by Nora Roberts
Enough, Eve warned herself. She was through losing sleep over them, all of them. She had a company to run and plays to produce. She’d leave the Bissets to run their own lives and their own country.
Then she heard footsteps, whispers. And froze.
Her first reaction was quick and primitive. Run. Almost as it formed came another. Protect.
Eve braced herself against the wall, breathing deeply. Her legs spread, knees bent, her body turned slightly, she lifted her arms to complete the fighting stance. Warriors had used it for centuries when facing an enemy with no more than body and wit.
As the footsteps came closer, she drew her right arm back, her shoulders set straight as a ruler. She took one step forward, leading with her stiffened open hand. Her breath came out in a whoosh. She stopped a scant half inch from Bennett’s straight, aristocratic nose.
“Damn, Eve, I didn’t think you’d be that upset about me dating one of your people.”
“Ben!” With muscles gone limp, Eve collapsed against the wall. She’d gone white as a sheet and he could do nothing but grin. “I might have hurt you.”
Healthy masculine pride came to the rescue. “I doubt it. But what are you doing lurking around the corridors?”
“I wasn’t lurking. I’ve just come in.” Her gaze shifted to the young redhead. She should have known Bennett would have ferreted this one out before long. “Hello, Doreen.”
“Hello, Ms. Hamilton.”
Eve straightened her shoulders, then worked away embarrassment by brushing a speck of lint from her jeans. “Ben, if I’d followed through, I’d have broken your jaw. Why are you sneaking around?”
“I wasn’t—” He caught himself on the edge of justifying his presence in his own home. Bennett shook his head, amazed that Alexander would mistake his relationship with Eve for anything like sexual attraction. “It seems I have to keep explaining that I live here. In any case, my jaw is safe. I’m showing Doreen the palace before dinner.”
“That’s nice.” It was only a murmur as nerves flooded back. The hands that had been stiffened and ready to attack twisted together. “Is everyone else home?”
“Yes.” Recognizing her concern, Bennett tugged on her hair. “Everyone’s fine. Oh, Alexander is a bit out of sorts, but—”
“What happened?” Instantly her hands were clamped to his shirt. “Was he hurt?”
“He’s fine. For heaven’s sake, mind the material.” If he’d had any doubt about Eve’s feelings toward his brother, he had none now. “I saw him an hour ago,” he continued as he pried her fingers from the freshly laundered silk. “He was a bit annoyed at my, ah, flaunting one flower in front of the other. If you get my drift.”
She did, and her eyes narrowed. “Idiot.”
“Yes, well …” To keep himself from laughing at his brother in front of Doreen, Bennett coughed into his hand. “I straightened him out on all counts. So the problem’s solved.” He smiled charmingly, glad to do them both a favor.
“Straightened him out, did you?” Now her eyes were slits, dark, dangerous slits. “You feel you had the right to speak for me?”
“For myself.” Bennett held up a soothing, or protecting, hand, palm out. “I simply explained that …” He shot a look at a quiet, but raptly attentive Doreen. “Ah, that nothing had ever been—well, been.” Uncomfortable he shifted. “It seemed to satisfy him.”
“Oh, did it? Isn’t that lovely.” Eve jammed restless hands into her pockets. “I’ll do my own explaining in the future, thank you.” Her voice was honey with a dash of bitters. “Where is he?”
Grateful that the temper in her eyes was about to be pointed in another direction, Bennett smiled. His only regret was that he wouldn’t see the results. “Since he was dressed for fencing, I’d say he’s in the gym with his partner.”
“Thanks.” She took three strides down the hall before calling over her shoulder, “Rehearsal’s at nine sharp, Doreen. I want you rested.”
* * *
Eve had always liked the area in the east wing the Bissets had converted to a gym. She was a physical woman, and one who could appreciate the beauty and contrast of a room with lofted, carved ceilings and steel machines and weights. There was no scent of the sea here, no pretty cut flowers in crystal vases, but the stained glass windows were rich and ancient.
