by Marina Myles
“Draga?” she echoed.
“In Romanian the word means ‘darling.’ ”
She studied her feet. “But we hardly know one another, Mr. Starkov.”
“You’re right.” He looked embarrassed. “Forgive my boldness. But please, call me Drago.”
“Very well . . . Drago.” His name on her tongue thrilled her.
“My apologies for making you wait in this wretched alley,” he said. “It was the only way I could assure we’d be left alone by reporters and my fans.”
“Where are your fans?” she asked.
“At the official stage door, on the other side of the theater.”
“You don’t like reporters?”
He shook his head. “They’re like famished vultures, ready to nibble away at my illusions until all of my secrets are revealed.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
Silence ensued, exaggerating the fact that Rose was alone with a strange man in a dark alley.
“It’s late,” the gallant Romanian admonished. “May I escort you home?”
She hesitated. “You may walk me as far as Twenty-Third Street. I’ll take a cab the rest of the way.”
He nodded—and as they strolled along the bustling avenue, their striking appearance turned heads: Drago, with his polished good looks, and Rose, with the enchantment he spawned in her.
It was like a dream:
The warm breeze fluttering soft tendrils of hair about her face.
The fragrance of the roses wafting through the air.
And the feel of Drago’s hot touch on her arm.
She felt very grown up. But after a few moments, she was compelled to make a confession. “I should tell you the truth, Drago. Following my appearance at your first show, I received a great deal of criticism.”
He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Was it that sordid of a place to be?”
“I didn’t think so,” she said quickly. “But magic shows have a particular reputation among New Yorkers.”
“What sort of reputation?” He seemed puzzled.
She hesitated. “People claim there is no such thing as real magic. They say magicians are charlatans. Isn’t that preposterous? You, on the other hand, are different. Skeptics continue to be bewildered by your illusions.”
“I’m glad.”
Hesitating, she added, “Unfortunately, other people are accusing you of being a dark sorcerer.”
To her surprise, he smiled. “And what is your opinion of my tricks, young Rose?”
“I think you’re the most astounding magician I’ve ever seen. And if you are capable of real magic, people should refrain from criticizing you.”
“You’re refreshingly honest.”
She looked at the ground. “Did I say too much?”
“Not at all. Over the years I have come to appreciate honesty. Now it’s my turn to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“Did you enjoy the show this evening?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes! It was incredible. I suspect that you used more than one key, but I don’t understand how you transported me to your cage. There wasn’t a trap door in sight!”
“Ah,” he said guardedly, “illusions are not always done with the proverbial trap door.”
She went on. “I was also astonished at how you knew I was in the audience.”
“How do you think I was aware?” The corner of his lip curled up mysteriously.
“My adoptive sister suggested you hypnotized me last night—and willed me to come back to you. Unthinkable, isn’t it?” Once the words were out of her mouth, she erupted into nervous laughter. Drago, however, remained quiet.
“You’re laughing, but how do you know Olivia is incorrect?” he finally said.
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “How do you know her name?”
He made no reply, but took her by the shoulders. Exhilaration rippled up her spine.
“More importantly, did you hypnotize me?” she asked softly.
“If you’re enchanted, maybe it can be attributed to the necklace I gave you,” Drago said. “Are you wearing it?”
She blushed all over again. “Yes.”
“Excellent. If you trust me, good things will come from it. As for your question about being hypnotized, I told you: a magician never reveals his secrets.”
“Never?” she asked. “How can I trust you if you don’t confide in me?”
“You’re beautiful and intelligent,” he said in a sultry tone. He moved in closer to her, their noses mere inches apart. “Perhaps if you agree to have dinner with me tomorrow evening, I’ll explain one of my tricks.”
She could feel his very soul sweep forward. And as his masculine scent encircled her, she leaned into him. “I don’t know . . .”
“Please consider it. Say, Rockwell’s at eight o’clock?”
“Yes,” she heard herself murmur. Gazing into his bewitching blue-green eyes, she nearly swooned. If she were ever to wish for anyone to hypnotize her, it would be Drago. He was standing so close to her . . . would he kiss her?
Her stare shifted to his moist mouth and hollowed cheeks, and she had never wanted anything so badly in her life. To her disappointment, he took a step back—staring at her as if she were an object he was forbidden to touch. “I’ll send a taxi around for you.” He paused. “Before we part ways, Rose, I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?” she asked, her cheeks still flushed from their close contact.
“Over the past three years, you received unexplained birthday gifts, correct?”
“Yes.” She sucked in a breath.
“Did you wonder who sent them?”
The expensive dress. The pearl necklace. The charm bracelet. Rose remembered every one, and cherished them equally. “From you?” She could barely get the words out.
Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“But why? And how?”
Ignoring her questions, he simply said, “Even as a girl of seventeen you intrigued me. I realized you were much too young for any sort of relationship, but I never stopped thinking of you. You have no idea how far I’ve come to be with you.”
“You knew me when I was seventeen?”
“Not exactly.”
Confusion whirled in Rose’s head. She felt dizzy . . . intoxicated. Yet she sensed it wouldn’t do any good to ask Drago more questions.
