Books by Maggie Shayne (170 page)

"I'm beginning to wish I'd never sold it to you," he muttered, half under his breath. He eased his large frame into a claw-footed antique chair, looking around the great room as he did. She knew he had to admire what he saw. The plasterwork ceiling had been freshly redone, right down to the cherubic angels in the corners and filling the concave dome directly above them.

She took the seat across from him, handed him a pass of iced soda. Her own glass looked identical, res, despite the early-morning hour, there was vodka mixed with hers. She needed the strength. She loved I avid, but dammit, she wished he would just leave.

She didn't care about anything except getting back to her journals. To the fantasies and the man who had written them. God, to go a single waking hour, much less a day, without wallowing in his mind was nearly unbearable. She never left the house anymore. She never wanted to. And when she slept—oh, God, it was best when she slept Because he was so much more real in dreams.

"I have to admit, I'm confused," David said, taking the soda, sipping it. "I thought it was all decided. You were going to hide out here, lick your wounds, write your blockbuster, make your fortune and come home to reclaim everything you'd lost."

"Ahh, yes. And restore honor to the De Silva family name." She smiled just a little.

"If I'd known you could write the way you can, and as quickly as you can, I have to admit, I'd never have let you come out here in the first place."

Morgan averted her eyes. "I couldn't write like that. Not out there. I found my…inspiration, for want of a better word, here. In this house. I couldn't work anywhere else. I can't, David. I won't."

"That's superstitious nonsense."

No, she thought. It wasn't. Dante was here. She felt him here. Her own beautiful madman. God, he—his diaries, at least—had given her back her Me. And yet, they had stolen a part of it, too. The man who'd called himself Dante had captivated her mind, her soul, in some dark way she had yet to understand. He was real to her. He was more than a long-dead lunatic who had written down his insane delusions. He was
real
. He lived… inside her somehow. Inside this house.

But she couldn't explain any of that to David. Instead she stared up at the crystal chandelier she'd had installed in the great room and wondered how close she had come to the one that was there originally. When Dante had lived here.

It hadn't been easy to restore the house. And it hadn't been cheap. But thanks to the box office success of the first two films in her vampire series, she had been able to afford to do exactly what she wanted. And that included hiring period experts to help her plan her restoration, to make it as accurate as possible. Although much,
much
more luxurious.

Her third film had been out for exactly eight weeks, and it had already made Morgan wealthy beyond her wildest dreams. David, as well. And now they waited to see what other dreams might be realized.

Morgan glanced at her watch. "Isn't it time yet?"

"Close enough, I suppose. Come on." David got to his feet, held a hand out to her. She took it and let him pull her up. "God, Morgan, you've got to put on some weight. You're not an actress, you know."

She smiled at him, hiding the weakness in her legs, the slight rush of dizziness that often hit her when she got up too quickly. "You can't be too rich or too thin," she quipped. "Besides, if all goes well, I'll need to look good in some designer's idea of a dress in a few weeks."

Right. As if she would leave this place, even for that.

They walked across the tiles to the double doors that opened into her office. The fireplace had been converted to gas now, and the first thing Morgan did upon entering was turn it on. Lush oriental rugs covered the newly refinished hardwood floor. The desk was a reproduction, the computer state of the art. And the walls were filled with images of Dante. Charcoal sketches she'd done herself, rather than stills from the films. The actor who played him did a wonderful job, of course, but he wasn't Dante. She
knew
Dante.

There was a sketch of him as a small boy with huge dark eyes, peering up at a beautiful Gypsy woman who danced beside a campfire. There was another of him sitting at this very desk, brooding over his journals.

"This is almost creepy," David said, shivering a little as he crossed the large room, took a seat and picked up a remote control. "God, don't you ever get sick of him?"

Morgan paused near another drawing, her eyes locked with the staring, sightless eyes of the subject "I know every line and contour of his face," she whispered. Then, as the silence drew out, she shook herself, forced a smile. "Of course that's impossible. It's all what my mind has created from the raw materials in the di—in the screenplays. But it seems real. I see him in my dreams as clearly as if he were real." She smiled. "I even know the sound of his voice."

