Home > Predatory Game (GhostWalkers #6)

Predatory Game (GhostWalkers #6)
Author: Christine Feehan


The lights from oncoming cars hurt his eyes and seemed to pierce right through his skull, stabbing at his brain until he wanted to scream. He quickly tuned the radio station until the soft, sexy voice of the Night Siren flooded the car. It was taped, but it helped. His vision tunneled, so that everything took on a dream-like quality. Buildings flashed by, cars appeared as streaks of light rather than solid matter.

“Where are we going?”

He jumped. For a moment he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. Throwing an impatient glance at the whore seated beside him, he felt the terrible pounding in his head, which had just begun to ease, return. In the dark she looked a little like the woman he needed. If she kept her mouth shut, he could pretend. Tempted to tell her she was going to hell very soon, he forced a slight smile instead. “You’re getting paid, aren’t you? What difference does it make if we drive around for a little bit?”

She leaned forward and fiddled with the radio.

He slapped at her hand. “Don’t touch anything.” He had the station tuned right where he wanted it—needed it. The Night Siren’s voice was drifting out over the airwaves, making his body hard and his head clear. The woman wasn’t going to make it through the hour if she touched that dial again.

He kept his eye on the car he was following. He knew what he had to do. He had a job and he was damned good at it. The whore was such a good cover, and gave him such an anticipation of the pleasure to come later. He hadn’t been caught yet. Damn Whitney for his interference. The doctor had threatened to send someone else again. Stupid man didn’t like his reports. Well, fuck him. The doctor thought he was so superior, so intelligent, and was worried—worried—about the situation deteriorating. What a crock of bullshit. There was no situation, nothing was deteriorating. He could handle surveillance on a GhostWalker any day of the week.

Whitney thought his precious GhostWalkers were supersoldiers to be revered. Well, screw that. GhostWalkers were genetic mutations, aberrations, abominations, not the fucking miracles Whitney purported them to be. The entire lot of them should be wiped from the face of the earth, and he was the man to do it. They were government experiments that should have been scrapped long before they were ever let loose on the world.

He saw himself as the guardian, the lone man standing between the mutants and the humans. He should be revered. Whitney should bow down to him, kiss his feet, thank him for his reports and his attention to detail…

“You never told me your name. What do I call you?”

The voice jerked him out of his reverie. He wanted to slap the little whore. To pound his fists into her face until there was nothing there but bloody pulp. To take her head between his hands and hear a satisfying crack just to shut her up, but that was for later. If she kept her mouth shut he could fantasize that she was the Night Siren.

The Night Siren belonged to him and he’d have her soon enough. He just had to get rid of the GhostWalkers once and for all. And then she’d do everything he told her.

“You can call me Daddy.”

The whore had the audacity to roll her eyes at him, but he resisted the urge to punish her. He had other plans for her.

“I am a naughty girl,” she said and leaned over to rub his crotch. “And you obviously like me that way.”

“Don’t talk,” he snapped, and sighed when she opened his jeans. Let her just go to work on him while he took care of business. It would keep her mouth and hands occupied. He could look at her skin and hair and everything would be all right. It was going to be a long night tonight, and at least he could look forward to later.

Up ahead the car he’d been following pulled to the curb. It was a strange thing to do, but he couldn’t get caught—and he couldn’t lose them. He pulled over as well and waited while the whore worked on him, the rush beginning to flood his veins like a drug.




Saber Wynter leaned back against the plush seat in the low-slung sports car and stared incredulously at her date. “Am I hearing you right?” She tapped a long, perfectly polished fingernail against the armrest. “You’re saying you’ve taken me out on three dates, and you’re claiming you’ve spent a hundred dollars…”

“A hundred and fifty,” Larry Edwards corrected.

One dark eyebrow shot up in disbelief. “I see. One hundred and fifty dollars, not that I have any idea what you spent it on. Your favorite restaurant is a truck stop.”

“The San Sebastian is no truck stop,” he denied hotly, staring into her violet-blue eyes. Unusual eyes, beautiful and haunting. He had noticed her voice immediately on the radio—the Night Siren, everyone called her. It seemed a husky whisper of pure sensual promise. Night after night he’d listened to her and fantasized. And then when he met her…she had great skin and a mouth that screamed sex. And those eyes. He’d never seen eyes like that. She looked so innocent, and the combination of sexy and innocent was just too hard to resist.

But she was proving to be difficult, and damn it all, what did she really have to brag about? She was skinny, looking like a lost waif, nothing to be all haughty and uptight about. In fact, she should be grateful for his attention. As far as he was concerned, she was nothing but a tease.

She shrugged in a curiously feminine gesture. “So you think because you spent this money on three dates it entitles you to sleep with me?”

“It damn well does, honey,” he snapped. “You owe me.” He hated that distant, clinical look she gave him. She needed a real man to put her in her place—and he was just the man to do it.

Saber forced a smile. “And if I don’t—how did you so delicately put this?—if I don’t ‘put out,’ you intend to dump me off right here in the middle of the street at two o’clock in the morning?”

She hoped he would make a move or force the issue, because he was going to get a lesson in manners he was never going to forget. She had nothing to lose. Well, almost nothing. She had stayed too long this time, made too much of a life for herself, and if she wiped up the floor with good old Larry the Louse before she disappeared, she’d be doing the women of Sheridan a favor.

“That’s right, darling.” He smirked at her complacently. “I think you’ll agree you need to be a little reasonable about this, don’t you?” He slid his hand along the back of her seat, fingers not quite touching her. He wanted to. Usually by now he was doing a lot of touching, loving watching the woman squirm. Loving the power he had over them. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t forcing her mouth to his, yanking open her blouse and taking what he wanted, but as much as he longed to do that, there was something inside of him warning him to go slower, to be a little more cautious with Saber. He was sure that very soon she would sit quietly and he’d be able to do whatever he wanted with her. He expected her to cry and plead for him not to leave her there, but instead, perfect little white teeth gleamed at him like bright pearls, making his stomach clench.

He looked so smug Saber wanted to slap his boyish good looks right off his face. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Larry. The sad truth is, I’d rather pull out my fingernails one by one than sleep with you.” She slipped out of the low-slung car. “Your breath stinks, Lar, and let’s just face it—you’re a creep.” She slammed the door with such force he winced visibly.

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