Love Ever After: Eleven All-New Romances!

by Nina Lane

  The fact that my father got me a job fills me with a weird combination of gratitude and anger. I love my job, my apartment, this stunning and vibrant city. But I’m angry that I have to feel gratitude for a man who ignored me. And I’m furious that I really am appreciative, that my “good opinion” (as Lizzie Bennett of Pride and Prejudice would say) could be bought so easily by a job. Angry that, more than anything, I just want to see my father and meet him. I should be hurt and bitter enough to cut him out of my life. But I’m not.

  I used to fantasize he would show up someday. It was my wish every birthday. At my high school graduation, I almost fell off the stage because I kept scanning the audience, hoping to see him.

  By college graduation, I didn’t even bother to look.

  Amanda and I have reached the front of the line.

  “Your invitation,” asks one of the men, with a heavy Eastern European accent.

  He glances down at the elegant, embossed card I hand him, unhooks the velvet rope and ushers us through. We step through the glass and marble lobby, walking beneath a huge crystal chandelier, and continue into the reception area of the gallery. Classical music softly plays below the buzz of conversation. Light glows subtly everywhere, glittering on beautiful jewels. Every major fashion designer must be represented here. I could celebrity spot for hours. It’s like I’ve walked into a fantasy world.

  “This place is incredible!” Amanda gasps. “The space is enormous but it feels warm and intimate. Look at that statue—is that a statue of what I think it is? It looks like a threesome. There’s champagne. Which means I’d better get something to eat. Lauren, don’t look now, but I think Leo is over there. No, don’t look. Ignore him and strut right past him—your hair looks fantastic by the way.”

  Amanda’s conversation always goes at light speed when she’s nervous or excited. A waiter in evening dress presents a tray of champagne. I grab two, giving one to Amanda. “Drink and relax,” I murmur. I do see Leo. His dark hair is wild and curly around his face, which is more interesting than handsome. Dark stubble hugs his cheeks. He’s taking pictures like crazy. Every woman who sees him lights up with a beautiful smile for his camera. And for him.

  His gaze meets mine. I smile as beatifically as I can. He jumps, looking guilty. And embarrassed. He knocks over one of his expensive lights. And almost hits Ivanka Trump in the head as he tries to pick it up. She looks less than impressed. Ha. His guilty conscience is taking care of payback.

  Amanda grabs my arm and pulls me further into the gallery as we sip the champagne. Bubbles burst in my nose, making me giggle like an adolescent.

  The gallery is divided into a labyrinth of smaller spaces. On the walls, striking oil paintings are displayed, while beautiful marble statues grace the interior spaces of the rooms. In one room, there is nothing but rows and rows of old department store mannequins lying on the floor. There is an explanation for the piece posted on a wall, but the display is so creepy I just want to run from it.

  Amanda stops to read the plaque, looking for the meaning behind the piece, but I escape, following the twisting corridors between the display spaces—

  Until I end up lost. Somehow I end up in a deserted storage area, a cavernous space filled with crates and metal shelving. I call out a few times, but no one answers. I try to retrace my steps, but I feel like I’m in a maze. I find one small room after another, but they’re all empty.

  Then I hear the murmur of a voice. Relief floods me. I’m not going to be lost forever. My heels clatter on the polished floor as I round the wall and hurry into the space, assuming I’ve found some of the crowd.

  Only one man stands in the small, square room and he is speaking on a cell phone, his back to me. He’s wearing an exquisite grey suit that emphasizes his slim waist and hips and makes his shoulders look impressively broad. He stands at least a foot taller than me. He holds a glass of champagne. I notice his hair—it’s thick, lush, and so pale blond, it’s almost white. Platinum is the name for it.

  Even though I can’t see his face, I sense he is going to be gorgeous. He lifts his hand to sip his drink and a ring on his finger flashes light against the wall.

  Turn around. Turn around.

  Of course, he doesn’t. And I’m intruding on his phone call. I start to turn to go, but he suddenly calls out, “Wait.”

  I stop.