"Writers," David muttered. He pushed a button, and the antique replica cabinet's doors slid open, revealing the big-screen television set behind them. He hit another button to flick it on, and one to set the channel. "I'd get sick of him," he said. "Real or not."

"I could drown in him and not get sick of him," she said. "Sometimes I think maybe that's what I'm doing. Drowning in him."

When David didn't answer, she glanced his way, saw him looking at her oddly. Morgan gave a little laugh to ease the worry from his eyes. "We creative types are supposed to be eccentric. Don't scowl like that, you'll wrinkle."

He looked away with a sigh, but his gaze froze on the television screen, and he snatched up the remote, thumbing the volume up higher. "Here it is!"

The famous couple at the podium took turns reading from a list, and Morgan thought the brief spot took longer than any two-hour feature she had ever sat through. She slugged back her drink and waited until they got to the part that interested her.

"In the category of best original screenplay, the nominees are… "

A hum seemed to fill her head, the room, her ears. She couldn't hear what they were saying any longer, but suddenly she saw her name on the screen along with four others. "Morgan De Silva, for
Twilight Hunger
."

David surged to his feet, hugging her hard against him, smiling and laughing and twisting from side to side as he held her. Morgan surrendered to the rash of darkness that swamped her brain and simply went limp in his arms.

She was lying on the chaise when she opened her eyes again. David sat close to her, patting her hand. "There you are. It's all right. I guess this meant more to you than I realized."

"It's not that… " she began. Then she recalled what had just happened.

God, it was true. She was nominated for the top award in the film industry. For work that wasn't even her own. She had never expected it to go this far. And yet, she had, in a way, known it would. It had to. The stories were too good not to be recognized as such. There was something… transcendent about them. Something that touched the audience on a level that was almost visceral in its intensity.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded but didn't bother trying to sit up. This was very odd. She had expected to feel… jubilant at this moment Wasn't this beyond her dreams? Wasn't this supposed to fix everything that had been missing from her life? Why did she still feel so empty inside?

"You're going to
have
to come back to L.A. with me now," David said. He pushed one hand through his thinning honey-blond hair, which was getting gray at the temples. "There are going to be parties. Receptions. Interviews. You should be seen."

The thought of leaving this place set her heart racing. She shook her head quickly, fighting back her panic. "I can't leave now."

"But—"

"The new one is at too delicate a point right now, David. I can't stop working on it without losing my momentum. And I can't work anywhere else. So I have to stay right here."

He closed his eyes slowly, as if attempting to digest her words.

"I should be finished with it by the time of the actual ceremony. I'll be able to come out for that I promise."

His eyes popped open. "But you need a dress. And hair and…honey, people plan for months to get ready for this one, special night. God, if this had happened to the girl I knew five years ago, she'd have insisted I fly her to Paris to shop for a gown. And probably would have bought three of them before making a final decision."

Sitting up, very slowly, so as not to induce the return of her familiar lightheadedness, she met his eyes. "I'm not that girl anymore."

"No," he said. "You're not. You've changed, Morgan. And not for the better. You've practically become a recluse."

She banked her anger. He was right, and if she spoke her mind, she would tell him to go home, so she could get right back to her reclusiveness. Crawl back into the velvet darkness of Dante's world. She hated not being enmeshed in it, missed him like a lover when she went a day without wading through his life, processing it through her own mind and soul, and onto her computer screen. Changing his memories, his deepest thoughts, into lines and stage directions, so that he could come to life on the screen. It was almost as if she were somehow trying to resurrect him from death by giving life to his memories.

Not enough. God, it was never enough.

"I've made you angry," David said.

"No. No, I'm just… overwhelmed." She smiled up at him. "So are you taking me out for breakfast to celebrate or not?"

Lifting his brows, he sighed. "Yes, of course I am. How soon can you be ready?"

She forced herself to look happy. To play the role of the excited honoree, eager to celebrate the achievement of a lifetime.

The truth was, she just wanted to get it over with and return to her house.
His
house. To be alone with the nonexistent man who haunted her, day and night. Heart and soul. Who possessed her mind.

Dante.

