Hot Blooded

Grace got to work cutting
a thick slice of the perfectly browned meat, sawing at it viciously. "You know,
the night she brought me to the Mageverse for the first time, I begged her to
let my mother have the Gift. She turned me down flat." Her knuckles went white
on the hilt from the force of her grip as she remembered the helpless rage of
that moment. "Then she said, 'But when you're grown, I'll give it to you.' I was
sixteen—I didn't want the fucking Gift, I wanted my mother. And Morgana let her
die. Her own daughter, and she didn't give a damn."
    Gently, Lance took the knife and fork from her hands. "Give me that—you're
butchering that meat." He began slicing it with neat, practiced movements.
"Morgana has been doing a very difficult job for a very long time. It's made
her… hard. But not all the High Court is like that."
    "Lance, don't try to sucker me. I lived among the Court for five years after
Mom died, until I was twenty-one. I know exactly what they're like. Yeah, there
are some who seemed decent, but the majority are cold, ruthless and
manipulative. They're so busy trying to save the planet, they don't give a damn
about people."
    He eyed her as he forked a slice onto her plate. "I do."
    She dipped out a spoonful of tiny carrots that, even cold, smelled delicious.
"Yeah, okay, you do seem a little more emotionally connected than the rest, but…
You know, I asked Morgana once who my mother's father was, and she said, 'I
don't know. What difference does it make?' That just says it all, doesn't it?
The woman has so damn many kids, and yet family means nothing to her
whatsoever."
    "He was probably a Magus. Morgana rarely sleeps with mortals."
    Grace turned to stare at him as a horrible thought occurred to her. "Oh,
Jesus, it wasn't you, was it?"
    Lance drew himself to his full height. "Do you really think I'd seduce my own
granddaughter?"
    "Well, Arthur slept with Morgana."
    "And we all know how that turned out." One of the few accurate elements of
the Round Table legends was Arthur's betrayal by Mordred, the product of his
unwitting incest with his sister while the two of them were teenagers who didn't
even know they were related. What the legends didn't say was that Mordred
rebelled because he had been denied the Gift. He died in the war he started—the
same war that cost Arthur his rule of the High Court. "I know the scent of my
own Line, Grace. You're not on it. Not within the past six or seven generations,
at least."
    She relaxed and spooned artichoke hearts onto her plate. "That's something,
anyway."
    "On the other hand, you could be pregnant."
    Grace damn near dropped the plate, barely managing to slide it into the
microwave in time. "Luckily, I'm on the Pill. I've watched you boys in action
too long."
    He stepped up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. Bending his
head, he whispered, "You know, the second time won't trigger the Gift, either."
    Damn, but he felt good. Warm and strong and hard. She ached to let herself
relax against him.
    Instead Grace stiffened her spine and punched the buttons on her microwave.
"No, but the third time could. I'm not going to let you snake charm me into
forgetting how to count, Lance."
    "Sometimes it's weeks before the Gift kicks in."
    "And sometimes it's the third time." She turned and propped her hands on her
hips, shooting him a stern glare. "Go away."
    He extended both brawny arms and braced them against the cabinet, bracketing
her in muscle. Slowly, he leaned closer, so close she found herself focusing
helplessly on his seductive mouth. "But you don't want me to."
    Grace managed not to lick her suddenly dry lips. "Yes, actually, I do."
    Lance bent his head and nuzzled her ear, sending prickles of sensual heat
dancing down her spine. She swayed. He smiled. "Is that your knees going weak?"
    "Blood loss." She didn't dare let him get her into bed again. He wouldn't let
her out. "And you're not getting dessert."
    "But I'm a growing boy." Lance rolled his hips against her, making it clear
he was not a boy of any kind.
    "Too bad." Grace ducked under his arm and retreated to the refrigerator. She
needed something cool to drink. "Go snack on somebody else."
    His eyes dropped to her breasts, swaying unbound under her uniform shirt.
"Oh, sweet, you are not a snack."
    "Do I need to get my gun?" She meant it. A bullet wouldn't hurt him—much—and
was one of the few things that would