Burning Wild by Christine Feehan Page A

out of this, and if she has a few things familiar to her, it may help. You’re just helping your friend and you saw she didn’t object.”
    Chelsey nodded and hurried away, to return with the key and a small piece of paper with the address on it.
    “You’re a good friend to Emma,” Jake said as he pocketed the key and quickly walked away before she could change her mind.
     
     
    JAKE found Emma’s apartment building with little problem. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the small living space. Small? Hell, it was tiny. The furniture was old and worn with use, the china was chipped and cracked. The couple had nothing. He stalked through the four rooms. This entire apartment would fit into his master bedroom. Frustration grew with each step and he paced back and forth, prowling like the caged cat he was. There was something here he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something he needed to understand, had to understand. It was a burning drive in his gut.
    Everything was very neat and clean, so much so he found himself throwing out the dead roses in the little vase. They seemed an obscenity in the atmosphere of the apartment. He paced restlessly again, quick, fluid steps of sheer power. There was a key but he was missing it. He halted abruptly. Pictures were everywhere, on the walls, the desk, a small bureau, and there was an album sitting on a coffee table.
    He studied one of the photos. The couple was looking at each other, as they seemed to be in every other picture, as if they only had eyes for each other. Their expressions were genuine, love shining brightly between them until it was almost tangible.
    He traced Emma’s lips with a gentle fingertip. He had never seen two people who looked so happy. It was in their eyes, it was in their faces. Emma took his breath away. In most of the pictures she wore little or no makeup.
    She was very small, almost too slender, with an abundance of flaming red hair framing her fragile heart-shaped face. He had never had the slightest attraction to skinny women—he preferred lush curves—but he couldn’t stop staring at her face, her eyes. He touched her picture again, tracing the outline of her face, his other hand gripping the cheap frame until his knuckles were white. He put it down abruptly.
    The kitchen was filled with baked goods, including a hardened loaf of bread that had obviously been baked from scratch. The bathroom held two toothbrushes, one white, one blue, side by side in a container. There was a pregnancy test kit right next to the small soap dish. In the corner of the mirror, someone had written “Yes!” with lipstick.
    In the bedroom, without a qualm, he went through their clothes. Andrew’s shirts were a bit threadbare, but every button was in place, every tear neatly repaired. Every shirt was clean and ironed. He found a jacket with tiny embroidered stitches on the inside seam. Someone loves you. He stared at the words, feeling a yawning chasm of emptiness welling up inside him.
    Jake Bannaconni was elite. He had superior intelligence, strength, vision and sense of smell. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, flowing like water, fluid and controlled. He was one of the youngest billionaires ever reported by Forbes , and he wielded vast political power. He had the savage, animalistic magnetism of his species and the ruthless logic required to strategize and plan boardroom battles. He could mesmerize people with the sheer strength of his personality; he could attract and seduce the most beautiful women in the world, and frequently did so; but he could not make them love him. Yet this . . . this mechanic had commanded love from all those around him. It made no sense.
    What had made Andrew Reynolds so damned special that he could inspire that kind of love? That kind of loyalty? Hell, Jake couldn’t claim love or loyalty from his own parents, let alone anyone else. As far as he could see, Reynolds hadn’t given his wife a damned thing, yet everywhere he looked he