The man who had written volume upon volume in the first person, and who had, she was convinced, believed every word he had written.

He had believed he was a vampire.

She almost wished it could be true.

Dante stood outside in the darkness, the wind in his face, tangling its cool damp fingers in his hair. Just a hint of rain looming. He felt its touch on his skin in that wind. He tasted it. The waves from the sea crashed to the shoreline just beyond the house. His house, or it had been once. Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, as if welcoming him home. But he knew better. Someone was inside. He could feel and taste them the same way he did the rain in the air. A woman.

When he had decided to come here, he hadn't even been certain he would find the place still standing. Last time he'd seen it, the house had been on the verge of ruin. But no more. Someone had gone to great pains to restore the house he had built over a century ago. The white flagstone walkway that curved up to the front door was just as he remembered it. The lampposts at the far end like sentries. Oh, they hadn't been electric, of course, as they were now. Nor had the lights inside the house. But the shutters were black, and the paint was white and fresh. And the chimney was the same size and shape, even though the bricks were all brand-new.

The door was different, he noted. It had been white, with four glass panes in a fantail pattern in the top. The new door was far more elaborate, wider, flanked by tooled hardwood borders and a wide mantle arching over the top. Artificial flowers were affixed in that arched mantle. It struck him for a moment, how false that was. How ridiculous. The smell of plastic and silk on the things made a mockery of the beauty they tried to imitate.

Artificial flowers were a sacrilege.

An oval of stained glass stretched almost the whole length of the door, and the handle was gleaming brass. The place looked almost new again. Two cars sat in the white gravel driveway, both of them foreign and fast. Money lived here now. A woman with wealth. And youth. He tasted that on the air, as well.

There was a man. Older. Robust. Strong. While the female had a weakness about her. He didn't smell sex in the air, so he assumed the relationship was platonic.

He was curious, he had to admit. Eager to see what had been done to the inside of the place. And he couldn't leave, anyway. Since his near miss with the scarred man, he had found his every haven invaded, his every familiar haunt under watch. The man knew his secrets somehow. So Dante had come back here—to a place he hadn't used in over a century—to find safety and solace, until he could figure out what to do.

Obviously, he'd stayed away too long. Someone was riving here.

Not that it mattered.

He walked around to the rear of the house, found the willow tree still there, but so much larger than before that he had to look twice. God, time passed in a blur. Easily, he leapt onto a low-hanging limb and began to climb. The smooth bark, flexible limbs, the whisper of the dangling greenery, all these were familiar. He'd planted this tree here a hundred years ago.

As he neared the level of the master bedroom, he stopped, tipping his head to one side and opening his senses. He felt something. Not quite a scent on the air. Something else. Something… that stroked his nerve endings to life like a magnet moving over metal shards.

What was that?

He crept closer, climbing from the limb onto the railing that surrounded the balcony, his hand curling around its cool metal. Then he lowered himself down onto the balcony itself and walked closer to the closed glass doors. Sheer white curtains hung in those doors. Sheer enough that he could see through them, into the bedroom beyond.

The woman lay sleeping in a four-poster bed.

Her hair was the color of cinnamon, lush and long, and spread over the pillows. Her skin was creamy white, and as pale as if he had already tasted her. Naked arms rested atop the thin white sheet that he sensed was all that covered her. Her neck was long and slender. Dante licked his lips, and his desire stirred. He didn't make a habit of sampling innocent blood. He killed, yes. He could live on cold, stale blood stored in plastic bags, as some did. But he didn't really call that living. So he killed, but mostly only those who dearly needed killing. Other times, he paid for his desires to be sated. There were women who specialized in satisfying needs like his. They were discreet, and paid enough to keep them that way.

This woman… she wasn't one of them. And yet he was drawn to her, pulled. He wanted her.

He stood so close to the doors that his breath, though cool, fogged the glass. He wiped it away, looking at her, and he wished silently that she would tug the sheet away, so he could see her more fully. Know for sure if she wore anything against her skin, underneath the covers.

