Secrets of the Night Special Edition, page 82
Her body was sweet torment, a temptation near impossible to refuse.
Galan rested his head by her beautiful throat and breathed a deep sigh.” You know I want you.” He nuzzled her neck.” But perhaps we should deal with this some other time. You are vulnerable now, I fear, after your recent capture and then your sojourn in England. Best to wait.” He didn't want to wait, he wanted her now. God, how it hurt.
"Don't think I'll change my mind about you . . . or us.” Her fingers traced the harsh lines and angles of his face.
Quiet for a moment, a look of understanding came over her.” You're scared you'll forget yourself while we make love, is that it? You're afraid you might, uh, feed on me. That's it, right?”
There! She had presented him with a perfect reason, albeit a false one. Take it.” Now you know how it is with vampires. I would never forgive myself if I took your blood. So best I avoid temptation.”
"But it wouldn't matter to me,” she said, placing light kisses down his cheek.” I'd stop you in time.”
Drawing on all his willpower, he sat up and eased away from her, then rose from the sofa.” But it would matter to me.” Unable to remove his gaze from her, he tucked his shirt in his pants.” I must depart now,” he murmured, the words choking him. His gaze lingered on her, to every dear feature--her blonde hair, rose-tinted cheeks, her full, lush breasts, slender waist, and long legs. But more than that, he caught her very essence, her easy laugh and warm smile, all the qualities that made her the woman he loved.
She sat up, too, brushing her hair from her face.” When will I see you again?”
"I shall come to you soon.” And then leave you forever.
* * *
A few days after her return to Miami, Stevie knelt on the floor of Bookworm's Delight, shelving books in the Architecture section, a pile of volumes beside her.
Why hadn't she heard from Galan? A week had passed since he'd brought her back to Miami, and she hadn't had a word from him. Sighing, she rested her hand on the bookrack, trying not to worry, telling herself there had to be a logical reason for his neglect. Sure, any number of reasons, she mused with false optimism. Maybe he was sick. Did vampires suffer illnesses, like mortals? She'd never heard of such a thing, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen.
Finished stocking the books, she rose to her feet and adjusted her cotton pants.
"Hey, it's good to see you back.”
A tall, nice-looking guy with light brown hair and blue eyes stood next to the bookrack, a biography of Anne Boleyn in his hand. She thought hard, trying to place him. Now she remembered--he was the same man who'd helped her pick the volumes from the floor only a few weeks ago, a steady customer.
"Were you on vacation?” he queried.” Or shouldn't I ask?”
Stevie stifled a laugh. What if she told him where--and when--she really was.” Right, I took a few weeks off.”
He looked around the bookstore, his gaze settling on her again.” I'm a regular here, you know. Love to read when I have the time. Only TV I watch is the History Channel. But I see you’re busy, so I won't take up your time. By the way, I'm Mark Farrell, a history professor at the University of Miami,” he said with a slight nod.” And you are . . . ?”
"I remember your name, and you can call me Stevie.” She liked his boyish looks; hard to believe he was really a college professor.
He shifted the book in his hand.” Okay, Stevie, how about having lunch with me? Bayside is only a few blocks away,” he said, referring to the downtown shopping center with its many eateries.
"We're very busy, and I've got a lot of books to take care of.” She needed more complications in her life like she needed a broken toe.
He threw her a teasing smile.” But they give you a lunch break, don't they? Or do they starve you here?”
Starve! Her days in the dungeon came back to haunt her. If only he knew! Well, why not have lunch with him? She'd had enough exotic experiences to last her a lifetime, so a switch to the mundane might be good. Never mind her earlier pronouncement against complications. Becoming a hermit wouldn't bring Galan back to her, and she could use a little fun in her life.
"Since I'm the store manager, I usually take off for lunch at one.”
"Just for today, do you suppose you could take off a little before twelve? That way, we'll beat the lunch crowd and have a more relaxed time together.”
She nodded.” Ten 'til twelve. No problem.”
