brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “How do you feel?”
“I’m dying.”
“Is that why you were looking for a vampire?”
She nodded. “I thought…”
“That I would bring you across?”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly. “You came well-armed.” He had smelled the garlic she carried when he opened the door and saw her standing on the porch, had noted the cross she wore on a fine gold chain around her neck. When he put her to bed, he had been amused to find a crudely fashioned wooden stake tucked inside the waistband of her jeans, cloves of garlic and a small vial of holy water in the pockets of her jacket. He had disposed of all but the cross and chain. “And do you want to be a vampire?”
“No!” she exclaimed softly, and then, softer still, “but I don’t want to die, either.”
“Perhaps the doctors were wrong.”
“They can’t all be wrong,” she said wearily. Pushing away from him, she sat up, her shoulders slumped, defeat evident in every line of her body. “I should go home.”
“You should rest a little longer. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
“No.” She had only a short time left; she didn’t want to waste any of it by sleeping more than was absolutely necessary. She wanted to live every minute while she could. “Anyway,” she said, throwing the covers aside, “I can’t stay here.”
He gazed deep into her eyes. “Of course you can.” He tucked her under the covers once more, then stood beside the bed, looking down at her. “Go to sleep, Shannah. Everything will be better tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she said, yawning behind her hand. “Tomorrow.” Her eyelids fluttered down. A moment later, she was asleep.
He watched her for a moment more, then knelt beside the bed. Brushing a lock of hair away from her neck, he ran his tongue lightly over her skin, felt his fangs lengthen in quick response to the scent of her blood, the pulse beating slow and regular in the hollow of her throat.
He closed his eyes as the hunger rose up within him, demanding to be fed. As gently as possible, he buried his fangs in the soft skin beneath her ear. In spite of the ravening hunger that clawed at him, he drank only a little. In spite of the impurity in her blood, it was sweet, sweeter than anything he had ever tasted.
Drawing away, he made a gash in his wrist with his teeth. Dark red blood bubbled from the ragged incision.
“Hear me, Shannah,” he said, holding the bleeding wound to her lips, “you must open your mouth and drink.”
Obediently, she opened her mouth and swallowed a few drops of his blood.
A flick of his tongue closed the wound in his wrist.
“Sleep now, my sweet Shannah,” he murmured. “Sleep and dream of a long and healthy life.”
Chapter Four
Shannah woke feeling better than she had in months. Flinging the covers aside, she practically flew out of bed. She didn’t feel lethargic, as she usually did upon waking. She wasn’t cold. She didn’t have a headache. She was surprised when her stomach growled. She hadn’t been truly hungry in months. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost six o’clock. Good grief, she had been asleep almost twenty-four hours. No wonder she was hungry!
Going to the window, she drew back the curtains and stared out at the lowering clouds. Gathering the robe she still wore closer around her, she padded barefoot down the stairs, wondering where her mysterious host was.
She found him in the den, seated in front of the computer.
He looked up at her when she crossed the threshold. “Good evening, Shannah.”
She smiled faintly, still feeling foolish for thinking he was a vampire. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?” he asked, though there was no need. The shadows were gone from her eyes, the hollows from her cheeks. Her eyes glowed as clear and blue as a summer sky. Her skin was radiant.
Her smile widened. “I feel wonderful. I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps you just needed a good night’s sleep,” he suggested. “Make yourself at home, won’t you? I’m not quite finished here.”
“Thank you. Is it…would it be all right if I fix something to eat?”
“Of course.”
“What would you like for dinner? I’m not a bad cook, if you don’t want anything too fancy.”
“Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve eaten.”
“Already?”
He nodded.
She gestured at the monitor on the desk. “Are you working, or playing?” she asked, and then flushed. It was none of her business what he was doing.
“Working.”
“Oh?” He heard the unspoken question in her voice.
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
“Books.”
She glanced at the bookcase on the far wall. “Are any of these yours?”
“Yes, the ones written by Eva Black.” He had written the ones by Ebon and Raven, as well, but they had been published before she was born.
“Wow, I’ve never met a real writer before. Could I read one?”
“If you like.”
She moved to the bookcase, her gaze roaming over the shelves. “Why don’t you use your own name?”
“I write mostly romances,” he replied easily. “I thought they would sell better if readers thought they had been written by a woman.”
Even his editor didn’t know he was a man. With his need to sleep during the day, and the differences in time between one coast and the other, it was virtually impossible for them to communicate by phone. Ronan had informed his editor and his agent that he slept days and wrote through the night, and since writers tended to be a little eccentric, they had accepted his excuse. All their correspondence had been by letter or email.
She nodded. “How long have you been writing?”
“I’ve been writing for a number of years,” he said, “but my first book was published seven years ago.” In truth, he had been writing for more than sixty years, but he had been Eva Black for a relatively short time. He often wondered what his editor would think if she knew that her publishing house had been selling his books under various pseudonyms since 1946.
Skimming the titles, Shannah ran her fingertips over the spines of the books. Pulling one from the shelf, she read the back cover blurb.
After a century of searching, he had found the woman of his dreams. Being a vampire had brought Paul Stark nothing but misery and loneliness until he met Lily Adams. It seemed a cruel trick of fate that Lily came from a long line of vampire hunters. Their attraction was mutual and immediate. Only two things stood between them—his lust for her blood, and her determination to kill every vampire she found.
She looked at him over the top of the book. “This is about a vampire.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him speculatively, her eyes narrowed. He could see all her earlier suspicions roaring back to life.
“I write about pirates and unicorns, as well,” he said, looking amused. “And doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”
She felt a rush of heat flow into her cheeks. “I get the message,” she muttered. Just because he wrote about vampires