She passed through the exercise room. Normally she would have admired the first-rate equipment and setup. Now she did no more than glance around to assure herself the room was empty.
The tang of chlorinated and heated water hit her as she entered the solarium, where a red fiberglass spa dominated. Steam rose up; the sun poured in. Through the clear glass you could see the sky and touches of the sea with its deeper blue. Another time she might have been tempted to relieve her tensed muscles in the soothing water. Again she passed through with only a glance. And when she opened the next door, she heard the clash and scrape of swords.
The tall, windowless room had a floor of dull hardwood, spread now with the piste, the fencing mat, of linoleum. Along one wall ran a mirror and dance barre. Two men in white were reflected in the glass as they moved together, knees slightly bent, backs straight, left arms curled up and behind.
Both men were tall, both slim and dark headed. The mesh masks hid and protected their faces through the thrusts and parries. Eve had no trouble recognizing Alexander.
It was the way he moved. Regally, she thought with a sniff, and crossed her arms over her chest while fighting to ignore the quick surge of need. It would always be there when she saw him. She had to acknowledge, even accept it, and go on.
The room rang, metal on metal. The men were silent but for their breathing. And well matched, Eve decided as she watched and analyzed styles and movement. Alexander would never have chosen an inferior fencer as his partner. He’d want the challenge. Little thrills ran up her arms. And the triumph.
In another century, another life, he would have defended his country with the sword, wielding it in battle to protect his people, his land, his birthright.
He could use it still, Eve realized as he moved steadily forward, offense rather than defense. More than once Eve saw him drop his guard to attack, parrying his opponent’s thrust just before the safety tip made contact.
Would he fight so recklessly, she wondered, if the points were honed sharp? Another thrill passed through her, this time to twist in her stomach as she answered her own question.
In this one-on-one he would indeed be reckless in the way he never allowed himself in matters of state. His outlet would be the physical, which she understood, and the sense of danger, which she did not.
Again and again he challenged his opponent. Swords crossed; metal slid whistling down metal. Then with two subtle movements of his wrist, Alexander was past the guard, pressing the safety button lightly to his partner’s heart.
“Well done, sir.” The defeated drew off his face mask. Eve saw immediately that the man was older than she had thought and vaguely familiar. He had a rakish face and an interesting one, lined at the eyes, shadowed with dark hair over the lip. His eyes were a pale, pale gray and met Eve’s over Alexander’s shoulder. “We have an audience, Your Highness.”
Alexander turned and through the wire mesh saw Eve standing rigidly inside the door. He saw the temper, glowing in her eyes, stiffening her shoulders. Curious, he lifted the mask. Now his eyes, dark, still lit with the excitement of victory, met hers without obstruction. He saw, mixed with the temper, heightened because of it, the passion. The need. The desire.
Slowly, his gaze still locked on hers, he tucked the mask under his arm. “Thank you for the match, Jermaine.”
“My pleasure, Your Highness.” Under the mustache, Jermaine’s lips curved. He was French by blood and had no trouble recognizing passion when he saw it. He would forgo his usual after-the-match wine with his friend and pupil. “Until next week.”
“Yes.” It was only a murmur. Alexander’s eyes had yet to leave Eve’s face.
Smoth
ering a grin, Jermaine replaced his épée and mask on the rack before moving to the door. “Bon soir, mademoiselle.”
“Bon soir.” Eve moistened her lips on the words and listened to the door click shut behind her. Folding her hands primly, she inclined her head. “You have excellent form, Your Highness.”
The softly spoken words didn’t fool him for a moment. She was mad as a hornet and already aroused despite herself. But the words snapped his own tension. With a cocky grin, he lifted his sword in salute. “I can return the compliment, mademoiselle.”
She accepted this with another slow nod. “But compliments aren’t the reason I’m here.”
“I thought not.”