* * *
"You said you were on vacation?” Mark asked. He sat with Stevie at a table in El Gaucho, a cozy restaurant located on the ground level of Bayside, the downtown shopping center. Several tables away, only a few other people occupied the Spanish restaurant at this early hour, so she and Mark virtually had the place to themselves.
"Vacation? Um, yes.” Reluctant to elaborate--he'd think she was nuts--Stevie glanced around the place, a much fancier restaurant than the other eateries at Bayside.
"Three weeks in England,” she said, fiddling with the napkin in her lap, wanting to end this conversation, afraid he'd trip her up on something.
"England! Place is cold this time of the year. Where did you stay--London?”
As a matter of fact, I stayed at a manor house in the fifteenth century, in the middle of summer.” No, north of London, near Oxford. You're right, it was cold,” she lied. Frantically, she searched her mind for a fresh topic.” What history do you teach at the University?”
"English history. And yes, I know the usual argument. How can you make a living teaching history? Well, I make a pretty good living at it, besides enjoying the profession.” He looked up as the waiter brought their orders.” Now, tell me about your trip. Of course, England is chockful of things to see and do. Been there a few times myself.”
"It was an unusual vacation, I'll say that much.” She pushed the paella around on her plate and licked her bottom lip.” I lived at a manor house, learning how people lived in the fifteenth century.”
"Oh, a study program! Now, that is interesting. I've participated in study programs, also. Spent several weeks in England and Scotland. Now--"
"Are you from Miami, Mr. Farrell, or should I say Professor Farrell?”
"Just say Mark. No, I'm from Cincinnati. But--"
"Do you miss Ohio?” She dipped her fork into the rice, glancing up at him.
"The cold and snow? Not on your life. And give up trying to change the subject, because I want to hear about your vacation, especially this manor house.”
"Well, I guess the house was typical of the fifteenth century, made of creamy stone with a pretty oriel window in front, a tiled floor downstairs, stone steps . . .” She sipped her iced tea, then set the tall glass down. . . .
"So,” she said a few minutes later, “I enjoyed my stay in England--"A lie; she was worried out of her mind the entire time--"but it's good to be back in Miami.” She spoke quickly.” You like your job at the University?”
"Wouldn't teach if I didn't enjoy it.” Mark set his glass of burgundy back on the table.” One more question. Do you have a boyfriend?”
"No, what about you?”
"No boyfriend for me, either.”
She laughed.” You know what I mean.”
"Let's just say I have no entangling alliances. So why don't we do something this weekend. You don't work on Sunday, do you?”
"No, not on Sunday.” Now that she gave it some thought, it might be good for her to see this man now and then, if that's what he wanted. Galan hadn't made any commitment to her.
"--lots of things to do on Sunday,” Mark was saying, “Movies, the beach . . .”
"Does the zoo sound too crazy? I always enjoy seeing the animals.”
He looked surprised.” The zoo, then. Sounds like fun. Now give me your address and telephone number. . . .”
Back home that evening, Stevie had second thoughts about accepting a date with Mark Farrell. In her bedroom, she undressed, tossing her cotton blouse, bra, and panties into the clothes hamper, then made her way to the bathroom to take a shower. It was only a date, after all. She didn't intend to marry the guy.
What if Galan discovered she was seeing another man? She paused as she stepped into the stall and turned the faucet on. Hey, a little bit of jealousy might be a good thing. Right, she thought, soaping face and arms, working on down to her stomach and legs. Jealousy might be a very good thing.
* * *
For days, Galan had purposely stayed away from Stevie, missing her so much, aching to see her again. She was safe now, and he must let her go, but he had to see her one more time, if only to say goodbye. Goodbye. The word resounded in his brain like a death knell. While darkness hung over the city and a breeze lifted his lace curtains, he stalked his living room, every thought, every wish, every dream of her.