Almost before the thought was complete, the woman lifted her hand to the top of the sheet and peeled it slowly away from her body. She was completely naked, as he had suspected. And for a moment all he could do was look at her and drink in her beauty. Small breasts, but soft, their tips rose-colored and plump. She was far too thin, ribs showing clearly beneath her skin. The hair between her thighs was the same burnished color as that on her head.

He let his gaze move up her body again. Let it linger on her breasts, and he thought about tasting them, and even as he thought it, her nipples stiffened. Frowning, Dante watched with some amazement. Could she be aware of his thoughts on some level? He could exercise mind control over a weak-willed mortal, he knew that, but he would at least have to be trying. The odd stray thought shouldn't…

He shifted his gaze to her face and wondered, should he happen to think about her creamy thighs parting for him, whether she would…

Her legs moved apart. Dante shivered with arousal and hunger, and not a little fear. It was as he was backing away that his mind cleared, giving him the answer he should have seen right away. Suddenly he understood what he'd been sensing earlier, that prickling awareness and attraction.

She was one of
them
. She was one of the Chosen.

He backed across the balcony, reached the railing and, turning, jumped it without hesitation. On the ground, he stood, looking around him and then out to the sea, as if it held the answers. If he'd had anywhere else in the world to go, he would have gone, and gladly.

But the sun would be up soon. And this place was the only haven he had left. He could create others, but that would take time. No, for now, he could only stay here.

But he was going to have to avoid the woman at all costs. Never had he experienced that sort of mind link with a mortal. Never. Nor had he with others of his own kind. What the hell did this mean?

He walked out toward the cliffs and, at the familiar spot, looked down at the stone ledge, some fifteen feet below. There was a small opening in the stone wall that backed that ledge. It was still shrouded by the vines he had planted ages ago. They sprouted around his feet where he stood and grew from the bits of soil along the cliff-face, draping downward to cover the cave's entrance like a curtain.

He hoped the passage that ran beneath the earth all the way back to the house hadn't collapsed by now. And he hoped the rooms hidden beneath the old house hadn't disintegrated to dust after so much time.

She was dreaming about Dante again.

He stood over her bed, staring down at her. Just stood there. He didn't say anything, and he didn't touch her.

She lay there, staring back at him, wishing he would do or say something. Anything. But he didn't.

She opened her mouth to speak and found she couldn't. So instead she looked at him. It was odd that she knew his face so well, she thought idly as she perused it in her dream. It was angular, and cruel. Longish and shadowed. His jawbone was sharp, his nose narrow. The eyes set deep, and so dark that he seemed to be looking out at her from somewhere deep within. From his soul, maybe.

He wanted to see her. Her eyes, once held by his, were locked there. And she knew what he wanted. All she wanted was to please him. She lifted a hand, peeled her covers away and lay there, completely naked and unashamed, as his dark, intense eyes burned over her. Every part of her.

Touch me, she thought. For the love of God, just touch me.

She blinked—and he was gone.

Just that suddenly.

Awake now, Morgan lay in her bed. Her covers were on the floor, and her body was alive. But she was alone.

God, these dreams were taking on a life of their own, weren't they? Maybe she needed to think about some sort of therapy. Not that she hadn't dreamed about him, over and over, night after night, since she had come to live here. But this time it had been different. It had been…
real
.

She sat up slowly, ran a hand through her hair and got to her feet. She pulled on a satin robe the color of cream, walked to the glass doors and opened them, stepping out onto the balcony, inhaling the night air deeply. It tasted good.

Then she paused and stared straight ahead.

A man stood on the cliffs, wind buffeting him as it was buffeting her. He was staring out toward the sea, and she couldn't really see his face. And yet there was something so incredibly familiar about him. The fall of his hair. His stance. Something.

A fist seemed to close around her stomach as clouds skittered away from the moon and, for just an instant, his face was touched by moonlight.

"Dante… " She whispered his name, breathed it.

And as if he had heard her, even though it was impossible from that distance, he turned sharply, looked right at her.

"It can't be… " Morgan closed her eyes, took three openmouthed breaths as her heart hammered in her chest. "It can't be."

She opened her eyes again.

The cliffs, the sea, the wind, and nothing else. No one was there. No one was there at all.