It was a perfectly logical explanation, but it didn’t make her feel any less lonely. It would have been nice to have a sister she could share confidences with.
What wasn’t logical was the fact that, in over twenty years, her parents hadn’t changed at all. She told herself she was being foolish, that she was overreacting, imagining things. But there was no arguing with the proof of her own eyes. They both looked exactly the way they had when Cara was a little girl. Her mother never gained or lost an ounce. Her face was as smooth and clear as it had always been. The same was true of her father. Roshan DeLongpre looked like a man in his mid-thirties, and he had looked that way for as long as Cara could remember. He had taken her to the movies one night last week and they had run into a couple of Cara’s acquaintances. Before she could introduce her father, her friend, Cindy, had taken her aside and asked how long she had been dating that “good looking older man.”
Cara stared into her drink, wishing she had the nerve to ask her parents why Di Giorgio aged and they didn’t, why their lifestyle was so different from everyone else’s. She knew about their aversion to the sun and their liquid diet, but why did that keep them from other normal activities? Why did they encourage her to make friends, but discourage her from bringing them home? And why did they keep the door to their bedroom locked during the day? What were they doing in there?
She looked up as a man sat down beside her. He smiled, then pointed with his chin at her drink. “Can I buy you another?”
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a hand. “Hey, no problem. You just looked a little down. I thought you might like some company.”
He had a nice voice, blond hair, and dark brown eyes. What harm could it do to share a drink with him?
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he coaxed, as if sensing her indecision.
“Well, I would like another.”
“What are you drinking?” he asked, signaling for the bartender.
“A virgin pineapple daiquiri.”
He ordered her drink and a scotch and water for himself, then held out his hand. “I’m Anton.”
“Cara.” She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. Though she had been on her share of dates, she tended to be shy around strangers. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she had never forgotten her father’s warning that he had “ruthless enemies.” Still, she told herself there was nothing to worry about. Frank was here.
Anton’s grip was firm, his skin warm. “Do you come here often?”
“No, this is my first time. I was just passing by and I heard the music and…” She shrugged. “I thought it might cheer me up.”
“If you tell me what’s got you feeling so blue, I might be able to help.”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for offering.”
Cara glanced out at the dance floor as the lights dimmed. The music, which had been upbeat, changed to something slow and sensual with a dark, sexual undertone. It called to something earthy deep within her.
“Would you like to dance?” Anton asked.
Again, she hesitated a moment before agreeing.
Anton took her by the hand and led her out onto the floor. “So,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s see. What do you like to do for fun? Do you work, or are you an heiress? Who’s your favorite singer? And, most important of all, are you a chocoholic like every other woman I’ve ever met?”
She laughed. “Guilty on the chocolate,” she said, and then frowned as she realized she had never seen her mother eat or drink anything chocolate. Even the most rigid dieters cheated every now and then.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“No. I work at the library, and I don’t really have a favorite singer.” She didn’t tell him that she was, in fact, an heiress. After all, he was a stranger and she wasn’t a fool. Not that she had anything to worry about, not with Frank Di Giorgio sitting at the far end of the bar watching her like a hawk.
“You’re a librarian?” Anton exclaimed.
“Is something wrong with that?”
“No, no, but…well, you’re a knock-out. I sort of thought you might be a model or an actress.”
Cara smiled, flattered in spite of herself. “Disappointed?”
“Not at all.”
When the music ended, he escorted her back to their seats. Their drinks were waiting for them. Cara sipped hers, thinking how glad she was she had stopped in here tonight. Di Girorgio had tried to dissuade her, but she had insisted. Once inside, she almost hadn’t stayed, it was such a strange place. For one thing, she was the only one in the place who wasn’t wearing black. Voodoo masks and ancient Indian burial masks decorated the walls. Tall black candles flickered in wrought iron sconces, casting eerie shadows over the faces of the patrons; a good number of them wore long black cloaks or capes with hoods.
“So,” Anton said, “what do you think of The Nocturne?”
“I’m not sure. Why is everyone wearing black?”
“This is a Goth hangout.”
“Oh! Silly me, I should have guessed.”
He grinned at her. “I take it you’re not into the Goth scene.”
“Not really,” she replied, and then frowned, thinking that her father would be right at home in a place like this. He had an affinity for dark clothing, and he had a long black cloak. But it was more than that. From time to time, she had sensed a darkness in her father that she couldn’t explain and didn’t understand.
Cara finished her drink, then looked at her watch, surprised to find it was so late. “I should be going,” she said reluctantly. “My folks will be worried.”
“Don’t tell me you still live at home with mom and dad!”
