The play mesmerized him, as always. He had lost count of how many times he had seen it, had long ago stopped wondering what there was about the production that he found so endlessly fascinating.
Lost in the dark, he became one with the Opera Ghost, lusting after the fair Christine, knowing in the depths of his aching heart that she could never be his.
He heard the anguish in the Phantom's voice as he watched Christine find comfort in the arms of the handsome Vicomte de Chagny, felt the deformed man's pain as he cursed her.
But Jason 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 with hers. He shared her excitement as she sang her lines during Don Juan Triumphant, sensed her pleasure when 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 desirable, as he remembered. Surely her eyes could not be as green as those he had seen in his dreams, her skin could not be as creamy and unblemished. No lips could be so pink and perfect; her hair could not be as thick and lustrous as he recalled.
And then she was there, hurrying toward him, a smile of welcome lighting her face as if they had known each other for years instead of a few hours.
She was breathtakingly beautiful in a pair of slinky black pants and a green blouse made of some soft material that clung to her upper body, outlining every delectable curve, emphasizing the deep green of her eyes.
His mouth watered just looking at her.
"Shall we go?" she asked, 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. Alive.
Hand in hand, they ran across the street.
"This is yours?" Leanne exclaimed when he stopped beside his car.
Jason nodded. "Like it?"
She hadn't noticed what he was driving the night before. Now, her gaze swept over the sleek curves of the black Porsche. "What's not to like?" He opened the passenger door and she slid into the seat, her hand stroking the soft leather. "You're not a cop on the take, are you?" she asked when he slid behind the wheel.
Jason shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition. Thinking quickly, he said, "My grandfather left me quite well off."
"Then why do you work?"
"A man has to do something with his time."
They made small talk on the way to Hollywood. She told him about some of the funny things that had happened on stage, like the time the Phantom's boat veered left when it should have gone right.
"I remember that."
"You were there?"
He nodded.
"And then there was the night during the banquet scene in Don Juan Triumphant when the apple fell out of the pig's mouth and rolled across the stage," she said, laughing. "And one night, during the Masquerade number, the Phantom tossed the opera score to one of the managers, and he dropped it." She shook her head. "I think that's what makes live theater so much fun, and why people come back again and again. You just never know when something will go wrong, like the night Davis forgot the lyrics to one of the songs and just sort of ad-libbed the words."
Jason nodded. He had been in the theater during all of those incidents.
"Someone told me that one night Christine's double sprained her ankle, so Dale had to limp, but that was before my time with the show," Leanne said, laughing. "I'm sorry, I'm monopolizing the conversation," Leanne said. "So, tell me about your job. What do you like best about being a cop?"
"I guess because, like the theater, no two nights are ever the same. Of course, most of the time, the job is pretty boring. Just routine calls, mostly family squabbles." Or so he had heard.
When they reached the mall, Jason parked the car in the lot; then, hand-in-hand, they walked toward the movie theater.
Inside, they sat in the last row. Of its own volition, his hand found hers again. The touch of her fingers entwining with his sent a warm ripple of awareness surging through him, a jolt of such force that it took his breath away.
In the darkness, his gaze sought hers. She had felt it, too. He saw it in the slightly surprised expression in her eyes, heard it in the sudden intake of her breath. The attraction that hummed between them was electric, palpable.
Time and place were momentarily forgotten as his hand slid up her arm, across her shoulder. Cupping the back of her head, he drew her slowly toward him. She didn't resist, but came readily, her eyelids fluttering down as his mouth slanted over hers.
It was a kiss unlike any he had ever known – sweetly potent, volatile, explosive. His body's reaction to her nearness, to the taste of her lips, the scent of her life's essence, was instantaneous, almost painful in its intensity.
With the rise of his physical desire came another hunger, one that was more painful than unfulfilled passion, and far more deadly for the woman beside him. Unable to help himself, he pressed a kiss to her throat, let his tongue caress the pulse beating there. Her skin was warm, the whisper of the sweet nectar flowing through her veins tempting, so tempting...
With a low groan, he drew away.
"Jason, what's wrong?" Her voice was husky, drugged with desire.
"Nothing." He raked a hand through his hair, conscious of the people around them. "This isn't the time, or the place."
She smiled a knowing smile, her green eyes smoky with passion. "Any time," she murmured in a breathless whisper. "Any place."
"Leanne..."
"I'm shameless, I know, but I can't help myself. I've never felt this way before. It's as though I've known you all my life." Her hand slid over his chest. "As though I've waited for you all my life."
For a moment, he closed his eyes. Her words fell like sunshine on the blackness of his soul. And then he smiled at her through the darkness.
"We have time, Leanne," he whispered hoarsely "All the time in the world."
Later, driving her home, he couldn't remember what the movie was about, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the connection between them, and the sure knowledge that he would see her again the following night.
And every night after that for as long as she lived.
