Near the door, Ramona stopped to call the front desk to find out if Dr. Cavanaugh was still available. Minutes later she entered his office, and the kindly older man smiled and stood. He walked over and hugged her hard, everything about his demeanor calm and soothing.
He guided her to a couch at the side of his office and he sat down beside her, holding her hand as he spoke.
“How are you, Ramona? You’re looking well today,” he said, his gaze inquisitive as he examined her.
“I’m fine, Dr. Cavanaugh. How’s mami doing?” she asked, not that she needed to be told her condition was growing worse. Despite that, his report still saddened her.
“Anita’s condition is deteriorating rapidly. Her moments of awareness and lucidity are fewer and fewer.”
Ramona thought of her mom, vacantly sitting in the chair, her mind gone but her body alive. Quite the opposite of her own state. Ironic.
“How long before…”
Dr. Cavanaugh gently squeezed her hand. “Before she can no longer function at all? Not long, unfortunately.”
Ramona sucked in a shaky breath, battling to remain calm. “The trust fund I’ve set up…It will be enough to take care of her for some time, right?”
“You needn’t worry about that. Concentrate on getting better yourself,” he said, and Ramona didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was nothing she could do to make herself better. All she could do was prolong her life just a little bit more. Just enough to make the money she needed to guarantee her mother would be cared for when she was gone.
“I will, Dr. Cavanaugh. I’ll be back soon to see mami,” she said, but as she left his office she sensed his scrutiny and knew he hadn’t been fooled by her words.
They both knew her promise to return might be an empty one.
Chapter 4
D eranged Artist Stalks Rich Millionaire. More on the news at ten. Ramona could not stop the odd thoughts as the two guards at the entrance to the van Winter building watched her closely, their hands crossed before them in that practiced pose law enforcement types must learn in a class called How to Look Menacing 101.
She’d been calling for days, but her many requests to speak to Mr. van Winter all met with the same response: he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.
Quite a difference from his behavior during the six months she had been busy copying the paintings. Then the reclusive millionaire would visit her at least twice a day to check on her progress and comment on her artistic abilities. The time they’d shared had alleviated some of her concerns about his reasons for copying the paintings.
Coming down to the building to try to speak to him hadn’t helped at all. She wasn’t on any approved-visitors list, and calls to van Winter’s assistant revealed that the woman was no longer with the company.
With determination, Ramona swept her gaze up the gleaming metal-and-glass structure of Van Winter Enterprises and thought, If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, I’ll just bring the mountain to Mohammed.
Julio Vasquez strolled from painting to painting, stroking his goateed chin with long, elegant fingers while Diego stood by patiently, waiting for his old friend’s opinion.
“Brilliant!” he said, and whirled to face him, his arms stretched wide. “Absolutely brilliant. I can see why you would toss me aside for these gems, amigo.”
Theatrical as always, Diego thought. He approached and laid his arm across Julio’s shoulders. “You know I would never toss you aside, but—”
“You have feelings for the señorita,” Julio teased.
Diego tried to defuse any further inquiry. “I believe in her work, Julio. Nothing more.”
With a flamboyant swish of his hand, Julio slipped from beneath his arm and walked to stand before one of the paintings again. After a moment, he called over his shoulder, “She desires, you as well. It’s here, amigo. In her work. Can you not see it?”
Diego stepped up beside his friend and examined the painting once again, the one he had stood before a few nights ago with Ramona at his side. The one that had led to that rather interesting, but ill-advised, encounter.
Once again he noted the loving sweep of the brush across the woman’s hip, the possessive strokes delineating the man’s arm as it wrapped around her waist. He tracked the line of that arm up to the indistinct face.
He had thought Ramona had left the man virtually faceless as her way of allowing the observer to complete the canvas in his or her own mind. Now, though, prompted by Julio’s words, he noticed the familiar line of the jaw, the way the hair—longish and of a similar color to his—fell forward as his might if he cupped her hips to him and bent his head to taste the flesh of her neck.
“Dios mio, amigo,” Julio said with a strangled breath, and Diego suddenly realized that with his friend’s vampire abilities, he would pick up on that thrum of power that sexual desire created in their kind.
“I have not felt that from you since Esperanza,” his old friend said, for Julio had been with him for so long. Had been instrumental in giving him the eternal life he now had.
Regret filled Diego as he remembered the events that had forever changed his world.
A shadow wavered before him, waking him.
“Esperanza?”
He opened his eyes, but instead encountered an old friend—another nobleman and an aspiring artist with whom he regularly shared a cup or two.