Cara shrugged. “I like it there.” And she did, although sometimes, especially when the days were long and the nights were short, it was like living alone.
“One more dance?” he coaxed.
“I don’t think so. I really need to go,” she said, and then wondered why she had to be home before midnight. She wasn’t a child anymore. Why did she still have a curfew? Lately, she’d had so many questions about the way she lived. Why did she still live at home? Why did she still need a bodyguard? She was twenty-two years old and no one had ever tried to kidnap her or molest her or so much as given her a dirty look. Of course, Di Giorgio was probably responsible for that. A man would have to be crazy to try anything with The Hulk lurking in the background. Still, maybe it was time to sit her folks down and ask the questions that had been plaguing her more and more in the last few months.
“Thank you for the drink and the dance,” she said, rising.
“Any chance you’ll be here tomorrow night about this time?” he asked.
She tilted her head to the side, considering it, and then smiled. “I’d say the odds were good.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Leaning back against the bar, Anton Bouchard watched his enemy’s daughter leave the bar, followed by a big bear of a man who looked as if he could easily take on every other man in the place without breaking a sweat.
Anton grunted softly, thinking how pleased his mother would be when he told her he had put the first part of her plan into operation.
If you loved this Amanda Ashley book,
then you won’t want to miss any of
her other fabulous vampire stories
from Zebra Books!
Following is a sneak peak…
DESIRE AFTER DARK
Cursed to an eternity of darkness,
Antonio Battista has wandered the earth,
satisfying his hunger with countless women,
letting none find a place in his heart.
But Victoria Cavendish is different.
“You wish something?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Good night.”
She started past him only to be stayed by the light touch of his
hand on her shoulder. She could have walked on by. He wasn’t holding her, but she stopped, her heart rate accelerating when she looked up and met his gaze.
Time slowed, could have ceased to exist for all she knew or cared. She was aware of nothing but the man standing beside her. His dark blue gaze melded with hers, igniting a flame that started deep within her and spread with all the rapidity of a wildfire fanned by a high wind.
Heart pounding, she looked at him, and waited.
He didn’t make her wait too long.
He murmured to her softly in a language she didn’t understand, then swept her into his arms and kissed her, a long searing kiss that burned away the memory of every other man she had ever known, until she knew only him, saw only him. Wanted only him.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing her lips, sending flames along every nerve, igniting a need so primal, so volatile, she thought she might explode. She pressed her body to his, hating the layers of cloth that separated his flesh from hers. She had never reacted to a man’s kisses like this before, never felt such an overwhelming need to touch and be touched. A distant part of her mind questioned her ill-conceived desire for a man she hardly knew, but she paid no heed. Nothing mattered now but his arms holding her close, his mouth on hers.
Battista groaned low in his throat. He had to stop this now, while he could, before his lust for blood overcame his desire for her sweet flesh. The two were closely interwoven, the one fueling the other. He knew he should let her go before it was too late, before his hunger overcame his good sense, before he succumbed to the need burning through him. He could scarcely remember the last time he had embraced a woman he not regarded as prey. But this woman was more than mere sustenance. Her body fit his perfectly, her voice sang to his soul, her gaze warmed the cold dark places in his heart, shone like the sun in the depths of his hell-bound spirit.
He felt his fangs lengthen, his body tense as the hunger surged through him, a relentless thirst that would not long be denied.
Battista tore his mouth from hers. Turning his head away, he took several slow, deep breaths until he had regained control of the beast that dwelled within him.
“Antonio?” Vicki asked breathlessly. “Is something wrong?”
He took another deep breath before he replied, “No, my sweet.” Summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, he put her away from him. “It has been a long night. You should get some sleep.”
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with confusion. He expected her to sleep, now?
He forced a smile. “Go to bed, my sweet one.”
Vicki stared at him a moment; then, with a nod, she left the room. That was the second time he had kissed her and then backed away. Was there something wrong with the way she kissed? But no, he had been as caught up in the moment as she. She couldn’t have been mistaken about that.
She closed the bedroom door behind her, then stood there, trying to sort out her feelings. She knew very little about Mr. Antonio Battista. She had no idea where he came from, who he was, if he had a family or friends, or what he did for a living. But one thing she did know: no other man had ever affected her the way he did, intrigued her the way he did, made her want him the way he did.
Tomorrow morning, she thought. Tomorrow morning she would find out more about the mysterious Mr. Battista.
NIGHT’S KISS
The Dark Gift has brought Roshan DeLongpre
a lifetime of bitter loneliness—
until, by chance, he comes
across a picture of Brenna Flanagan.
