She awoke feeling as if she'd been in a fight with a freight train and had lost. Her head throbbed. Her body ached. Her throat had been scrubbed with steel wool. Her tongue had doubled in size and dehydrated. She squeezed her eyes tighter against the shimmer of sunlight that glowed red against her lids, and burrowed more deeply into the big downy pillow. Its satin case caressed her cheek. When she inhaled, her lungs filled with potpourri-tinged air. She hugged the luxuriant, fluffy comforter more closely around her--
Her eyes opened wide. She stilled utterly as a snowball of foreboding rolled up and down her spine. This was not her bed. She'd never owned white satin sheets or a down-filled comforter. She rolled onto her back, sitting up and blinking until her bleary eyes focused. This was not her room, either. The black lacquered headboard, the huge matching dresser with its gold trim, the little copper potpourri pot, simmering over a white candle on the stand near her head. None of this was hers.
"What in hell..." She tossed the covers aside and got up. Plush white pile hugged her bare feet, enveloped her toes. She blinked and shook off this through-the-looking-glass sensation. The room was a triangle, and the tall, gleaming black door opposite her was its point. Where on earth was she? For the briefest second she wondered if she'd died and proceeded on to some waiting room between heaven and hell. But that wasn't it. That couldn't be it. She felt too damned miserable to be dead.
She went to the door, gripped the knob, twisted. It refused to budge. She jiggled it, tugged again and pounded on the wood. "Hey, what's going on? Let me out!" Her heart pattered harder as she awaited a response that didn't come. Only silence. A heavy, smothering silence that closed in around her like a shroud. She willed her pulse to slow, pushed a hand through her hair, tried to calm herself. It wasn't a dream. She was sure she was awake. Okay. So what happened?
The memory of the night before returned slowly, but clearly. She'd had an episode. A bad one, worse than any so far. And then Damien had been there. A slow breath worked its way into her lungs. She'd been afraid he'd come to kill her. But he hadn't. He'd actually... he'd tried to help.
"Yeah, some help. As soon as I was out cold, he kidnapped me." She glanced around the room, having no doubt it was somewhere in Damien's modern-day palace. The guy must have something against plain old square rooms. She walked the perimeter, flinging open the door in one angled wall and seeing a triangular bathroom. The door in the opposite wall revealed a triangular closet. Actually, the whole thing would have been a square if the three rooms hadn't had walls dividing them.
The huge bed, black lacquer like every other piece of furniture here, reclined like a decadent goddess in the center of the triangle's base. Tall narrow windows stood sentry duty on either side of it, their livery, black satin, held apart by white bows. She parted the luxurious drapes and glanced outside to confirm her suspicions. The tall fence she'd scaled the night before stood watch in the distance. Sloping roofs, at varying heights, loomed at right angles, and the vine-covered brick walls were familiar.
It was his place, all right. And the window was no good as an escape route. Looked as if she was at least three stories up, with nothing but sheer wall and the grassy ground, carpeted in decaying autumn leaves, below her. The sun was low. She'd slept most of the day.
"Damn him." Shannon jerked the drape back into place, and stalked back to the bathroom in search of a way out. A hidden door. A heating duct. Anything.
Nothing. Just gleaming porcelain, glittering chrome and sinfully thick terry cloth. Spotless. Expensive. The hot tub was big enough to hold the Democratic National Convention inside. And the robe that hung from the wall was... wait a minute, that was her robe.
Charging back into the bedroom, she yanked open the door of the closet, only to see more of her clothes hanging neatly inside. A pair of jeans, a button-down blouse, her brown suede jacket. Her favorite running shoes stood innocently on the floor. Her purse perched on a shelf.
"That son of a--what the hell does he think he's doing?" She paced back toward the bed, and that's when she saw the picnic basket on the floor beside it. She narrowed her eyes, moved cautiously closer, flipped it open. A pile of fruit. She looked closer, lifted the other lid. A half-dozen assorted muffins. A thermos bottle. A sugar bowl. Her stomach rumbled. Part of her wondered if he'd put something into the food. Another part wondered why he'd bother. If he'd wanted to hurt her, he'd had his chance last night.
She disliked this situation. Everything in her rebelled against it, and if she'd cared to analyze herself this morning, she would know why. Her choices had been taken away. It was almost as bad as if she were a child, a ward of the state, again. She was not in control of anything at this moment. He was. He'd brought her here without her consent, locked her in for some insane reason, chosen the clothes she'd wear today, the food she'd eat for breakfast, the soap she'd use in the damned shower.
