Excerpt from Ritual of Proof

They joined in the dance.

   Green's right arm encircledlow on his trim waist, her left hand resting on the curve of his left hip.

   He tried to hide the slight tremor in his loins, but Green was aware of it. Her nearness was affecting him. She decided that she rather liked affecting this handsome, brash young man who was much too opinionated by half for his own good.

   So, she decided to tease him.

   Just a bit.

   She knew it was wrong of her but he was almost asking it of her by the visual challenges he had thrown down this evening. Perhaps it was time someone taught him a little of the ways of women.

   Not too much, a warning voice said. He was still the grandson of a Duchene'; and a Duchene Green respected. But enough to show him that it was not wise to spark unless you meant to have a fire.

   As Marquelle led him into the steps of the intricate, slow dance, which mimicked the rite of courtship, Jorlan felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had not wanted to attend this soiree, the first of the Season. His Grandmother had insisted. While she had given him her promise to acquire his consent, she had in no way agreed to his stubborn refusal to entertain offers. Of course, he hadn't mentioned that part to the Marquelle.

   Not that he thought she would offer for him. Her mode of living and own reputation for avoiding the Ritual of Proof was affirmation of that.

   As they continued on with the dance, Green glanced up at him through her dark auburn lashes. There was a sudden sheen of mischief behind that gold-tipped fringe. Her amber eyes flashed an inviting message to him.

   Instinctively, he responded. The blood in his veins thickened. Yet he gazed down at her with the sure, steady look of a man who has been trained to wait for pleasure.

   Green's mouth parted, She had not been expecting such a schooled reaction from him. In that moment she knew positively that Jorlan Reynard would be an extraordinary lover.

   Too bad he is the grandson of a Duchene. She would have loved to explore his depths. However, she liked her life the way it was-no ties and no complications. Involving herself with the grandson of a Duchene could only end in one way. Fastening.

   "Just what are you thinking, Marquelle" The rich voice drawled teasingly at her, flutters shivered down the center line of her back to pool at the base of her spine. Against fashion, he was direct and supremely confident. She liked that, too.

   The finger at his waist played a circle. "What do you think?"

   Immediately she felt his back muscles stiffen at her touch. Despite the aloof demeanor, Jorlan Reynard was physically aware of her. He studied her through half-lowered eyes, silently estimating her. "I think you are a woman who is used to getting what she wants."

   Her hand slipped from his waist to trail lower, curving slightly over his very firm buttocks. "Is there something wrong with that?"

   He arched his eyebrow. Reaching behind him,he lifted her hand firmly back to his waist.

   She smiled at him.

   Her incredible amber eyes twinkled laughter at him. Laughter and an unspoken challenge. For behind the laughter was a blaze of desire.

   That desire that seemed to reach out to him, tease him with the lick of its flame. He didn't know how she did it, but he was taken. His breathing ceased and his lips parted slightly. Blood pooled between his thighs, throbbed in his groin.

   Her breath seemed to stop too in that moment; she placed her palm on his chest and stared up at him.

   He is all that is desirable.... She looked away for a moment. He is also Anya's grandson; Remember that, Green.

   He felt her shake slightly as she gazed into his eyes. He wondered what she saw. He wondered why he could not look away.

   "Is there something wrong with that?" she repeated in a whisper.

   The bating comment worked. Instantly his nostrils flared in irritation, both with her action and his reaction.

   He never allowed himself to be this affected! His focusing masters had all remarked on his phenomenal ability to control and to centralize. One master had even joked that his future name-giver would be well-pleased with such a talent; especially when that talent was turned onto her.

   Jorlan had stormed from the class that day.

   His mastery was not for a name-giver; it was to avoid one.

   Control and focus of his desire, he had, but with his passionate nature came a hot-blooded disposition that needed to be steered with an iron will.

   "I am not a Santorini," he hissed in a whisper near her ear, causing her to start.

   "No?" she whispered back, shaken. How had he known she had been thinking that?

   "No." His warm lips brushed the folds of her ear. Tingles shot down her neck.

   "Then...what are you?"

   "I am not very complicated, Marquelle. I am no one you should concern yourself with." Contrary to his words, his hot breath feathered her lobe as his low voice caressed her.

   "Of course." She turned her head sharply causing their lips to brush together as if by accident.

   Jorlan's eyes flamed.

   "But you taste quite complex to me."