Twilight
Phantasies
Maggie
Shayne

www.mirabooks.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the real “hearts” of New York,

the members of CNYRW.

And to the young blond man on the

balcony high above Rue Royale.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

Desires and Adorations,

Wingèd Persuasions and veiled Destinies,

Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,

Came in slow pomp.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

March 20, 1793

The stub of a tallow candle balanced on a ledge of cold stone, its flame casting odd, lively shadows. The smell of burning tallow wasn’t a pleasant one, but far more pleasant than the other aromas hanging heavily all around him. Damp, musty air. Thick green fungus growing over rough-hewn stone walls. Rat droppings. Filthy human bodies. Until tonight, Eric had been careful to conserve the tallow, well aware he’d be allowed no more. Tonight there was no need. At dawn he’d face the guillotine.

Eric closed his eyes against the dancing shadows that seemed to mock him, and drew his knees closer to his chest. At the far end of the cell a man coughed in awful spasms. Closer, someone moaned and turned in his sleep. Only Eric sat awake this night. The others would face death, as well, but not tomorrow. He wondered again whether his father had suffered this way in the hours before his appointed time. He wondered whether his mother and younger sister, Jaqueline, had made it across the Channel to safety. He’d held the bloodthirsty peasants off as long as he’d been able. If the women were safe he’d consider it well worth the sacrifice of his own pathetic life. He’d never been quite like other people, anyway. Always considered odd. In his own estimation he would not be greatly missed. His thirty-five years had been spent, for the most part, alone.

His stomach convulsed and he bent lower, suppressing a groan. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in three days. The swill they provided here would kill him more quickly than starvation. Perhaps he’d die before they could behead him. The thought of depriving the bastards of their barbaric entertainment brought a painful upward curve to his parched lips.

The cell door opened with a great groan, but Eric did not look up. He’d learned better than to draw attention to himself when the guards came looking for a bit of sport. But it wasn’t a familiar voice he heard, and it was far too civilized to belong to one of those illiterate pigs.

“Leave us! I’ll call when I’ve finished here.” The tone held authority that commanded obedience. The door closed with a bang, and still Eric didn’t move.

Footsteps came nearer and stopped. “Come, Marquand, I haven’t all night.”

He tried to swallow, but felt only dry sand in his throat. He lifted his face slowly. The man before him smiled, absently stroking the elaborately knotted silk cravat at his throat. The candlelight made his black hair gleam like a raven’s wing, but his eyes glowed even darker. “Who are you?” Eric managed. Speaking hurt his throat after so many days without uttering a word, or downing a drop.

“I am Roland. I’ve come to help you, Eric. Get to your feet. There isn’t much time.”

“Monsieur, if this is a prank—”

“I assure you, it is no prank.” He reached to grasp Eric’s upper arm, and with a tug that seemed to cost him minimal effort at best, he jerked Eric to his feet.

“You—you don’t even know me. Why would a stranger wish to help me now? ’Twould be a risk to your own freedom. Besides, there is naught to be done. My sentence is passed. I die on the morrow. Keep your head, friend. Leave here now.”

The man called Roland listened to Eric’s hoarse speech, then nodded slowly. “Yes, you are a worthy one, aren’t you? Speak to me no more, lad. I can see it pains you. You’d do better to listen. I do know you. I’ve known you from the time you drew your first breath.”

Eric gasped and took a step away from the man. A sense of familiarity niggled at his brain. He fumbled for the candle without taking his eyes from Roland, and when he gripped it, he held it up. “What you say is quite impossible, monsieur. Surely you have mistaken me for someone else.” He blinked in the flickering light, still unable to place the man in his memory.

Roland sighed as if in frustration, and blocked the candlelight from his face with one hand. “Get that thing out of my face, man. I tell you I know you. I tell you I’ve come to help and yet you argue. Can it be you are eager to have your head in a basket?” Eric moved the candle away, and Roland lowered the hand and faced him again. “In your fourth year you fell into the Channel. Nearly drowned, Eric. Have you no memory of the man who pulled you, dripping, from the cold water? The eve of your tenth birthday celebration you were nearly flattened by a runaway carriage. Do you not recall the man who yanked you from the path of those hooves?”

The truth of the man’s words hit Eric like a blow, and he flinched. The face so white it appeared chalked, the eyes so black one couldn’t see where the iris ended and the pupil began—it was the face of the man who’d been there at both those times, he realized, though he wished to deny it. Something about the man struck him afraid.

“You mustn’t fear me, Eric Marquand. I am your friend. You must believe that.”

The dark gaze bored into Eric as the man spoke in a tone that was oddly hypnotic. Eric felt himself relax. “I believe, and I am grateful. But a friend is of little use to me now. I know not even the number of hours left me. Is it full dark yet?”

“It is, lad, else I could not be here. But time is short, dawn comes soon. It took longer than I anticipated to bribe the guards to allow me this visit. If you want to live, you must trust me and do as I say without question.” He paused, arching his brows and awaiting a response.

Eric only nodded, unable to think for the confusion in his brain.

“Good, then,” Roland said. “Now, remove the cravat.”

Eric worked at the ragged, dirty linen with leaden fingers. “Tell me what you plan, monsieur.”

“I plan to see to it that you do not die,” he said simply, as if it were already done.

“I fear no one can prevent tomorrow’s fate.” Eric finally loosed the knot and slid the cravat from his neck.

“You will not die, Eric. Tomorrow, or any other day. Come here.”

Eric’s feet seemed to become one with the floor. He couldn’t have stepped forward had he wanted to. His eyes widened and he felt his throat tighten.

“I know your fear, man, but think! Am I more fearsome than the guillotine?” He shouted it, and Eric stiffened and looked around him, but not one body stirred.

“Why—why don’t they wake?” Roland came forward then, gripping his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Why don’t they wake?” Eric asked again.

The guard pounded on the door. “Time’s up!”

“Five minutes more!” Roland’s voice boomed, nearly, Eric thought, rattling the walls. “I’ll make it worth your while, man! Now go!”

Eric heard the guard grumble, and then his footsteps shuffle away from the door as he called, “Two minutes, then. No more.”

“Blast it, lad. It has to be done. Forgive me for not finding a way to make it less frightening!” With those words Roland pulled Eric to him with unnatural strength. He pressed Eric’s head back with the flat of one hand, and even as Eric struggled to free himself Roland’s teeth sank into his throat.

When he opened his mouth to release a scream of unbridled horror, something wet sealed his lips. It sickened him when he understood that it was a wrist, gashed open and pulsing blood. Roland forced the severed vein to him and Eric had no choice but to swallow the vile fluid that filled his mouth.

Vile? No. But warm and salty. With the first swallow came the shocking realization that he wanted more. What was happening to him? Had he lost his sanity? Yes! He must have, for here he was, allowing another man’s blood to assuage his painful hunger, his endless thirst. He didn’t even cower when the word rushed through his brain like a chilling breeze. Vampire. Fear filled his heart even as Roland’s blood filled his body. He felt himself weakening, sinking into a dark abyss from which he wanted no escape. It was a far better death than the one the dawn would bring. The blood drugged him, and Roland stepped away.

Eric couldn’t stand upright. He felt emptied of everything in him, and he sank to the floor. He didn’t feel the impact. His head floated somewhere above him and his skin pricked with a million invisible needles. “Wh-what have you d-done to me?” He had to force the words out, and they slurred together as if he were drunk. He couldn’t feel his tongue anymore.

“Sleep, my son. When next you wake you will be free of this cell. I promise you that. Sleep.”

Eric fought to keep his eyes from closing, but they did. Vaguely he felt cold hands replacing his soiled cravat. Then he heard Roland pound on the door and call for the guard.

“He’ll not live long enough for his execution, I fear.” Roland’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“The hell, you say! He was fine—”

“Look for yourself, man. See how he lies there? Dead before the dawn, I’ll wager. I’ll send a coach for the body. See to it, will you?”

“For a price, sir.”

“Here, then. And there will be more to follow, if you do it precisely as I say.”