During this time away from her, he'd visited vampire friends and acquaintances throughout the world, trying to discover--in a devious way, of course--if any of them knew of an elixir that would restore one of the undead to mortality. And found nothing. Let Stevie go, then, and God forbid that she should feel duty-bound to stay with him out of gratitude. Best to convince her he'd found another woman to love, one of his own kind. He paused, gazing out the window, a knife twisting inside him.
He'd call her tonight and visit her. After that, he'd be out of her life forever.
* * *
"Funny, you've been to my place lots of times, but I've never seen yours.” Stevie sat next to Galan in her living room, breathless after his kisses, wanting only to stay in his arms but wondering if she could ever have a real, lasting relationship with him. On the edge of her consciousness, she thought about Mark. Could he ever replace Galan?
"You would like to see my house?” Galan said, drawing back in surprise.
"If it's no trouble.”
"No trouble, and I assure you,” he said with a wry smile, “I have no dead bodies in the closet.”
"Well, I never thought that!” Not true. Since learning he was a vampire, she'd filled her mind with questions and weird images about him. Most important, where did he sleep? In a coffin, no doubt.
Over five minutes later, they drove up to a two-story stucco house in an old, pleasant neighborhood with oaks, palms, and fichus trees lining both sides of the street. Stevie made a mental note of his address, glad that most Miami suburbs had an easy street identification system, numbering each street instead of naming them.
"My home,” he said as he helped her out of the car.” No ghosts, no monsters.”
A brick walk lined with variegated lariope led to the front door, a door he opened with just the wave of his hand.
She looked at him in shock.” You don't lock your door?”
"It was locked, but I don't need a key to open it.” Galan smiled.” I have magical powers, remember? My part time housekeeper is the only person who has a key.” He indicated a pile of bricks at the side of the house.” Except for a spare key the previous owners gave me, which I keep under those bricks.”
Darkness enclosed the house as they entered, but a flick of the wall switch produced a mellow glow from a Tiffany stained glass table lamp. Stevie's gaze covered the large living room with its enormous beige sofa and two matching chairs, plus a long glass-covered coffee table and a couple of end tables with lamps on each.
Envy made her catch her breath. She wished she owned a place like this.
"I bought the house several years ago,” Galan explained by her side,” and the furnishings came with it.” He nodded toward a Monet.” The paintings are mine, all original.”
"Wow! They must be worth a fortune.”
"Indeed.”
Her gaze made another sweep of the room.” Very nice.” And it was. What had she expected--a haunted mansion with cobwebs in the corners and a decayed body in a rocking chair, a la Tony Perkins?
"Sit down, won't you. Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”
She sank onto the sofa, loving the deep cushions, its luxurious feel.” Beer?”
"Tuborg. Only wait whilst I fetch it from the refrigerator, then I'll get my wine from the bar.”
He returned a few minutes later with a mug of foaming beer and handed it to her, then headed toward his bar between the living room and dining room.
Wine glass in hand, he sat beside her.” Merlot,” he said, raising the glass.
Galan cleared his throat. He must lie to her now, tell her he no longer cared for her, that he'd found a vampiress to replace her. With no hope of mortality--for he knew finding the elixir was a lost cause--he must walk out of her life, never to see her again, to touch her, hold her in his arms, cover her face with kisses. His heart was breaking, but she must not see his sorrow.
With gentle fingers, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and studied her face, storing each feature in his memory.” Stevie, I've been thinking about us, and--"
Her face lit up.” Oh?”
He spoke in a rush of words.” I think it is best if we stay apart, only mingle with our own kind.”
"What are you saying?” She slid back, wringing her hands.
Her pained expression tore at his insides, but he plunged ahead.” You know we could never achieve lasting happiness, never have children or a real marriage.”
She sat up straight, a look of hurt bewilderment on her face.” That's what you really want--never to see each other again?”
"It's for the best. Besides, I should tell you I have found one of the undead to love, a vampiress I have known for several hundred years, and--"
"You what!” Her flushed face devastated him, and he knew this scene would torture him for the rest of his life.