After awhile, Brenna lost interest in the images she was watching. Instead, she found herself sliding glances at Roshan. He had a strong profile, rugged and masculine.
She wondered if he liked being a vampire. He had told her he had no vampire friends. It seemed unlikely that he would have mortal friends. Did he then spend all his time alone?
She knew little of what that was like, could not imagine living without friends or family for hundreds of years. Such a lonely existence. She wondered why anyone would want to live like that.
“Brenna?” His voice scattered her thoughts and she realized she had been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything,” she replied. “I do not belong in this time or this place.” She stroked the cat’s head. “I do not think I will ever belong.”
“Sure you will. It might take a little while for you to get used to it, but you’re young. You’ll learn.”
A single tear slid down her cheek and dripped onto the cat’s head.
“Ah, Brenna.” Reaching for her, he drew her into his arms. At first, she held herself away from him but then, with a sigh, she collapsed against his chest. With a low hiss, Morgana slipped out from between them and curled up in front of the hearth.
Brenna’s tears dampened his shirt. Her scent filled his nostrils, not the scent of her blood, but the scent of her skin, and her sorrow. He stroked her hair, ran his hand down her spine, felt her shiver in response to his touch.
Placing one finger under her chin, he tilted her head back, his gaze meeting hers.
Though a maiden innocent in the ways of men, her eyes revealed that she recognized the heat in his.
She shook her head as he leaned toward her. “No.”
“No?”
“Kissing,” she said with a grimace. “I like it not.”
“Indeed?” He cupped her head in his hands. “Perhaps I can change your mind,” he murmured, and claimed her lips with his own.
Eyes wide open, Brenna braced her hands against his shoulders, prepared to push him away, but at the first touch of his mouth on hers, all thought of pushing him away fled her mind. His lips were cool yet heat flooded her being, arousing a fluttering in her stomach she had never felt before, making her press herself against him.
Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around his waist, wanting to hold him closer, tighter. She melted against him, hoping the kiss would never end, a distant part of her mind trying to determine why John Linder’s kiss had not filled her with liquid fire the way Roshan’s did. But it was only a vague thought, quickly gone, as Roshan deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping over her lower lip. She gasped at the thrill of pleasure that engulfed her, moaned softly as he repeated the gesture.
She was breathless when he took his lips from her. Lost in a world of sensation, her head still reeling, she stared up at him.
“More,” she whispered.
“I thought you didn’t like kissing.”
“I was never kissed like this.” Feeling suddenly bold, she slid her hand around his nape. “Kiss me again.”
A WHISPER OF ETERNITY
When artist Tracy Warner purchases
the rambling seaside house
built above Dominic St. John’s hidden lair,
he recognizes in her spirit the woman he has
loved countless times over the centuries.
She wasn’t surprised when Dominic appeared in the doorway. He wore a long black cloak over a black shirt and black trousers. His feet were encased in soft black leather boots. Though she had refused to admit it, she had known, on some deep level of awareness, that this was his house.
He inclined his head in her direction. “Good evening. I trust you found everything you needed.”
“Yes.” Her fingers clenched around the brush. It was hard to speak past the lump of fear in her throat. “Thank you.” Though why she should thank him was beyond her. He had brought her here without her consent, after all.
He took a step into the room.
She took a step back.
He lifted one brow. “Are you afraid of me now?
“How did I get here? Why am I here?”
“I brought you here because I wanted you here.”
“Why didn’t I wake up?”
“Because I did not wish you to.”
The fear in her throat moved downward and congealed in her stomach. She started to ask another question, but before she could form the wo
rds, he was standing in front of her, only inches away. She gasped, startled. She hadn’t seen him move.
“I will not hurt you, my best beloved one.”
“Where are we?”
“This is my house.”
“But where are we?”
“Ah. We are in a distant corner of Maine.”
“So, I’m your prisoner now.”
“You are my guest.”
“A guest who can’t leave. Sounds like prison to me.”
“We need time to get to know each other again. I will not be shut out of your life this time. I will not share you with another. This time, you will believe. This time, you will be mine.”
“So you’re going to keep me locked up inside this house?” She stared down at her hands, noticing, for the first time, that she was holding the brush so tightly, her knuckles were white. “And what if I believe and I still don’t want you? Still don’t want to be what you say you are?”
“Then I will let you go.”
AFTER SUNDOWN
Edward Ramsey has spent his life hunting vampires.
Now he is one of them.
Yet Edward’s human conscience—and his heart—
compel him to save beautiful Kelly Anderson.
After dinner, they drove to the beach and walked barefoot along the shore. It was a calm, clear night. The moon painted ever-changing silver shadows on the water.
Dead Sexy Page 28