Chapter 4
Jason sat on the sofa in the living room, his feet resting on a leather hassock, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the raised hearth. The fire served no purpose save that he found it pleasing to look upon. He had no need for its warmth; he felt neither the heat nor the cold, but sitting in front of a fire on a cool autumn night seemed a very human thing to do. Tonight, tormented by vivid memories of his past, he had a strong desire to feel mortal again.
He had been born in a time of great superstition, when a young woman with the gift to heal might be judged a witch and burned at the stake, when country folk believed that werewolves prowled the forests in the light of the full moon, when restless ghosts were thought to wander the rooms of castle and hovel alike.
He had never seen a ghost and he had never put much stock in werewolves, but he had come to believe in vampires. Oh, yes, he would never forget the night he had learned about vampires.
It had been a warm summer evening, just after supper. He'd had an argument with his wife, Jolene. He could not now remember what they quarreled about, but he had stormed out of the cottage and headed for the local tavern, determined to drown his troubles in a mug or two of golden ale. He had been working his way through his third tankard when Marguerite approached him. There had been something compelling in the way she looked at him, the way her hell-black eyes caressed him, that had chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. And yet it had been that same unsettling look which had drawn him inexplicably to her side.
Mesmerized by her dark beauty, by the husky tremor in her voice and the 'come hither' expression in her eyes, he had followed her to the rooms upstairs. Never before had he been unfaithful to Jolene, but that night it was as if he'd had no control over either his body or his pass
ion. Like a puppy at its master's heels, he had followed Marguerite up the narrow wooden stairway and into a life of eternal darkness.
She had drugged him with her kisses, aroused him until he had been mindless with need and then, in the midst of their love-making, she had buried her fangs in his throat, drained him to the point of death, and then given him her blood in return.
She had left him just before dawn, warning him that he must find a place to hide himself from the sun unless he wished that night to be his last.
He had not believed her. Until he stepped out into the bright light of a new day. The pain of the sun on his face had been excruciating. With a cry of alarm, he had bolted into the woods and taken refuge in a cave.
Trembling with pain and fear, his skin blistering, he had pressed himself against the wall, unable to move, only vaguely aware of the ghastly changes taking place in his body as Marguerite's accursed blood wrought the hideous transformation.
Weak, helpless to resist, he had died that day, his body convulsing as it purged itself of useless fluids. And, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, he had lain as one dead until the setting of the sun.
When he awoke that night, he had known his old life was gone forever.
He had sought Marguerite when he left the cave, begging her to undo the evil she had wrought upon him, but she had only laughed softly as she caressed his cheek.
"There is no going back, mon amour."
"There must be a way!"
"None that I know of, except..." She made a vague gesture with one hand.
He grabbed her arms, his fingers biting deep into her cool white flesh. "Except?"
"It is rumored among the ancient ones that there is a bloodline which has the power to transform a vampire into a mortal again, but I have no idea how it is done. I know only that the power is not in the blood." She shrugged, as if the whole conversation were unimportant. "That is all I know."
"Whose bloodline?" he demanded, giving her a shake. "Where do I find such a person?"
"I know not. I care not. I am happy as I am, and have no wish to be mortal again."
She had pried his fingers from her arm, then patted his cheek, much as a mother might comfort a weeping child. "Give it time, cheri. One day you will bless me for what I have done."
Bless her! He would have killed her had he known how. Late that night, he had gone home to find Jolene frantic with worry, her beautiful face ravaged by tears.
She had been disbelieving when he told her what had happened, disbelieving until the sun came up and she had seen for herself the death-like lethargy that held him captive in its grip.
To Jolene's credit, she hadn't turned her back on him. Although she had been repulsed by his lust for blood, by the corpse-like figure that slept in the cellar by day, she had never stopped loving him. Blessed woman that she was, she had kept his secret until the day she died.
And that had been the hardest thing of all to bear, watching his beloved wife grow old and feeble while he stayed forever young and strong. Her once unblemished skin grew wrinkled with the passing years, her hair, once as fine as black silk, had turned white. The joy of living had gone out of her eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had ever looked on him with love and tenderness. It had been torment of the worst kind, watching her body weaken and wither, ravaged by age and disease. In desperation, he had offered to save her, to transform her into the horror he had become, but she had refused. In the end, she had died in his arms, whispering his name.
In his youth, he had been zealously religious. Always, he had believed in a just and loving God. He had been faithful in his prayers, certain they were heard. But now, monster and murderer that he had become, he was cut off from the powers of heaven, unable to offer a prayer in behalf of his wife.
That night, for the first time since Marguerite had turned him into a monster, he had contemplated putting an end to his existence. Considered it and found he lacked the courage, for far worse than the thought of dying was the knowledge that, in death, he would come face to face with the Almighty and have to confess his sins.
In all the years since Jolene's death, he had kept a tight rein on his emotions, never letting himself care for anyone. He made no close friends, mortal or otherwise. Trusting one of the undead could be as dangerous to his existence as trusting the living, and so he had trusted no one, loved no one.
