“And so you take it upon yourself to point out the obvious? I am just as able to take care of myself as you appear to be, mademoiselle. Wherever did you learn to fence with such skill?”
She stiffened next to him, but did not turn, leaving him to scrutinize her profile. “And how would you know of my skill with the saber, Monsieur Cale?”
2
Narcise stared up at the painting and tried to concentrate.
He was standing too close to her, this man named Giordan Cale. This man who’d hardly glanced her way all evening as he played host…but who, when he did, made a rush of heat flood her body.
She had lied, of course. By implication. By implying that she hadn’t noticed him watching her that night when she’d killed a man to keep herself free. Or, at least, implying that she didn’t remember him.
But she did remember him. Very well. In fact, she’d made a sketch of Cale later that night, in the privacy she’d won by sending her opponent to hell. Despite the fact that he was a friend of her brother’s, Cale had provided an interesting subject for her creative mind.
She’d drawn the thick curling hair that capped his skull with glossy brown texture, shadowed in the square chin and fine lips in a strong, handsome face. Now, after seeing him tonight, she realized she hadn’t quite got the shape of his eyes, nor the correct angle of his jaw and the proper shading of his cheekbones in that first sketch—but she’d been working from a brief glance. That glance from a distance hadn’t given her the details, either: the blue flecks in his brown eyes, the small scar near his right eye, the element of controlled determination rumbling beneath his easy smile.
And now he stood near enough that his particular scent rose above that thick, hazy smoke and the strong aromas of mingled lifeblood and arousal. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, as if he were so close that his breath brushed over the sensitive skin there.
She prayed that he was right, that Cezar was too occupied to notice.
Cale hadn’t yet responded to her gentle taunt asking how he’d known of her skills, and at last she could no longer keep from looking at him. But when she turned, she had to resist the desire to step back. Instead she drew in a shallow breath and steadied herself.
Too close. Much too close.
Not because he threatened her—at least, not in the way other men did, with their leering faces and hot eyes and determination. But because he affected her with a strong tug, deep inside.
His appealing face was right there, a breath away, and he was looking down at her. She was tall for a woman, and her chin was almost level with his. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled a bit, and she saw not the lust she expected, that she was accustomed to in a man’s gaze, but a sort of taunting challenge laced with levity.
As if to say, Oh, this shall be the game, no?
“Your skill with the sword,” he said at last, neither acceding to nor challenging her lie, “is legendary. At least among the Dracule.”
An unexpected bitterness swept her. Unexpected because she was adept at keeping that emotion well in check. Her swordplay and her beauty, known throughout the Draculean underworld, contributed not only to Cezar’s power and fame, but also to her captivity. If she had neither, would her brother even care?
Of course, if she had no beauty, she would never have become part of this world. He would have let her die—perhaps even helped her—just as he had their brother and father, and even his wife. Instead Cezar had found a way to preserve her, along with himself.
Uncertain how to respond to Cale’s statement, Narcise gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “My brother has employed a variety of excellent trainers to tutor me.” The chamber had become close and warm, and the lure of pleasure and satiation tugged at her. Her gums filled and a little flutter grew stronger in her belly.
“He must take care of his investment, no?” Cale replied. His voice was light, but she saw a flash of anger in his eyes and tightness at the corner of his mouth.
Her throat had gone dry and she found it difficult to swallow. Was it possible he understood? “My brother certainly doesn’t wish any serious injury on me,” she said, keeping her voice steady. It was a true statement, though barely so.
Cale hadn’t released her gaze, and she found herself trapped in it, looking at the blue and black flecks in his rich brown eyes. “I was prepared to intervene that night,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Narcise felt the bottom of her belly drop. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think at first; her lips had formed a silent O. She clamped them closed as she tore her eyes from him.
“Monsieur Cale,” was all that she managed to say, even as her heart pounded and an odd fluttering rushed through her. “That would have been foolish.”
All pretense that she hadn’t remembered him was now gone in the face of astonishment and gratitude. He would have intervened? He would have helped her?
What would Cezar have done?
Suddenly she felt warm and shaky, breathless—and foolish, for the light-headedness was sudden and unexpected. The air had turned so thick, lush with the sweet-peppery smoke, and the deep, dark allure of fresh blood. Her fangs were trying to thrust free, her hands trembling. Before she quite realized what was happening, she felt his fingers close around her wrist, and another strong arm sliding around her waist.
“Some air, mademoiselle,” he said, leading her away. “It has become too close in here. And you have not fed.”
“No,” she protested, determination penetrating the haze. Cezar wouldn’t permit such a thing. She dug her heels in, despite the pressure on her arm, despite her need to escape the dangers of this place.
“When is the last time you fed?” Cale demanded, his mouth too close to her ear. Warmth flushed through her; his scent enveloped her along with the heat of his body.
The world swirled a bit, glazed with red heat, then as she blinked and steadied herself, she focused. “I will feed in the morning,” she told him. “When we return.” If Cezar permits.
That was his way of enforcing her good behavior on social events such as this. He didn’t starve her; that would be foolish. But he withheld just enough, just long enough, that she was in need. And pliable. And she knew better than to partake without his permission.
The air had cleared a bit and Narcise realized that, despite her efforts to the contrary, Cale had managed to guide her out of the close, warm chamber. Nervousness seized her, and she yanked out of his grip. “Please,” she said, forcing her voice to be sharp and strong instead of desperate. “I must return. Cezar will be searching for me.”
Cale was looking at her searchingly, his eyes still too close, his mouth near enough that if she turned her head, the pouf of her hair would brush against it. He’d caught up her hand in his, drawing her toward him. “Very well,” he replied. “But you must feed. I can see the need in your eyes.”
Somehow, the rumble of his voice, the low dip of the syllables, was so intimate that a little pang twisted inside her. There was compassion there, compassion and admiration…and anger.
He made no move to stop her when she tugged free of his grip, noticing for the first time that they were in a dim corridor. A door behind her was ajar, and beyond she could see into the chamber they’d just vacated.
Heart in her throat, she peered into the hazy, golden room, her fingers on the edge of the door. Even through the filtering smoke, she could see the chair in which Cezar sat, its back facing her, his head barely rising above it. He couldn’t see her from that position, thank Fates, and Narcise noticed the other two figures settled in front of him.
He did indeed seem to be well-occupied.
Her pounding heart slowed a bit, but before she stepped back into the chamber, those strong fingers were back, gently curling around her wrist.