"Let me finish. Does that give you some idea of the differences that separate us? I am almost one-thousand years old, and this woman is nearly as old as I. It is only recently that I came to appreciate her charms--"
"So all the time I was in England, out of your way, when you were supposedly hunting Rosalinda--"
"I was hunting Rosalinda, and my friend killed her, as I told you.” His stomach knotted, her agonized look tearing him to pieces.” But lately I renewed my relationship with this vampiress and realized how much she means to me.”
He gazed at her lovely face, hating himself for causing her such distress, hating himself for what he was.” So this is goodbye.”
Chapter Nineteen
The frosty morning air sent shivers along Stevie's arms and legs as she headed past her living room sofa, then on outside to get the Miami Herald. The grass was wet and cold beneath her slippered feet, and she shuddered, tightening her terrycloth robe around her. Her gaze drifted upward, where Orion glittered like a diamond bracelet in an amethyst sky, and a quarter moon hung low in the west. A strong wind rustled the leaves of the grapefruit tree and sent her orchid baskets swinging on the branches.
Thoughts of Galan brought a lump to her throat, an ache in her heart. What was he doing now? Sleeping with his newfound lover, no doubt. She wished it didn't hurt so much.
Never depend on anyone. When would she ever learn her lesson?
Back inside, she slipped the newspaper from its cellophane bag, glancing at the headlines as she padded toward an easy chair in her fluffy bedroom slippers.
MORE VAMPIRE MURDERS, the headline blared.
She flopped onto the chair and lowered her head to fight her dizziness, the room spinning around her. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her hot cheeks. Galan had said he didn't kill criminals, but how could she believe a word he said? For months, he'd deceived her, pretending to be mortal. Vampire. Like a curse, the word ricocheted in her brain, making her clutch the armrest until her fingers turned white.
Memories of Galan swamped her, his ebony eyes, his mysterious half-smile, but more than anything, his kisses and caresses, his love words. She'd never forget him, no matter how long she lived, even if she married another man.
* * *
After another lonely night of wandering the streets of Miami, Galan drove up to his house as the rising sun fired the eastern horizon. The Robellini palms thrashed in the wind, and a discarded paper cup scudded along his concrete driveway, resonating like cannon salvos to his extra sensitive hearing. Merde! He kicked the cup aside. Slovenly mortals! A neighbor's windchimes clanged in the wind, sounding as if all the cathedral bells of Paris were ringing at the same time, prompting him to cover his ears to shut out the horrendous noise.
Hours later, as darkness crept over the city, he descended the carpeted stairs to the living room, his steps slow and halting. Images of Stevie taunted him, like a moth that continually beats against a lampshade. Everything about her returned to torture him--her flowing blonde hair, those lustrous topaz eyes, her sweet yet husky voice, the beguiling touch of her hand that could make him forget everything but her.
From his bar, he fetched a bottle of Merlot and poured himself a glass, then returned to the living room. Trying to expel Stevie from his mind, he sat in a wing chair and opened the Herald. MORE VAMPIRE MURDERS. By all the saints, no! The newspaper fell to the floor, forgotten, as he sat forward with his elbows on his knees to rest his head in his hands.
Who was behind all these killings? No need to ask. Moloch, damn the son of a bitch! Galan clenched his hands at his side. By St. Aidan, he wanted to destroy the bastard! Now Stevie would think he, Galan, was killing these unfortunate men, and he wanted--no--needed her to have only pleasant memories of him. Anger pulsed inside him, like a thousand pounding drums, reaching an explosive crescendo. He gulped his wine, his fury fiercer with each passing second.
Damn it! He grabbed a book from an end table and hurled it across the room, where it hit a far wall and bounced back onto the floor with a hard thud. He waited countless seconds, then gulped the remainder of his wine as he tried to rein in his temper.
Empty wine glass in hand, he paced the floor, determined to assure her of his innocence, too well aware he was using a convenient excuse to see her again. By the blessed Virgin, he couldn't stay away from her, this woman who haunted his dreams, each night without her a torment. He'd visit her this night, counting the minutes until he'd see her again. See her again . . . and then spend eternity without her.
