After Twilight

by Amanda Ashley, Christine Feehan

  AFTER TWILIGHT

  By

  Amanda Ashley, Christine Feehan & Ronda Thompson

  CONTENTS

  Masquerade by Amanda Ashley

  Dark Dream by Christine Feehan

  Midnight Serenade by Ronda Thompson

  AFTER TWILIGHT

  Amanda Ashley

  Christine Feehan

  Ronda Thompson

  AFTER

  TWILIGHT

  AMANDA ASHLEY

  2000 Lifetime Achievement Award Nominee

  "Masquerade"

  "Sensuous! Mesmerizing! Electrifying!… Amanda Ashley makes a dazzling debut."

  —Romantic Times on Embrace the Night

  "Amanda Ashley proves herself a true master of her craft."

  —NewAge Bookshelf

  CHRISTINE FEEHAN

  2001 RITA Award Nominee

  "Dark Dream"

  "Ms. Feehan does not disappoint!"

  —Under the Covers Book Reviews

  "The exciting and multi-faceted world that impressive author Christine Feehan has created continues to improve with age."

  —Romantic Times on Dark Challenge

  RONDA THOMPSON

  "Midnight Serenade"

  "Ronda Thompson is one of those authors that you should have on your authors list."

  —Romance Communications

  "Ms. Thompson has proven herself to be a writer of distinction and power."

  —Under the Covers Book Reviews

  AFTER TWILIGHT

  Amanda Ashley Christine Feehan Ronda Thompson

  LOVE SPELL

  NEW YORK CITY

  A LOVE SPELL BOOK®

  September 2001

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001

  After Twilight Copyright © 2001 by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  "Masquerade" Copyright © 1994 by Madeline Baker

  "Dark Dream" Copyright © 2001 by Christine Feehan

  "Midnight Serenade" Copyright © 2001 Ronda Thompson

  ISBN 0-505-52450-3

  The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com

  To Chris and Ronda for being there when I need them, and to all the sweet people on my eGroup list for their continued love and support.

  For Sara… I love how you love your children.

  Madeline… you know the meaning of friendship.

  Ronda… you said yes when we asked.

  A special thank you to Linda Kruger, my agent, for being so supportive of me and my work, and to Mandy and Christine for being wonderful authors, nice people and great friends.

  MASQUERADE

  Amanda Ashley

  MASQUERADE

  See me

  the man I was

  before the darkness

  fell upon my soul

  Know me

  the monster

  who hides his ugliness

  in the shadows

  of the night

  Release me

  from my lonely prison

  let your light drive the bitterness

  from my tortured heart

  Love me

  free me

  from this endless

  masquerade

  —A. Ashley

  Chapter One

  Los Angeles, 1993

  He was a very old vampire, weary of living, weary of coming alive only in the darkness of the night.

  For three hundred years he had wandered the unending road of his life alone, his existence maintained at the expense of others, until the advent of blood banks made it possible to satisfy his hunger without preying on the innocent and unsuspecting.

  And yet, there were times, as now, when the need to draw warm blood from a living, breathing soul was overpowering.

  He stood in the shadows outside the Ahmanson, watching groups of happy, well-dressed people exit the theater. He listened to snatches of their conversation as they discussed the play. He'd seen the show numerous times; perhaps, he thought wryly, because he could so easily sympathize with the Phantom of the Opera. Like Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's tragic hero, he, too, was forced to live in the shadows, never to walk in the warmth of the summer sun, never able to disclose his true identity.

  And so he stood on the outskirts of mortality, breathing in the fragrance of the warm-blooded creatures who passed him by. They hurried along, blissfully unaware that a monster was watching, drinking in the myriad smells of their humanity, sensing their happiness, their sorrows, their deepest fears.

  He waited until the crowds had thinned, and then he began to follow one of the numerous street beggars who had been hustling the theater patrons. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of homeless men roaming the streets of Los Angeles. On any given night you could find a dozen or so lingering outside the Ahmanson, hoping for a handout that would buy them a bottle and a few hours of forgetfulness.

  A faint grimace played over his lips as he drew near his prey.

  After tonight there would be one less beggar haunting Hope Street.

  Chapter Two

  He was there again, standing on the corner, his long angular face bathed in the hazy glow of the streetlight.

  Leanne felt his hooded gaze move over her as she left the side entrance and made her way toward the parking lot across the street. Behind her, she could hear the excitement build as Davis Gaines, who many considered to be L.A.'s best Phantom, appeared at the stage door to sign autographs and pose for pictures.

  She was unlocking the car door when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she whirled around.

  It was him. Up close, he was even more handsome than she had thought. His face was made up of sharp planes and angles, totally masculine, totally mesmerizing. His hair was black and straight and fell well past his shoulders. His eyes were an intense shade of blue, and as her gaze met his, she knew she had been waiting a lifetime for this moment, this man.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you," he said in a deep, resonant voice. He held out a theater program. "I was hoping you'd sign this for me."

