Ritual of Proof Page 3

  She knew how to set him free. Her pulse pounded.

  She inhaled slowly to steady her beating pulse as she gazed once again up the tall length of him. His features were utterly beautiful. Firm lips—the lower one slightly fuller than the top—were smooth and sensual. They were shaped and sculpted by the finest hand. Tiny grooves at the corners of his mouth seemed to indicate a teasing sense of humor. His nose was straight and perfectly molded.

  Like his lashes, his hair was jet-black, thick, and trimmed to just above his shoulders. The silken ebony strands caught the glimmer of flamelight and played riotously with it. Only the slightest of waves saved his hair from being altogether straight. Those subtle ripples added incredible interest. Not enough wave to give any real curl, they created a resplendent texture to his hair. She observed that the jet strands slid languorously when he moved.

  It would be difficult to remember that he was the son of a noblewoman. Especially with those looks.

  They were far better suited to the bedchamber than the salon.

  Green made a mental note to see who was responsible for his progenitor line. By his look, she would say Santorini. No one had ever been able to match Santorini's work in over a thousand Forus years. The methodologist had a master hand and was considered one of the finest genetic artisans of all time. With one hundred and twenty thousand genes in her palette, her genius had been in taking the naturally occurring propensities, or "gifts," within a specific code and embellishing them, thus allowing the individual to then expound upon this talent as he so desired. All he had to do was bring it into focus. Choice and directional pathways augmented the optimum outcome. Talent, according to how Santorini defined it, was a drawing of desire extracted from the broth of genetic and environmental conditions. The unique picture that resulted formed her art. Santorini introduced to Forus the science she called Sensitive genetical environment or selective gen-en.

  If a child had a natural disposition to create music, the facets of this talent could be magnified, if he so desired, to explore and maximize that talent in whatever direction he chose. The propensity for these talents were, of course, passed on to his progeny. Green had heard that the gift lent itself to other, more interesting areas as well.

  Few women had the great fortune to benefit from a Santorini.

  Living examples of her work were extremely rare.

  It would up his bed price considerably.

  Had she been interested.

  Then again, the men of the Reynard line were known for being naturally sensuous—perhaps he was not a Santorini. Perhaps, this was simply him.

  In any case, he was a rebellious package of stimulation. Just what she adored. And so very rare. Too bad she was not on the Season circuit. She might be tempted to offer a fasten bid for him.

  "No wonder your grandmother always hid you from me when you got older." She smiled secretly into her glass.

  "You know the Duchene?" He seemed surprised. She was much younger than his grandmother's usual friends. He guessed her to be about thirty-four or thirty-five Forus years.

  "Quite well. We are good friends—our familial relationships go back to the Seed Ship."

  "I haven't seen you at the house."

  "No. I suspect Anya kept you well removed whenever I arrived." She laughed softly, a lovely pure crystalline sound. "How old are you now, Jorlan? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?"

  He watched her through veiled eyes. "Twenty-five."

  She arched her eyebrows. "Are you contracted for?"

  "No." His response was clipped. "Nor will I be."

  A slightly elusive smile edged her lips. "Why not?"

  "I do not see my future as such."

  "Really? How do you see your future?" Her question was asked purely out of curiosity. She was not mocking him. And for that Jorlan answered.

  "I am not sure yet, Marquelle Tamryn. I simply know what I do not want."

  She seemed to think over his words. "The Duchene has agreed to this?"

  He glanced to his right, clearly irritated at being in the position of having to answer. Green was fascinated by his rebelliousness. It was so rare. Such defiance belied an ardent nature.

  "She has promised me she will not sign the contracts unless I agree to the offer first."

  Green's lips parted slightly. "Unusual."

  "Perhaps."

  "She indulges you. She must be flooded with offers for you."

  "I have turned down all of them."

  Green smiled teasingly. "Take pity on her, Jorlan Reynard. Poor Anya must be going out of her head with the annoyance of it."

  Her jesting comment made him grin wickedly. "Only when they interrupt her reading." It was well known that Anya Reynard was something of a recluse who loved her vid-tomes. She had passed that love of reading on to her grandson.

  Green laughed. "Yes, I have borrowed quite a few from her in the past. Did you know she already sent a parcel over to my estate and I have only just arrived back in Capitol Town? She included a note to the effect that I would need something to dilute the heathen countryside from my blood. A number of them were quite stimulating." She winked up at him.

  "Hmm... She won't let me read those."

  "And a good thing, too. They are much too corrupting for such sweet... eyes."

  A soft bronze highlighted his cheekbones. "Do not toy with me, Marquelle Tamryn."

  "If I don't, who will?" She gave him such a mocking look that he had to bite back his laughter. How had she managed to turn him around like that? His eyes gleamed with silent appreciation of her. "Yes, who will?" he drawled in feigned agreement. His voice was low, smooth, incredibly sensual.

  Again, she wondered: Santorini's touch? Many of her great works had legendary voices. The kind of voice that made the female awaken.

  And stay awake.

  Oh, yes, she liked him very much.

  No wonder the Top Slice was mad to get him. There were very few surviving Santorinis. In Forus's past, many of them had been fought over to the death. A work of art but never pristine. Sensual, raw, dark, and compellingly exquisite. With intricate personalities to match. Each of the offspring had been unique to himself and different from all the others.

  But was he a Santorini?

  There had been rumors about his father. The men of the Reynard line were known for their uniqueness and their passion. Green often speculated that was why the Duchene had been so lenient with Jorlan. His parents had died in a transport accident. Theirs had been a rare love, still talked about in the salons today. Loreena Reynard had been an unusual woman who had flaunted convention—not for principle's sake but simply to be different. She had been a willful, stubborn damselle and Daret, with his stunning looks and tendency toward wildness, completely captivated her.

