“Oh my God! Are you all right?” she cried. She thankfully found that the man had stopped a fraction of an inch from her bumper. He sat up when she reached him and unsnapped his helmet. At least he was moving. The left side of his leather jacket was scraped gray with gravel dust and his leather pants were torn over his left thigh.
She knelt at his side, her hands automatically going to his thigh, brushing off bits of clinging gravel as she searched for an injury.
He groaned.
She pulled the large tear in his pants open to touch his leg. She found supple skin, peppered with dark hair over a kickass muscle. Her hands shook. “There’s no open wound. Do you think you broke anything?”
He lifted off his helmet and she glanced up, unexpectedly locking gazes with the devil himself, because no human man could embody such sinful temptation in his every feature, or look so hauntingly damned—as if he were intimately acquainted with Hell. Her impression lay at odds with the jeweled cross at his throat. Thick in the middle, the four ends of the cross, tapered to sword-like points. Something niggled at her mind, as if she should be able to remember something about a cross like that but couldn’t.
He just sat there staring at her as if stunned.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to the road,” she said. “Are you hurt?” Her gaze searched his rich blue eyes. They were framed by thick, sinfully long, black lashes. His clean-shaven jaw was heavily shadowed, accentuating his full lips and determined nose. His hair, long enough to brush the collar of his jacket, gleamed darkly in the morning sun. She drank in his features, thirsty for more.
His gaze dropped to where her hand pressed his thigh, forcing her gaze downward. The sight of her pale hand against his black leather clad muscle, precariously near his groin, was so blatantly erotic that she gasped. She would have jerked her hand away had he not set his gloved hand on hers, pressing her palm deeper into his thigh. She swore she felt his muscle flex in response. Heat scorched its way up her arm and down from her cheeks, meeting somewhere in her midsection where it flared into a fire of sensual awareness and chagrin.
“I’ve a few aches and pains you could easily make go away, but otherwise I’ll live,” he said. His deep voice, filled with teasing humor, was perfectly pitched for pleasure—a tone adeptly suited for bedrooms and seduction. Before she could take offense, he released her hand and flexed his shoulders, giving a slight grimace as he stretched his neck. “Maybe.”
She pulled her hand back, though the need to touch and soothe him more nearly overwhelmed her. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah.” The look he gave her, took up where his seductive voice left off. With eyes that blue, a woman didn’t even need a bedroom. “First, tell me your name, beautiful,” he said, brushing aside a tendril of hair back from her face. She liked the feel of his leather-covered finger sliding down her cheek and sucked in air as a vision of his gloved hands exploring her bare flesh flashed through her mind. Her heart pounded. Had the image been a vision or a memory?
“Krisana,” she managed to whisper. “And yours?”
“Just call me, JD. Here.” He handed her his helmet. “Why don’t you stand back a sec, and I’ll get the Phantom off the ground?”
“Phantom?”
He slid his hand caressingly over the motorcycle. “Best ride you’ll ever have,” he said.
Holding his helmet, she stood. JD rose, bringing the heavy bike up with him. Though the black and steel machine had a long slender look to it, she couldn’t see anything that differentiated it from other motorcycles. Rather than lowering the kickstand, he seated himself on the bike and reached for his helmet, letting her know their conversation was about to end.
She handed him the helmet. “So what makes it the best?”
He grinned, his full lips curving mischievously. “Me.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I walked right into that one.”
He laughed. The deep sound did things inside her that had never been done before. “I am referring to the motorcycle, you know,” he said. “I built the machine myself. There isn’t a smoother, more powerful ride on the market. Now, if you had something else in mind, we could—”
“No! Um, that’s great. That you, uh, built it. Very talented.” She seemed to be digging herself deeper with every word. She was sure she just saved a bundle in cosmetics. Her cheeks were so hot that they had to be permanently scorched.
“You here to see Old Man Daniels?”
“If you mean Lord Daniels, then yes.”