  Leanne smiled. "Why would you want my autograph? I'm only in the chorus."

  "But you have such a lovely voice."

  She laughed softly. "You must have excellent hearing, to pick my voice out of dozens of others."

  His smile was devastating. "My hearing is quite good for a man of my age."

  Leanne's gaze moved over him curiously. She didn't know how old he was, of course, but he didn't look to be much more than thirty at most.

  He offered her a pen, one brow raised in question.

  "Who should I make it out to?" Leanne asked.

  "Jason Blackthorne."

  "Blackthorne." She gazed up at him intently. "Why does that name sound so familiar to me?"

  "Does it?"

  She nodded, then took the pen from his hand. He read the inscription over her shoulder:

  "To Jason, May you always have someone to love, and someone to love you. Leanne"

  He felt a catch at his heart. Someone to love… Jolene. Leanne's resemblance to his first and only love was uncanny.

  He smiled his thanks as she handed him the program, his gaze moving over her face, lingering on her mouth before moving to the pulse that beat in her throat. She was small, petite, with skin that looked as though it rarely saw the sun, hair the color of sun-kissed earth, and luminous green eyes fringed with dark lashes. She wore a Phantom sweatshirt, a pair of black tights that clung to her shapely legs like a second skin, and sneakers.

&nbs
p; Jason clenched his hands at his sides as he fought the urge to take her into his arms, to touch those lips with his own, to sip the sweet crimson nectar from her veins.

  Leanne frowned. "Is something wrong?"

  "No. I was just wondering if we might go somewhere for a drink."

  She should say no. There were a lot of sick people running around these days, obsessive fans, psychotics,,and yet there was something in Jason Blackthorne's eyes that made her trust him implicitly.

  "I know a little place not far from here," she suggested with a tentative smile.

  "I'll follow you in my car," Jason said, somewhat surprised by her ready acceptance of his invitation. Didn't she read the papers? Muggings and rapes and murders were rampant in the city.

  A faint smile tugged at his lips as he crossed the parking lot to his own car. Indeed, he mused as he slid behind the steering wheel, she would be far safer with one of the city's lowlifes than she was with him.

  The bar was located on a narrow side street. He knew a moment's hesitation as he followed her inside, and then sighed with relief. There were no mirrors in sight.

  They took a booth in the rear. She ordered a glass of red wine, as did he.

  "So," Jason said, "tell me about yourself."

  "What would you like to know?"

  She felt his gaze move over her face, soft as candlelight. "Everything."

  "I'm twenty-three," Leanne said, mesmerized by his gaze. "I'm an only child. My parents live in Burbank, but I have a small apartment not far from the theater." She smiled at him, a shy intimate smile. "Someday I hope to make it to Broadway."

  "Have you a boyfriend?"

  "No."

  You have now.

  Did he speak the words aloud, or was her mind playing tricks on her, echoing words she wished to hear?

  "How long have you been with the play?"

  "Two years."

  "I hear it'll be closing soon. What will you do then?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "How long have you been acting?"

  "This is my first role." Leanne smiled. "I always wanted to be on stage, and I decided, what the heck, why not go for it? So, I tried out and they hired me." She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. "What do you do?"

  "I'm a cop." The lie rolled easily off his lips.

  "You're kidding!" He didn't look like any police officer she'd ever seen. Dressed in a loose fitting white sweater, a pair of black jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked more like a movie star than a cop.

  One black brow lifted slightly- "I take it you don't care for the police."

  "No, no, it's just that…" She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "You don't look like a cop."

  "How's that?"-

  "No mustache," Leanne said, running a fingertip over his upper lip. "All the cops I know have a mustache."

  Jason grunted softly. "And do you know a lot of cops?"

  "Not really. Where do you work?"

  "Hollenbeck."

  "That's a rough area."

  Jason shrugged. "I like it." Their drinks had arrived during their conversation, but neither had paid much attention. Now, Jason picked up his glass. "What shall we drink to?"

  Leanne lifted her glass. "Long life and happiness?" she suggested.

  "Happiness," he repeated softly. "I'll drink to that."

  "And long life?"

  His gaze was drawn to her throat, to where her pulse beat strong and steady. "Long life can be a curse," he muttered.

  "A curse! What do you mean?"

  He dragged his gaze from her neck. "Just what I said. I've seen too many people who've lived past their prime, people with nothing left to live for, with nothing to hope for but a quick death, an end to pain."

  "I don't agree. Life is precious at any age."

  "And do you think you'd like to live forever?"

  "I know I would." She laughed softly. "This conversation is getting too morbid for my taste. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for recreation?"

  "Nothing very exciting. Read. Watch TV. Ride my horse."