  “Turn around.” The voice is curt, edged with impatience.

  The fact that it was the same command I was thinking makes me flush guiltily. But of course he couldn’t read my mind.

  Slowly, I rotate, holding my empty champagne glass. “If I am not supposed to be in here, I’m sorry. I got lost and ended up—”

  My voice breaks off. Any coherent thought dies.

  The most stunning blue-green eyes gaze at me. They seem to glow. His lashes are raven black, curling up to meet his dark brows. I’m dazzled by the contrast between his pale hair, the turquoise eyes, the slanted black brows and lush lashes. He is breathtaking.

  Someone is still speaking to him—I can hear the voice through his phone. Staring at me, he shuts off the conversation with a tap of his thumb.

  I feel a blush creep to my cheeks. It can’t be that he is so attracted to me that he’s rudely cut off a conversation.

  “My God, you are exquisite,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I stare at him, not sure I heard right. Awkwardly, I say, “Um, thank you. I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation.”

  “It is of no importance. I apologize for my rudeness. Of course, you have every right to be here.”

  He must work here. Or is it possible that he is—?

  “Though as you can see, this part of the gallery is not in use.” His voice is deep, sensually accented. Italian? Russian? I can’t tell. His accent is different than that of the doorman.

  “I got lost, I’m afraid,” I say.

  A smile curves his full, wide mouth. He is beyond gorgeous when he smiles. “And now you want to return?”

  “I should.” That’s an evasive answer if I ever heard one.

  “You do not want to return there.” He says it like a command.

  Something in his tone makes me uneasy. “No, I really should go back. My friend will wonder where I’ve gone.”

  “I know who you are,” he says softly.

  I take a step back. His eyes almost glow at me, which must be a strange reflection of the spotlights. I don’t understand how he could know me. My social media accounts have an avatar picture. My photograph is not yet up on the agency’s website. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

  “Renoir Carlyle. Owner of the Carlyle Gallery.”

  Of course. He must be responsible for the invitations. Still, how could this man—six-feet-four-inches of supreme blond gorgeousness—know me?

  As if he can read my thoughts, he says, “I am well acquainted with your father, Miss Lauren Knight.” In his accent, my name takes on a romantic, exotic sound. “On several occasions…let me just say we worked together for over twenty-five years.”

  “Then you know my father better than I do.”

  The words are out before I can stop them. They sound angry. They smack of pain and disappointment. They make me squirm with guilt—they reveal my secret, hidden fear that my smart and beautiful twin sister was better than me, and once she was gone, my father found I wasn’t worth staying for.

  Anyway, my words aren’t appropriate for a social situation. Nor does this man deserve to hear about my problems. “I’m sorry. That came out as rude. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Ah, but I did not issue it. I wonder who did.”

  “You didn’t send it?” Now I’m confused. “I assumed you had, because you know my father.”

  Now I realize he said they had worked together for a quarter of a century. Yet I would not have thought this man older than thirty.

  “He would not have wanted you to come here,” Renoir Carlyle says. “He would not have wanted me to see you.” As he speaks, his h
ead tips up slightly. His nostrils flare. As if he is scenting me, not only seeing me.

  That brilliant werewolf book must still be on my mind.

  I know Renoir Carlyle is a billionaire, owner of many skyscrapers and several large corporations. Amanda would urge me to flirt for all I was worth. She would teasingly say that since we’re in New York, we just might find a Christian Grey for each of us. But this man makes me uncomfortable. Why would he believe my father wouldn’t want me here? If he thinks that, should I give him the benefit of the doubt?

  On the other hand, my father walked out when I needed him most, and when he came back into my life, it was in the most unemotional and distant way possible. He gave me things, instead of himself.

  So I ask, bluntly, “Why would you think that?”

  He doesn’t answer. His gaze holds mine—it’s almost hypnotic. It makes me nervous. I take a step back. “I should return to the party. Find my friend,” I say. Maybe I can find the way back by myself. Instinct tells me I think I should put some space between me and this man.