Until now.
He thought of Leanne, and her memory engulfed him with a warm, sustaining glow. She had brought light to his dark existence, given him a reason to live, pierced the protective wall he had erected around his heart. Fool that he was, he couldn't deny the fact that he had fallen in love again.
Fallen in love with a woman who looked enough like his beloved Jolene to be her sister.
A long slow sigh escaped Jason's lips. He could not endure the agony of watching another woman he loved grow old and die, nor could he be responsible for giving her the Dark Gift. Leanne was a creature of sunshine. He could not condemn her to a life spent in the shadows.
And yet he could not think of facing the future without her, not now, when he had glimpsed her goodness, felt the sweet magic that had flowed between them the moment their eyes met for the first time.
* * *
Jason soon grew tired of meeting Leanne after the theater, then spending the evening in a darkened movie house or some smoke-filled bar, and since he dared not go to her house, which no doubt contained several mirrors, he brought her home.
Never before had he brought a woman into his house. He bade her wait in the entry hall while he went inside and lit the candles. No doubt she would think it strange that he eschewed electric lights, but he much preferred the soft glow of candlelight to the harsh glare of modern electricity.
Returning to the entry hall, he bowed over her hand. "Welcome to my humble home," he murmured, and kissed her hand in courtly fashion.
"Do you mind if I look around?" Leanne asked.
"Please," he said. "Make my home yours."
Leanne wandered through the house, enchanted by the works of art, the sculptures. Several of the paintings were signed J. Blackthorne. The signature was bold and distinctive.
"Blackthorne!" she exclaimed softly. "Now I know why your name sounded so familiar. I saw one of his paintings in a museum." She turned to look at Jason, a question in her eyes.
"An ancestor," Jason said. "Prolific, but mostly unappreciated."
Leanne studied the largest of the paintings. It depicted a tall man with hair as black as midnight standing alone on a cliff overlooking a turbulent sea. A long black cape billowed out behind him, buffeted by the wind. Dark gray clouds hovered above storm-tossed waves. Just looking at the painting filled her with a sense of loneliness, of emptiness.
"He was very good," she remarked.
Jason shrugged. "For his time, perhaps.
With a nod, Leanne continued her tour, ever conscious that Jason was only a step or two behind her.
The rooms were sparsely furnished and she noticed he had only a few small table lamps, none of which he turned on, obviously preferring the softer, more romantic glow of the candles that lit every room, even the bathrooms.
The living room was decorated in earth tones. A brown leather sofa faced the fireplace; a pair of matching overstuffed chairs flanked the sofa. A book about ancient civilizations sat on a carved oak table in front of the couch. Heavy beige draperies covered the windows.
The master bedroom was decorated in muted shades of blue and white. Standing in the doorway, she had the oddest impression that the bed had never been slept in; indeed, she had the feeling the room had rarely been used at all. Adjoining the master bedroom was a large bathroom with a sunken tub and a skylight. There was an enormous den next to the bedroom. Two of the walls were lined with oak bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling. She paused in front of one of the bookshelves, her gaze perusing the titles. She saw Shakespeare and Homer, Louis L'Amour and Stephen King, Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz, a collection of Anne
Rice's vampire books, as well as numerous volumes on history and geography, medicine, art, literature and folklore, many of which were written in foreign languages.
"Have you read all of these?" she asked, amazed by the quantity and variety of books. Judging by their fragile covers, many of the volumes appeared to be quite old.
"Not all," Jason replied.
Leanne smiled, thinking it would take a hundred years to read all the books on the shelves.
Turning away from the bookcase, she glanced around the room. A beautiful black marble fireplace took up most of the third wall. The fourth wall contained a large window covered by heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes. A big, comfortable looking black leather chair and an ottoman stood in front of the hearth.
Leaving the den, she peered into the kitchen, noting it was stark and white. Again, she was overcome with the impression that, like the bedroom, the kitchen was rarely, if ever, used. But then maybe that wasn't so strange. Jason was a bachelor, after all. Maybe he ate all his meals out.
"So," he said as they returned to the living room, "what do you think?"
"It's very nice." She made a broad gesture with her hand. "I think I like the den the best."
"Yes, it's my favorite, too."
Leanne crossed the floor to the picture window that overlooked the backyard and pulled back the heavy curtains. A full moon hovered low in the sky, bathing the grass and the outbuildings in shimmering silver.
"Is your horse here?"
"Yes."
"Could I see it?"
"If you like."
Taking her hand, he led her out the back door and down a narrow flight of steps. They followed a winding path edged with ferns and willow trees until they reached a large corral.
Jason whistled softly, and a dark shape materialized out of the shadows.
"Hello, Lucifer," he murmured, scratching the big black horse between its ears. "I've brought someone to meet you."
Leanne held out her hand, and the stallion danced away, its nostrils flaring, its eyes showing white.
Masquerade Page 2