“Don Julio.” He lacked the strength to say more or ask how the lordly painter had managed to get past the guards. The torture earlier that day had sapped what little life was left in Diego.
“Amigo, you have managed to create quite a stir with your refusal to confess.” Don Julio helped him into a sitting position.
“I am innocent,” he said, but found it hard to speak due to the weakness in his body.
“You may be, but that won’t save you. Your wife and her lover are dying from a fever. Some say it is the devil’s work.”
Don Julio knelt beside him, and as the moonlight played across his old friend’s face, Diego noted it looked ashen, almost otherworldly in the pale glow.
“Are you well?” Diego asked, concerned for his friend.
“Never better, unlike you. You are to be burned alive in a few days. They prepare for an immense auto de fé in the plaza.”
So he was to die a public spectacle in the town square, deprived of dignity up to the very last second of his life? If there was any consolation, it was that his wife and her lapdog of a lover might shortly follow him to hell for what they had done.
“Gracias, amigo, for the news.”
Don Julio hesitated, and a glimmer of anxiety swept across his features before he said, “I bring more than news. I bring a chance for life.”
“Life?”
“Life such as you can’t imagine, Diego. Are you brave enough to take the chance?”
Diego thought of the vows he had made to himself in the last month. Of all the dreams he had yet to fulfill. Of Esperanza, with her kind eyes and gentle touch. Of how he had yet to properly thank her for all she’d done for him.
“Sí, I am brave enough.”
His friend nodded, and Diego watched with fascination and horror as the dark brown of Julio’s eyes bled out to an oddly glowing blue-green. He
was so fascinated by the change that for a second he failed to notice the long fangs descending from Don Julio’s mouth.
“Madre de Dios,” he said, shocked by the transformation. But he didn’t flinch as his friend bent toward him.
If anything, he bared his neck, wanting to make the task easier. The brush of his friend’s lips against his skin was a shock, an almost loving gesture before the bite and its pain. But soon after, the distress receded, followed by passion that made him hold Julio’s head to him, wanting his embrace never to end.
But it did, as his eyesight dimmed from the loss of blood, and Julio whispered against his ear, “Bite me.”
The fever of the vampire transformation had racked his body with alternating chills and fever for over a day before imprisoning him in a world of darkness from which he fought to escape. When he finally woke, he found himself tightly bound in foul-smelling sheets. Struggling against the fabric, he rent it with his hands and emerged, only to find Julio kneeling beside him, knife in hand.
“Always the impatient one,” his friend teased, but then his look grew serious. “They discovered Esperenza was helping you. She’s to be burned alive tomorrow. We must hurry.”
After cutting away the rest of the linens, Julio rose and led Diego along the edges of the building the Inquisitor had turned into his prison. At the back, Julio paused at the entrance to a root cellar, where a large boulder blocked the thick wooden door. Julio lifted the immense stone as if it weighed nothing. At Diego’s questioning glance, his friend whispered, “You will soon be able to test your own powers.”
They entered the cellar and then the basement storage areas that had been converted into holding cells for the sinners awaiting punishment.
A few doors down, Julio halted and pointed at one cell. Diego peered in through the bars.
Esperanza lay on the ground, sprawled across the dirt and straw. A rat rooted around her skirts, but she seemed either unaware or uncaring. He whispered her name, but she didn’t move, creating the fear in him that she had already slipped from life.
“Esperanza,” he whispered again, but she didn’t stir.
He grabbed the lock with his hands and, remembering Julio’s earlier words and action, violently twisted it. It bent as if made of putty, and he quickly removed it and made his way to Esperanza’s side.
Her eyes were closed, but as he laid his hand on her cold cheek, they fluttered open. “I heard you call my name. I thought it was a dream.”
A wisp of a smile crept across her lips before her eyes fluttered shut again.
He placed his hands on the pulse point of her neck and noted how weak and thready it was. Cursing beneath his breath, he cradled her to his chest, wanting to offer the comfort of his body’s warmth, only he had no warmth to give. He had nothing to give her except the love he had come to feel for her and the kiss that Julio had offered him. Diego wanted her to have another chance at life. A life in which they could explore their burgeoning love.
Cradling her cheek, he managed to rouse her
again, her expressive brown eyes sparking with a bit of life. “Diego. You’re truly here,” she said weakly.
“Amor, I’m here for you. Will you come with me?” He brushed his hand across the matted strands of her once luxuriant auburn locks.
“I am yours, Diego. Forever.”
He waited no longer.
