When he snaked his arm around her waist, she stiffened, but didn’t pull back. Without a word he tightened his grip. The challenge was still in his eyes. The dare was still in hers. Her body met his, and she tilted her face up as he lowered his mouth. As she had with a sword, Eve met him with equal force.

The excitement that had stirred during combat found its release. They poured it into each other. She moved her hand to his shoulder, skimmed it over the slope and rested it on his cheek. The gentle movement was accompanied by a quick, catlike nip at his lower lip. He responded by dragging her closer. A sound deep in his throat rolled out and teased her questing tongue.

The sword slipped out of her grip. Free, her hand reached for him, working its way under his jacket to get closer, just that much closer, to flesh. The heat from his body radiated through the shirt and onto her palm.

More. She wanted more. More of the taste of him, more of the feel of him. More, much more of the heart of him. And more was too much.

She dragged herself away from him, from her own impossible wishes.

“Eve—”

“No.” She lifted a hand to run it over her face. “There can’t be a winner here, Alex. And I can’t afford to be a loser.”

“I’m not asking you to lose, but to accept.”

“Accept what?” Torn, she turned away. “That I want you, that I’m nearly willing to give in to that, knowing it begins and ends there?”

He felt the tug, the fear. “What is it you want from me?”

She shut her eyes a moment, then drew a deep breath. “If you were ready to give it, you wouldn’t have to ask. Please don’t,” she said when he started to reach for her. “I need to be alone. I need to decide just how much I can take.”

She left him quickly, before she surrendered everything.

Chapter 8

It wasn’t a night for sleeping. The big, round moon shot its reflection in Eve’s windows, lending silvery edges to the blue-and-white curtains. She had drawn them back, far back, but still the breeze ruffled the hems and sent them dancing.

Work had already been tried and rejected. Papers and files brought from her office littered her sitting room. She could hardly concentrate on costumes or ticket sales or blown bulbs when Alexander was lodged so firmly in her mind.

He was exposed, vulnerable. With Deboque still in prison, Alexander was at a dinner party. The foolishness of it had her dragging a hand through her hair. Disheveled from an evening of pacing and worry, it tumbled onto the shoulders of her short blue robe.

He was exchanging small talk over coffee and brandy while she roamed her rooms after a futile attempt to eat at all.