Drago summoned a taxi with an ear-piercing whistle, then took her hands in his. “Another gift waits for you when you return home. This one celebrates your bridge into womanhood. It’s unlike the other, extravagant presents, but I believe its simplicity will hold a special value for you.”
Before Rose climbed into the cab, Drago paid the driver in advance, then planted a kiss on her cheek. After the motorcar pulled away, she watched his stately figure disappear behind her.
Jostling gently in the rear of the vehicle, she asked herself why she wasn’t repelled by the magician’s fixation for her. Then again, wouldn’t any young woman on the brink of adulthood find the attention exhilarating? Not only was Drago incredibly handsome, he was financially successful and undeniably talented.
Following a ten-minute ride, the cab stopped in front of the Marconi home. Rose alighted and raced to the doorstep—to the spot where all her other birthday presents had been waiting for her in years past. There on the stone step sat a package. She ripped the brown parchment paper away in furious motions. Inside sat the tin box Drago had used in tonight’s ‘bait and switch’ illusion.
When Rose lifted its lid, she spotted the key that had unlocked both cages.
Marveling at how Drago could have transported them here, Rose hugged the roses and the tin box close to her chest. All the while, her nerves prickled at the possibility that he had performed real magic.
CHAPTER 7
Rose.
Drago sat in the darkness and repeated her name in his mind.
Ironically, darkness had become a way of
life for him. It encouraged him, propelled him. Even comforted him. After all, it was from the depths of night that he drew the strength to perform his illusions.
Drago was nocturnal—and when he awoke from a day’s sleep, he was always forced to shake off the heavy fog of lethargy. If he didn’t, fatigue would beat him down and snatch away his energy.
Of course, being a demon didn’t mean that he was forbidden to go into the sunlight. He would not die a horrible, consuming death as would a vampire. It was just that he had become a demon at night all those years ago—which meant he summoned most of his energy after the sun set now. As part of his routine, he slept away the daylight hours in his tiny apartment located near the theater district. It was a place of refuge inside which he’d installed black window curtains. Drago owned grander accommodations of course, but he liked that this apartment was within walking distance of the Sunshine Theater. And he liked the sound of people around him. Furthermore, he needn’t worry about visitors here. His manager, Archibald McMillan, and his assistant, Katherine, knew better than to disturb him at home—as did the apartment building’s superintendent, Mrs. Kravitz. She was a lonely widow who seemed starry-eyed around him even though he’d never cast a spell around her.
This was Drago’s schedule: he would rise every evening at six, prepare to leave for the theater, and then perfect his illusions once he arrived extra early for his eight o’clock show. Katherine had been with him for nearly two years and, thankfully, she asked no questions. They’d never enjoyed a love affair—and he couldn’t figure out why she stayed with him.
Perhaps she remained to ride on the coattails of his success. Or maybe she was loyal because she hoped to share his bed someday.
It was no matter. Drago needed her only in the most practical sense.
Glad that the theater was dark today—as it was every Monday—he rose with the familiar fog of fatigue. After striding to the window, he glanced beyond the thick curtains. The last slice of sunlight disappeared over the skyline. He tried to remember a time when he could watch the sun rise and set in the normal span of a day. But that had been so long ago.
Now among the privileges Drago enjoyed was shape-shifting. Transforming himself into a cat, a dog, a bird—whichever creature caught his fancy. That’s how he had been able to observe Rose these three years without being noticed.
He pined for her even now. How could he ever leave her behind when she grew old and died and he remained alive and young? Being a slave to eternity was the worst thing about his special powers.
Rose, of course, knew nothing about him. She had no idea that he was forced to move on from a place when people noticed he hadn’t aged. Nor did she know that he’d amassed a staggering fortune during his 448 years as an immortal, or that money no longer interested him. Instead, what motivated him was stunning people with his inexplicable illusions.
That and winning the love of his golden-haired beauty.
Drago picked the lei coin off the bedside table. Romania’s former queen appeared on the front of the object while a pair of fierce horses facing one another adorned the back. He studied the coin with frustration, as he often did. The enchanted coin lent him ability to see the past—yet glimpsing the future was one thing Drago couldn’t do. Except for the time it had shown him Rose.
He wanted to see that image again.
Frowning, he said, “Show me the night I first saw Rose in a vision.” The coin obeyed. After it glimmered, it projected a scene of him sleeping—then jerking awake. Then it flashed to him picking up the coin from the bedside table. When Drago gazed into it, he looked upon Rose’s astonishing face. Subsequently, he saw her falling to her doom from someplace extraordinarily high—a place too obscured for him to make out.
Determination shot through him. I need to prevent Rose’s death.
Once the coin went dark, Drago tucked it into his pocket. He insisted that the object—along with his special bracelet—stay in his possession at all times, except when he slept.
He checked his watch. His dinner date was drawing nearer but not fast enough. If it were possible, he would speed up the hands of time. Unfortunately, altering chronology was one illusion he wasn’t capable of.
