No One Lives Forever Read Online Free Page A

the wooden floor of his dojo without effort. As part of the drill, he pictured an imaginary enemy, adapting his kata movements to combat his foe. The blindfold made it easier. Only the soft rustle of the wide pant legs accompanied his steady breaths and the lethal murmur of the blade.
    When he hunted, he felt true freedom. Fear forged an alliance with discipline, allowing him to focus on his target. With an appreciation for irony, he understood this process infused him with serenity. A balance and symmetry to the art.
    He had studied Kenjitsu for years using his favorite katana, an elegant, sleek sword. But he also developed his skill with spears and throwing knives. Despite his preparation with weaponry, he preferred the avoidance of conflict—the art of self-defense. Such discipline reflected his own conflict between the violence that fettered his earlier life and his pursuit of tranquility to redirect his future.
    The hum of the elevator broke his concentration. Yet he persisted with the blade, cutting at angles to battle his relentless adversary. Vertically down . . . then up in fluid motion. A decisive thrust, forward and back. Rotating his attack, he quickened his cuts.
    As the elevator came to rest on the second floor, its wooden freight doors rattled open. He heard her step onto the dojo floor. Almost imperceptibly, the wooden planks echoed her approach.
    His blade came to rest in his right hand. In a single motion he resheathed the weapon when she drew closer. And as she instructed, he kept the blindfold in place, awaiting the cool touch of her fingers.
    He wasn't disappointed.
    "Good timing. I missed you," he said in a hushed tone. His words echoed in the stillness of the large chamber.
    Without a word, she placed both hands on his broad chest, splaying her fingers across his muscles. Slowly, she moved down his taut stomach. Minus his eyesight, the move caught him by surprise. He gasped.
    "That feels good." His chest heaved in an increasing rhythm. His reaction had more to do with his excitement at having her so near—and the prospect of what would follow. He had lost himself in the moment. Forgetting his discipline, he pleaded, "Don't stop."
    He gulped air, almost choking on his hunger.
    Still, she did not speak. Her tantalizing game. Instead she moved around to his back, trailing the tips of her fingers up his arm and across his shoulders. Cool satin floated over his inflamed skin. Her nails prickled his body with anticipation. Christian felt a subtle difference in the way she touched him. Raven was usually more direct. The woman's desires matched his need, but this teasing-prolonged fore-play stimulated all his senses. A new level of sensuality. Amazing!
    Silence fueled his imagination as he conjured up erotic images of Raven, the blindfold enhancing his perception. Vivid mental pictures spawned from his memory. Creamy pale skin and enticing curves of flesh tempted his lips. Dark hair and hypnotic eyes shoved reason from his brain, compelling his body to react. And as her finger traced his left nipple, making it constrict, blood rushed below his waist and hardened him with a familiar sensation.
    God, this woman knew bow to punch his hot button! His brain raged with pleasure.
    "Awhh . . . yes," he gasped. Her hands found the clasp to the sword belt. She undipped it and released the weapon.
    "Oh God, Raven. You're driving me insane. How long do I have to—" Before he finished his question, the distant sound of a slamming door distracted him.
    "Those stairs are murder. Why didn't you leave the elevator—"
    He recognized the voice. Even from under his blindfold he knew something was terribly wrong. And a loud crash confirmed it.
    "What the hell!" he bellowed.
    "Am I interrupting something?"
    The distinctive voice and sarcasm of Raven Mackenzie came from across the room. Christian spun toward her as he yanked the blindfold over his head. He found himself staring at an angry woman wearing a gun and badge. Hands on