“Well, now, if he dies, like you say, I’ll see he gets in your coach. But if not, I’ll be here to see he keeps his other appointment. Either way he ends up the same. In the ground, eh, mister?” Harsh laughter filled the cell and the door slammed.

1

In the dream she was running. From something, toward something. Someone. She plunged through dense forest woven with vines and brambles that clawed at her legs, snared her, pulled her back. Swirls of smoky mist writhed, serpentlike, around her calves. She couldn’t even see where her feet touched the ground. All the while she kept calling for him, but, as always, when she woke she couldn’t re member his name.

Jet hair stuck to her face, glued there by tears and perspiration. Her lungs swelled like those of a marathon runner after a race. She dragged in breath after ragged breath. Her heart felt ready to explode. Her head spun in ever-tightening circles and she had to close her eyes tightly against the horrible dizziness. She sat up quickly, pushing the damp hair from her forehead, and glanced at the clock beside the bed and then at the fading light beyond the window.

She needn’t have done so. The dream assaulted her at the same time each day, just one part of her increasingly irregular sleep patterns. Nighttime insomnia, daytime lethargy and vivid nightmares that were always the same had become a predictable part of her existence. She’d made a habit of rushing to her room for a nap the second she got home from work, knowing it would be the only sleep she was likely to get. She’d sleep like the dead until just before dusk, only to be wakened by that frightening, lingering dream.

The effects slowly faded, and Tamara got to her feet, pulled on her satin robe and padded to the adjoining bathroom, leaving tracks in the deep, silvery pile of the carpet. She twisted the knob on the oversize tub and sprinkled a handful of bath oil beads into the rising water. As the stream of water bubbled and spurted she heard an urgent knock, and she went to the door.

Daniel’s silver brows bunched together over pale blue, concern-filled eyes. “Tam? Are you all right?”

She closed her eyes slowly and sighed. She must have cried out again. It was bad enough to be certain her own sanity was slipping steadily out of her grasp, but to worry the man who’d been like a father to her for the past twenty years was too much. “Of course, I’m fine. Why?”

“I…thought I heard you call.” His eyes narrowed to study her face. She hoped the circles beneath her eyes didn’t show. “Are you sure you’re—”

“Fine. I’m fine. I stubbed my toe on the bedpost, that’s all.”

Still he looked doubtful. “You look tired.”

“I was about to take a nice hot bath and then I’m down for the night.” She smiled to ease his worry, but it turned to a frown when she noted the coat over his arm. “You’re going out? Daniel, it’s been snowing all day. The roads—”

“I’m not driving, Tam. Curtis is coming to pick me up.”

She felt her spine stiffen. Her breath escaped her in a rush. “You’re going to spy on that man again, aren’t you? Honestly, Daniel, this obsession you have—”

“Spying! It’s surveillance. And don’t call it obsession, Tamara. It’s pure scientific study. You should understand that.”

Her brows rose. “It’s folklore, that’s what it is. And if you keep dogging the poor man’s every step he’s going to end up dragging you into court. Daniel, you’ve followed him for months. You have yet to come up with a shred of evidence that he’s—”

“Daniel.” Curt’s voice cut her off, and in a moment he’d hurried up the stairs to join Daniel outside her bedroom door. “Are you ready?”

“And you!” Tamara rushed on as if he’d been privy to the entire conversation. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging this witch-hunt. For God’s sake, the three of us spend every day in a high-tech, brass-and-glass-filled office building in White Plains. We’re living in the nineties, guys. Byram, Connecticut, not fifteenth-century Transylvania!”

Curt stared at her for a moment. Then he tilted his head to one side and opened his arms. She sighed and allowed his embrace. “Still not sleeping nights?” His voice came smoothly, softly.

She shook her head against the damp fabric of his coat.

“I’m worried about leaving her alone,” Daniel said, as if she were not there.

“I have experiments to finish in the basement lab,” Curt offered. “I could hang around here, if you want to do the surveillance alone.”

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” she snapped.

Daniel ignored her. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. He leaned over to plant a dry peck on her cheek. “I’ll be back around dawn.”

She pulled from Curt’s arms and shook her head in frustration. “Daniel and I know what we’re doing, Tam,” Curt told her, his tone placating. “We’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have. DPI has reams on Marquand. It’s not legend.”

“I want to see the files.” She sniffed and met his gaze.

His lips tightened at the corners. “Your security clearance isn’t high enough.”

It was the answer she’d expected, the same one she got every time she asked to see the data that the Division of Paranormal Investigations had on the alleged vampire, Marquand. She lowered her head and turned from him. His hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Tamara, don’t be angry. It’s for your own—”

“I know. For my own good. My tub is going to run over.” She stepped away from him and closed the door. Curtis would sequester himself in the basement lab and not give her a second thought, she was sure of it. He didn’t worry about her the way Daniel did. He did seem to feel he had the right to boss her around more than usual lately. She shrugged, vowing not to worry anymore about Curt’s proprietary attitude toward her. She stopped the water in the bathtub and stared down into it for long moments. No hot bath was going to help her sleep. She’d tried everything from warm milk to double doses of a prescription sleep aid she’d pressured her doctor into giving her. Nothing worked. Why go through the motions?

With a frustrated sigh she padded to the French doors. On a whim, she flung them open and stepped out onto the balcony. A purple-black sky, lightening to silvery blue in the west, dropped snowflakes in chaotic choreography. The sun had set fully while she’d been arguing with her insane guardian and his stubborn cohort. She stared, entranced by the simple grace of the dancing snow. All at once she felt she had to be a part of it. Why waste all this nervous energy lying in bed, staring up at the underside of the white canopy? Especially when she knew sleep wouldn’t come for hours. Maybe she could exhaust herself into oblivion. How long had it been since she’d been able to put aside her gnawing worry and enjoy some simple pleasure?

She hurried back inside, eager now that the decision was made. She yanked on tight black leggings and a bulky knit sweater, two pairs of socks and furry pink earmuffs. She grabbed her coat and her skates from the closet, dropped them into her duffel bag, shoved her purse in beside them and opened her bedroom door.

For a moment she just listened. The hollow dinosaur of a house was silent. She tiptoed through the hall and down the stairs. She paused at the front door just long enough to stuff her feet into her boots, and then she slipped silently through it.

Crisp air stung her cheeks and her breath made little steam clouds in the falling snow. Twenty minutes of walking and snow-dance watching brought her to the outskirts of Byram. Childish delight warmed her when her destination came into view.

The rink sparkled from its nest amid the town park’s shrubbery and carefully pruned elms. Meandering, snow-dusted sidewalks, wrought-iron benches with redwood slatted seats, and trash cans painted a festive green made a wreath around the ice. Tamara hastened to the nearest bench to change into her skates.

When he woke, Eric felt as if his head were stuffed with wet cotton. He’d swung his legs to the floor, landing with unusual clumsiness. He hadn’t needed a window to sense the pale blush that still hung in the western sky. It hadn’t been the coming of night that had wakened him. Hadn’t been that for weeks. Always her cries echoed in his head until he could no longer rest. Fear and confusion were palpable in her wrenching pleas. He felt her need like a barbed hook, snagged through his heart and pulling him. Yet he hesitated. Some preternatural instinct warned him not to act hastily. No sense of imminent danger laced her nightly summons. No physical weakness or life-threatening accident seemed to be the cause. What, then?

That she was able to summon him at all was incredible. No human could summon a vampire. That anything other than mortal danger could rouse him from his deathlike slumber astounded him. He longed to go to her, to ask the questions that burned in his mind. Yet he hesitated. Long ago he’d left this place, vowing to stay clear of the girl for her own sake. He’d hoped the incredible psychic link between them would fade with time and distance. Apparently it had not.

He relaxed for an hour in the comfort of his lair. With the final setting of the sun came the familiar rush of energy. His senses sharpened to the deadly keenness of a freshly whetted blade. His body tingled with a million needles of sensation.