“Good luck with that. He’s in a mood today. Right of age, I guess. Any chance you’ll still be here when I get back? I’ll take you for a ride on the Phantom.” He slid his gaze down her body, leaving a tingling path of awareness.
Her mouth went dry. “I’m not sure about that. I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”
“A virgin. Good, I’ll be your first.”
She gaped, speechless before his confident grin. She wondered why she hadn’t found his suggestive remarks off putting. Maybe it was the irresistible humor in his eyes, as if he knew he was being bad, but that she’d forgive his teasing anyway.
He slid on his helmet and started the motorcycle with a roar. After adeptly maneuvering the bike away from her car, he zoomed around the curve in the road and out of sight.
She didn’t know if she was irritated, amused, outraged, or relieved. Getting into her car, she drove the rest of the way, hardly aware of the castle unfolding before her as she reached the end of the drive. There, a curved double stairway led to a marbled pathway with snowy, gold-leafed doors and imperial looking crests emblazoned on them.
When she reached the doors, she saw the crests were comprised of two winged beasts locked in mortal combat, each wearing kingly robes and crowns. She knocked, but the doors were so thick her fist barely made a noise. It took her several minutes to realize the silk cord that hung from a ceiling of cherubs in heaven was the doorbell. Pulling it, she heard the haunting first notes of the opera, Come Back to Me
Her heart started to pound. She couldn’t do this. The world kept going from seemingly normal to something frighteningly…strange. This Lord Daniels was just going to have to come see her. She swung around, heading to her car when a black blur swooped down from the shadows. Crying out, she flung her purse at the creature then realized it was a tiny bat that flew away in a flash.
Fisting her hands, she grappled for calm. The door opened behind her.
“My dear, are you all right? I heard you cry out.”
Krisana turned around. A woman in her sixties, dressed in a maid’s uniform, walked toward her.
“I’m fine. A bat…”
The maid sighed, shaking her head. “That poor thing. I’ll have to have someone come capture it. The other evening it flew hard into the second story widow and lay addled on the steps for so long, its little wings barely fluttering that I was sure it would die. I put it in a box with a warm towel. It recovered, but now won’t leave.”
Krisana picked up her purse, feeling silly for her reaction again. If the raven hadn’t spooked her earlier, she wouldn’t be jumping at shadows now. “It’s a tiny thing. Maybe it’s still injured and that’s why it’s staying close. Bats usually fly so fast you can hardly see them.”
The elderly woman smiled. “You may be right. I’m Martha, and you must be Miss Delacourt. I am a longtime fan of your music and so honored to meet you.”
They shook hands. “Thank you. And please call me Kris,” she said, once again feeling silly for her panic.
“Well, then please come inside, Miss Kris. I’ve tea ready.” She led the way into the castle.
Awestruck, Krisana followed the maid past a number of rooms—foyer, library, parlor, and more she couldn’t name. The interior of the castle was astounding. She might as well have been walking into Versailles when it came to the décor of the walls and artistry of the gilded molding. Even the marble floors and massive, antique rugs might have been found in an authentic c
astle. The difference came in the eclectic collection of art and the mix of somewhat modern furniture amid priceless antiques.
“Lord Daniels usually has morning tea in his study. I’m afraid he’s had a bit of a rough morning, but should be able to join you shortly.”
“Oh, no. I am sorry to hear he is unwell. I can come back later.” Krisana stopped, suddenly aware of how rude her response to Lord Daniels’ gift to her was. Her cheeks burned.
“He wouldn’t hear of it. He is so anxious to meet you that it’s what likely set him off kilter.” Martha led the way into a darkened study. “Please make yourself at home. Do you wish for me to pour tea?”
An elaborate silver tea service and a three-tiered tray full of delicate pastries sat on a polished table. The scents of bergamot rind and strawberry preserves teased her senses and her mouth watered. She hadn’t realized that she was hungry. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for fixing this for me.”