After Drago finished shaving, he dressed carefully in a three-piece suit with a pewter tie and a jacket cut low enough to reveal a solid vest. He wore his hair in a more casual style tonight. When he wasn’t performing, he enjoyed running his fingers through it until it fell forward in wavy strands.
He checked his pocket watch one more time.
Seven thirty. Time to leave and meet Rose at Rockwell’s.
He didn’t doubt that she would be there. After all, he’d summoned all of his powers to hypnotize her by way of the Egyptian amulet. It was a state that would remain over her forever—unless he decided to dissolve it.
Although Rose wasn’t aware of the coincidence, she dressed carefully in silver for her dinner date, too. She chose her most expensive dress—a pewter gown set off by a satin bow at the small of her back, and matching, elbow-length gloves.
And like Drago, she also took the time to try a new hairstyle. She rolled a curled fringe downward over her forehead and drew the rest of her mane up at the sides into a high chignon.
Once she’d whisked her favorite shade of raspberry lip stain over her mouth and stepped into a cloud of her iris-scented perfume, she was ready. Not wanting to be late, she made her way down the carpeted staircase to the house’s foyer. The twist of a doorknob startled her. Anthony Marconi entered the house wearing his police uniform and his usual sour expression.
His frown deepened even more when he saw her. “All dressed up, Rose? Where are you going this evening?”
The smug and condescending Anthony was one member of the Marconi family Rose had never felt close to. He’d admitted once in a moment of rage that he resented her relationship with Olivia. He claimed that before Rose was in the picture, he and Olivia had been inseparable. Rose scoffed at the notion, saying that since he was so disagreeable, she marveled that he was even related to Olivia, let alone her twin brother.
Their relationship had remained icy ever since.
Years later, Rose considered it ironic that Anthony and amiable Patrick were friends.
“I’m having dinner downtown,” Rose replied curtly. She pulled the lace curtains aside to see if the taxi Drago promised to send had arrived.
“Dinner? With who? Patrick, I hope.”
“No,” she murmured quietly.
Patrick was the son of impoverished Irish immigrants who had struggled to open a tiny bakery in the city’s Lower East Side. He could never afford to take Rose to Rockwell’s on his modest policeman’s salary.
“Pardon me?” Anthony came to stand beside her.
She glanced into his look of disapproval and cleared her throat. “I said, I’m meeting someone for dinner and it isn’t Patrick.”
“You aren’t meeting that illusionist, are you?”
Her chin dropped. “How did you know?”
Anthony raised his bulky shoulders. “The way you gushed on about him two nights ago was sickening. Then you proceeded to break my best friend’s heart by turning your nose up at his birthday gift.”
“I did no such thing!”
“What’s gotten into you, Rose?”
“Nothing,” she retorted. She didn’t dare tell Anthony that she feared she’d been hypnotized by Drago. Nor did she think it wise to tell him that she had felt the world shift beneath her feet when Drago touched her yesterday. “It isn’t any of your business who I have dinner with.”
He studied her with defiance. Then he began to climb the stairs. “Patrick is courting you, despite your curse,” he called down to her. “You should consider yourself lucky, instead of consorting with other men.”
“Consorting?” she yelled up the stairwell. “Dragomir Starkov and I are just having dinner.”
“The flame might burn out on Patrick’s patience, you know,” Anthony said over his shoulder.
“Some brother you are!” she shouted.
“Adoptive brother,” he cried before he disappeared from sight.
Rose murmured something unladylike under her breath. As she continued to wait for the taxi, her nerves tingled. Her association with Drago was driving everyone to the edge.
Was she mad to continue on with him? She probably was, but she’d be damned if she’d let Anthony spoil a night she had been looking forward to all day.
CHAPTER 8
A quarter of an hour later, Rose accepted a chair from Drago inside the hushed atmosphere of Rockwell’s. Settling in her seat, she noticed a red rose on her plate. Drago took the chair opposite hers while she brought the flower to her nose.
“Another rose for a Rose,” he said charmingly. “I couldn’t resist.”
Her face heated.
He smiled at the sight of the Egyptian amulet around her neck. “It looks stunning on you.”
“This is the first time I’m not keeping it hidden.” She continued to blush.
“You’re embarrassed.” He observed. “Don’t you enjoy being fussed over, Rose?”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“You do,” he said as his eyes glimmered like a moonlit ocean.
She looked away.
Impeccably dressed and unbearably handsome, Drago wouldn’t stop staring at her. Then, he reached across the tiny table and clasped her hand. Unlike Patrick’s nervous touch, his was solid—and completely electrifying.
Rose took a quick intake of breath as he raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.
If she wasn’t careful, this man could seduce her into doing very wicked things.
“A woman as lovely as you should think more highly of herself,” he said.
“I’m hardly beautiful,” she protested.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m so tall. I was teased about it as a child.”
He shook his head. “You’re statuesque. There. You see? Magic is all about how something is presented.”
Statuesque. She liked it.
Withdrawing her hand as inconspicuously as possible, Rose perused the menu. Then she stole a glance over it, into Drago’s cyan eyes. “You have me at a slight disadvantage.”