When she saw the bastard again, she would probably kill him.
In the meantime she was starved. The hell her body had been through last night had drained her. And while he had chosen the food, it was entirely up to her whether or not to eat it.
She threw caution to the wind and reached for a muffin, then the thermos, praying it held good, strong, ultracaffeinated coffee.
It did, piping hot. Aromatic steam rolled from the brew as she poured. It tasted even better than it smelled.
She looked around the room again, shaking her head in frustration. "I don't know what you're up to, Damien, but you aren't going to get away with it."
Damien had decided there were only three possibilities. One, that he'd lost control of his own mind, that he'd become the harbinger of death, his hated enemy. Two, that there was another vampire hunting the streets of Arista. Or, three, that an ordinary mortal with a twisted mind was responsible for the killings, and for some sick reason, wanted them to look like the work of a vampire. Though how any human could manage it, he still couldn't guess. The killer might be someone who wanted Damien to be blamed for his kills. If that was the case, then Shannon was in grave danger. And much as Damien had sworn never to do it, he was inclined to protect her. The blood ties, damn them straight to hell, were impossible to ignore. He could hate the instinct all he wanted, but he couldn't resist it. No more than a human can resist the gravitational pull of the earth, and go floating off into never-never land. He had no choice, no matter how he looked at it. And he resented the intrusion on his solitude.
"The lady's awake, sir."
Damien pulled himself from his ponderings to glance up. The deck of cards he'd been shuffling went still in his hands. Netty tilted her small head to one side and the other, like a little, curious bird. He forced a smile, and her face crinkled with her answering one. She had the frail build of a music- box dancer, and the temperament of a saint. Where else would he ever find someone to take care of the everyday needs of this place, to deal with the repairmen and the gardeners and the salesmen, to put up with his bizarre hours and strange requests, all without question or complaint? What the hell would he do when death crept up to claim Netty?
"Thank you, Netty." He pursed his lips, wondering what he'd say to Shannon when he went up the stairs.
"Been awake for quite a while, now. Pacin'. Nervous like."
Her head tilted again, and he knew she'd like nothing better than an explanation for the unheard-of circumstance of a stranger, much less a woman, in the house. She'd never lower her proper British ways enough to pry, though, no matter how curious she was.
"You left the food for her?"
"Oh, yes. Sleepin' like the dead, she was, when I went in. Lovely thing, don't you think? All that angel's hair spread around her--"
"You can go now, Netty. You're through for the day."
She bit her lip, bobbed her head and hurried from the room with quick little steps. Seemed wherever she went, Netty was always hurrying. He heard the back door, then the motor of her car.
He stiffened his spine and glanced toward the staircase. He didn't have to open his mind or try the trick of scanning hers to feel the fury emanating from Shannon. It was palpable. It filled every recess of the house, and all of it was directed toward him.
He sighed heavily, cut the deck one-handed, then fanned the cards facedown on the table. With exaggerated grace, he extracted four cards and flipped them over. Four aces. One more card trick to add to the repertoire. He grimaced as he rose and started for the stairs.
When he reached the door, he paused, startled to realize there was something warm surging like a South Sea tide in his belly. Anu forbid, he was looking forward to seeing her! That worried him. "She's nothing to me," he whispered, willing his mind to remember it. "Nothing."
He freed the lock with his mind and stepped inside. The first thing that hit him was the clean, moist smell of her. She'd bathed. He could feel the steam in the air, smell, the water drying on her skin, almost taste it. Her hair was still damp, curling at the ends. She wore jeans and a green button-down cotton shirt. She was in the process of rolling the sleeves, when she whirled to face him. The fact that she hadn't fastened a single button didn't seem to faze her in the least. Her amber eyes flashed gold and her jaw went taut beneath the smooth skin. There were glistening droplets still clinging to her lashes.
"It's about time you showed up. Just what the hell do you think you're doing, bringing me here! Locking me in! That's unlawful imprisonment, mister, and I can tell you, you'll find yourself in a cell the minute I--"
She broke off, glancing down, apparently having finally noticed where his gaze was focused. The frilly white edges of the bra caressed the mounds of flesh they cupped like adoring fingers, and he couldn't for the life of him look away. She was beautiful. He hadn't taken the time to really appreciate feminine beauty in too long. He satisfied his needs in darkness, with hurried encounters and no words exchanged. He realized just what an oversight that had been, as he traced her flat belly, the dark well of her navel, the swollen curves of her breasts, with his eyes. He stared long and hard at the darker circles at their centers, just visible through the white material. Their peaks came alert as he stared and he felt the razor-edged blade of desire run him through.
