The Warlock's Daughter by Jennifer Blake

himself to convince her that the glory of loving was possible between them, he had succeeded far too well. Now he was determined to convince her otherwise, and all her powers were arrayed against him.
    He had, ordinarily, a penchant for irony. This particular incidence of it did not entertain him.
    Still, this time could be used for the accumulation of memories. The gleam of the candlelight on her skin. The imperious sweetness of her smile. The perfection of the gown of his choosing. He would not remember, if he could help it, the pleasure of dressing her in it.
    Mental perception could sometimes be more vivid than bodily experience. Such as the moment when he had embraced her out on the street. That rare accord had, of course, been shared.
    He looked up, startled, to find her watching him. She lowered her lashes at once, but he had seen the dazed satisfaction there. She had, for an instant, slipped into his mind as he had penetrated hers. It had felt like a wondrous completion. Something more to guard against.
    It was also, he thought, the first foray in the battle. As such, it was an indication of the tactics she might use. He wondered how strong his defenses were against that kind of insidious invasion.
    It did not help, of course, to realize that he had shown her the maneuver himself.
    There were methods in her repertoire, he discovered, that he had certainly not taught her. The way she drank her wine, wetting her lips with it and licking the drops with small, delicate strokes of the tip of her tongue. The manner in which she curled her fingers around a bread stick, buttered it with care on one end, and then ate it with tender precision. Her deliberate movements as she chose a small ripe peach, rolled it between her hands while breathing the aroma, then bit into it with small, sharp teeth.
    Wincing, Renfrey swallowed hard and reached for his wine glass. It tasted, he found, of peach juice and the fresh sweetness of her lips. Damn her.
    How had she known? How had she discovered his most fevered fantasies? She was an innocent. Unless.
    Unless she was following the lead of his own licentious thoughts and impulses. No one else, ever, had been able to do that to him. He felt the tops of his ears grow hot.
    He was—or had meant to be—a gentleman: impassive, correct, forbearing. This was too much. He focused his attention on her peach.
    She exclaimed and spat out the next bite that had become a virulent, poisonous green. Screwing up her mouth, she reached for her water glass.
    She drank deep, slowed, tilted the glass at a slight angle. A single, pure drop fell from the base of the crystal stem. It caught the candlelight in prism fire as it struck her chest above her décolleté and rolled, unerringly, over the blue-veined curve of her breast and into the shadowed valley between them.
    Renfrey's eyes burned as he watched. The inside of his mouth was desiccated, parched for the taste of that life-giving drop of water. He could feel it on his tongue. He could also feel his tongue on her skin, circling the satin firmness of her breasts, tasting the taut nipples. She was a fountain, bounteous, endlessly flowing, life for the taking.
    She had done it to him again. Incredibly. Anger smoldered, rising to heat the top of his brain. He glanced at her fingers on the glass, tipped his head a bare inch.
    Her hold on the piece of crystal slipped. Water cascaded. The front of her gown was drenched with icy cold wetness.
    She gasped, a sound of shock. She reached for her napkin. Stopped.
    Her eyes, as she raised them to his own limpid gaze, were bright with fury. An instant later, they turned fluid, piteous yet rueful. “Oh, dear,” she said. “It seems I'll have to change after all.”
    It was a fascinating transfiguration. The gown dissolved into a delicate mist, the jewels disappeared. For an instant, there was a glimpse of rose nipples, a narrow span of waist compressed by a miniscule corset, the slender turn of shapely thighs under