Her expression turned incredulous. "Don't tell me you consider yourself qualified to give me instruction on the art of kissing! What an elevated opinion you hold of yourself."
"Oh no, ma belle. I would never have the patience." A corner of his mouth turned up in faint amusement. "Nor, if I were to instruct you, would I be satisfied with so lukewarm a response from you."
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Alysson felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self- assurance. Swallowing her outrage, she summoned laughter instead. "Well then, if you think you can do better, you are welcome to try."
There, that would call his bluff. No man with even marginal good sense would want to risk Gervase's anger by stealing a kiss, even an invited one. And even should this stranger dare, he wouldn't be able to make her respond to him, any more than Gervase had. His claim was mere boast.
From his expression, she could see that her challenge had taken him aback. "It would seem, m'sieur, that you are the one who is afraid," Alysson said sweetly, her dulcet tone a taunt. "But have no fear, your reputation is quite safe with me.
He raised an eyebrow, staring at her in disbelief.
She laughed again, this time in real amusement. She had succeeded in rendering him speechless.
Her enjoyment was short-lived; a strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I am tempted, I admit."
His voice had dropped to a mere murmur, and the low sound, velvet-smooth and husky, made her breath catch and her heartbeat quicken.
He moved then, silently, eliminating the distance between them. "If I were to instruct you," was his quiet comment, "I would take you in my arms, like so . . ." Suiting action to words, he slipped an arm about her waist and drew her fully against his body.
The wealth of emotions that swept over Alysson startled her nearly as much as his unforeseen move. He had been right; he was nothing like Gervase—and neither was her response to him. She was shocked by his boldness, incensed by his insolence, unnerved by his gentle attack, flustered by the unexpected hardness of a masculine body that was all muscle. Yet at the same time, to her great dismay, a part of her felt thrilled and challenged. She had always admired men of action, and she was vaguely curious to see if he would take his arousing embrace further. Some irrational segment of her mind wondered what it would feel like to have that hard mouth on hers . . .
Fortunately, sense won out. She forced her hands up between them, to press furiously against his chest.
But he refused to let her go. He held her thus, with consummate ease, one arm around her waist, while his other hand lifted to brush the vulnerable column of her throat.
Her heart began to race. She could feel his breath whisper intimately over her lips. Against her will Alysson found herself actually, incredibly, wanting his kiss . . .
Then his fingers closed warm and threatening over the fragile, pulsing hollow of her throat.
She went rigid in his arms. Was he going to kiss her or strangle her? Her own fingers tightened around her fan as a shivering fear ran through her.
"You would be making a mistake," he murmured gently, almost inaudibly, "if you married the colonel . . . a man with the tainted blood of a murderer in his veins."
The delicate fan snapped under the pressure of her fingers. The very softness of his tone frightened her. Murderer? What was he talking about? Was she being held by a madman?
Frantically, Alysson pushed against the hard wall of his chest. When he suddenly released her, she took a stumbling step backward.
She stood there staring at him, her heart pounding, her breath ragged. He remained motionless, observing her silently, his hard face a savage mask in the dim light.
Slowly, with herculean effort, Alysson edged away from him. Three steps back and she managed to break the seemingly paralyzing force of his deadly gaze.
Lifting the hem of her filmy skirts, Alysson turned and ran along the path and up the stairs, seeking the safety of Gervase's house. When she reached the curtained doorway, she thre
w an agitated glance over her shoulder, searching the garden below.
He still stood there, watching her, a sleek shadow in the night.
Quivering, Alysson made her escape. She, who feared nothing and no one, fled as if a real murderer were on her trail.
The man she left behind in the garden court stood there a long while, shifting through the inchoate emotions assailing him.
First, the unwanted attraction. He'd thought he had shed any lingering penchant for things European—clothes, horses, women. When he'd returned home to Barbary and resumed his name of Jafar el-Saleh, he had eschewed any trappings not of his own culture. Relentlessly he'd rooted out all traces of his old life, crushing even the desires he had learned during his banishment in England, in an effort to purify his thoughts and deeds and actions, to make himself worthy to lead his tribe. But that determination had wavered a short while ago as he'd stood outside the reception hall, watching Alysson Vickery through the filmy curtains. And later, when she'd made her way down toward him in the courtyard, the sight had taken his breath away. The pale gossamer of her gown shimmered as she floated down the steps, her bare throat and shoulders gleaming in the faint light. She was a natural temptress, alluring and provocative. He had felt the quickening of a raw flame leaping in his loins.
The second unexpected sentiment was surprise. He'd been startled to recognize her, to realize the vision of loveliness was the little ruffian who had once pelted him with acorns, the same girl he had comforted years ago. But it was she, Jafar had no doubt. He could never have forgotten those huge, rebellious gray eyes. Here in the garden, they were no longer filled with pain. Instead, they held pride and a sharp intelligence that was unusual in a woman. There was an open, forthright quality about her gaze that contrasted keenly with the submissive deference of Eastern women.
Yet she still possessed the same defiant spirit he remembered. A defiancé that was both intriguing and infuriating. In one stroke, she had managed to rouse both his passion and his male pique. He had never before been treated so dismissively by a woman, but tonight not only had she challenged him to kiss her, she had laughed at him as well. How he had wanted to respond to that challenge! He'd found himself fighting down the insane impulse to bend his head and slowly, endlessly kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips.
Next in his surfeit of unwanted emotions was unease. It disturbed him to realize that she was the fiancée of the man he intended to kill. It disturbed him more that she would be his means, the instrument of his revenge. He had done his best to warn her, as had the colonel, but she'd scoffed at the dangers. She meant to go forward with her plans to explore his country, despite the risks. In bemusement, Jafar shook his head. Not only was the young lady courageous but strong-willed. It had been written in every line of her slender body, in the lift of her arrogant, yet surprisingly delicate chin.