“You’re welcome. It is a delight to have you here.” Martha left and Krisana took a minute to explore the room before sitting down. She decided she liked the odd mingling of antique and modern. The art seemed to be from all over the world—jade figurines, African masks, porcelain vases, and masterful paintings from Degas and Manet, among others. This kind of wealth was as daunting as it was intriguing.
She could spend the day in just this one room, but the tea and the baked goodies kept luring her their way. Fifteen minutes and three heavenly treats later, including a scone with jam and clotted cream, she looked up to see an elderly man on a motorized wheelchair enter the room. He wore a misting oxygen mask and his breathing appeared slightly labored.
Her heart squeezed and guilt smacked her. She really had been incredibly rude in her reaction to his generous gift to her, demanding to see him immediately without any consideration as to what might be happening in his life. Gray hair stuck out in tuffs from beneath the black hooded jacket he wore. He had a scarf wrapped around his throat and gloves on his hands. His pale face and blue eyes were blurred by the misty oxygen. His clothes hung loosely on his slumped frame, telling her that time had stolen more than years from this once big man.
“Anya,” he rasped, rolling across the room to her.
Krisana’s teacup clattered to the saucer as she set both on the table before she dropped them. “My name is Krisana, Lord Daniels. I am the singer you have generously given part of an opera house to.”
He shook his head as if confused. “Yes, of course. You just surprised me. In person you look so much like Anya, that I forgot myself for a moment.” He coughed harshly then seemed to have difficulty getting enough air into his lungs to speak. “Anya was the woman I loved many years ago and lost.”
“Then you are James?” Krisana whispered.
“You remember?”
“Remember? I don’t understand what you mean.” She stood, unwilling to meet the man’s gaze. Her mind raced. Were the passionate dreams filling her nights of this man when he was younger? She walked to the velvet and gold-draped window and looked out over the lake, as flashes of her dreams of a dark-haired lover in the opera house played through her mind. She had dreamed of Anya and James, but what did that mean? It was too much to so suddenly absorb.
“There’s a plaque at the entrance to the opera house with the name Anya and James on it. I saw it this morning. So, when you called me Anya, I assumed that meant you are James.”
“I am Jameson. Anya called me James. Looking at you is like seeing her alive again.”
The pain in his voice forced her to face him. “Is that why you’ve given me part of the opera house? I resemble a woman you once loved?”
“No. Come with me,” he said, turning his chair to leave the room, not even looking back to see if she followed. At the end of the corridor, he went through double doors and she found herself in a ballroom. Across the room was a larger than life portrait of a woman dressed in white silk, seated at an ebony piano. The woman was her…but not her. The dress and the hairstyle were different. Krisana’s eyes were brown not blue and her hair a little lighter, but the features were uncannily the same.
A vision of her swirling around the dance floor in the arms of a dark-haired man at a grand ball flashed through her mind. It wasn’t here, and it wasn’t at the opera house. The style of clothing and military uniforms placed the event in the nineteen forties. The vision was so real that she could feel the heat and press of his body against hers. She could hear his laughter and the seductive lure of his deep voice—and she could almost…almost make out his features, but the vision disappeared. She blinked, wondering what had just happened. Was it a memory of the past? Or a figment of her imagination?
“You see how much you resemble her,” the old man said, calling her attention back to him. “She, too, was an accomplished pianist with an incomparable voice. I loved her more than life itself. As to why I’ve given half of the opera house to you and half of it to my nephew, JD is a long story.” He coughed again, so hard that he made her wince in sympathy. “I must rest now and talk later. Will you stay here? Be my guest until I can tell you my story.”
She sucked in air. She and the blue-eyed devil on the phantom bike owned the opera house together? “I don’t know,” she whispered. She wasn’t going to let her mind go wild with Rocky Horror Picture Show scenarios, but staying here seemed too much of an intrusion. Yet, it was such a simple request from a man who was apparently very ill.
Could she really leave this house without finding out the answers to her questions and her dreams? Why were she and Anya so connected and so alike?