“I ran into Bennett.” She would hold her temper, Eve promised herself. She would strangle it down and defeat him with cool, carefully chosen words. “Apparently you and he had a discussion.” She moved farther into the room, strolling to the rack of fencing gear. “A discussion concerning me.”
“A discussion that wouldn’t have been necessary if you had been honest with me.”
“Honest?” The word nearly choked her. “I’ve never lied. I have no reason to lie.”
“You allowed me to believe, and in believing suffer, that you and my brother were lovers.”
“That belief was your own.” Suffer? How had he suffered? But she wouldn’t ask. Eve studied the slim shiny épées and promised herself she would never ask. “I didn’t choose to deny it because I didn’t and still don’t consider it any of your business.”
“Not my business, when I’ve felt you melt and burn in my arms?” He examined the length of his own sword. “Not my business, when I lay awake at night dreaming of filling myself with you and hating myself for coveting what I thought was Ben’s?”
“What you thought.” She rounded on him, the softening his first words had begun, vanishing. “What, not even who. You considered me Ben’s property, and now that you don’t, do you believe you can make me yours?”
“I will make you mine, Eve.” Something in the soft, solid tone ran a quiver down her back.
“The hell you will. I belong to myself and only myself. Now that you perceive your way clear, you think I’ll tumble at your feet? I tumble for no one, Alex.” She drew an épée from the rack. “You consider yourself superior to a woman because you’re a man, and one with royal blood.”
She remembered the times he’d held her and let her go. Because he’d thought she was his brother’s. Not once, she thought grimly, not once, had he asked for her feelings, her wishes.
“In America we’ve begun to think of people as people, and things like respect, admiration, affection have to be earned.” She cut the air with the slender sword, testing its weight. Alexander’s brow lifted at the easy way she handled it. “If I wanted to be in your bed I’d be there.” She brought the sword down in an arch that whistled with restrained power. “And you wouldn’t know what had hit you.” Now she saluted him. “Your Highness.”
The ripple of desire tightened his muscles. She stood, dressed in black, her hair drawn back to leave her face unframed, a gleaming sword in her right hand. Challenging him.
He’d wanted her before. Now with his mouth drying up, he thirsted for her. Pride stung the air, coming from both of them.
“I have yet to ask you to my bed.”
Her eyes were as dark and dangerous as the sea. For the first time since she had come into the room, she smiled. The smile alone could have made a man beg. “I wouldn’t need an invitation. If I chose, I could have you on your knees.”
His head snapped up at that. Eyes narrowed. The truth was too close to the bone. “If I decided the time had come for you and me, I wouldn’t be on my knees.” He walked closer, a sword’s length away. “And you would tremble.”
His truth was as sharp as hers. “The trouble is you’ve dealt with too many subservient women.” On impulse she took down a mask and a padded fencing vest. “And with too few who’d dare to meet you on equal ground.” Her smile was cool and determined. “I may not beat you, Alexander, but I’ll see that you sweat for any kind of victory.” Making up her mind at once, she slipped on the mask and vest. She walked to the piste, taking her position behind the en garde line. “If you’re not afraid you might lose to a woman?”
Fascinated, he joined her on the mat. “Eve, I’ve been fencing for years.”
“And took a silver in the last Olympic Games,” she acknowledged while her adrenaline flowed steadily. “It should be an interesting match, then. En garde!”
He didn’t smile. She wasn’t making a joke or an idle boast. He replaced his own mask, so that faceless, they measured each other. His reach was nearly half again as long as hers. They both knew it.
“What do you hope to prove by this?”
Behind the mask her eyes flashed. “Equal ground, Alex. Here or anywhere.”
Extending her arm, she met the tip of his sword with hers. Steel, cold and slender, glinted in the mirrors. They held for a heartbeat. And lunged.