He dressed, then released the multitude of locks on the heavy door. He moved in silence through the pitch-black hall and pushed against a heavy slab of stone at the end. It swung inward easily, without a creak of protest, and he stepped through the opening into what appeared to be an ordinary basement. The door, from this side, looked like a well-stocked wine rack. He pushed it gently closed again and mounted the stairway that led to the main house.

He had to see her. He’d known it for some time, and avoided the knowledge. Her pull was too strong to resist. When her sweet, tormented voice came to him in the velvet folds of his rest, he felt her anguish. He had to know what troubled her so. He moved into the parlor, to the tall window, and parted the drape.

The DPI van sat across from the front gate, as it had every night for two months now. Another reason he needed to exercise caution. The division had begun with a group of pious imbeciles, intent on the destruction of any and everything they did not understand, over a century ago. Rumor had it they were now under the auspices of the CIA, making them a threat not to be taken lightly. They occupied an entire office building in White Plains, according to Eric’s information. It was said they had operatives in place all over the United States, and even in Europe. The one outside seemed to have made Eric his personal obsession. As if the front gate were the only way out, he parked there at dark every night and remained until dawn. He was as bothersome to Eric as a noisy fly.

He shrugged into a dark-colored overcoat and left through the French doors off the living room, facing opposite the front gate. He crossed the back lawn, stretching from the house to the sheer, rocky cliff above Long Island Sound. He went to the tall iron fence that completely surrounded his property, and vaulted it without much effort. He moved through the trees, gaining the road several yards behind the intense man who thought he was watching so well.

He walked only a short distance before he stopped, cleared his mind and closed his eyes. He opened himself to the cacophony of sensations that were usually denied access. He winced inwardly at the bombardment. Voices of every tone, inflection and decibel level echoed in his mind. Emotions from terrible fear to delirious joy swept through him. Physical sensations, both pleasure and pain, twisted within him, and he braced himself against the mental assault. He couldn’t target an individual’s mind any other way, unless that person was deliberately sending him a message—the way she’d been doing.

Gradually he gained mastery over the barrage. He sifted it, searching for her voice, her thoughts. In moments he felt her, and he turned in the direction he knew her to be.

He nearly choked when he drew near the ice rink and caught sight of her. She twirled in the center of the rink, bathed in moonglow, her face turned up as if in supplication—as if she were in love with the night. She stopped, extended her arms with the grace of a ballerina and skated slowly, then faster, carving a figure eight into the ice. She turned then, glided backward over the ice, then turned again, crossing skate over skate, slowing her pace gradually.

Eric felt an odd burning in his throat as he watched her. It had been twenty years since he’d left the innocent, raven-haired child’s hospital bed after saving her life. How vividly he recalled that night—the way she’d opened her eyes and clutched his hand. She’d called him by name, and asked him not to go. Called him by name, even though she’d never seen him before that night! It was then he’d realized the strength of the bond between them, and made the decision to leave.

Did she remember? Would she recognize him, if she saw him again? Of course, he had no intention of allowing that. He only wanted to look at her, to scan her mind and learn what caused her nightly anguish.

She skated to a bench near the edge of the ice, pulled off the earmuffs she wore and tossed them down. She shook her head and her hair flew wildly, like a black satin cloak of curls. She shrugged off the jacket and dropped it on the bench. She seemed unconcerned that it slid over the side to land in the snow. She drew a breath, turned and skated off.

Eric opened his mind and locked in on hers, honed his every sense to her. It took only seconds, and once again he marveled at the strength of the mental link between them. He heard her thoughts as clearly as she did.

What he heard was music—the music she imagined as she swooped and swirled around the ice. It faded slightly, and she spoke inwardly to herself. Axel, Tam, old girl. A little more speed…now!

He caught his breath when she leapt from the ice to spin one and a half times. She landed almost perfectly, with one leg extended behind her, then wobbled and went down hard. Eric almost rushed out to her. Some nearly unheard instinct whispered a warning and he stopped himself. Slowly he realized she was laughing, and the sound was like crystal water bubbling over stones.

She stood, rubbed her backside and skated away as his gaze followed her. She looped around the far end of the rink. That’s when Eric spotted the van, parked in the darkness just across the street. Daniel St. Claire!

He quickly corrected himself. It couldn’t be St. Claire. He’d have heard the man’s arrival. He would have had to arrive after Eric himself. He looked more closely at the white van, noticing minute differences—that scratch along the side, the tires. It wasn’t St. Claire’s vehicle, but it was DPI. Someone was watching—not him, but Tamara.

He would have moved nearer, pierced the dark interior with his eyes and identified the watcher, but his foot caught on something and he glanced down. A bag. Her bag. He looked toward Tamara again. She was completely engrossed in her skating. Apparently the one watching her was, as well. Eric bent, snatched up the bag and melted into the shadows. Besides her boots the only thing inside was a small handbag. Supple kid leather beneath his fingers. He took it out.

An invasion of her privacy, yes. He knew it. If the same people were watching her as were watching him, though, he had to know why. If St. Claire had somehow learned of his connection to the girl, this could be some elaborate trap. He removed each item from the bag, methodically examining each one before replacing it. Inside the small billfold he found a plastic DPI keycard with Tamara’s name emblazoned so boldly across the front that it hurt his eyes.

“No,” he whispered. His gaze moved back to her as he mindlessly dropped the card into the bag, the bag into the duffel, and tossed the lot back toward the place where he’d found it. His heart convulsed as he watched her. So beautiful, so delicate, with diamondlike droplets glistening as if they’d been magically woven into that mane of hair while she twirled beneath the full moon. Could she be his Judas? A betrayer in the guise of an angel?

He attuned his mind to hers with every ounce of power he possessed, but the only sensations he found there were joy and exuberance. All he heard was the music, playing ever more loudly in her mind. Overture to The Impresario. She skated in perfect harmony with the urgent piece, until the music stopped all at once.

She skidded to a halt and stood poised on the ice, head cocked slightly, as if she’d heard a sound she couldn’t identify. She turned very slowly, making a full circle as her gaze swept the rink. She stopped moving when she faced him, though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him there, dressed in black, swathed in shadow. Still, she frowned and skated toward him.

My God, could the connection between them be so strong that she actually sensed his presence? Had she felt him probing her mind? He turned and would have left but for the quickened strokes of her blades over the ice, and the scrape as she skidded to a stop so close to him he felt the spray of ice fragments her skates threw at his legs. He felt the heat emanating from her exertion-warmed body. She’d seen him now. Her gaze burned a path over his back and for the life of him he couldn’t walk away from her. Foolish it might have been, but Eric turned and faced her.

She stared for a long moment, her expression puzzled. Her cheeks glowed with warmth and life. The tip of her nose was red. Small white puffs escaped her parted lips and lower, a pulse throbbed at her throat. Even when he forced his gaze away from the tiny beat he felt it pound through him the way Beethoven must have felt the physical impact of his music. He found himself unable to look away from her eyes. They held his captive, as if she possessed the same power of command he did. He felt lost in huge, bottomless orbs, so black they appeared to have no pupils. My God, he thought. She already looks like one of us.

She frowned, and shook her head as if trying to shake the snowflakes from her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought you were…” The explanation died on her lips, but Eric knew. She thought he was someone she knew, someone she was close to. He was.

“Someone else,” he finished for her. “Happens all the time. I have one of those faces.” He scanned her mind, seeking signs of recognition on her part. There was no memory there, only a powerful longing—a craving she hadn’t yet identified. “Good night.” He nodded once and forced himself to turn from her.

Even as he took the first step he heard her unspoken plea as if she’d shouted it. Please, don’t go!

He faced her again, unable to do otherwise. His practical mind kept reminding him of the DPI card in her bag. His heart wanted her cradled in his arms. She’d truly grown into a beauty. A glimpse of her would be enough to take away the breath of any man. The glint of unshed tears in her eyes shocked him.

“I’m sure I know you,” she said. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “Tell me who you are.”

