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.