He sighed deeply and turned away, seeming to shrink even more into his himself. “I’ve handled this all wrong. I’ve upset you.”
“No. I just don’t understand any of this.”
“Neither do I. But when I saw you perform seven years ago, I couldn’t walk away. After seeing her portrait, can you leave now?”
“No,” Krisana whispered.
“I’ll have Martha fix you a room and JD can show you the opera house. I’m sure you’ll want to see it and perhaps Anya’s ghost will speak to you while you are there as well. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.” Then on the increasing notes of another coughing attack, the man wheeled from the room.
Anya’s ghost? The suggestion didn’t disturb her at all. She felt as if she’d been living with Anya every night in her dreams for years.
Chapter Three
After Lord Daniels left her, Krisana stared at Anya’s portrait a little longer, then returned to the study. She had another cup of hot tea in an attempt to digest everything that had just happened, but wasn’t sure that it helped.
Martha found her and escorted her to an amazingly beautiful bedroom on the second floor. Decorated in shades of burgundy, deep amber, and forest green with a balcony that overlooked the lake, it was a room fit for a queen. On tour, Krisana stayed in five star hotels. She was used to a certain level of luxury, but this place went beyond anything she could have imagined. Fresh flowers, fresh fruit, and chocolates sat waiting with bottled juices on ice. The accompanying bathroom was like a mini luxury spa. She sat on the chaise lounge for a moment and gazed across the lake, but thoughts about Anya and James/Lord Daniels bombarded her mind.
She couldn’t relax and she couldn’t think any more about the situation. Lord Daniels seemed to think she was Anya reincarnated who’d returned to him just as he was reaching the last years of his life. How cruel could a fate be? Surely her dreams were Anya’s ghost haunting her and not memories from a past life. The portrait made her wonder, though.
Rather than wait for someone to help her with her bags as Martha suggested, Krisana left to get them herself. She even contemplated just going ahead to the opera house alone. She had just unlocked the door to her car when she heard the sound of a motorcycle roaring up the driveway.
She didn’t have to turn around to know that JD and his phantom bike had arrived. He halted beside her and slid off his helmet. This time the look he gave her didn’t stray f
rom her face. “I should have recognized you, should have made the connection, but I thought he’d set this foolishness behind him seven years ago. He shouldn’t have contacted you. No matter how much he wants to believe it, you are not Anya.”
His adamant statement came as a relief. “No. But there is a remarkable resemblance between us.”
“Stuff like that happens over time. There are look-a-likes throughout history. You should see some of them on the Internet. I showed them to the old man, but he insisted you were different. I’m sorry. Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“I’d planned to get my bags from the car then go to the opera house. I’d like to see it.”
“So you’re going through with his crazy plan?”
“What plan is that?”
“Putting on the opera he wrote.”
“He didn’t mention it. What opera did he write?” She asked though she knew the answer.
“He’ll have my head for telling you.” He handed her his helmet and took off his jacket. “Ready to ride the Phantom, Kris? We might as well see the opera house together since we own the damn thing.”
She met JD’s challenging gaze and slid on his jacket, finding his irreverence to the opera house oddly refreshing. His heat and seductive scent wrapped her like a cocoon. He wore a black shirt with metal studs, similar to the studs on his black boots. His shirt hung loose from his leather pants, which were torn—a grim reminder of their near disastrous accident earlier. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”
He shook his head. “It’s a warm enough day if we go now. I’ll help you with your bags when we get back.”
Minutes later, they were zooming down the drive. She clung to every part of him she could with every part of her that would cling. Surely, she was going to end up flying through the air and land in a ditch somewhere. No seatbelt, no metal or glass to stop the elements, just him for protection as he flew through the air without a care in the world—she loved it!
A freedom and exhilaration she’d never known before grabbed her spirit, as the seductive feel of his body against hers heightened her senses, stirring desires she’d always held in check. Her whole life had been a regimented discipline of training, practices, and performances. She’d never let herself stray from her passion to sing.
Tales From Mysteria Falls Page 2