  Trying to sound casual, I say, “Congratulations on a fabulous event. The gallery is magnificent.” Then I turn and walk away. I stumble along, trying to retrace my way through the labyrinth.

  The temptation to look back at him is like a ferocious itch. I ball my fists. I won’t look back.

  I turn a corner—

  Renoir Carlyle is standing in front of me, a smile playing on his handsome mouth. “Come with me,” he says. His turquoise eyes watch me intently.

  “No, thank you,” I begin, but as he moves backward, my feet follow him. He seems to be gliding over the polished wood floor as if his feet aren’t touching it. I follow him and I can’t make myself stop.

  I know what’s happening to me. My stomach clenches in pure terror.

  He stops in front of a door in the wall. He speaks a word in a language I don’t recognize and the door swings open. Every grain of sense I have tells me not to go in. I try to grab the wall so I won’t move. But when he disappears through the door, my feet obediently follow.

  Anger spikes through me, just as strong as fear. I’m furious that I, of all people, didn’t realize what this man is.

  Renoir Carlyle glides to the middle of the room—a long, narrow space lit only by moonlight that streams in through a skylight. The blue-silver light bathes him, making his hair look formed of molten silver. It reflects off his eyes and they shine like mirrors.

  I remember driving along the highway at home and seeing bright dots in the grass at the side of the road. Shining eyes meant an animal. A predator on the hunt at night—

  My father told me vampires had eyes like that. He told me all the things about vampires that were true—and the myths and legends that weren’t.

  Renoir waits for me to come to him. I can’t help myself—I slowly walk toward him, willing my feet to stop moving. My will fails.

  My father never told me what to do if I came face to face with a vampire without a weapon to my name. When I was little, he always promised he would protect me.

  But my father is not here.

  I stand right in front of Renoir Carlyle. His skin looks pale as marble in the light. Shadows enhance the intense shape of his face—high, sharp cheekbones, a blade of a nose, deep-set eyes, full lips.

  He is beautiful, but it isn’t lust drawing me to him. This is beyond my control.

  I try to step back.

  “Stay with me.”

  I don’t think he actually said the words, but I heard them in my head. A vampire’s ability to control minds is real. And I don’t know how to fight it.

  I have to get out of here—

  He touches me. His long-fingered hand brushes my hair back over my shoulder. I shiver as the strands fall over my bare skin like a shawl.

  Renoir bends to my neck. His lips touch my throat.

  And I can’t move. I can’t believe I can do nothing but wait for him to bite me. Inside, I’m screaming at myself: move, break free, you must be stronger than this—

  He draws back, smiling at me. He didn’t bite me. But his fingers continue to stroke my neck.

  “You do not know what I am, do you, Lauren?”

  “You are a vampire,” I say boldly. “And I want you to release me. Let me go.”

  “That will not be possible. I never dreamed you would be so…intriguing. For that reason, I am surprised your father never told you the truth.”

  “What truth?” I should not care what he says. It’s probably a trick. Lies. But deep inside, I sense there is something he can tell me. Something I want to know.

  “What do you know about my father?” I want to sound as if I’m in control and not afraid. The effect is ruined when I swallow hard. My father would have hunted vampires like Renoir.

  “I have known your father for decades. For a very long part of his life, though it is just a mere moment of mine.” He pauses. Moving slowly around me. I am sure his feet are not touching the floor.

  “Your father took the woman I loved from me.”

  Killed her, I realize. She must have been a vampire, and my father must have hunted her. Destroyed her.

  “So you’re going to return the favor.”

  “No, Lauren. You will not die tonight. At my hands, you will not die.”

  I don’t believe him. Renoir must hate my father. And now he has me.

  He growls. Lifts his handsome face. Before my horrified eyes, his mouth twists. He shakes his head as if he’s in pain, then two of his teeth grow into long white fangs.

  There has to be a way to escape his control. I shut my eyes tight and think about getting free. But I still can’t move.

  His fangs scratch my skin. I can’t pull away. I am transfixed, stuck on the spot.

