by Chris Lange
“Tracy, where’s your dress?”
“I haven’t bought it yet.”
“Oh no, that won’t do.”
With a reproving air, Lorie put her mug down on the corner of the desk, grabbed her arm, lifted her up, and pushed her toward the door. “Go now. It’s an order.”
“Lorie, we need to—”
“I said now. And don’t come back without a dress.”
Tracy barely had time to seize her jacket and purse before Lorie urged her outside with gentle pats on her back. Once on the sidewalk, she took the direction of her favorite clothing store. A light breeze tickled her face as she walked slowly, enjoying the simple fact of stretching her legs.
Goose bumps broke out all over her arms. The warm wind wasn’t to blame yet she kept her rhythm. A couple crossed the street on her right, their smiles hinting at a love story. And didn’t they look happy?
The shop stood just round the block. But when the nape of her neck prickled, she suddenly halted, refraining at the last second from darting her gaze all around. Someone was watching her.
She faced the hardware store on her left, came closer, and stared hard at the display window to observe the street in the reflection. In spite of her efforts, she had no training in spying and her search proved fruitless. Could she be mistaken? The notion of a stalker was ridiculous anyway.
With a last glance at the window, she got a move on. She walked faster now as though in a hurry to reach her destination. She hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Her mind must be playing tricks on her again, and making an appointment with a therapist might be the most sensible thing she did this morning.
Once inside the clothing store, her vague anxiety receded as soon as she spotted the evening gowns. Wonderful fabrics in all variety of colors met her eyes, providing a much-needed sensation of reassurance. She tried on three different styles before settling on a beautiful pale-blue dress.
The aquamarine shade would suit her complexion and the graceful satin clung to her curves in a sexy but elegant way. Glad that Lorie booted her out of the gallery, Tracy waited while the salesclerk slid the gown into a bag and handed it to her.
She was ready for the gala.
Spirits high, she slung her purchase across her shoulder and walked back out onto the street. An empty school bus weaved its way past a badly parked car, the angry driver mouthing inaudible curses. Three youngsters rollerbladed past her, their gazes fixed on the sidewalk ahead. Shouldn’t they be at school? Then the skin of her arms puckered and she held her breath.
Was it her mind again? Chest tight, she adjusted the sling of the bag on her shoulder, tightened her grip on her purse, and strode toward the gallery. One foot in front of the other, nice and easy.
Her jacket became heavier with every step she took. All her senses attuned to the prickling on her neck, she willed herself not to run back to work. If someone really tracked her, she didn’t want to let him know she was aware of his presence. Except that she didn’t spot anybody with a stalking look.
She locked the door behind her as soon as she entered the gallery, dropped all her stuff in the office, and took a minute to inhale long, deep breaths. When her heartbeat decreased, she went in search of Lorie.
The girl had done wonders in such a short time. Five paintings decorated the south wall, their bright hues illuminating the place. Bent over a canvas, Lorie glanced up when she heard her footsteps. “Hey, you’re back. Where’s the dress?”
“I got it. Do you want to take a look?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Lorie’s enthusiastic exclamations filled the office when she saw the gown and touched the fluid fabric.
“Tracy, you’ll look awesome tonight.”
And she totally did. At nine p.m., as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and recalled Lorie’s words, she admitted her assistant was right. A little make-up and she’d feel like a carefree princess. At least for a while.
She checked her watch for the third time. Damn, she was running late while Mister Swanson waited for her at the gala. He’d surely introduce her to a lot of people, and she didn’t want to let him down.
Unpleasant shivers coursed down her spine when she got into her car. Her stomach flipped. She immediately locked all doors from the inside, turned the key in the ignition, and backed out of the driveway. Where the fuck had this feeling come from? Why would anyone chase her from one end of town to the other?
The streets of Sausalito were clear at this hour. She took the direction of the hotel where the reception was held, taking comfort in the familiar lull of the car. Both hands on the wheel, she soon had to slow down to keep at bay a sudden surge of recollections. But her brain won the contest.
Three months after striking the one-year deal with her father, she found him in the kitchen, dressed in black from head to toe.
“What’s up, Dad? Going to a funeral?”
He didn’t like her jibes much but usually put up with them. This time, she paused when she heard his bleak tone. “I just came back from the cemetery.”
What for? He didn’t need to look so gloomy because he’d gone to visit her mom’s grave, yet his sad expression constricted her chest. When he didn’t say more and her belly began to twist, she came to lean on the kitchen island. Nobody they knew died here, but what of the other world?
Jesus, no.
Her fingers went numb. Blood left her face, maybe her whole body, and she gasped for breath. With a single glance at her, her father set aside the box he was holding and rushed to her side.
“Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to get you all worked up. He’s fine. Garrett’s fine.”
Even though his words penetrated her brain, her lungs had trouble expanding. She opened her mouth, gaped at her father, and struggled for oxygen while he ran a hand up and down her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay. Just focus on breathing.”
