A Whisper Of Eternity (3 page)

Dominic pulled up to the front of the house and cut the engine. Getting out of the car, he walked around to her side, opened the door and helped her out, then walked her up the stairs.

With a hand that trembled, Tracy unlocked the front door. “Would you care to come in for a cup of coffee?” The question was more of a polite gesture than because she wanted company, and yet, to be honest, she was somehow reluctant to go into the house alone.

“I think not.” He, too, seemed distracted. Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it, his lips brushing lightly over her skin. “Thank you for this evening. I hope to see you again soon.”

She nodded, felt an odd tingle as his gaze met hers.

Murmuring good night, she crossed the threshold and closed the door. Going to the front window, she watched him slide behind the wheel of the sleek black car and drive away.

 

 

The next afternoon Dominic sent her a dozen blood-red roses with a card that read:

He had a thing for red roses, she thought, smiling, as she arranged the flowers in a blue-and-white ceramic vase and placed them on the mantel near the others.

That day, as never before, she was aware of time passing as she waited for sundown. Dominic was unlike any man she had ever dated before. Though he looked to be in his early thirties, he seemed older, somehow. Perhaps it was his bearing, or perhaps it was his courtly, Old World manner and speech.

She completed the landscape she had been working on before she moved. When it was dry, she would frame it, then wrap it and ship it to her client in Virginia. Like most artists, she usually had more than one painting in the works at a time. She currently had a seascape, a still life, and a floral in various stages of completion.

She ate a quick lunch, threw a load of laundry in the washer, and changed the sheets on her bed, always watching the clock.

Finally it was time to get ready. She chose a yellow flowered sundress and sandals, tied her hair back in a ponytail, and spritzed herself with cologne. Grabbing a warm sweater, she slipped it on, then left the house.

It was a lovely evening with a touch of a sea breeze. She paused at the top of the stairs that led to the beach to admire the sunset, which was breathtaking. The blue-sky canvas was awash with flaming red and orange, highlighted with brilliant splashes of ochre and darkening shades of purple and indigo.

With a sigh of appreciation for the work of the Master Painter, she started down the stairs.

Dominic was waiting for her at the bottom. He wore a white shirt open at the throat, white trousers, and sandals. The contrast with his black hair and dark skin was striking and she felt her breath catch in her throat when he offered her his hand. “Good evening.”

“Hi.”

His skin was cool, his fingers long and strong as they folded over hers. His touch sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

“How was your day?”

“Busy,” she replied. “Yours?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Peaceful.”

“You’re lucky.” She glanced at the horizon. “That’s a beautiful sky.”

“Indeed.”

“I love painting sunrises and sunsets,” she remarked as they walked toward the water. The tide was out and the ocean was calm, a green mirror that reflected the sun’s dying rays.

“I have not seen a sunrise in many years,” he said.

“You need to get up earlier.”

“Would that I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

He squeezed her hand. “I tend to stay up late, and sleep late.”

“Well, sunsets are beautiful, too.”

“As are you.” His gaze moved over her. “You grow more lovely each time I see you.”

A blush warmed her cheeks. “Thank you. And thank you for the roses.”

“You are most welcome.”

They walked in silence for a time. Her hand fit comfortably in his and she had the inexplicable feeling that they had walked this way many times before, which was impossible, she thought, since they had just met.

When they reached a sheltered cove, they stopped of one accord. Out of sight of passersby, Dominic drew her close, his arms loosely locked around her waist.

He looked into her eyes, an unspoken question in his gaze.

Tracy’s heartbeat quickened as she put her arms around his neck and lifted her face for his kiss.

His kiss. Her eyelids fluttered down. How to describe the indescribable? His lips were firm and cool and yet heat flowed through her at their touch, a warm, sweet fire that threatened to engulf her until only ashes remained. His arms tightened around her, crushing her breasts against the solid wall of his chest. His desire was obvious as he drew her body closer to his.

She was breathing heavily when they parted. “I think we’d better go.”

“As you wish,” he replied, his voice rough with need.

They strolled hand in hand back the way they had come, pausing now and then to share a kiss when no one was looking.

When they reached her door, he kissed her yet again, a kiss of such passion and possession that it frightened her even as it left her aching and yearning for more.

Dominic sent her red roses every day for the next two weeks, took her out every night. They went to the theater to see
The Phantom of the Opera.
Tracy cried unashamedly at the end, moved to tears by the sad plight of the Phantom, at the soul-deep note of despair in his voice as he bid farewell to Christine, and then watched her go away with Raoul to live a life of ease and luxury that he could never give her.

They went to the movies again, he took her dancing at a swanky nightclub in the city, to the opening of an art gallery. They walked along the beach a few times. A couple of nights they stayed at home and watched videos or played chess, a game she thought she played rather well until she played against Dominic. He beat her every time.