  “See what remarkable control I have, Lauren. I can hear the rushing of your blood. I can smell it. Yet I will not hurt you.” He lifts his mouth to my ear, kisses my earlobe. “I desire you.”

  For some reason, the words spoken in his deep, silk-smooth accented voice make my body get hot. Against my will. I can’t prevent the rush of arousal.

  It’s all part of his mind control. I won’t give in. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

  He walks around me again. Watching me from beneath his long, thick lashes. A confident, arrogant smile lifts his lips. “I can make you beg for me.”

  “No, you won’t.” My voice is something I still control. I wish I could toss my head with defiance as well but I can’t move.

  There has to be a way to break free of his spell.

  He moves again, so fast his body is a blur to my sight.

  I realize he’s behind me when I see him out of my peripheral vision. When I see him lower to my neck.

  His fangs lightly prick my neck.

  Oh God. “You lied. You said you wouldn’t kill me.”

  “I won’t. All I need is one bite. It’s a small price to pay for what I can give you.”

  “Immortality?” I ask sarcastically. I can control my voice but that means my only weapon is a sardonic tone. That is not going to get me out of here.

  “Something even more precious to you,” he says. His breath washes over my ear. There is no warmth in it.

  I fight to move my head. I struggle to will my body to obey…

  And it does. I’m able to turn my head at least. I wildly look around the large space for any kind of a weapon. There’s a fire extinguisher. A sculpture stands in a shadowy corner. It’s made of iron, but all its parts are welded in place. To stop a vampire I need a wooden stake, a sword to cut off his head, a fortuitous ray of sunlight. There’s nothing I can use.

  I have to get control of my thoughts. Pull my mind away from him.

  I think about my father. About Christiane. About Leo. About my mother who is always there for me. Mom, who wanted to give me a normal life—

  I take a step away from Renoir Carlyle. Heart pounding, I turn and run. I did it. I broke his will over me.

  “Run away and I will never give you the
one thing you desperately want.”

  His voice seems to fill my very soul. But I keep running, awkwardly in heels. I’m almost hugging the wall to keep from sliding on the smooth tile floor. My lungs are burning, but it’s from raw panic. I’m not going to listen—

  “Lauren, would you like to see your sister again? Would you like to see Christiane?”

  Chapter 2

  Christiane? My sister?

  My right hand is plastered against the wall of the corridor to keep me from sliding in my heels as I run. But at Renoir’s question, I slow my pace. I know I’m stupid to do it. I shouldn’t believe him. But I can’t help it.

  I would give anything to see my sister again. To know she’s alive—

  Footsteps sound in the gloom ahead of me. “No, Renoir. She is not going to do that. Don’t tempt her with twisted promises.”

  At the sound of another husky, accented male voice, I stop moving. It came from somewhere in the dark corridor ahead of me and if I keep running, I’ll run right into this second man—and his casual tone says he knows Renoir. Which means he is likely a vampire too. I can’t see anything in front of me, except the red glow of an exit sign off to my right.

  I start running again and veer wildly toward the red light. I almost stumble in my heels. I refuse to do the typical running heroine thing and fall. I sprint instead, even though the pain from slamming my spike heels on the ground vibrates through my head.

  I reach a fire door and slam my hands against the panic bar.

  It opens two inches, then a force pulls it back. It slams shut. I shove on it with all my strength but this time it doesn’t budge.

  “You have nothing to fear,” the voice says, a deep, elegantly accented baritone. Russian? French? Italian? “I will not let him harm you.”

  A man materializes in front of me. One moment he was not there but in the time it took me to draw breath, he appeared.

  Large, male, broad shouldered, he towers over me. My eyes barely reach the middle of his chest—on level with his black T-shirt. Now I know why I couldn’t see him in the shadows. Coal black hair dusts his brow. It’s thick and long, silky black tresses that reach his shoulders. His eyes are dark, shadowed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. Sharp cheekbones reflect the faint moonlight. His mouth is a wide slash, taut with anger. A long black leather duster swirls around him, and he wears black pants and heavy black boots decorated with silver chains and buckles.