The Rebel King

Nikolas was naturally athletic and very quick for a big man. Moving swiftly and soundlessly, like a creature of the night himself, he crossed the room and slipped through the open casement window onto the balcony. In the fast-fading twilight he could see a figure dressed in black standing frozen beside the balcony railing. He heard a sound…saw a hand come up and extend toward him…and before the sound could become speech or the hand activate whatever death-dealing object it may have been holding, he launched himself toward the intruder, going in low, aiming for the knees.

He was a little surprised at how easy it was. There was no resistance at all, in fact, just a soft gasp when he drove his shoulder into a surprisingly slim midsection, then a somewhat louder 'Oof!' as his momentum carried both him and the intruder to the balcony's plaster floor. With that slender body pinned half under him, Nikolas caught both wrists and jerked them roughly to the small of the intruder's back.

It was over just that quickly-so quickly, in fact, that it took another second or two for Nikolas's senses to catch up with his reactions, and for him to realize that, A. his would-be assailant carried no weapon, and B. wasn't a 'he' at all. Wrists that slender, a bottom so nicely rounded and fitting so sweetly against his belly, that elusive scent… those could only belong to a woman.

The revelation didn't induce him to relax his vigilance or ease his grip, however. If there was anything he'd learned from the recent events in his homeland, it was that assassins came in all sizes and both genders. And that no one-no one-could be trusted.

'I expected someone with a bit more in the way of fighting skills.' he said through gritted teeth, his face half- buried in the woman's warm, humid nape. The smell of her hair made his head swim.

That scent…I know it…from somewhere.

'I have skills…you can't even imagine.' his prisoner replied in a breathless, constricted voice. 'Just didn't think… it'd be smart…to kick a future king…where it'd hurt the most. Not exactly… a brilliant career move, you know? Plus… there's that little matter… of you being required to produce an heir…'

That remark, as well as the fact that the woman's accent was distinctly of the American South, barely registered. 'Who are you? Who sent you? Was it Weston? Carrington? Who, damn you?'

'Neither. Well…sort of- Look, if you'll get off me and let me up so I can get to my ID…'

'Not a chance.' An ingrained habit of courtesy under similar physical circumstances did induce him to take some of his weight off the woman-a concession he made sure to compensate for by tightening his grip on her wrists. She wasn't showing much inclination to resist, but he wasn't ready to take anything for granted. 'I'll get it. Where is it?'

She gave an irritable-sounding snort. 'Oh for God's sake. It's in my jacket-inside pocket. Left side. Just don't-'

He was already in the process of shifting both himself and his prisoner onto their sides so he could slip his hand inside her jacket, which was leather and as far as he could tell, fitted her like her own skin. It closed with a zipper which was pulled all the way up, almost to her chin. 'Don't…what?' He found the tab and jerked it down, impatient with it and with his own senses for noticing and passing on to him at such an inopportune moment how supple and buttery soft the leather was, almost indistinguishable from her skin, in fact…and how warm and fragrant her hair… .and what was that damn scent, anyway?

He thrust his hand inside the jacket opening…and froze.

'Never mind.' A rich chuckle-hers-seemed to ripple down the length of his body as his hand closed-entirely of its own volition, he'd swear-over a breast of unanticipated voluptuousness. Furthermore, the only barrier between his hand and that seductive bounty was something silky, lacy and, he felt certain, incredibly thin. A chemise? It seemed to him an unlikely choice of attire for an assassin.

And the nipple nested in his palm was already hardening, nudging the nerve-rich hollow of his hand with each of her quickened breaths in a way that seemed almost playful. As if, he thought, she were deliberately taunting him. Testing his self-control.

A growl of desperation and fury vibrated deep in his throat. He tried again to shift his weight to give his hand more room to maneuver inside the jacket and only succeeded in bringing her bottom into even closer contact with the part of his own anatomy least subject to his will.

'You're not going to have much luck finding it where you're looking,' she remarked, her voice bumpy with what he was sure must be suppressed laughter.

'I'm so glad you're finding this entertaining.' he said in his stuffiest. British old-school tone, feeling more sweaty and flustered than he had since his own schoolboy years in that country. 'Forgive me if I don't share your amusement… These days I don't consider-Ah!' With a sense of profound relief, he withdrew his hand from its enticing prison, a thin leather folder captured triumphantly between two fingers. 'Yes- here we are.'

'How are you going to look at it? It's dark out here.' The woman pinned beneath him now seemed as overheated and winded as he, and her body heat was merging with his in steamy intimacy that should have been unwelcome between two strangers-or, he thought, at the very least, unsettling. Exotic. Instead there was that odd familiarity, as if he'd been in this exact same place, with this same woman, before.

The situation was becoming intolerable. Nikolas levered himself to his feet, hauling his unwelcome visitor with him. 'Come on-inside. Now.' His natural bent toward gallantry deserted him as he hauled her none too gently through the casement window.

'This really isn't necessary.' she panted, and he was grimly pleased to note there was no laughter, suppressed or otherwise, in her voice now. 'If I'd wanted to leave we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

'Yes, and then the question becomes, why are you here at all, doesn't it?' He quick-marched her across the shadowy room to the light switch beside the front door, and flipped it on. filling the room with the soft light from an art deco chandelier. 'Now then, let's see who… Ah-the Lazlo Group. I say-I'm impressed. And you are-' And he halted, the ID in his hand forgotten…or irrelevant.

That face.

The face he'd half convinced himself must be a fantasy.

She was the fantasy every heterosexual male past the age of awareness must have entertained at least once. The impossibly beautiful woman who came from out of nowhere to land-almost literally-in his lap, proceeded to make passionate love to him and then…vanished without a trace.

The summer between his second and third years at Oxford…

Nikolas was interning with Silvershire 's diplomatic mission to Paris. He'd been to a reception at the embassy in honor of the newly appointed ambassador from Spain, where the wine had flowed rather freely. He returned to his hotel in a not entirely unpleasant state of fuzzy-headedness. The weather had turned hot and muggy, and that combined with his mild intoxication had made him too warm to sleep, so, in the hope of clearing his head and cooling his body, he 'd stepped out onto the balcony.

He was leaning on the railing, enjoying a breathtaking nighttime view of the Eiffel Tower and contemplating the possible sobering effects of a cold shower when it happened. Someone- a body-a woman's body-clad all in black and lithe and supple as a cat's, seemed to fall right out of the night sky. Fell on top of him and knocked him flat.

Perhaps it was the wine he'd drunk, but he didn't feel terribly alarmed by this odd occurrence. Merely-understandably-a bit surprised. As he lay on his back gazing up into what he was certain was the most beautiful face he 'd ever seen in his life- rather feline, like the rest of her, he decided, with wide cheekbones and pointed chin, and exotically tilted eyes- the woman placed her finger against his lips and whispered, 'Shhh… ' Then she lowered her head and kissed him.

Not a casual brushing of the lips, meant to be an expression of thanks for breaking her fall, perhaps, or even a droll bit of teasing. No-this was the kiss of fantasy; deep and warm and lush, it seemed to vault right over all those bothersome-to a young lad's way of thinking-preliminary stages of intimacy, and plunge straight to the heart and soul of the matter: Sex! And the lithe and supple body squirming into even more intimate alignment with his seemed to second that idea most heartily.

Nikolas's state of shock-induced paralysis didn't last long; his was not a passive nature. But as his