She obeyed him, and little by little feeling her fingers again, the blood pumping in her veins and the violent surge of her heart. Garrett was alive. Damn far away and unreachable, but blessedly alive.
“Dad, I need to sit down.”
“Of course.”
He bore most of her weight as they shuffled toward the table. He pulled up the closest chair and she slouched on it.
“I’ll make you some tea, Tracy.”
“Who died?”
The news had to be bad or important because he didn’t answer straightaway but fetched a pot from the cabinet. “Lord John. He suffered a massive heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
Garrett must be devastated. And why, oh why, wasn’t it the dragon queen? Dead easy. Because the bitch was made of concrete and would bury them all.
She’d have liked to dwell longer on the Lady Anne’s eventual passing, but her father turned round to face her, his brow furrowed in the ‘this-is-serious-business’ manner. “There’s something else you need to know.”
His grave tone matched the expression on his face. She sat straighter, already dreading the words he hadn’t yet pronounced. “What is it?” she asked.
“The Burnes’ empire has been passed down to Garrett. He inherited everything and he’s now the head of the family.”
Meaning the love of her life wouldn’t cross over worlds to marry a nobody because he’d become an important man, an extremely wealthy man. And blah-blah-blah he had to take care of his estate and blah-blah-blah he must stick by his mother. Were they glued at the hips?
Fuck them, fuck them all.
Her father fell silent and just looked at her, but the rage boiling inside her needed release, one way or the other. She stared at the table, searched for a glimmer of hope deep in her soul, and jumped when the sugar bowl crashed on the floor. She’d flung it without meaning to, and now the back of her hand hurt.
&n
bsp; He bent down to pick up the scattered pieces. Tracy stared at his back, nostrils flaring, fury making her head spin. “This is all your fault.”
Head down, he kept on gathering broken shards as though he couldn’t hear the desperation in her voice. “It’s your fault, Dad. You and that bitch who hates me because I’m not good enough for her precious son.”
Finally her dad straightened up, crossed the kitchen, and dumped the contents of his open hands into the trashcan. She shook as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, turning the room into a watery background. Avoiding her gaze, he came back toward her, only to bend down again and grab sugar cubes. Why wouldn’t he acknowledge her pain?
She fumbled in her purse, seized a packet of tissues, ripped it open, brought one to her face, and blew her nose. Yet the tears didn’t stop, frustration squashing her lungs until she stomped her foot. “For fuck sake’s, say something!”
“Don’t swear in my house, Tracy.”
A snort burned her nose as she flicked open another tissue. Was that all he had to say when he deliberately ruined his only daughter’s life?
The rage and frustration wrenching her insides prompted her to stand up and leave this horrible house. She glanced back when she reached the kitchen door and swallowed a violent need to retch as he appeared still busy picking up his fucking sugar cubes.
“I hate you, Dad.”
Then she took off and didn’t set foot on Bonita Street for weeks. He called her, but she screened. He came to her condo about a dozen times, but she never let him in. He tried to see her at the gallery and she locked herself in her office.
He’d killed her, now he’d pay for it.
What would Garrett do now? Burst through all the brick walls standing in his way, or accept his fate, settle into a wealthy man’s routine and forget she ever existed? Only time would answer her questions yet fear bit her stomach. And in the following days, all she seemed to do was cry.
Garrett never showed up. Five months after she spat in her father’s face that she hated his guts, she tripped and fell down the escalator at the central mall. Her yell alerted the shoppers around her.
One of them offered to take her to the emergency room, her swelling ankle looking broken. She attempted to manage on her own, but the pain got worse by the second, the skin around the bone turning red and bruised. When a clerk asked if he might call someone, she gave her dad’s number.
Any of her friends would have rushed to help her, though right this minute she wanted her daddy. She’d never forgive him and never let him forget what he’d done to her, but she needed him.
Her father was standing by her side a quarter of an hour later. Looking deeply worried, he drove her to the hospital, stayed in the waiting room while an attractive intern treated her twisted ankle, hurried along the hallway when she finally came out, hugged her tight, and brought her back to Bonita Street.
They hadn’t talked or seen each other in months. The atmosphere between them felt weird, tense, and heavy with reproach. When he parked the car into his driveway, she squeezed the strings of her purse.
“You know,” she said, “you can take me home.”
“I’d rather have you here so I can take care of you.”
“I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Maybe, but . . .”
His words trailed off while he looked through the dirty windshield, new wrinkles slashing his forehead. “I miss you, Tracy.”
After that, they reached some kind of tacit, comfortable truce. Weeks went by, and she got used to living in his house again. He worked a lot, down in the basement, so she didn’t see much of him during the days, but they shared meals and sometimes watched television together in the evenings. Neither of them ever mentioned the other world.
Silence was safer.
Her ankle healed. She still had trouble going down the stairs or getting in the car, but every new morning found her a little better. She used the opportunity to have the guest bedroom redecorated in her condo. She picked the color, gave her apartment keys to the painters, and let them do their job.
