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“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
    N arcise 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