The spicy hashish scent clinging to him, slipping into his nostrils and curling around inside his head, he allowed his mouth to settle into a faint smile as he drew near…and considered how to approach her.
Although she must sense his presence as he came to stand next to her, Narcise gave no indication.
This, in turn, gave Giordan a moment for admiration—the ivory curve of her neck and bare shoulders, the thick blue-black mass of hair sparkling with pale blue topazes, the perfect slope and tip of her nose, and the full, dark pink mouth.
He needed a moment too, to steady his breath, control the swelling beginning in his gums…and elsewhere. For, truly, the very proximity of the woman sent his thoughts to the wind and his stomach to quivering.
As he stood there, next to and slightly behind her, forcing himself to stare at the painting in tandem with her, Giordan felt a wave of annoyance and frustration at his powerful reaction. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t care for the way it made him feel.
But, yet, he remained. Curious and infatuated.
“Is it the talent of the painter that has you so entranced?” he said at last, stepping into her line of vision. “Or merely the need to separate yourself from the others in the room?”
She turned to look at him then, covering him with deep blue eyes that made his belly twist awkwardly. By the Fates, he felt like a bloody schoolboy. Not that he’d ever been one. A boy, yes. In school, no.
“Well, Monsieur Cale,I must credit you for a most creative approach.” Her French wasn’t even as practiced as her brother’s, barely passable, and despite the brilliant hue of her eyes, the expression therein was nevertheless cool and remote. And, perhaps, fearful.
“Indeed? I thought it a rather mundane one, myself,” he replied, switching experimentally to English.
Narcise returned to looking at the painting. “Monsieur David is making quite a name for himself,” she replied, following his language shift to the Anglican. Here, she clearly had more confidence. “And with good reason. He is very talented. Such attention to texture and detail.”
Giordan found himself absurdly pleased that she seemed willing to converse, and could string thoughts together with ease—for not every woman could. Those who could not made for very dull bed partners and companions.
And the dull glaze in her eyes was gone. Wariness lurked there, but that he could manage.
He smiled. “And yet, is it not ironic that a painting for the king’s brother is in reality a harsh statement about the superficiality of the royal family? Choosing fleeting physical pleasures over responsibility to one’s country?”
“Monsieur David is clever like that,” Narcise replied. “But this is not the same painting commissioned by d’Artois.”
“But of course you are correct,” Giordan replied, wondering on what occasion she’d seen the original. “The firstParis and Helenwas a bit too floral in hue for my taste—that flowing rose-colored gown too soft and feminine for this chamber. And it was missing some important details, no?” He smiled down at her, allowing a bit of mischief into his eyes.
“Hmm…yes, I don’t recall Paris showing his fangs in the previous edition.” The expression in her face eased a bit and the resulting softness made her even more lovely.
His heart stuttered, but he added smoothly, “Nor the marks on Helen’s arm from said fangs.”
“No, of course not. I don’t believe the comte would have appreciated his mistress being portrayed as the victim of a Draculean lover,” she replied, once again focusing her attention on the work of art. “You do know that if my brother sees us conversing privately, he will put a stop to it.”
Just as she had followed his change of language, Giordan easily followed her non sequitir. “He is well-occupied for the time.”
“Don’t under estimate Cezar,” Narcise told him. “Too many have, and most of them are no longer here to warn you themselves.”
“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.