It was a teasing, testing start, with power held back. Each gauged the other’s style and strength, but here Eve had the advantage. She had seen him fence before—today and years ago. At the moment, she would have cut out her tongue before admitting that she had taken up the sport because she had never forgotten how he had looked with an épée in his hand. Through every lesson, every match, she’d wondered if she would ever cross swords with him. Now the moment was here and her heart beat hard in her chest.
But her mind was cool. He preferred the attack. She’d seen this and contented herself with defense.
She was good. Very good. Pride and pleasure welled up in him as she blocked and parried. Nature prevented him from using his full skill, but even as he held back, he realized she made both a formidable and an exciting partner.
The slim black jeans distracted him with images of what moved so supplely beneath. Her wrists were narrow, but strong and flexible enough to keep him at bay. He moved in, challenging. Swords crossed and clashed between them.
For a moment they held there, close enough to see each other’s eyes through the mesh. He saw in hers the same heated passion that ran through his own.
Desire tangled with the taste of competition. Her scent was dark and richly feminine; the fist covered by the bowl of her sword was fragile and he could just make out the glint of gold and sapphire on her finger. He wanted her here and now. The desire ground through him.
She sensed it—the longing, the passion, the fantasy. It called to something deep inside her. She wanted to hurl the sword aside, drag off her mask and his and surrender to the needs whirling in both of them. Would that mean victory for him, surrender for her? She thought not, and yet the suspicion of it drove her on.
Abandoning her steady defensive tactics, she attacked full force. Caught off guard, Alexander took a step back and felt the soft tip push against his shoulder.
Alexander lowered his sword, acknowledging the hit. “You had a good teacher.”
“I was a good pupil.”
There was something free in the sound of his laughter. It caught at her, tugged a smile from her. Then she realized it was a sound she heard much too seldom. His lips were curved behind his mask as he lifted his épée again.
“En garde, chérie.”
This time he gave her the compliment of his full skill. Eve felt the change and her own lips curved. She wanted no concessions.
The room echoed with the scrape and clatter of steel. The mirror reflected them, one in black, the other in white, as they met on equal ground.
Once he nearly disarmed her. Eve felt her heart pump in her throat, and set for the next move. Her advantage was in speed and she came close to slipping through his guard a second time. But he parried, riposted and sent her scrabbling for defense.
Their breathing came quick and heavy. The desire to win clouded over with desire of a more intimate kind. One man, one woman, dueling. With or without swords it was as old as time itself. The excitement of the thr
ust, the thrill of the parry, the grandeur of the challenge.
Their swords met with a clash near the grips and their faces met through the sharp-edged vee. Breathing fast, blades tensed, each held their ground.
Then, in a move that left her uncertain, Alexander reached up to pull off his mask. It clattered as it hit the floor. His face was sheened with sweat; dark hair curled damply around it. But it was his eyes that had her bracing. Again he lowered his sword, then with a hand on her wrist, pushed hers point down. He drew the mask from her face and let it bounce beside him.
When he snaked his arm around her waist, she stiffened, but didn’t pull back. Without a word he tightened his grip. The challenge was still in his eyes. The dare was still in hers. Her body met his, and she tilted her face up as he lowered his mouth. As she had with a sword, Eve met him with equal force.
The excitement that had stirred during combat found its release. They poured it into each other. She moved her hand to his shoulder, skimmed it over the slope and rested it on his cheek. The gentle movement was accompanied by a quick, catlike nip at his lower lip. He responded by dragging her closer. A sound deep in his throat rolled out and teased her questing tongue.
The sword slipped out of her grip. Free, her hand reached for him, working its way under his jacket to get closer, just that much closer, to flesh. The heat from his body radiated through the shirt and onto her palm.
More. She wanted more. More of the taste of him, more of the feel of him. More, much more of the heart of him. And more was too much.
She dragged herself away from him, from her own impossible wishes.
“Eve—”
“No.” She lifted a hand to run it over her face. “There can’t be a winner here, Alex. And I can’t afford to be a loser.”