Her need tore at him, and he sensed no lie or evil intent. Yet if she worked for DPI she could only mean him harm. He sensed the attention of the man in the van. He must wonder why she lingered here.

“You must be mistaken.” It tore at his soul to utter the lie. “I’m certain we’ve never met.” Again he turned, but this time she came toward him, one hand reaching out to him. She stumbled, and only Eric’s preternatural speed enabled him to whirl in time. He caught her as she plunged forward. His arms encircled her slender frame and he pulled her to his chest.

He couldn’t make himself let go. He held her to him and she didn’t resist. Her face lay upon his chest, above his pounding heart. Her scent enslaved him. When her arms came to his shoulders, as if to steady herself, only to slide around his neck, he felt he’d die a thousand deaths before he’d let her go.

She lifted her head, tipped it back and gazed into his eyes. “I do know you, don’t I?”

2

Tamara tried to blink away the drugged daze into which she seemed to have slipped. She stood so close to this stranger that every part of her body pressed against his from her thighs to her chest. Her arms encircled his corded neck. His iron ones clasped tight around her waist. She’d tipped her head back to look into his eyes, and she felt as if she were trapped in them.

He’s so familiar!

They shone, those eyes, like perfectly round bits of jet amid sooty sable lashes. His dark brows, just as sooty and thick, made a slash above each eye, and she had the oddest certainty that he would cock one when puzzled or amused in a way that would make her heart stop.

But I don’t know him.

His full lips parted, as if he’d say something, then closed once more. How soft his lips! How smooth, and how wonderful when he smiled. Oh, how she’d missed his smile.

What am I saying? I’ve never met this man before in my life.

His chest was a broad and solid wall beneath hers. She felt his heart thudding powerfully inside it. His shoulders were so wide they invited a weary head to drop upon them. His hair gleamed in the moonlight, as black as her own, but without the riotous curls. It fell instead in long, satin waves over his shoulders, when it wasn’t tied back with the small velvet ribbon in what he called a queue. She fingered the ribbon at his nape, having known it was there before she’d touched it. She felt an irrational urge to tug it free and run her fingers through his glorious hair—to pull great masses of it to her face and rub them over her cheeks.

She felt her brows draw together, and she forced her lips to part. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know?” His voice sent another surge of recognition coursing through her.

“I…feel as if I do, but…” She frowned harder and shook her head in frustration. Her gaze fell to his lips again and she forced it away. The sensation that bubbled in her felt like joyous relief. She felt as if some great void in her heart had suddenly been filled simply by seeing this familiar man. The words that swirled and eddied in her mind, and which she only barely restrained herself from blurting, were absurd. Thank God you’ve come back…I’ve missed you so…please, don’t leave me again…I’ll die if you leave me again.

She felt tears filling her eyes, and she wanted to turn away so he wouldn’t see them. The pain in his flickered and then vanished, so she wondered if she’d truly seen it there. He stared so intensely, and the peculiar feeling that he somehow saw inside her mind hit her with ridiculous certainty.

She wanted to turn and run away. She wanted him to hold her forever. I’m losing my mind.

“No, sweet. You are perfectly sane, never doubt that.” His voice caressed her.

She drew a breath. She hadn’t spoken the thought aloud, had she? He’d…my God, he’d read her mind.

Impossible! He couldn’t have. She stared at his sensual mouth again, licked her lips. Had he read her mind? I want you to kiss me, she thought, deliberately.

A silent voice whispered a reply inside her brain—his voice. A test? I couldn’t think of a more pleasant one.

She watched, mesmerized, as his head came down. His mouth relaxed over hers, and she allowed her lips to part at his gentle nudging. At the instant his moist, warm tongue slipped into her mouth to stroke hers, a jolt went through her. Not a sudden rush of physical desire. No, this felt like an actual electric current, hammering from the point of contact, through her body to exit through the soles of her feet. It rocked her and left her weak.

His hands moved up, over her back. His fingertips danced along her nape and higher, until he’d buried them in her hair. With his hands at the back of her head he pressed her nearer, tilting her to the angle that best fit him, and preventing her pulling away as his tongue stroked deeper, kindling fires in her belly.

Finally his lips slid away from hers, and she thought the kiss had ended. Instead it only changed form. He trailed his moist lips along the line of her jaw. He flicked his tongue over the sensitized skin just below her ear. He moved his lips caressingly to her throat, and her head fell back on its own. Her hands cupped his head, and pressed him closer. Her eyes fluttered closed and she felt so light-headed she was sure she must be about to faint.

He sucked the tender skin between his teeth. She felt sharp incisors skim the soft flesh as he suckled her there like a babe at its mother’s breast. She felt him shudder, heard him groan as if tortured. He lifted his head from her, and his hands straightened hers so he could gaze into her eyes. For an instant there seemed to be light in them—an unnatural glow shining from somewhere beyond the ebony.

His voice, when he spoke, sounded rough and shaky. It was no longer the soothing honey that had coated her ears earlier. “What is it you want of me? And take care not to ask too much, Tamara. I fear I can refuse you nothing.”

She frowned. “I don’t want—” She sucked air through her teeth, stepping out of his arms. “How do you know my name?”

Slowly the spell faded. She breathed deeply, evenly. What had she done? Since when did she go around kissing strangers in the middle of the night?

“The same way you know mine,” he said, his voice regaining some of its former strength and tone.

“I don’t know yours! And how could you—why did you…” She shook her head angrily and couldn’t finish the sentence. After all, she’d kissed him as much as he’d kissed her.

“Come, Tamara, we both know you summoned me here, so stop this pretense. I only want to know what troubles you.”

“Summoned you—I most certainly did not summon you. How could I? I don’t even know you!”

One brow shot upward. Tamara’s hand flew to her mouth because she’d pictured him with just such an expression. She had no time to consider it, though, since his next odd question came so quickly. “And do you know him?”

He glanced toward the street and she followed his gaze, catching her breath when she saw Curt’s DPI van parked there. She knew it was his by the rust spot just beneath the side mirror on the driver’s door. She could barely believe he had the audacity to spy on her. On an indignant sigh she whispered, “He followed me. Why, that heavy-handed son of a—”

“Very good, although I suspect his reason for being posted there is known to you full well. This was a trap, was it not? Lure me here, and then your attentive friend over there—”

“Lure you here? Why on earth would I lure you here, and how, for God’s sake? I told you I’ve never seen you before.”

“You call to me nightly, Tamara. You’ve begged me to come to you until you’ve nearly driven me insane.”

“I don’t think it would be a long trip. I told you, I haven’t called you. I don’t even know your name.”

Again his gaze searched her face and she felt her mind being searched. He sighed, frowning until his brows met. “Suppose you tell me why you think that gent would follow you, then?”

“Knowing Curt, he probably thinks it’s for my own good. God knows he tosses that phrase around enough lately.” Her anger softened a bit, as she thought it through more thoroughly. “He might be a little worried about me. I know Daniel is…my guardian, that is. Frankly, I’m worried myself. I don’t sleep at night anymore—not ever. The only time I feel even slightly like sleeping is during the day. In fact, I’ve fallen asleep at my desk twice now. I take to my bed the second I get home and sleep like a rock, but only until dusk. Just at nightfall I have terrible nightmares and usually cry out loud enough to convince them both I’m losing my mind, and then I’m up and restless all night lo—” She broke off, realizing she was blurting her life story to a perfect stranger.

“Please don’t stop,” he said at once. He seemed keenly interested in hearing more. “Tell me about these nightmares.” He must’ve seen her wariness. He reached out to her, touched her cheek with the tips of his long, narrow fingers. “I only want to help you. I mean you no harm.”

She shook her head. “You’ll only agree with me that I’m slipping around the bend.” He frowned. “Cracking up,” she explained. She pointed one finger at her ear and made little circles. “Wacko.”

“You most certainly are not…wacko, as you put it.” His hand slipped around to the back of her head and he drew her nearer. She didn’t resist. She hadn’t felt so perfectly at peace in months as she felt in his arms. He held her gently against him, as if she were a small child, and one hand stroked her hair. “Tell me, Tamara.”

