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.