Hot Blooded

close. "Think of it, Lance. Morgana Le
Fay, yours to command for one year. An offer I assure you I made to no other
man."
    Lance looked down into her lovely face. For an instant, dark images wheeled
through his mind. He would be able to take her, drink from her, extract any
delicious revenge he wanted for the abuse she'd heaped on him over the
centuries, as many times as he chose.
    A few days ago, he would have jumped at the chance to get the witch so
completely at his mercy. Now he thought of Grace, curled against his chest in
sleep, her breath warm on his skin.
    And found, to his shock, that Morgana's seductive offer had no real interest
for him.
    "You are too generous," he said smoothly, despite the cold refusal on the tip
of his tongue. He knew better than to offend a Maja of Morgana's power. "I would
never dream of making such a demand of you. Grace's hand is more than enough."
    For an instant she stared up at him, incredulity widening her eyes as if she
was unable to believe he'd dare turn her down.
    Then Morgana barked out a harsh laugh and rose to her feet, fury blasting off
her with such heat, even battle-hardened Lance flinched. "You
are
in
love with her!" Whirling, she stalked back behind her desk and threw herself
into her chair. "Oh, that's rich! My granddaughter has brought the High Court's
killer stud to his knees!"
    Lance clenched his teeth against an instinctive denial. "Her hand, Morgana."
    The witch studied him with glittering eyes. "Will you Truebond with her,
then?"
    Enter a psychic bond with Grace so she could touch his mind any time she
liked? Until he became even more vulnerable to her than he already was? Lance
knew too well what a witch could do with that kind of power. He'd watched
Guinevere use it on Arthur for centuries. "Not likely."
    "Her Gift is strong, Lance," Morgana said, her tone warning. "She may not be
able to manage it without your anchor."
    "Her Gift may be strong, but she's stronger. Are you going to let me marry
her or not?"
    "I told you, I have other plans for her."
    "Then I won't touch her until you change them."
    She sneered. "Don't hold your breath, Lancelot du Lac."
    He snarled. "Don't hold yours."
    Lance wheeled and stalked out the door. He barely got the heavy oak panel
closed behind before something heavy and fragile smashed against it, hurled by
the witch's infuriated hand.
    Â 
    GRACE lay curled on her bed, watching the morning sunlight pour through the
windows. She still wore the robe she'd snatched from the floor of Lance's
bedroom. It wrapped around her in velvet sensuality, reminding her of him,
caressing her bare skin, smelling of his dark, seductive scent.
    God help her, she had never gotten over him. And how was she supposed to tell
him no the next time he came after her, all sin and seduction distilled into two
hundred pounds of muscle?
    "My girl," she whispered to herself, "you are in trouble."
    No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the world went mad.
    Light stabbed into her eyes, blinding and vivid, accompanied by a swirl
of dark, vicious emotion
—
lust, hate, a craving to watch another human
writhe in agony and die
.
    Madness.
    She was leaning on the fender of a car, watching a blonde woman run
toward her, breasts bouncing behind the thick sweatshirt she wore.
    Grace realized two things simultaneously: this was the girl she'd seen in
her visions. And she was watching her through the eyes of a man who meant to
kill her.
    He was fantasizing about torturing her, watching her writhe in agony. In
his mind, he could already hear her screams. His zipper dug into his erection.
    Grace, locked inside the vision, yelled a warning even though she knew
the girl couldn't hear it.
    Concentrating hard on getting through her morning run, the little blonde
didn't even realize death waited on the sunny sidewalk. Coiled like a snake, he
watched her run as he'd been watching her for days. He knew she always used the
same five-mile route at the same time. He'd set his trap here, when she was
almost back to her dorm, knowing she'd be too exhausted to put up much of a
fight when he took her.
    She ran past, blonde hair whipping. He let her go one more stride before
he pounced, grabbing her from behind, whipping the chloroform-soaked rag from a
pocket and clamping it across her nose and mouth. Startled, she screamed,
sucking in an involuntary lungful of the drug. Working fast, he dragged her to
his car despite her