  Jorlan had been young—seven Forus years at the time of their deaths. An impressionable age. It was noted that Jorlan had inherited the best and worst of their characteristics. He was impassioned, incredibly intelligent, willful, wonderfully witty, occasionally brooding, and sometimes hot-tempered. In addition to all that, a few of the more respectable members of the Slice, who had had an opportunity to converse with him, had reported that he was unexpectedly complex and inscrutable.

  In short, a blaze-dragon.

  The musicians struck up the first dance of the evening—a slow joined septille in soft muted shades of pink.

  "Will you dance with me?"

  She held out her hand while placing her crystal chalice on a nearby table. As soon as its base rested on the masoglass surface, it began to chime softly, resonating with all the other chalices in the room that had been set down in similar fashion. The combined chimes created a beautiful sound of continually blending notes that signified the formal beginning of the evening's festivities.

  The large hall was lit with the tapers of a thousand jacama branches. The flamelights were hung upside down from the vaulted ceiling where they burned clean.

  There was no way Jorlan could politely refuse. Lymax gave him a look t
hat plainly said "I told you so." Reluctantly, he took her small hand in his and let her lead him onto the middle of the floor.

  The dance area filled up quickly as eager young veils accepted hands for the opening septille.

  They joined in the dance.

  Green's right arm encircled low on his trim waist, her left hand resting on the curve of his left hip. He was taller than she had originally realized. Amazingly tall, in fact.

  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 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 the 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, the Marquelle glanced up at him through 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 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 baiting 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."

  Chapter Two

  Yes, she was a rare danger, he acknowledged as they continued the dance.

  He glanced down at the mouth that had just briefly and boldly caressed his. The small touch had riveted him. One taste of her had seemed to heighten all of his senses. He focused on the feelings she had aroused in him. Focused and expanded and delved.

  He breathed deeply, then exhaled.

  "I met you once when you were a boy, you know." Green watched his face carefully for some sign of recognition.

  "Really?" He stared back at her.

  "You don't remember?" Of course he would not remember such an insignificant incident in his childhood. Somehow, she was slightly disappointed, though.

  "Was it at my grandmother's?"

  "Yes. You had run into the salon like a hissing ball of fury."

  He acknowledged her accurate description of his youthful demeanor, his white teeth flashing in the flame-lights. "I often entered rooms like that."

  "Not much has changed, has it?"

  He smiled secretly. "Probably not."

  "You seemed such an angry little boy."

  "Not always," he responded quietly.

  "Just after your parents died?"

  Her astute insight surprised him. "Yes, probably. For awhile, anyway. I hated the injustice of it."

  "They died in a transport accident, didn't they?"

  "Yes. Unnecessarily, I found out much later. They were traveling to the western horizon and an arc storm took them."

  Her brow furrowed. "Didn't their guide see the signs?" Arc storms were always preceded by a definite series of phenomena.

  His nostrils flared. "She saw them; she just didn't heed them. They think she may have eaten a Banta psillacyb. I hear they grow freely along the western routes."

  Psillacybs were groups of indigenous Forus plants that caused extreme hallucinogenic effects in humans. They had been adopted by some fringe tribes to the far west for their religious practices. Except for medicinal purposes, they were generally frowned upon by society, although they often made their way to the soirees of Top Slice swaggers.

  Those kind of parties generally were not talked about in polite society.

  "I'm sorry, Jorlan. I know how hard such a loss can be."

  He looked at her curiously.

  "I am the last of my line as well."

  "May I ask what happened to your family, Marquelle?"

  "They were poisoned by a bad crop of hukka grain. It was back during the drought years. You are probably too young to remember that time—I barely remember it myself."

  "What happened?" He pivoted effortlessly with her, perfectly matching her steps as they swi
rled about the floor. The grace of his movements belied the extraordinary martial skill that Anya Reynard had fleetingly remarked on on more than one occasion. The men trained in very basic forms to stay fit, but Green wondered how deadly he could actually be. There was something about his movements...

  She gathered her thoughts to answer him. "Most of our usual crops were failing so we were forced to experiment with others. It was not known then that hukka must be harvested before it flowers. If you wait too long the stalks become highly toxic."

  "I didn't know that."

  "Why should you?" she smiled faintly. "I can't imagine your cook lets you into the kitchen much."

  "True. Whenever he does, I have a tendency to cause havoc."

  She grinned. "I have no doubt of that. And of course, you would not be allowed anywhere near the crops."

  "You don't think so, hmm?" His eyes twinkled as he remembered a youthful prank. And then he remembered the brush of her lips against his—He focused on her mouth again.

  "No."

  He blinked. For a moment he was not sure what she was responding to. "I suppose at one time I enjoyed causing a certain amount of trouble."

  His grandmother had regaled half the Top Slice with stories of his boyhood escapades. He had been a mischievous, difficult child. But she knew that he had also been an incredibly sweet child, with a sensitive heart.

  "Really? Who would guess?" Green teased him. "And you did say 'enjoyed,' as in past tense?"

  He cleared his throat. "We will not pursue that."

  "Why not?"

  "It is probably best not to." He arched his eyebrow.

  "I would venture to say that on some days you arose with a mission to see just how much trouble you could cause in one day."

  An engaging dimple curved a line in his cheek. "You wound me, Marquelle. I assure you I am much too serious of nature even to contemplate such a thing."

  "That is what you would have us believe. I, however, know better."

  "Do you?" He dipped his head and almost, but not quite, brushed her mouth.

  It was a daring, bold act on the dance floor. It was mischievous and certainly begged trouble. Thankfully, no one realized what he had almost done. She pressed her hand into his waist. "Behave, Jorlan Reynard."