On a bright Saturday morning, she felt like having a nice lunch with her father. Where would he be at nine a.m.? His study was empty, but the trapdoor stood open. Her throat constricted. Did she really want to go down there? To bring back so many memories she’d better forget?
Her feet moved before she made up her mind. Holding her breath, she climbed down the steps but stopped short of the invisible barrier. The simple fact of seeing the computers blink made her shiver. Given that he didn’t seem to be there either, there was no point in her staying in the lab.
The soft sound of a sliding door halted her. She looked at the back of the room and saw her father coming out of the telepod. What was he doing wearing a white suit and a yellow tie at nine in the morning?
“Hey, Dad. You’re up early.”
He swiveled his head toward the stairs when she spoke. At first, he looked kind of caught. Did he do something she wouldn’t approve of?
Then his expression went from awkward to concerned. “It’s five p.m. in London.”
“Oh. Still, why are you dressed like this?”
“I was invited . . .”
The door automatically shut behind him. Already unlacing the yellow tie, he advanced to the middle of the room and sighed. “I was invited to a wedding.”
The room spun. The computers lights started blinking furiously as she stumbled against the wall behind her and flattened her hands on the cold surface. This was why Garrett never showed up.
His snobbish mother wouldn’t have whipped up a reception at the last minute. Not in upper-class, la-di-la London 1901. No, the dragon queen had been planning the ceremony for months, obviously with Garrett’s permission. How long did it take him to forget all about her? A week?
The telepod swam before her eyes while she used the wall for support. Tonight in California, she’d sit in front of the television and hide her tears from her dad. Meanwhile in London, Garrett would take his new bride to his bed and make ravishing love to her.
Please, God, let it not be Miss Perfect.
Pins and needles numbing her soles, she found her voice. “Who did he marry?”
Her father lowered his eyelids, and then his head, his stare fixed on the tips of his shoes or possibly the bare concrete of the basement floor. “Lady Ashton.”
A long moan rolled along her throat before she gritted her teeth to let it out. Who else but Miss Perfect could strike the deathblow? Of course, it had to be the English beauty who didn’t spare her a glance when they stood in the same dining room, and who got on so well with her brand-new, bitchy mother-in-law.
Cramps seized her stomach. What was the point of making a deal with her dad? The year would be up soon, but who gave a shit? Garrett was head of the Burnes family, king of his estates, and married.
Deal day still came. On the morning she turned twenty-eight, she made poached eggs for breakfast, fried some bacon, squeezed fresh orange juice, and brought the tray to her dad. But she didn’t ask him to let her go to Garrett.
The blare of a honk jerked her back to the road, the gala, Mister Swanson, the long hours ahead talking to people with a smile on her face. She swerved to the right, entered the parking lot, and pulled over next to the wooden fence.
Bright lights illuminated the hotel, animated voices drifting toward her when she got out of the car, and she smoothed her dress. With night well on its way, shadows lengthened around her. She shut the car door.
Two powerful hands seized her neck from behind and she was flung against an iron chest. Her skin crawled all over, as though remembering the feel of the painful grip, the touch of those cold fingers. She finally knew who her stalker was, and her throat constricted from lack of air.
Chapter 4
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�So we meet again, precious human.”
She couldn’t move. Black flashes passed in front of her eyes while the man strangled her, his grip too strong to break. How did he get into her world? Why go through the bother to come here just to kill her?
Oh, God, Johnny!
A violent shove pushed her. She uttered a cry as the knock propelled her forward. Catching the side view mirror, she avoided the fall and sucked air into her lungs with a hissing noise. What the heck was going on? Free of movement, she wheeled round to assess the situation and froze, mesmerized.
Both creatures stood facing each other, bodies tense, features hard, dark gazes challenging. Poised to strike, they wore long, black cloaks and a sort of lethal grace radiated from them.
The immortal shifted on his feet, jaw tightening, arm muscles bulging underneath the sleeves of his coat. “Not now, Raphael. Can’t you see I’m in a meeting?”
“Don’t you dare touch her again.”
Tracy flattened her back against the side of the car. Neither of them would forget her presence, yet she tried to make herself as small a target as possible, anyway. The wild tremors of her heart didn’t help. As if the shock of being assaulted wasn’t enough to throw a girl out of her senses, she had a hard time coming to grips with Raphael’s appearance. Alive, handsome as ever, and right here.
Breathing soundlessly to steady her pulse, she stole glances at him while he defied his opponent without attacking. He hadn’t aged a day, his dark hair framing the smooth lines of his pale face. Four years hadn’t left a mark on him. Maybe being a vampire had its upsides after all.
Opposite Raphael, the enemy didn’t look a day over thirty. Reflections from the parking lot lights tinged his bald head yellow and his rock-hard body stood motionless. It seemed time didn’t affect beings who couldn’t die. Although fate threw both creatures together, they appeared to hate one another.
The breeze blew back her guardian vampire’s long coat. “Let her go, Khrull. No harm done.”