With the instinct of the demon’s blood now flowing through his veins, he called forth the beast. Heat pooled at the center of him and sped outward, charging his body as everything around him came to even sharper focus. Hunger rose, needing appeasement, and in answer, he sensed the fangs slipping downward, heard the erratic beat of her heart, urging him to act before death called.
He bent his head, and shivered at the first brush of his fangs against her pulse point. Dragging in one last breath, he whispered, “Forgive me, mi amor,” and plunged his teeth into her neck.
Chapter 5
R amona had already prepared for a few openings in her short career as an artist, and they always filled her with excitement. This visit to the gallery to check things out was no different and possibly even more compelling, since it would likely be her last.
The gallery was closed to the public in anticipation of the showing, which was now only two nights away. She was anxious to see how Diego had placed her paintings and decorated the space, since he always seemed to find just the right way to highlight the chosen works.
She was filled with trepidation at one other thing she planned to do that night—ask Diego for the phone number of one of the buyers from the van Winter auction. She knew he had it because the woman in question was a frequent visitor to his gallery and had, in fact, bought one of Ramona’s earlier works.
Although Ramona didn’t plan on calling the woman right away, she hoped that letting van Winter know that she was in possession of the number would spur him to see her and answer some of her questions. She didn’t want to consider what she would do if he ignored her request.
The buyer might consent to speak with her, but then what? The woman would likely think Ramona crazy if she accused van Winter of putting a forgery up for sale. Worse, the accusations would impact on Diego, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.
Diego had been too good to her, and she didn’t want to hurt him in any way.
Slowly she climbed the three short steps to the exclusive Soho gallery. A rich satin drape with a fanciful crest and Diego’s name blocked the main display window. She rapped on the glass door with her knuckle and a light snapped on in one of the back rooms. A second later, Diego strolled out.
He was dressed casually in black jeans and a charcoal-gray sweater that seemed painted to his body. Seeing her at the door, he rushed to open it.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” He took her hand and noticed the cold once again, much like a few nights before.
“Not long.” She eased her hand from his and rubbed it self-consciously as she stepped into the gallery and looked around, clearly eager to see how he had prepared for the showing.
Diego did not plan on rushing the surprise. “Let’s get you comfortable.” He slipped his hands to her shoulders and eased off her coat, tossing it on a chair. Then he walked to a long table set in the anteroom, where a lone bottle of wine sat beside two glasses. “At the show we’ll have some refreshments here before we direct everyone inside to the main displays,” he explained.
Ramona flicked a finger in the direction of the central exhibit area of the gallery. “When can I see?”
Diego chuckled, approached her and cupped her cheek. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed, little one,” he teased, determined to make everything perfect for her. He ignored the voice in his head that said becoming personally involved with her was a mistake.
For starters, she was human. And beautiful. A definite strike against her. The last beautiful woman he had become involved with had betrayed him and cost him his mortal life. He knew little about Ramona, but he had seen the shadows of secrets in her eyes.
The yearning in the paintings, however, and the possibility that he had produced such hunger, overrode common sense and caution.
He eased his hand over hers, urging her toward the table. He poured the wine and offered her a
glass, which she accepted, then held up his own in a toast. “To our successful partnership.”
“To success.” She clinked her glass with his, took a sip and smiled. “Very good.”
“Just like your paintings,” he said, and walked to the entryway leading to the main exhibit area. With the hand holding the glass, he flipped a switch, illuminating the space beyond.
Intrigued, Ramona stepped to the opening and gasped at the sight of her paintings on display.
Diego had hung them simply, without even the benefit of frames, as if to do so would somehow inhibit the motion in the paintings. On the first wall were a trio of her smaller studies. Two mouths barely brushing against each other. A pair of hands, fingers intertwined. The curve of a breast with a hand cupping its weight.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise as she recalled the inspiration for those paintings. Diego. His hands. His lips. His long, elegant fingers, those of an artist and not a businessman. Which made her wonder about the man standing beside her…
“They look wonderful. So tell me, how did you decide that this was your life’s calling?”
Diego’s mouth thinned into a tight line and he turned away from her. Cradling his glass in his fingers, he pointed to her work. “I dabbled in the art world for a long time until the death of someone I knew convinced me that works like these needed a voice. A champion.”
Passionate, but a nonanswer, Ramona thought. She was aware of the various artists he had supported in this gallery, but wondered about the others before his arrival in New York. “You’ve been here for what? Ten years now?”
“So many questions. Why tonight?” he said and without waiting for her reply, walked to the next viewing room in the gallery.
She followed silently considering how to broach the one question sure to pique his interest. For the moment, however, she allowed herself to be a spectator to her art. As before, the images of the couples in the paintings moved her.
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