She turned her back to him, buttoning up. "I want a phone. I'm calling a cab and then I'm getting the hell out of here, and when I get back to my apartment, I'll probably call a cop."
He said nothing, just watched her. She tucked the shirt tails into the jeans before facing him again. "Well?"
Her cheeks were pink with rage and her eyes sparkled. Her breaths came a little too fast, and her fists were clenched.
"You look a lot better. How do you feel?"
She threw her hands in the air, rolled her eyes. "Fine. Perfect. Where the hell's that phone?" She walked past him, through the door and into the wide hallway. She looked up and down it, obviously not sure which way to go.
"Do those attacks come often?"
She started, as if she didn't know he'd walked along behind her. "None of your business. Which way is the phone?"
"Answer my questions and I'll take you to it."
If her eyes could shoot daggers through his heart, they would have. When she spun on him again her hair flew out around her like a wet halo, spraying his heated face. "Why did you bring me here last night?" Her eyes widened slightly for just an instant as the obvious answer occurred to her. "I was unconscious, wasn't I? Did you do anything to me?"
"Shannon, for God's sake, I don't go around molesting delirious women. I brought you here because I was afraid to leave you alone. You were sicker than hell. I'd have called some of your family to take care of you if I'd known where to reach them. But I didn't, so I decided to do it myself."
"I don't have any family." Her eyes narrowed to slits as she studied him.
"It's happened before, hasn't it?"
"Once or twice." She turned her back on him, started down the hall in the wrong direction.
"How often?"
She shrugged. "What's it to you, anyway?" She stopped a few yards away, turned and came back, apparently deciding to go the other way.
When she passed him, he took her arm, walked beside her. "Nothing," he reminded himself. "Absolutely nothing. The phone is downstairs, but you don't need it. I'll drive you anywhere you want to go."
She blinked up at him, pausing in their trek toward the stairway, which was now in sight. "You will? I mean... you're not going to try to..." Her gaze fell to the floor and she shook her head.
"What did you think--that I was holding you prisoner?"
She met his gaze, her own flashing again. "You locked me in."
"There was a reason." He started down the stairs, led her through the narrower hall to the second staircase and then down that. When they finally emerged on the first level, he guided her into his oval library, waved her toward a leather sofa.
She stiffened, remaining in the doorway. "What is this? I said I wanted out."
"Shannon, when you broke in here and asked for ten minutes, I gave it to you. I'm only asking you to return the favor."
Her head tilted to one side, a wary animal sizing up its chances with a predator. She didn't trust him. She had good instincts.
"You can leave whenever you want to. I won't stop you. There's a phone on the desk over there." He pointed. She looked, licked her lips, nodded.
"All right. Okay. Ten minutes. No more."
No more. Unfortunately for both of them, there was going to be more. A lot more. And he'd keep her with him by force if he had to. But first he'd try to talk her around to his way of thinking.
And he'd pray he wasn't worthy of all her fear.
Why the hell did she agree to sit here and listen to him? The guy could talk her into buying swampland in the desert if he applied himself. There was something about him...
She walked into the library, took a look around. The room's shape came as no surprise. The curving walls were lined with books, most of them old-looking, with that wonderful, slightly musty smell that old books always have. The sofa and chairs were rich brown leather. New. Their aroma mingled with that of the books, and that more subtle scent that was distinctly Damien.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood right where he'd been before, watching her intently. It was his eyes--that's what it was. They were so huge and deep and expressive. So dark. Combined with the tenor song of his mellow voice, they were compelling.
"So, talk," she said, trying to sound callous, wishing she felt that way. She didn't want to think maybe she'd been wrong about him. She didn't want to let her defenses down. And she sure as hell wasn't going to trust the man. She didn't trust anyone. She and Tawny... they'd trusted no one but each other.
"What was that?" His sable brows rose slightly, and his jet eyes probed. He came toward her, then stopped.
"What?"
"You looked..." He licked his lips, shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind. It's none of my business."
"Probably not." She turned and ran her fingers over the dusty spines, glanced at titles. Sumerian Mythology, The Gods of the Ancients, The Epic of Gilgamesh...
"I know you think I killed your friend. But since I know myself better than you do, I'm inclined to disagree."
He came up behind her as he spoke. Too close. She felt his nearness like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She tried to focus on the titles instead of on the physical effects of being so close to him. A newer volume about Gilgamesh. And another. He had several versions of the same story.
"That in mind, I have to assume someone else is responsible for her murder. If I'm right, then you're at risk."
