his hand over her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth and remarkably creamy in color, in sharp contrast to the deep auburn of her hair.
“Do not come again, little one. I am not worth your life,” he said, and in truth, he meant it. Selfish and materialistic, he had not been a good man up until now. It had taken this unfortunate encounter with the Inquisitor to make him realize he needed to change.
“Don Diego—”
“Promise me you will stay away.” As tears filled her eyes and spilled over, he whispered, “I will never forget you.”
She kissed his cheek, then rose and rushed from his cell.
He didn’t expect the loneliness that followed her departure. It was a greater torture than any the Inquisitor could visit on him.
Loneliness had been with him for most of his life, he had realized in the weeks of numbing pain and solitary confinement within this small cell.
He vowed that if he survived, he would strive to change that. Strive to do good.
God had to have visited this torture on him for a reason, and he wasn’t about to question why he had been called.
He just intended to answer when the time was right.
Chapter 1
2007, New York City
Passion.
It didn’t exist in every person who graced the earth, Diego suspected. Only a handful truly knew what it meant to live their lives with such intensity. In the five hundred years since a vampire’s kiss had turned him into an immortal, Diego had surrounded himself with artists and others who lived life to the fullest. Who lived life with passion.
Ramona Escobar was such a person, Diego decided as he looked over the latest work she had done.
As he strolled back and forth in front of the six paintings, the vibrant colors called to him, as did the amazing movement and life splashed across the canvases. Beneath it all shimmered the sensuality of the scenes Ramona had depicted in her works—a study of men and women in various stages of making love.
He considered how to best display these paintings in his gallery. He had no doubt he would do so, since they were as wonderful as the others Ramona had done over the years, except…
A yearning existed in these works he hadn’t seen before. A need that connected to something deep within him. He had to take a shaky breath to quell the desire that rose in him as he perused one piece. He was sure other people would feel the same and that the paintings would fetch a good price. Possibly an immense price. Thanks to the many centuries he had mingled with the artsy set, he knew how to recognize talent.
“These are wonderful,” he said.
Petite and slender, Ramona stood beside him, wiping paint off her hands with a rag.
“Do you think so?” she asked, clearly uncertain. He wondered, as he had more than once during the half-dozen years he’d known her, about the kind of woman she was. One with passion mixed with equal parts humility and doubt. She had matured since the day he had met her, during her final year of art school. He had been intrigued back then by the young, tough ragamuffin with so much talent, but little ego.
But then again, had she been a braggadocio like some other artists he had encountered, he doubted their professional relationship would have lasted this long. Diego did not suffer fools or braggarts. They reminded him too much of how he had been before beginning his eternal life.
Driving that thought from his mind, he said, “Truly unique. They will sell well.”
“Que bueno. When do you think you can show them?” She continued wiping her hands with the cloth, the gesture telling.
Diego laid his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, which worried him. “Is something wrong, amiga? If it’s money—”
“I know you would give it to me. It’s nothing, really,” Ramona said, and looked up at Diego’s remarkable face.
He was so handsome and so honorable. When she had first met him, she had been struck by his elegance and beauty. In the many years they had known each another, he had always done right by her, showing her that his beauty went far beyond his physical attributes. He would do right by her this time, as well.
“I’m fine. Let me know when you want to do the show.” She hoped to finish raising the money she needed to care for her mother.
He stroked her hand once again in a gentle gesture, and, unnerved by his touch, because it made her think of things that weren’t possible, she walked away from him. At the table holding her paints and brushes, she set down the cloth.
Diego glanced at the paintings once more before striding toward her. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The blue silk brought out the color of his intense ice-blue eyes.
When he stood before her, he tossed his head, sending the longish strands of his artfully highlighted, nutmeg-brown hair back, which emphasized the strong lines of his pale face.
Ramona had always been intrigued by his looks, a product of the Celtic roots in his part of Spain. A Gallego to the core, he would often tease her when she mentioned her own mixed heritage—part cubana, part Newyorican and part Irish. The only thing they had in common was a bit of the Celt.
Not to mention that no one had to tell her Diego had known wealth all his life. He had the easy confidence of a man who had never experienced true want.
She on the other hand had known nothing but want since the death of her father, and her mother’s illness. And of course, her own illness now.
Ramona was a hard-luck gal, with the hardest luck of all to face—the possibility that she might soon die.
She hadn’t said anything to anyone. Not that she had anyone to say it to, she thought sadly as Diego bent and hugged her. Returning the embrace, she imagined it being more than friendly.
She was shocked when he turned, brushed a kiss across her cheek and whispered, “I’m here if you need me.”
At first it had been just business between them, which slowly developed into friendship over the last six or so years. But beneath it all, even from the first, there had been awareness of him as a man—a very attractive man. She had kept her distance, however, knowing of his involvement with Esperanza. But Esperanza had been dead for over a year now.
Ramona reached up and cradled his cheek, brushed her thumb across his lips. Those fine, full lips she had captured forever on the canvas. Had he seen that in the paintings? she wondered. Had he seen that it was him being loved by the stroke of her brush?
“I know, Diego. I’m fine. Really,” she replied, but eased out of his embrace. It would be unfair to both of them to head down a road that could bring nothing but pain.
His mouth tightened at her withdrawal, but then he promised to call her later that afternoon about the dates for her show.
“The sooner the better, so I can see Mami,” she reminded him.
Her mami was too ill to go out alone anymore, which was why Ramona was in a rush to hold the show. Together with the money she had made from creating some copies for millionaire recluse Frederick van Winter, a good exhibit would help her earn enough to hire care for her mother well after Ramona was gone.
She just had to hold on a little longer, she told herself as she walked Diego to the door and let him out of her loft.
She was feeling the weakness that came when she overextended herself. It was time to rest. Soon she would be even too frail to paint, and when that happened…
Without her beloved art, maybe she would be better off dead.
Diego flipped the pages of his calendar, trying to find a slot where he could have a showing of Ramona’s paintings.
Fortunately