Free Sorcerer's Vendetta (The Secret of Zanalon) by Sarah Ray Page B

would have happened if she had lost her balance. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she tried to suppress the ridiculous image of herself flopping all over him before dumping herself in a pile of splayed legs and embarrassing anatomy on the floor beyond him.
    In the dim light she saw him roll toward her, pull up on his elbow to look at her, only half-awake.
    "I'm sorry, I thought you'd ... I didn't know you were ... I, uh, my clothes ..." She tried to slip back, scooting a knee across the faux satin coverlet in an odd hip waggle while clinging to her towel, still hiding the smile that tugged at the edges of her mouth. Only then did she realize that her inane imagination had masked a deeper feeling. She sighed and nearly laughed aloud. Relief flooded through her with a surge of wild joy.
    He didn't leave. Thank God.
    Then Rachel met his gaze. She froze.
    His azure eyes became intense. Zanalon was not like the modern American man, somewhat desensitized to feminine anatomy by revealing swimwear, short skirts and x-rated movies. Instinctively, she tried to keep her towel arrayed to conceal, pulling it down modestly between her spread knees, but that pulled it tight around her as well. He tightened his hand into a fist; his body took on a rigidness akin to a cat contemplating a pounce. Slowly, as if his conscience was tugging at him to look away, yet he could not resist, his eyes traveled down across her. Rachel felt her body tingling with a too-intense awareness of his gaze as she watched his eyes. Her face flushed with heat as she realized her body's natural but completely inappropriate response to attention was going into effect; her nipples crowned the small, firm buds of her breasts, tightening into hard knots that pressed out from the thin fluff of the towel.
    She pulled her gaze from his, elsewhere, anywhere, but found herself contemplating the movement of his chest, more apparent, as his breath came harder. There was a natural, cut line curved between the ripple of muscles in his belly and like the flow of an artist's brush, it drew her eyes to follow it, downward.
    Guiltily, she lifted her eyes to his. He watched her face.
    Rachel knew he had seen, could see it in her eyes. She knew his desire and now the response of her body was not just shame. She matched it.
    Intensity grew between them. Neither moved.
    And then something changed in his eyes. Rachel couldn't have said he moved a muscle, but she sensed some slight strengthening of his will to resist, though whether it would be enough was still in doubt.
    "My lady," he breathed, "I fear for your ... virtue."
    Zanalon pulled his eyes from hers, stared at a point downward and to the right of her, yet she could feel his attention intently focused on her in his peripheral vision.
    "I understand 'twas not thy intent to ... endanger thyself thus," he whispered between shallow breaths. "I ... shall attend to thy clothes." He glanced at her, once, stared off again.
    "Go."
    The slightest touch would break him, Rachel knew. She had to lean forward, brace herself on her free hand, in order to back away. Her hair slipped forward; she was so close to him that a strand brushed his cheek. He made a sound, between a sigh and a moan, and drew his gaze across the part of her body that was right before his face, up to connect with her eyes, hungry.
    Rachel stopped. They were so close ...
    That resistance in his eyes ... Maybe he remembered that I thought he was going to kill me.
    He dropped his gaze. "I tell thee, thou art in danger," he said, his voice rough, tight in his throat. He took a deep breath, released it. "Though not before," he continued, "thou art anon. Only thy virtue, not thy life. Trust me in this at least."
    Rachel lowered her head. The flush of heat that had surged inside her iced suddenly, twisting into a knot in her stomach.
    When she looked into his eyes one last time, of all of the swirl of passionate emotions she had seen there before, brightest now was anger. His blue