  "You have a horse? Where do you keep it?"

  "I have a small ranch in the hills, nothing elaborate."

  "I've always loved horses. Do you think I could ride sometime?"

  Jason frowned. "I sleep days, so I usually ride at night."

  "How romantic," she said, her voice low and husky. "Perhaps we could go riding together sometime."

  Jason swallowed hard. Was he imagining things, or was she suggesting more than she was saying? The thought of holding her close, of having his arms around her waist, of burying his face in her hair, her neck, flooded him with desire. He glanced away lest she see the sudden heat, the hunger, that he knew was burning in his eyes.

  "It's getting late," he said, tossing a handful of bills on the table. "I'd better let you go home and get some sleep."

  "We don't have to go," Leanne replied. "I'm a bit of a night person myself."

  "Then we have more in common than a love of horses," Jason replied dryly. "Perhaps we could go to a late movie tomorrow night?"

  "Sounds good."

  "I'll pick you up at the stage door."

  Leanne gazed into the depths of his eyes and felt the instant connection between the two of them, as if their souls had found each other after traveling through years of darkness.

  She had been born for this man.

  The thought entered her mind, quiet and unshakable, like the answer to a prayer.

  Chapter Three

  He fed early the next night, his eyes closing in something akin to ecstasy as he emptied a bag of whole blood into a glass and slowly drained the contents, enjoying the taste of it on his tongue.

  Only yesterday, he had contemplated putting an end to his life. It would be so easy to terminate his existence, so easy to stand out on the terrace and watch the sun come up one last time.

  So easy, but oh, so painful.

  Now, as he dressed, he wondered, as he often had in the past, if he possessed the courage he would need to face such an agonizing death.

  But it was a moot point. He no longer wished for death. Life was new again, exciting, and all because of Leanne. During the long hours of the day, as he slept the sleep of the undead in the basement of his house, her image had drifted across his mind. That, in itself, was strange, he thought. Never before had his rest been disturbed by images of anyone, living or dead. But even during the heat of the day, when he usually slept the deepest, he had seen her face, heard the sound of her voice, yearned for the touch of her hand.

  Restless, he wandered through his house, trying to see it through her eyes. She would no doubt find it strange that there was no food in the house, that there were no mirrors to be found, not even in the bathrooms. He could easily explain the security bars on the doors and windows. After all, crime was everywhere. The old paintings, the ancient books and scrolls, would not be so easy to explain, not on a cop's salary.

  He had collected quite a few masterpieces in the last three hundred years. Paintings thought lost in the wars that had ravaged France and Spain resided in the bedroom; sculptures believed to have been destroyed graced his library. He had one of Shakespeare's original plays, signed by the Bard himself. His basement was crowded with ancient scrolls, with furniture and clothing from ages past.

  Perhaps he should have told her he was an antiques dealer. But it was easier to say he was a cop, that he worked the graveyard shift and slept days, that he worked weekends and holidays, and was therefore unable to attend the picnics and parties to which he was occasionally invited.

  He paced the floor for an hour and then, unable to wait a moment longer to see her, he drove to the Ahmanson Theater and bought a ticket.

  The play mesmerized him, as always. He'd lost count of how many times he'd seen it, had long ago stopped wondering why he found the production so fascinating.

  Lost in the dark, he became one with the Opera Ghost, lusting after the fair Christine, knowing in th
e depths of his aching heart that she would never be his.

  He heard the anguish in the Phantom's voice as the Phantom watched Christine find comfort in the arms of the handsome Vicomte de Chagny, felt the deformed man's pain as he cursed her.

  But he had eyes only for Leanne. Her presence called to him until he was blind to everyone else on stage, until his pulse beat in time to hers. He felt her excitement as she sang her lines, felt her triumph as the crowd applauded.

  As soon as the final curtain came down, he left the theater, eager to see her again, to discover if she was truly as beautiful as he remembered. Surely her eyes could not be so green as those he'd seen in his dreams, her skin could not be so pale and unblemished. No lips could be so pink and well-shaped; her hair could not be so long, so thick, as he recalled.

  And then she was there, walking toward him, smiling as if they had known each other for years instead of a few hours.

  She was breathtaking in a pair of slinky black pants and an opaque blouse of some material that clung to her, outlining every delectable curve.

  He felt his mouth water just looking at her.

  "Let's go," she said, tucking her arm through his.

  "My car's in the lot," he said, and for the first time since the dark curse had been bequeathed to him, he felt young and alive.

  "Is this yours?" Leanne asked. She hadn't noticed what he was driving last night.

  Jason nodded. "Like it?"

  Her gaze swept over the sleek curves of the black Porsche. "What's not to like?" She slid into the seat when he opened the car door, her hand stroking the soft leather. "You're not a cop on the take, are you?"