He had had a chance to kill Miguel. Perhaps that had all been illusion;
perhaps he would have been struck down by an invisible guard the moment
the knife's tip approached the Immortal's flesh. Perhaps not. He had
drawn back, only because he had nothing to gain by killing the Duke.
And now he was asked to kill another. _Dale Kesley, Hired Assassin. We
Kill Dukes._ He grinned mirthlessly.
The faint hum of the sliding panel sounded behind him. He turned.
"Have you reached any decision yet?" Miguel asked, stepping into the
room.
"You know what I'm waiting to see," Kesley said.
"Of course."
Miguel beckoned to someone standing beyond the panel. "My daughter," he
said to Kesley. "The Lady Narella."
No one appeared. Miguel scowled and reached through the open panel. He
yanked--and The Lady Narella appeared.
"Oh," Kesley said.
Narella was quite a woman.
She stood with her hands on her hips, smoky, violet-hued eyes blazing
in defiance of Kesley and even of Miguel. She was making it clear that
she was no one's pawn, not to be bandied about.
Narella wore an ermine wrap, and a low-cut tunic that clung tightly
to her high breasts and lean form. She was a tall girl with wide hips
and shoulders. Dark hair fell loosely about her face; she wore the
diamond-encrusted tiara of a Ducal Princess, and her full lips were
bright with a fluorescing cosmetic of some sort. Here and there--on
her forehead above the left eyebrow, on her right cheek, on the creamy
flesh where the base of her throat swelled into rising breasts--she
wore a scintillating dab of brightness, a dot of some chemical that
glittered radiantly from its own inner light.
Kesley had never seen a royal woman before. Strangely, or not so
strangely, he felt all the reverence for her that he had failed to feel
in the presence of the Immortal alone. Had Miguel not been there, he
probably would have knelt despite himself and begged to kiss the tip of
her cloak.
"Is this the man, sire?" she asked. Her voice was a fit complement to
her body, deep and warm, throbbing and throaty.
"It is," Miguel said. "Dale Kesley--the Lady Narella."
"Hello," she said coldly.
A muscle quivered in Kesley's cheek. He nodded curtly to the girl.
"Hello."
She ignored him and turned to Miguel. "Is this the man to whom you're
selling me, sire?"
Miguel grimaced. "You wound me, girl. I'll leave the two of you
together to talk."
"No!" she said imperiously, but it was too late. Miguel, with an
enigmatic smile, had bowed and stepped backward into the waiting
elevator. The panel slid shut. The wall was once again unbroken.
Slowly, she turned to face Kesley. "I won't have any part of this!
I don't belong to Miguel! He can't give me away like this--to a
_commoner_!"
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?"