"If you're right? Sounds like you're not even convinced you're innocent." She turned in time to see him blink when she said it, as if she'd poked a raw spot.
"I thought you might be in danger. That's why I followed you home last night. That's why I brought you here when I saw that you were too sick to defend yourself. I was only trying to protect you."
She met his gaze, fighting to keep her own hard, not let it soften the way her heart had begun to do at those last few words. She swallowed hard. In all her life no one had ever thought to protect her. No one had cared enough to. She'd had no shelter against the cruel realities of life. She'd had to face them all, head-on, and her only protection had been her own strength. "Yeah? Why should I believe that? You barely know me, why would you want to protect me?"
"What was the alternative. Shannon? Stay here and let you die? Read about your body being found in the headlines of tonight's paper?"
"Tonight's, tomorrow night's... what's the difference?" Someone would be finding her body one of these days. After this last attack, she figured it wouldn't be much longer.
He frowned, his gaze probing so deeply she had to turn away. "What do you--"
"Look, I have to go. Is there anything else you want to say before I do?"
"If you go, and there is a killer stalking you, you'll be defenseless."
"I've been called a lot of things, Damien. Never defenseless, though."
"Shannon--"
"If I stay here, he won't try anything." She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. "If he doesn't try anything, I won't be able to take him out. You get it?"
He blinked twice, understanding dawning in his black eyes. His hands went to her shoulders. Strong hands. Hard and warm and urgent. The urge to lean closer whispered across her mind. Stupid. She must still be slightly off kilter from last night.
"You want him to attack you."
"You're damned right I do."
"That's insane. You'll get yourself killed." He appeared shaken by the idea.
"It's perfectly sane from my point of view. And so what if I do? I'll take the bastard with me."
"You're risking your life--"
"It's not so much to risk. Let go of me."
He looked down at his hands, as if he hadn't been aware of the way they'd been holding her shoulders, the way they'd begun to pull her just a little closer. The way that scared the hell out of her, because she'd been thinking about getting closer to him. Wondering what would happen if she slipped her arms around his muscled neck and leaned against his broad chest. Would he hold her closer, harder? Push her away? Murder her?
His hands fell to his sides. He lifted his ebony gaze to hers. "What do you mean by that? That it's not much to risk?"
Fears crept up on her. She battled them away. She wouldn't talk about it. She wouldn't think about it. And she damned well wouldn't cry about it. Her eyes burned, but she blinked them cool again. What was so bad about death? Life hadn't exactly been a walk in the park. "I'm leaving now. You said you'd let me go. So let me go."
"I'm sorry. Shannon. But I can't."
The rush of anger was a welcome relief after the other things she'd been feeling. "I knew I couldn't believe a word you said!" She brought her fist into his middle clean and fast and hard, smiling smugly when he staggered backward, doubling over. She turned and ran toward the doors.
"Stay put, damn you!" The doors thundered shut as if a gale force wind had driven them. She felt her eyes bulge, the shivering up the back of her neck, the tensing of her spine.
She turned very slowly. He was just unbending himself, one hand pressed to the spot where she'd hit him. He looked angry. "How did you--"
"I'm a magician, remember?" He grunted, standing straight again.
"The--the house is rigged?"
"Something like that."
"You can't keep me here."
"I'm not going to let you get yourself killed. Believe me, Shannon, I don't like this any more than you do. But until this threat is removed, I'm your shadow. Whither thou goest and where thou lodgest and all that. I'll be there. " He shook his head slowly, as if he'd just reached a decision and wasn't at all pleased about it.
"That's bull. You're up to something. You want something from me. Might as well put it on the table, Damien. I'm not buying what you're selling."
He licked his lips and the action drew her gaze, sent hot images sizzling into her mind. His kisses. God, what would they feel like? The thought seared her from the inside out.
"I need to see her body," he said at last.
She blinked, and dragged her attention away from his mouth. "You what?"
"I want to see your friend."
Shannon's stomach clenched like a fist. "For God's sake, why?"
He averted his eyes, paced back and forth in front of the bookshelves. "I have to see for myself how she died."
She blinked again, a cold foreboding settling in her heart. "What do you think you can tell by seeing her? Do you have any knowledge of forensic pathology? Have you ever studied death, Damien?"
His head came up, eyes level with hers, and she thought there couldn't have been more pain in them if she'd shot him through the heart. "All my life," he whispered.
"I must be insane." Her voice was near his ear, a harsh rasp as they crouched in the shrubbery near the rear entrance of Arista's medical examiner's office. "I've been calling every day to try and get her body released for burial. They keep putting me off, saying there are still more tests to be run. They wouldn't even let me see her." She parted a tangle of branches and peered through.
