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An Excerpt From: LUCIEN'S KHAMSIN

CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2005.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.

“Get out, Sibylline,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous.

“Not until she gets into your bed and spreads her legs for you, my love,” the Queen of Revenants declared. “I want to see you rock her world. I didn’t go to all this trouble finding her for you only to be denied watching you screw her, Luc.”

“Get out!”

Khamsin jumped, for the command was bellowed at the top of Lucien’s lungs and he was stalking toward the object of his anger. She backed away, fear pumping her heart.

One moment Sibylline was lying there—sticking her tongue out at Lucien—and the next she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine.

“And stay out!” Lucien yelled.

Plastered against the wall, Khamsin watched as Lucien picked up the settee and tossed it across the room as though it was a feather. She flinched as it crashed into a mirror but relieved the surface didn’t break. More bad luck was not needed in this room.

“She came to taunt me,” he said, plopping down in a chair. “She’s good at that.” He buried his face in his hands. “Professionally so.”

Khamsin could find nothing to say so she stood where she was, wringing her hands though her mind was working furiously.

“No,” he said, lifting his head to look at her through the fan of his fingers. “I am not going to let you go and no, Sibylline poses no threat to you, wench. You heard what she said—she found you for me. I’d be stupid to throw her gift back in her face now, wouldn’t I?”

A flash of annoyance traveled through Khamsin’s blue eyes and they snapped with fire. “I am no man’s gift, milord. Not even yours!”

He settled back in the chair and lifted his foot to the cushion, resting his wrist on his crooked knee. “You know what Christina said about you?”

She shrugged.

“She said, ‘ This one will give you a run for your money’.” He tilted his head to one side. “And I believe she was right. You are not the frightened, meek little girl I expected.”

Khamsin raised her chin. “I am scared to death of you, but I will not let you break my spirit. What you do to me, I can not prevent, but I can voice my abhorrence to—”

“Abhorrence,” he echoed. “You abhor me, wench?” Steepling his fingers, he thought about the meaning of the word. “You find me repugnant?”

A wave of wrinkles formed on Khamsin’s smooth forehead. “Perhaps I used the wrong word.”

“Then I’m not repugnant?”

She pursed his lips and tossed her head as though his question was silly. “You know full well you are not, milord.”

He half-smiled. “Do you find me appealing?”

“I find the situation abhorrent,” she stated, nodding firmly. “That was what I meant.”

“That isn’t what I asked, wench,” he countered. “Do you find me appealing?”

Khamsin shook her head but didn’t answer.

“You don’t find me appealing?” he asked, shock making his voice a bit shrill.

She almost laughed at the hurt look on his handsome face but sucked in a quick breath instead as he rose slowly from the chair and came toward her. Quickly she glanced behind her but there was nowhere for her to run. The wall was only inches away.

“You don’t think I’m a good-looking man?” he asked, his voice deep and sensual.

She backed up until she was pressed against the wall yet he kept coming, stalking her like a big graceful cat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he drew nearer.

“Is my hair unkempt?” he asked when he was but a foot away.

Khamsin knew he was playing with her. In her mind, she likened it to a cat teasing a helpless mouse and the illusion irritated her so she kept silent.

He was so close to her she could smell the warm male odor of him. It was a pleasant smell, even heady.

He braced his left hand on the wall beside her head and leaned into her. “Does my breath smell?” he queried.

No, she thought and that surprised her. If anything she would have thought his breath would hint of the grave, of death—or at the very least—be iron-tinted from the blood he had consumed from the day before.

“So,” he said, standing so close to her their bodies were almost touching. “I have no body odor, my breath doesn’t stink and my hair doesn’t look like I jammed my finger into a light socket.” His eyes roamed her face. “What, exactly, is it you find unappealing?”

The heat from his body was causing her skin to prickle and she could not keep from glancing down at his chest. The livid scars drew her attention and she winced, knowing such mutilation would have caused immense pain.

“At least that part of me fascinates you,” he drawled. “I guess you don’t find it abhorrent.”

“Stop reading my mind,” she said through clenched teeth.

He held up his right hand as though surrendering to her command, but said nothing. He simply leaned further toward her so she was forced to put her hands on his chest to keep him at bay.

Electrical current passed through Khamsin’s palms and she groaned. He had automatically pressed closer so that now her hands were trapped between their bodies.

“Am I ugly?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, for her blood was racing so hard through her veins she could feel it pounding in her head—and between her legs.

“Am I too short?”

Again she shook her head.

“Am I deformed in some way you find intolerable?”

“You know you’re not,” she forced out the reply.

“Then—for the sake of argument—let’s say you find me handsome.”

Khamsin looked up into his eyes. He was a good foot taller than her, towering over her in such a way she felt even shorter. The backs of her hands were pressing into her breasts.

“Let’s say you find me virile and sexy and altogether attractive.”

Those pale green eyes were delving into her soul and she was caught by them—intrigued by the golden flecks that seemed to swirl through the irises.

“Let’s say,” he purred, his voice low and sultry, “that your body is stirred by the nearness of mine.”