She sighed, unable to resist the smooth allure of his voice, or of his touch, though she knew it made no sense. “It’s dark, and there is a jungle of sorts, and a lot of fog and mist covering the ground so I can’t see my feet. I trip a lot as I run. I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from something. I know I’m looking for someone, and in the dream I know that person can help me find my way. But I call and call and he doesn’t answer.”

He stopped stroking her hair all at once, and she thought he tensed. “To whom do you call?”

“I think that might be what’s driving me crazy. I can never remember. I wake as breathless and exhausted as if I really had been running through that forest, sometimes halfway through shouting his name—but I just can’t remember.”

His breath escaped in a rush. “Tamara, how does the dream make you feel?”

She stepped away from him and studied his face. “Are you a psychologist?”

“No.”

“Then I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.” She tried to pull her gaze from his familiar face. “Because I really don’t know you.”

She stiffened as her name was shouted from across the ice. “Tammy!”

She grimaced. “I hate when he calls me that.” She searched the eyes of her stranger again, and again she felt as if she’d just had a long-awaited reunion with someone she adored. “Are you real, or a part of my insanity?” No, don’t tell me, she thought suddenly. I don’t want to know. “I’d better go before Curt worries himself into a stroke.”

“Does he have the right to worry?”

She paused, frowning. “If you mean is he my husband, the answer is no. We’re close, but not in a romantic way. He’s more like a…bossy older brother.”

She turned and skated away across the ice toward Curt, but she felt his gaze on her back all the way there. She tried to glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there, but she caught no sight of him. Then she approached Curt and slowed her pace. He’d been hurrying across the ice, toward her.

He gripped her upper arm hard, and marched her off the edge of the ice. On the snowy ground she stumbled on her skates, but he continued propelling her at the same pace until they reached the nearest bench, and then he shoved her down onto the seat.

“Who the hell was that man?”

She shrugged, relieved that Curtis had seen him, too. “Just a stranger I met.”

“I want his name!”

She frowned at the authority and anger in his voice. Curt had always been bossy but this was going too far. “We didn’t get around to exchanging names, and what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know who that was?” She nodded. “The hell you don’t,” he exploded. He gripped her shoulders, pulled her to her feet and held her hard. He glared at her and would have frightened her if she hadn’t known him so well. “What did you think you were doing sneaking out alone at night like that? Well?”

“Skating! Ouch.” His fingers bit into her shoulders. “I was only skating, Curt. You know I can’t sleep. I thought some exercise—”

“Bull. You came out here to meet him, didn’t you?”

“Who? That nice man I was talking to? For God’s sake, Curtis, I—”

“Talking to? That’s a nice name for it. I saw you, Tammy. You were in his arms.”

Anger flared. “I don’t care if I had sex with the man in the middle of the rink, Curtis Rogers. I’m a grown woman and what I do is my business. You followed me here! I don’t care how worried Daniel gets, I will not put up with you spying on me, and I won’t defend my actions to you. Who do you think you are?”

His grip tightened and he shook her once—then again. “The truth, Tammy. Dammit, you’ll tell me the truth!” He shook her until her head wobbled on her shoulders. “You know who he was, don’t you? You came here to meet him, didn’t you? Didn’t you!”

“L-let me go…Curt-tis you’re-rr…hurt-ting…”

Her vision had blurred from the shaking and the fear that she didn’t know Curt as well as she thought she did—but not so much that she couldn’t see the dark form silhouetted beyond Curtis. She knew who stood there. She’d felt his presence…maybe even before she’d seen him. She felt something else, too. His blinding anger.

“Take your hands off her,” the stranger growled, his voice quivering with barely contained rage.

Curt went rigid. His hands fell to his sides and his eyes widened. Tamara took a step back, her hand moving to massage one tender, bruised shoulder. The heat of the stranger’s gaze on her made her look up. Those black eyes had followed the movement of her hand and his anger heated still more.

But how can I know that?

Curtis turned to face him, and took a step backward…away from the man’s imposing form. Well, at least she now knew he was real. She couldn’t take her gaze from him, nor he from her, it seemed. Her lips throbbed with the memory of his moving over them. She felt as if he knew it. She should say something, she thought vaguely. Sensible or not, she knew the man was about to throttle Curtis.

Before she could think of a suitable deterrent, though, Curtis croaked, “M-Marquand!” She’d never heard his voice sound the way it did.

Tamara felt the shock like a physical blow. Her gaze shot back to the stranger’s face again. He regarded Curtis now. A small, humorless smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded to Curt. A sudden move caught her eye, and she glimpsed Curt thrusting a hand inside his jacket, as the bad guys did on television when reaching for a hidden gun. She stiffened in panic, but relaxed when he pulled out only a small gold crucifix, which he held toward Marquand straight-armed, in a white-knuckled grip.

For a moment the stranger didn’t move. He stared fixedly at the golden symbol as if frozen. She watched him intently, shivering as her fingers involuntarily touched the spot on her throat, and she recalled the feel of those skimming incisors. Could he truly be a vampire?

The smile returned, sarcastic and bitter. He even chuckled, a sound like distant thunder rumbling from deep in his chest. He reached out to pluck the cross from Curt’s hand, and he turned it several times, inspecting it closely. “Impressive,” he said, and handed it back. Curt let it fall to the ground and Tamara sighed in relief, but only briefly.

She understood now what the little encounter between her and Marquand had been all about. She resented it. “You’re really Marquand?”

He sketched an exaggerated bow in her direction.

She couldn’t hold his gaze, embarrassed at her earlier responses to what, for him, had been only a game. “I can appreciate why you’re so angry with my guardian. After all, he’s been hounding you to death. However, it might interest you to know that I had no part in it. I’ve argued on your behalf until I’m hoarse with it. I won’t bother to do so anymore. I truly appreciate that you chose not to haul Daniel into court, but I would not suggest you attempt to use me to deliver your messages in future.”

She saw his brow cock up again, and she caught her breath. “Your guardian? You said so once before, but I—” His eyes widened. “St. Claire?”

“As if you weren’t aware of it before your little performance over there.” She shook her head, her fingers once again trailing over the tender spot on her throat. “I might even be able to see the humor in it, if I wasn’t already on the brink of—” She broke off and shook her head as her eyes filled, and her airways seemed suddenly blocked.

“Tamara, that isn’t what I—”

She stopped him by shaking her head violently. “I’ll see he gets your message. He may be an ass, Marquand, but I love him dearly. I don’t want him to bear the brunt of a lawsuit.”

She turned on her heel. “Tamara, wait! What happened to your parents? How did he—Tamara!” She ignored him, mounting the ice and speeding to the opposite side, where she’d left her duffel bag. She stumbled over the snow to snatch it up, and sat hard on the nearest bench, bending to unlace her skates. Her fingers shook. She could barely see for the tears clouding her vision.

Why was she reacting so strongly to the man’s insensitive ploy? Why did she feel such an acute sense of betrayal?

Because I’m losing my mind, that’s why.

Anger made her look up. She felt it as if it were a palpable thing. She yanked one skate off, stomped her foot into a boot and unlaced the other without looking. Her gaze was on Marquand, who had Curtis by the lapels now, and was shaking him the way Curt had shaken her a few moments ago. When he stopped he released Curt, shoving him away in the same motion. Curt landed on his backside in the snow. Marquand’s back was all she could see, but she heard his words clearly, though not with her ears. If I ever see you lay hands on her again, Rogers, you will pay for it with your life. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?

Sufficiently clear to me, Tamara thought. Curt seemed to be in no danger of being murdered at the moment. She put her skates in her bag and slipped away while they were still arguing.

Pain like a skewer running the length of his breastbone, Eric stroked the pink fur of the earmuffs she’d abandoned in her rush to get away from him. She’d left her coat, too. He carried it slung over one arm as he followed the two. Rogers had caught up to Tamara only a few minutes after she’d left. He kept pace with her angry strides, talking constantly in his efforts to end her anger.

