Hot Blooded

sightlessly at the opposite wall. Yes,
it would be possible. Some part of that puppy love she'd held for him years ago
still survived. He could build on that feeling, use it to keep her with him.
    But there was a very big fly in the ointment. Hell, it was more like a
pterodactyl: he'd have to have the High Council's approval. Considering two of
its most powerful members were Guinevere and Arthur, he was unlikely to get it.
Luckily, Grace had given him a pair of aces to play; that lovely infatuation
with him, and Morgana's determination to see that her granddaughter got the
Gift.
    He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, knowing he'd need to prepare
for the coming meeting as carefully as he'd readied himself for battles in
earlier years. He might wear Armani rather than armor now, but the stakes were
just as high.
    He couldn't shake the feeling that his life was on the line.
    Â 
    "I'VE got her," Lance told Morgana an hour later. If he could get her
approval of his plans for her granddaughter, the rest of the Council wouldn't
stand in his way. "She's still resistant, but she's also weakening. When I go to
her the third time, she won't say no."
    Morgana smiled her smug cat smile. "I knew she wouldn't be able to resist
you."
    "I appreciate your confidence," Lance said, seeing his moment. "But once
she's Gifted, I want something from the High Council in return."
    The witch's dark brows lifted as she leaned back in her massive desk chair.
Her long, slender fingers toyed with the string of white pearls that imparted a
touch of femininity to her stern white suit. "And what would that be, Lord
Lancelot?"
    "Grace." Lance leaned forward and braced his Armani-clad arms on her desk. "I
want the Council's permission to marry her."
    Morgana's eyes widened. "Has the Assassin of Avalon fallen in love?"
    He straightened. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just tired of being alone. Grace
and I… suit each other. She's intelligent, she's sensual, she's courageous…"
    "And I have other plans for her." Morgana pulled the massive illuminated tome
on her desk a little closer and picked up a pen as if preparing to write. "Will
that be all?"
    "Not if you want her Gifted." He folded his arms and braced his legs apart in
the pose of a man who would not be moved. "I'll have your vow on it, or I will
not touch her again."
    "You are not the only Magus in Avalon."
    "But I am the only one she won't refuse. She's still infatuated with me."
    "That may be." Morgana's expression was absolutely cold. "But there are those
who are loyal enough to do whatever the Mission demands, whether Grace likes it
or not."
    Lance stiffened. Here it was, the threat he'd been expecting. His fangs slid
to full extension. "Then you'll be losing a fanatic, because I'll kill any Magus
who tries to lay one finger on her."
    Morgana rose slowly to her feet. Sparks of power snapped in the darkness of
her expanding pupils. "Do you dare turn rebel, Lord Lancelot?"
    With a thought, she could fry him where he stood or summon the rest of the
Table to butcher him. Lance refused to flinch. "I have always been loyal to
Avalon. Everything the High Council has asked of me, I have done, no matter how
distasteful, for the past sixteen hundred years. Even when it left me broken.
Now I ask one thing." He leaned forward again, focusing his gaze, his will, on
Morgana's. "You owe me."
    Slowly, the deadly energies died in her eyes. Her lids dropped, veiling the
green in long, thick lashes.
    As he watched in increasing unease, she started around the desk toward him.
With every feline pace, the white suit glowed brighter and brighter against her
skin. "Yes. Yes, you have served these many centuries. Perhaps you do deserve a
reward."
    It was all Lance could do not to retreat a wary step.
    To his amazement, Morgana began to sink slowly to her knees before him as the
glow faded from around her body. Her spell had transformed the stern white suit
she'd worn, turning it into a sheer, white lace robe that lay open over a
breathtaking sweep of tempting skin.
    Involuntarily, Lance's gaze tracked down from long throat to bare,
pink-tipped breasts to endless legs and the dark triangle between them.
"Morgana, you can't buy me off with a quick screw."
    "Not a 'screw'—and what a vulgar term. No, I'm willing to take an Oath of
Service to you." Her voice seemed to spin a web of temptation and seduction
around him—not quite a spell, but damn