told all of them that Imelda wasn’t leopard, or even part leopard. She would have known Isabeau was close to the Han Vol Dan and therefore her biggest threat. The two rogue leopards would be consumed by her presence. Their duty to Imelda would be second to their need of mating with a female leopard in the throes of the Han Vol Dan.

Imelda moved across the room, aware all eyes were on her. She pursed her lips and made a little clucking noise, shaking her head. “This is no way to treat Philip’s guests, Martin.” She slid her fingers playfully down Conner’s arm. “Who do we have here?”

Isabeau’s cat gave a fierce snarl, but subsided under her growing control. Conner didn’t even so much as glance at Imelda. His gaze remained fixed and focused on Martin’s. There was a threat there, very real, and Martin didn’t dare move, not even with Imelda clearly giving him the signal to back off.

“Conner,” Marcos said in a low tone. “I think he has the message.”

Conner took a step back immediately, never taking his eyes from Martin. The rogue leopard stepped back as well and broke the stare, looking at his employer. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Imelda gave a sniff of contempt and handed him a handkerchief. “Mop up. You look ridiculous.” She glided close to Conner, and ran her finger down his chest this time, a blatant invitation, her breasts nearly touching him, her perfume engulfing him, her eyes devouring him. “Very few men can get the better of my guards.”

Martin stirred as if he might protest. Imelda’s hand came up and she waved languidly. “Go away, Martin. You’re boring me.”

Martin glanced at Isabeau, his eyes glittering dangerously and then he looked once more to his boss. Hatred flared briefly, and he turned abruptly, signaling the other security guards, who dispersed to various spots in the room. Only then did Conner look down at Imelda. Isabeau held her breath. There was no expression whatsoever on his face.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He moved in silence back toward the wall where the shadows in the room swallowed him.

“Oh my,” Imelda said, fanning herself. “You have good taste in protectors, Marcos. I’m Imelda Cortez.”

Marcos bent gallantly over her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Imelda—may I call you Imelda?”

“Of course. I believe we’ll be great friends.” She flashed him a lovely smile, all teeth and flirty pouting lips.

Conversation began cautiously around them once more. Imelda didn’t seem to notice the chaos her men had caused. Or rather, she knew, Isabeau decided, but she didn’t care what inconvenience there was to anyone else. She thrived on the drama she created.

“May I present Elijah Lospostos and his charming little cousin, Isabeau.”

“Cherished cousin,” Elijah corrected, making her instantly off limits to the attentions of Philip or any of her men.

“Elijah,” Imelda murmured. “Your . . . reputation precedes you.”

“All good, I’m certain,” Elijah replied smoothly and bent over her hand, although he didn’t pretend to allow his lips to brush her skin.

“Of course,” Imelda agreed with a feigned smile and turned her attention to Isabeau. “My dear, what a lovely dress. Who is the designer? I must have one.”

Elijah answered, taking Isabeau’s elbow, his fingers sinking into her skin. Imelda’s sharp gaze couldn’t miss the signal to Isabeau not to speak. “I brought the dress for her from one of our little boutiques in the States. I travel quite often and saw this and knew it would be perfect for her. It’s one of a kind and suits her less dramatic appearance.”

Isabeau heard the small bite in his voice, implying the innocence of Isabeau’s dress would never suit someone who wore the bloodred gown revealing half of Imelda’s body. She held her breath, afraid Elijah was antagonizing the woman, but Imelda took it as a compliment. She ran her hand down her hip, smoothing the material and jutting out her breasts, turning her back on Isabeau as if she was of little consequence. Isabeau realized that was Elijah’s intent, to make certain Imelda didn’t see her as a threat in any way.

She tried not to let the byplay undermine her confidence in herself. She’d never considered herself beautiful. She was curvy, carrying a little more weight than was fashionable, but she had great hair and good skin. She didn’t think she looked drab, but next to Imelda she probably did. Imelda’s tinkling laugh irritated her, and the way she moved into the center of the circle of men as if she belonged there irritated her even more.