“I’m sorry, Tammy. I swear to you, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you understand I was scared half out of my mind when I saw you in his arms? My God, don’t you know what could’ve happened?”

He scanned the bastard’s mind with his own, and found no indication that Tamara was in danger from him. He did the same after they’d entered Daniel St. Claire’s gloomy Victorian mansion, unwilling to leave her in their hands until he could be certain. And even then he couldn’t leave.

How the hell had St. Claire managed to become her guardian? When Eric had left her all those years ago she’d had two adoring parents who’d nearly lost their minds when they’d thought they might lose her. He could still see them—the small Miranda, a frail-looking woman with mouse brown hair and pretty green eyes brimming with love whenever she glanced at her adorable child. She’d been in hysterics that night at the hospital. Eric had seen her clutching the doctor’s white coat, shaking her head fast at what he was telling her as tears poured unchecked over her face. Her husband’s quiet devastation had been even more painful to witness. Kenneth had seemed deflated, sinking into a chair as if he’d never rise again, his blond hair falling over one eye.

What in hell had happened to them? He sank to a rotted, snow-dusted stump outside the mansion, his head in his hands. “I never should have left her,” he whispered into the night. “My God, I never should have left her.”

He remained there in anguish until the sky began to pale in the east. She now thought he’d only used her to make a point to St. Claire. She obviously had no conscious memory of him, nor knowledge of the connection between them. She called to him while in the throes of her subconscious mind—in a dream. She couldn’t even recall his name.

She paused outside Daniel’s office door to brace herself, her hand on the knob. Last night she’d avoided further confrontation with Curt by pleading exhaustion, a lie he’d believed since he knew how little sleep she’d been getting. This morning she’d deliberately remained in her room, feigning sleep when Daniel called from the doorway. She’d known he wouldn’t wake her if he thought she was finally sleeping. She’d waited until he left for DPI headquarters in White Plains, then had got herself ready and driven in late, in her battered VW Bug. Her day had been packed solid with the trivial work they gave her there. Her measly security clearance wasn’t high enough to allow her to work on anything important. Except for Jamey Bryant. He was important—to her, at least. He was only a class three clairvoyant in DPI’s book, but he was class one in hers. Besides, she loved the kid.

She sighed, smiling as she thought of him, then stiffened her spine for the coming encounter. She gripped the knob more tightly, then paused as Curt’s voice came through the wood.

“Look at her! I’m telling you, something is happening and you’re a fool if you don’t see it.”

“She’s confused,” Daniel said, sounding pained. “I admit, the proximity is having an unexpected effect on her, but she can’t be blamed for that. She has no idea what’s happening to her.”

“You think. I think she ought to be under constant observation.”

She grew angry fast, and threw the door open. “Do you have any idea how tired I am of being talked about like one of your cases?”

Both men looked up, startled. They exchanged uneasy glances and Daniel came out of his chair so fast it scraped over the tiled floor. “Now, Tam, what makes you think we were discussing you? Actually, we were talking about a case. One we obviously disagree about.”

She smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, really? Which case?”

“Sorry, Tammy,” Curt snapped. “Your security clearance isn’t high enough.”

“When has it ever been high enough?”

“Tam, please.” Daniel came toward her, folded her in a gentle embrace and kissed her cheek. He stood back and searched her face. “Are you all right?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I be?” His concern softened her somewhat, but she was still sick and tired of his coddling.

“Curt told me you met Marquand last night.” He shook his head. “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Everything he said to you, did to you. Did…” Daniel paled right before her eyes. “Did he touch you?”

“Had her crushed against him like he’d never let go,” Curt exploded. “I told you, Daniel—”

“I’d like to hear her tell me.” His pale blue eyes sought hers again. They dropped to the collar of her turquoise turtleneck, under the baggy white pullover sweater. She thought he would collapse.

Curtis seemed to notice her choice of attire at the same instant, and he caught his breath. “Tammy, my God, did he—”

“He most certainly did not! Do you two have any idea how insane you both sound?”

“Show me,” Daniel said softly.

She shook her head and expelled a rush of air. “All right, but first I want to explain something. Marquand seems to be very well aware of what you two think he is. This meeting at the rink last night, I think, was his way of sending you a message, and the message is lay off. I don’t think he was kidding.” She hooked her first two fingers beneath the neck of the shirt and pulled it down to show them the blue-and-violet bruise he’d left on her neck.

Daniel gasped. “Look closely, you two. There are no fang marks, just a…well, let’s be frank about it, a hickey. I let a perfect stranger give me a hickey, which should illustrate to you both just how much stress I’ve been under lately. Between this sleep disorder and your overprotectiveness, I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker.” Daniel was leaning closer, breathing down her neck as he inspected the bruise.

He satisfied himself and put a hand on her shoulder. “Did he hurt you, sweetheart?”

She couldn’t stop the little smile that question evoked, even though she erased it immediately. “Hurt her?” Curtis slapped one hand on the surface of the desk. “She was loving every minute of it.” He glared at her. “Don’t you realize what could’ve happened out there?”

“Of course I do, Curtis. He could’ve ripped my jugular open and sucked all my blood out and left me dying there on the ice with two holes in my throat!”

“If I hadn’t scared him off,” Curt began.

“Keep your story straight, Curt. It was he who scared you off. You were shaking me until my teeth rattled, if you remember correctly. If he hadn’t come to my defense I might have come into work wearing a neck brace today.”

Curt clamped his jaw shut under Daniel’s withering gaze. Daniel shifted his glance to Tamara again. “He came to your defense, you say?” She nodded. “Hmm.”

“And,” Tamara went on, almost as an afterthought, “he took the crucifix right out of Curt’s hand. It did not even burn a brand in his palm, or whatever it’s supposed to do. Doesn’t that prove anything?”

“Yeah.” Curt wore a sulking-child look on his face. “Proves vampires are not affected by religious symbols.”

Tamara rolled her eyes, then heard Daniel mutter, “Interesting.” She felt as if she, even with her strange symptoms, was the only sane person in the room.

“I know you think we’re overreacting to this, Tam,” Daniel told her. “But I don’t want you leaving the house after dark anymore.”

She bristled. “I will go where I want, when I want. I am twenty-six years old, Daniel, and if this nonsense doesn’t stop, then I’m…” She paused long enough to get his full attention before she blurted, “Moving out.”

“Tam, you wouldn’t—”

“Not unless you force me, Daniel. And if I find either you or Curt following me again, I’ll consider myself forced.” She felt a lump in her throat at the pained look on Daniel’s face. She made her tone gentler when she said, “I’m going home now. Good night.”

3

Her mental cries woke him earlier tonight than last. Eric stood less than erect and squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if doing so might clear his mind. Rising before sunset produced an effect in him not unlike what humans feel after a night of heavy drinking. Bracing one hand upon the smooth mahogany, his fingertips brushing the satin lining within, he focused on Tamara. He wanted only to comfort her. If he could ease the torment of her subconscious mind, though she might not be fully aware of it, she’d feel better. She might even be more able to sleep. He couldn’t be sure, though. Her situation was unique, after all.

He focused on her mind, still hearing her whispered pleas. Where are you, Eric? Why won’t you come to me? I’m lost. I need you.

He swallowed once, and concentrated every ounce of his power into a single invisible beam of thought, shooting through time and space, directed at her. I am here, Tamara.

I can’t see you!

The immediate response shocked him. He hadn’t been certain he could make her aware of his thoughts. Again he focused. I am near. I will come to you soon, love. Now you must rest. You needn’t call to me in your dreams anymore. I have heard—I will come.

He awaited a response, but felt none. The emotions that reached him, though, were tense, uncertain. He wanted to ease her mind, but he’d done all he could for the moment. The sun far above, though unseen by him, was not unfelt. It sapped his strength. He took a moment to be certain of his balance and crossed slowly to the hearth, bending to rekindle the sparks of this morning’s fire. That done, he used a long wooden match to ignite the three oil lamps posted around the room. With fragrant cherry logs emitting aromatic warmth, and the golden lamplight, the Oriental rugs over the concrete floor and the paintings he’d hung, the place seemed a bit less like a tomb in the bowels of the earth. He sat himself carefully in the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.