Damien snagged her waist with his arm and pulled her down beside him again. She was noisy and in constant motion. Clandestine surveillance could never have been one of her strengths as a private investigator. "Sit still," he warned. But then he had trouble following his own advice. His arm remained around her tiny waist, despite his mind's commands that it move away. Her right side pressed tight to his left one. He could feel the softness of her breast, the curve of her hip, the firmness of her thigh against his. This was insanity.
"I didn't think anyone would be here so late," she said, as if their closeness had no effect on her at all. "What are they doing?"
A shiny black hearse with a government emblem on the sides, and the letters "DPI" in bright yellow paint, backed up to the door. The driver emerged, walked around the vehicle and opened the back. Shannon stiffened beside Damien. "They're moving her!"
He tightened his hold on her. "It could be anyone. Shannon."
She shook her head hard, meeting his gaze, her own tortured. Then her head swung forward again, as the office door opened. Two men pushed a gurney out into the night, stopping behind the hearse.
"That's the ME." Shannon nodded toward the shorter, pudgy one who wore the white lab coat. The other man was taller, elegant in his movements, solidly built and darkly attractive. He wore an expensive gray suit and a long black wool coat.
"You'll rule it a suicide," he told the medical examiner. His voice carried the ring of authority.
"There's still the PI that found that body--"
"We'll be in touch with her. Don't worry. We've dealt with situations like this before." The driver and the ME collapsed the gurney and lifted the vinyl-encased body up into the hearse, while the tall man stood with his hands thrust into his coat pockets, watching. His breath made little steam clouds that hid his face. He exuded confidence.
The ME walked back inside, shaking his head and muttering, as the driver slammed the doors. Then the two got into the front seat and the vehicle moved away.
Shannon was shaking all over. "Where are they taking her? They can't just take her away like this. Dammit, Damien, let go of me!"
He held her tighter. She kept struggling until the hearse rolled out of sight, and then it was as if the fight went out of her. She felt limp. Her head lowered to his chest and her hot tears dampened his skin. She clung to him with one hand and rained painless blows on his shoulder with the other. "You should have let me stop them."
He threaded his fingers in her hair, moved his palms over it again and again. He knew this pain. He knew just what she felt right now, what she'd felt since her friend's death. Too well. Maybe that was another reason for this closeness he had to keep fighting. The grief. The shared pain.
He held her for a long time while she cried. He hadn't had a chance to look at the body, but he'd been close enough. He'd lowered the walls around his mind for an instant, just long enough to focus on the dead woman. He needed to practice more, to hone his mind better. But he had managed to understand one thing. Tawny Keller's death had been brought about by a vampire.
Damien still wasn't certain if that vampire was him.
Shannon straightened, swiped her eyes so hard it must have hurt her. "Something's going on, Damien. Those men were feds or something--the ME wouldn't lie about a cause of death unless he had no choice. I know that. He's a suit, but an honest one."
Damien nodded his agreement, but was as baffled as Shannon. "I don't understand this any more than you do... unless..."
Her head came up sharply. "Unless what?"
He shook his head. "I was going to say, unless they actually believe in the existence of vampires, but that's unlikely, isn't it?"
She shrugged and looked away. But Damien wondered. If he hadn't kept himself so closed off from others of his kind, he might know more. Was the federal government aware of their existence? What in hell was this DPI?
Shannon touched his arm. "I want to go home. Take me home now."
He saw her clearly in the darkness, her red, swollen eyes, the track of each and every tear she'd shed, burned into her pale ivory flesh. "You'd be safer at my house, I think."
She shook her head so hard her hair flew. "I can take care of myself. Take me to my place or I'll go somewhere and call a cab. It's up to you." She sniffed loudly.
He helped her to her feet, encircled her shoulders with his arm and walked with her around the building to the sidewalk, toward where he'd parked his car. The chilly October breeze whisked over them, and he hoped it cooled her burning cheeks.
"If you insist, I'll take you to your apartment. But you still might be in danger. Shannon. I'll just have to park myself outside the building and try to watch over you from there."
"Sure you will. And pigs will fly, too." She went to the passenger door of his gleaming black car. One of his indulgences. A Jaguar. He liked it, liked driving it fast, liked the new smell of it. When that smell wore off, he'd immediately buy another. He had few enough pleasures in this life.
She opened the door and stood there, staring over the car at him. "So are you gonna drive me, or not?"
"I'm gonna drive you."