by Nora Roberts
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.
Smothering 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 he
rs. 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 thrust, 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.”
“I’m not asking you to lose, but to accept.”
“Accept what?” Torn, she turned away. “That I want you, that I’m nearly willing to give in to that, knowing it begins and ends there?”
He felt the tug, the fear. “What is it you want from me?”
She shut her eyes a moment, then drew a deep breath. “If you were ready to give it, you wouldn’t have to ask. Please don’t,” she said when he started to reach for her. “I need to be alone. I need to decide just how much I can take.”
She left him quickly, before she surrendered everything.
Chapter 8
It wasn’t a night for sleeping. The big, round moon shot its reflection in Eve’s windows, lending silvery edges to the blue-and-white curtains. She had drawn them back, far back, but still the breeze ruffled the hems and sent them dancing.
Work had already been tried and rejected. Papers and files brought from her office littered her sitting room. She could hardly concentrate on costumes or ticket sales or blown bulbs when Alexander was lodged so firmly in her mind.
He was exposed, vulnerable. With Deboque still in prison, Alexander was at a dinner party. The foolishness of it had her dragging a hand through her hair. Disheveled from an evening of pacing and worry, it tumbled onto the shoulders of her short blue robe.
He was exchanging small talk over coffee and brandy while she roamed her rooms after a futile attempt to eat at all.
He’d gone out, she thought, despite the consequences. Despite everything. Hadn’t that wild, groping kiss they had shared sent his system churning as it had hers? Perhaps she had been wrong, deeply and completely wrong, when she had thought the need had run rampant in him. If it had, how was it possible, even with his control, to block it out while he sat through a seven-course meal?
What was wrong with her? Weary of herself, Eve rubbed her fingers over her eyes. She’d been angry when she’d thought he had wanted her only to compete with Bennett, furious that he had wanted but held himself back because he’d believed she had slept with his brother. Then she’d been enraged because he no longer believed it and still wanted her. Now she was miserable because he might not want her as much as she’d thought.
What did she want? Eve demanded of herself. One minute she admitted it was Alexander, and the next she was drawing back, knowing there could be nothing lasting, nothing real between them. A man like Alexander would have to marry, and marry properly. He had to produce heirs. Royal heirs. Even if he desired her, even if he cared for her at all, he would have to look to the European aristocracy for a mate.
Amazed that her thoughts were drifting in that direction, she shook her head. When had she started thinking beyond the moment, an affair, and toward permanency?
She knew about men—when they were attracted, when they desired, when they wanted only a toy for an evening or two. And she knew how to deal with them. Why was it she knew so little of this man? All the evenings and hours she had spent trying to find the answers, some key to Alexander, had resulted only in finding a key to herself.
She was in love with him. Even the little jabs of fear and the constant twinges of doub
t couldn’t diminish the scope of the emotion.
And she did fear. She was a woman who had been sheltered most of her life by an indulgent father, a pampering sister. The choice she had made only a handful of years before to strike out on her own had been made as much by whim as curiosity. There had been no real danger in it. If she had failed, there had always been the net of family and family money beneath her.
Even if Eve had squandered her personal inheritance, she would hardly have been left alone to flounder.
True, once she’d begun she hadn’t thought of using her family to soften whatever blows she’d encountered. Her troupe had become the focus of her life and the success or failure of it personal.
She had succeeded, made something of herself through her own skill and sweat. Even knowing that, being fully confident didn’t erase the knowledge that the risk had been slight.
With Alexander there would be no net to soften a tumble, and a fall with him would mean a nosedive, no blindfold, from a dangerous height. The risk was there, every bit as frightening as the temptation to take it.
If she stepped off the edge and counted on survival, she was a fool. But something told her that if she played it safe and kept her feet firmly planted, she was an even bigger fool.
Caught between common sense and feelings, she dropped to the window seat and let the sea air cool her skin.
* * *
He wasn’t sure he could survive another night. His rooms were quiet, in sound, in mood. They had been decorated in greens and ivories, cool against warmth, with paintings of the sea and shore dominating the walls. Calm seas in his bedroom where he came most often to be alone and think. The sitting room beyond had deeper colors, more vivid hues. It was there, rather than his office or the family rooms, that he most often entertained friends. It was large enough for an intimate dinner or a competitive game of cards.
Shirtless and shoeless, Alexander paced the bedroom now in an effort to rein in the emotions that had haunted him throughout the long, tedious dinner and entertainment. His fists strained against the soft linen of his trousers as he shoved them into his pockets.
No, he wasn’t sure he could make it through another night.
She was only a matter of rooms away, a dozen walls he’d already passed through countless times in his imagination. Sleeping. He thought she would be sleeping now as the clocks in the palace readied to strike twelve.
Nearly midnight and she slept. She slept and he wanted. He ached. No amount of training, no sacrifices, no studying had ever prepared him for the dull, constant ache this woman could bring to him.
Could she feel it? He prayed that she could so he wouldn’t suffer alone. He wanted her to feel the pain. He wanted to protect her from all hurts. But tonight, dear God, tonight he simply wanted.
It was a wanting that had grown with the years, heightened, turned edgy. There had been times when he’d told himself the need would dissipate. Times when he’d believed it. Months would pass when he wouldn’t see her—though he would still wake in the early hours alone, her face just at the tip of his consciousness. He could fight that back, smother the longing that seemed so nebulous in the face of obligations, responsibilities and a backbreaking schedule.
But whenever she was here, close enough to touch, the longing was no longer vague and was impossible to fight.
Now that he had touched her, tasted her, teased himself with fractions of his own fantasies, was he supposed to deny himself the rest?
How could he go to her when what he offered would be a lifetime of subterfuge or a lifetime of sacrifice? As his mistress he would never be able to recognize her publicly as more than a family friend. As his wife …
Alexander pressed his thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes. How could he ask marriage of her? He would always be tied to his country, his duty. So would whatever wife he chose. How could Eve, with her independence and strength, ever accept the restrictions that went with his title? He would have to ask her to give up country, privacy, career. He would have to ask her to subject herself to the fishbowl, the sometimes dangerous fishbowl, in which he had been born. How could he expect her to have the same pride, the same love for Cordina as he? How could he ask her for a lifetime at all?
But he could ask her for a night. One night.
If she would give him that, perhaps it would be enough.
Alexander stared out the window, the one that faced the same garden, the same sea, the same sky as Eve’s. He would have one night, and then, somehow, he would survive an eternity of others.
* * *
He didn’t knock. Such was his arrogance. The door opened without sound, but she sensed him before it clicked shut behind him. Such was his presence.
She didn’t jolt. Such was her pride. Eve remained on the window seat and turned her head slowly from the night to Alexander. She’d known sometime during her contemplation of the sky that he would come. What had been denied, struggled against, wished for, would be met tonight. Through her own vigil, she had made her peace with that. They stayed with the room between them, while the air hummed, then settled.
“I won’t rise and curtsy,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice.
His brow lifted, in amusement or surprise, she couldn’t be sure. “I won’t go to my knees.”
She felt a tremor dance up her spine, but her hands were steady when she folded them in her lap. “Equal ground?”
His stomach was knotted with tension, desire, but a strange and novel euphoria swam into his head. “Equal ground.”
She looked at her hands a moment, so calm and still in her lap, then lifted her gaze to his. His stance was straight, almost unbending, but his eyes were