A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He’d seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He’d been enthralled—an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He’d talked about it until his poor mother’s ears were sore. He’d had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she’d fallen in love with a man she’d never met, and she’d teased and cajoled until he’d managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night’s performance. His sister had failed to see what caused him to be so impressed. “He is good,” she’d declared, fanning herself in the hot, crowded hall. “But I’ve seen better.” He smiled at the memory. She hadn’t been referring to the young man’s talents, but to his appearance. He’d caught her peering over her fan’s lacy edge at a skinny dandy she considered “better.”

He sighed. He’d thought it tragic that a man of such genius had died at thirty-five. Lately he’d wondered if it was so tragic, after all. Eric, too, had died at thirty-five, but in a far different manner. His was a living death. All things considered, he hadn’t convinced himself that Mozart had suffered the less desirable fate. Of the two of them, Mozart must be the most serene. He couldn’t possibly be the most alone. There were times when he wished the guillotine had got to him before Roland had.

Such maudlin thoughts on such a delightfully snowy night? I don’t recall you were all that eager to meet the blade, at the time.

Roland! Eric’s head snapped up, buzzing with energy now that the sun had set. He rose and hurriedly released the locks, to run through the hall and take the stairs two at a time. He yanked the front door open just as his dearest friend mounted the front steps. The two embraced violently, and Eric drew Roland inside.

Roland paused in the center of the room, cocking his head and listening to Mozart’s music. “What’s this? Not a recording, surely! It sounds as if the orchestra were right here, in this very room!”

Eric shook his head, having forgotten that the last time he’d seen Roland he hadn’t yet installed the state-of-the-art stereo system, with speakers in every room. “Come, I’ll show you.” He drew his friend toward the equipment, stacked near the far wall, and withdrew a CD from its case. Roland turned the disc in his hand, watching the light dance in vivid rainbows of green, blue and yellow.

“They had no such inventions where I have been.” He returned the disc to its case, and replaced it on the shelf.

“Where have you been, you recluse? It’s been twenty years.” Roland had not aged a day. He still had the swarthy good looks he’d had as a thirty-two-year-old mortal and the build of an athlete.

“Ahh, paradise. A tiny island in the South Pacific, Eric. No meddling humans to contend with. Just simple villagers who accept what they see instead of feeling the need to explain it. I tell you, Eric, it’s a haven for our kind. The palms, the sweet smell of the night—”

“How did you live?” Eric knew he sounded doubtful. He’d always despised the loneliness of this existence. Roland embraced it. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to tapping the veins of innocent natives.”

Roland’s brows drew together. “You know better. The animals there keep me in good stead. The wild boar are particularly—”

“Pigs’ blood!” Eric shouted. “I think the sun must have penetrated your coffin! Pigs’ blood! Ach!”

“Wild boars, not pigs.”

“Great difference, I’ll wager.” Eric urged Roland toward the velvet-covered antique settee. “Sit. I’ll get refreshment to restore your senses.”

Roland watched suspiciously as Eric moved behind the bar, to the small built-in refrigerator. “What have you, a half dozen freshly killed virgins stored in that thing?”

Eric threw back his head and laughed, realizing just how long it had been since he’d done so. He withdrew a plastic bag from the refrigerator, and rummaged beneath the bar for glasses. When he handed the drink to Roland, he felt himself thoroughly perused.

“Is it the girl’s nightly cries that trouble you so?”

Eric blinked. “You’ve heard her, too?”

“I hear her cries when I look inside your mind, Eric. They are what brought me to you. Tell me what this is about.”

Eric sighed, and took a seat in a claw-footed, brocade cushioned chair near the fireplace. Few coals glowed in this hearth. He really ought to kindle it. Should some nosy human manage to scale the gate and breach the security systems, they might well notice that smoke spiraled from the chimney, but no fire warmed the grate.

Reading his thoughts, Roland set his glass aside. “I’ll do that. You simply talk.”

Eric sighed again. Where to begin? “I came to know of a child, right after you left last time. A beautiful girl, with raven curls and cherub’s cheeks and eyes like glossy bits of coal.”

“One of the Chosen?” Roland sat forward.

“Yes. She was one of those rare humans with a slight psychic connection to the undead, although, like most, she was completely unaware of it. I’ve found that there are ways of detecting the Chosen, aside from our natural awareness of them, you know.”

Roland looked around from where he’d hunkered before the hearth. “Really?”

Eric nodded. “All those humans who can be transformed, those we call Chosen, share a common ancestor. Prince Vlad the Impaler.” He glanced sharply at Roland. “Was he the first?”

Roland shook his head. “I know your love of science, Eric, but some things are better left alone. Go on with your story.”

Eric felt a ripple of exasperation at Roland’s tight-lipped stance on the subject. He swallowed his irritation and continued. “They also share a rare blood antigen. We all had it, as humans. It’s known as Belladonna. Only those with both these unlikely traits can become vampires. They are the Chosen.”

“Doesn’t seem like an earth-shattering discovery to me, Eric. We’ve always been able to sense the Chosen ones, instinctively.”

“But other humans haven’t. Some of them have now discovered the same things I have. DPI knows about it. They can pinpoint Chosen humans, and then watch them, and wait for one of us to approach. I believe that is precisely what has happened with Tamara.”

“Perhaps you need to back up a bit, old friend,” Roland said gently.

Eric pushed one hand through his black hair, lifting it from his shoulders and clenching a fist in the tangles. “I couldn’t stay away from her, Roland. God help me, I tried, but I couldn’t. Something in her tugged at me. I used to look in on her as she slept. You should’ve seen her then. Sooty lashes on her rosy cheeks, lips like a small pink bow.” He looked up, feeling absurdly defensive. “I never meant her harm, you know. How could I? I adored the child.”

Roland frowned. “This should not trouble you. It happens all the time, this unseen bond between our kind and the Chosen. Many was the night I peered in upon you as a boy. Rarely to find you asleep, though. Usually, you were awake and teasing your poor sister.”

Eric absorbed that information with dawning understanding. “You never told me. I’d thought you only came to me when I was in danger.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t discussed this matter before, Eric. It simply never came up. You only saw me those times you were in danger. There was little time for discretion when a coach was about to flatten you, or when I pulled you spluttering from the Channel.”

“Then you felt the same connection to me that I felt for her?”

“I felt a connection, yes. An urge to protect. I can’t say it’s the same because I haven’t experienced what you felt for the child. But, Eric, many young ones over the centuries have had a vampire as a guardian and never even known it. After all, we don’t go to them to harm, or transform, or even make contact. Only to watch over, and protect.”

Eric’s shoulders slumped forward, so great was his relief. He shook his head once and resumed his story. “I woke one night to sense her spirit fading. She was slipping away so steadily I was barely able to get to her in time.” The same pain he’d felt then swept over him now, and his voice went lower. “I found her in hospital, her tiny face whiter than the sheets tucked around her. Her lips…they were blue. I overheard a doctor telling her parents that she’d lost too much blood to survive, and that her type was so rare no donors had been located. He told them to prepare themselves. She was dying, Roland.”

Roland swore softly.

“So you see my dilemma. A child I’d come to love lay dying, and I knew I alone had the power to save her.”

“You didn’t transform her! Not a small child, Eric. She’d be better dead than to exist as we must. Her young mind could never grasp—”

“I didn’t transform her. I probably couldn’t if I’d tried. She hadn’t enough blood left to mingle with mine. I saw another option, though. I simply opened my vein and—”

“She drank from you?”

Eric closed his eyes. “As if she were dying of thirst. I suppose, in a manner, she was. Her vitality began to return at once. I was ecstatic.”

“You had right to be.” Roland grinned now. “You saved the child. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before, Eric, but apparently, it worked.” He paused, regarding Eric intensely. “It did work, did it not? The child lives?”

