Kesley smiled. "Your nostrils flare very nicely when you're angry, milady."

She whirled and stalked across the room, where she stood, her back to him. Kesley grinned amiably. This display of temper was enjoyable. The girl had spirit. Kesley liked that.

"Miguel called you his daughter," he said loudly. "How come? That's impossible, of course."

"How do you know?" she snapped, turning to face him. Her dark eyes glittered angrily. "I'm Miguel's daughter. Who says I'm not?"

"Miguel. He told me you were adopted. He told me Immortals were sterile, that their children didn't survive. Whose daughter are you?"

"What is it to you?"

Kesley shrugged. "Curiosity, I guess. You're quite lovely, you know."

She said nothing.

"You're supposed to thank people when they compliment you, milady. It's hardly polite to—"

"Quiet!" She crossed the room and faced him across a desk. At close range her faint perfume reached Kesley's nostrils; it was a delightful odor. The violet of her eyes, he saw, was flecked lightly with gold. "Why has Miguel promised me to you?"

"He wants me to carry out a job—an assassination. You're the price."

"Blunt, aren't you?"

"Would you rather have me lie?"

"No," she said, after a moment's thought. She threw back her shoulders and glared defiantly at him. "Well, do I pass your inspection? Am I fit for you?"

Kesley made no answer. Instead, he circled deftly around the desk, drew her close, pulled her mouth up to his. He kissed her warmly without eliciting any response. She remained passive in his arms, as if she were a particularly lovely statue rather than a living woman.

He released her. "Are you through?" she asked acidly.

"You pass the test," he said. Then he shook his head tiredly. "No. This is insane. Narella, who are you?"

Apparently his sudden sincerity, after the romantic pretense of 

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