Eric nodded. “Before I left her bedside, Roland, she opened her eyes and looked at me, and I swear to you, I felt her probing my mind. When I turned to go she gripped my hand in her doll-sized one and she whispered my name. ‘Eric,’ she said. ‘Don’t go just yet. Don’t leave me.”’

“My God.” Roland sank back onto the settee, blinking as if he were thunderstruck. “Did you stay?”

“I couldn’t refuse her. I stayed the night at her bedside, though I had to hide on the window ledge every time someone entered the room. When they discovered the improvement in her, the place was a madhouse for a time. But they soon saw that she would be fine, and decided to let the poor child rest.”

“And then?”

Eric smiled softly. “I held her on my lap. She stayed awake, though she needed to rest, and insisted I invent story upon story to tell her. She made me sing to her, Roland. I’d never sung to anyone in my existence. Yet the whole time she was inside my mind, reading my every thought. I couldn’t believe the strength of the connection between us. It was stronger even than the one between you and me.”

Roland nodded. “Our blood only mixed. Yours was nearly pure in her small body. It’s no wonder…What happened?”

“Toward dawn she fell asleep, and I left her. I felt it would only confuse the sweet child to have contact with one of us. I took myself as far away as I could, severed all contact with her. I refused even to think of seeing her again, until now. I thought the mental bond would weaken with time and distance. But it hasn’t. I’ve only been back in the western hemisphere a few months, and she calls to me every night. Something happened to her parents after I’d left her, Roland. I don’t know what, but she ended up in the custody of Daniel St. Claire.”

“He’s DPI!” Roland shot to his feet, stunned.

“So is she,” Eric muttered, dropping his forehead into his hand.

“You cannot go to her, Eric. You mustn’t trust her, it could be your end.”

“I don’t trust her. As for going to her…I have no choice about that.”

Even while Tamara was arguing with Daniel and Curtis, he’d been on her mind. All day she had been unable to get that mysterious stranger—who didn’t seem a stranger at all—out of her thoughts. She’d only managed to cram him far to the back, to allow herself to concentrate on her work. Now that she was home, in the secure haven of her room, and now that she’d wakened from her after-work nap, she felt refreshed, energized and free to turn last night’s adventure over in her mind.

She paused and frowned. Since when did she wake refreshed? She usually woke trembling, breathless and afraid. Why was tonight different? She glanced out at the snow-spotted sky, and realized it was fully dark. She normally woke from her nightmare just at dusk. She struggled to remember. It seemed to her she had had the dream—or she’d begun to. She remembered the forest and the mists, the brambles and darkness. She remembered calling that elusive name….

And hearing an answer. Yes. From very far away she’d heard an answer; a calm, deep voice, full of comfort and strength, had promised to come to her. He’d told her to rest. She’d felt uncertain, until the music came. Soft strains she thought to be Mozart—something from Elvira Madigan—soothed her taut nerves.

She allowed a small smile. Maybe she was getting past this thing, whatever it was. The smile died when she wondered if that was true, or whether she was only exchanging one problem for another. The man from the ice rink filled her mind again. Marquand—the one Daniel insisted was a vampire. He’d kissed her and, much as she hated to admit it, she’d responded to that kiss with every cell in her body.

She rose slowly from her bed and tightened the single sash that held the red satin robe around her. She leaned over her dressing table and examined the bruised skin of her neck in the mirror. Her fingers touched the spot. She recalled the odd, swooning sensation she’d experienced when he’d sucked the skin between his teeth, and wondered at it.

Lack of sleep, and too much stress.

But he knew my name….

Simple enough to answer that one. He’d done a little research on the man who’d been harassing him. Daniel was her legal guardian. It was a matter of public record.

Then why did he seem so surprised when I told him that?

Good acting. He must have known. He just assumed I’d be the easiest, most effective way to get his point across.

She frowned at her reflection, not liking the look of disappointment she saw there. She tried to erase it. “He only wanted to scare Daniel into laying off, so he followed me to the rink for that little performance. Imagine him going so far as to actually…”

She pressed her palm to the mark on her throat, and turned from the mirror. She’d failed to convince herself that was all there had been to it. So many things about the man defied explanation. Why did he seem so familiar to her? How had he made her feel as if he were reading her thoughts? What about the way she’d seemed to hear what he said, when he hadn’t even spoken? And what about this…this longing?

Blood flooded her cheeks and a fist poked into her stomach. Desire. She recognized the feeling for what it was. Foolish though it was, Tamara was lusting after a man she didn’t know—a man she felt as if she’d known forever. She had to admit, at least to herself, that the man they called Marquand stirred reactions in her as no other man ever had.

As she stood she slowly became aware of a peculiar light-headedness stealing over her. Not dizziness, but rather a floating sensation, though her bare feet still connected her to the floor. A warm whirlwind stirred around her ankles, twisting up her legs, swishing the hem of the robe so the satin brushed over her calves.

She blinked slowly, pressing her palm to her forehead, waiting for the feeling to pass. The French doors blew open all at once, as if from a great gust, and the wind that surged through felt warm, heady…. It smelled faintly of bay rum.

Impossible. It’s twenty degrees out there.

Yet it lingered; the warmth and the scent. She felt a pull—a mental magnet she was powerless to resist. She faced the heated blast, even as it picked up force. The scarlet satin sailed behind her. It twisted around her legs like a twining serpent.

Like the mist in my dream.

Her hair billowed around her face. The robe’s sash snapped against her thighs. She moved toward the doors even as she told herself not to. She resisted, but the pull was stronger than her own will. Her feet scuffed over the soft carpet, then scraped over the cold, wet wood floor of the balcony. The whirlwind surrounded her, propelled her to the rail. She heard the doors slam behind her, and didn’t even turn. Her eyes probed the darkness below. Would this unseen hand pull her right over? She didn’t think she’d be able to stop it if it wanted to.

God, what is happening to me?

She resisted and the wind stiffened. The sash whipped loose and the robe blew back. No part of her went untouched by this tempest. Like invisible hands it swirled around her thighs, between them. Her breasts quivered. Her nipples stood erect and pulsing. She throbbed with heightened awareness, her flesh hypersensitive to the touch of the wind as it mercilessly stroked her body. Her heart raced, and before she could stop herself she’d let her head fall back, closed her eyes and moaned softly at the intensity of the sensations.

All at once it simply stopped. The warmth and the essence of bay rum lingered, but that intimate whirlwind died slowly, giving her control of her body once more. She didn’t know what it had been. A near breakdown? A mental lapse of some sort? Whatever, it was over.

Shaken, she pushed her hands through her hair, uncaring that her robe still hung gaping, having been driven down, baring one shoulder. She turned to go back inside.

He stood so close she nearly bumped into his massive chest. Her head came up fast and her breath caught in her throat. His black eyes seemed molten as they raked her. The mystery wind stirred gently. She could see silver glints behind those onyx eyes, and she felt their heat touch her as the wind had when his gaze moved slowly upward from her bare feet. She felt it scorching her as it lifted, over her legs. The hot gaze paused at the mound of black curls at the apex of her thighs and she thought she’d go up in flames. Finally it moved again, with deliberate slowness over her stomach. She commanded her arms to come to life—to pull her robe together. They did not respond. His eyes seemed to devour her breasts, and she knew her nipples stiffened under that heated stare. The man licked his lips and she very nearly groaned aloud. She closed her eyes, but they refused to stay that way. They opened again, against her will. They focused on his, though she didn’t want to see the lust in his eyes. Finally he looked at her throat. The bruise he’d put on her there seemed to come alive with his gaze. It tingled, and she felt the muscle beneath the skin twitch spasmodically. She saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again they locked with hers, refusing to allow her to look away.

Her arms regained feeling and she jerked the robe together in a move that showed her anger. “You,” she whispered. She felt fear and confusion. More than that, she felt sheer joy to see him again. She refused to let him see it. “What are you doing here?”

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