Tonight, because she had loved it so much the first time, he had taken her to see
The Phantom
again. She cried just as hard the second time, her heart aching for the Phantom’s loneliness.

“Would you have stayed with him?” Dominic asked as they made their way to the parking lot.

She started to say yes, of course, then paused. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so.”

“And could you live with his ugliness and his foul moods?” he asked, his gaze intent upon her face. “Could you be happy living with a man who had committed murder? A man who could never share all of your life?”

She thought about it a moment. “I don’t know. But I think I would have tried. He loved her so much, loved her in a way that that wimp, Raoul, never would. Loved her enough to give her up.”

“Indeed,” Dominic murmured. His life paralleled that of the Phantom in many ways, he thought. He dwelled in an underground lair and lived in the shadows. Those who saw him for what he was shrank from him in fear. He had killed to preserve his life. He had given up the woman he adored countless times. But she was here now, and he had another chance to win her love.

He thought about that as they drove home. Perhaps this time, he thought, perhaps this time she would be his.

And now they were standing in the entryway of Nightingale House and Dominic was holding her in his arms, his gaze burning into hers.

She closed her eyes as his mouth claimed her own in a searing kiss that seemed to last forever and end too soon.

Releasing her, he turned toward the door. “I should go.”

“So soon?” She placed her hand on his back. His muscles were tense, his stance rigid.

“It is for the best.” His voice was gruff and unsteady.

“One more kiss?” she begged shamelessly.

Turning, he pulled her quickly into his arms and kissed her, his lips hard and demanding, bruising hers. His tongue plundered her mouth. His hands delved into her hair, loving the touch of it, alive and silky against his skin.

With a hoarse cry, he let her go and left the house, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Tracy followed him. Standing in the doorway, she stared after him, bemused. His footsteps made no sound on the pavement. He seemed almost to float above the ground as he made his way to his car. He slid behind the wheel; a moment later, the car growled to life, the headlights cutting through the darkness as he gunned the engine and raced away.

Tracy frowned, puzzled by his abrupt departure and then, overcome with a sudden, overwhelming need to paint, she ran up the stairs.

In her bedroom, she threw off her chic black dress, kicked off her heels, and peeled off her nylons. Slipping on a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt, she walked down the hallway to her studio, tying her hair back in a ponytail as she went.

She grabbed her smock and put it on, then took a fresh canvas out of the closet and placed it on an easel.

She had intended to start the Old English castle one of her clients had requested but her hand refused to paint the image in her mind. Instead of rough-hewn stones and parapets, her brush strokes took on the shape of a man—a tall man with hair as black as a midnight sky and mysterious gray eyes. A man whose full lips were drawn back to reveal sharp white fangs. Clad all in black, he stood alone on a high cliff that looked very much like the one upon which Nightingale House now stood. A long black cloak billowed from his broad shoulders. The ocean stretched away behind him, the waves tossed by a cold winter wind. Overhead, turbulent clouds chased each other across an indigo sky.

She worked like a woman possessed throughout the rest of the night, never stopping for rest or refreshment. The first faint light of dawn was brightening the eastern sky when she stepped away from the canvas.

It was easily the most unsettling piece she had ever done. The image in the painting looked frighteningly alive as it stared back at her, his face half in shadow, half in winter-cold moonlight. His eyes, as turbulent as the clouds overhead, held a wealth of closely guarded secrets and a whisper of eternity.

She took a step to the left and felt a chill run down her spine when his eyes seemed to follow her.

Overcome with a sudden sense of uneasiness, she quickly cleaned her brushes and threw off her smock.

Hurrying out of the room, she slammed the door behind her, then stood in the hallway, one hand pressed over her heart, feeling utterly foolish. It was only a painting, after all.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

 

 

He moved through the dark of the night, silent as a shadow, more deadly than the weapon his prey carried concealed inside his jacket.

The man he pursued knew something was wrong. He turned his head this way and that constantly, his hooded gaze searching the darkness, looking for the danger he sensed but could not see. Panic rose within him and he began to walk faster and faster, until he was running down the street, his heart pounding with terror. The stink of his sweat and fear trailed behind him like smoke.

A sob rose in the man’s throat as he turned down a narrow alley, only to discover it was a dead end. Turning around, his back pressed against the wall, he reached inside his jacket.

“Who’s there?” He withdrew his weapon, held it out in front of him in hands that trembled. Eyes narrowed, his gaze swept the darkness, widened in terror as a dark shape materialized out of the shadows. “Go away!” He cocked the pistol in his hand. “Don’t make me shoot!”

“Do as you wish.” There was a hint of amusement in the deep voice, but none in the deep gray eyes that regarded him without blinking.

Beyond panic, the man fired. He knew a fleeting moment of relief as the bullet struck his pursuer full in the chest. But his pursuer did not fall, and he did not stop. Relentless as death, the other glided toward him on soundless feet.

Frozen with horror, the man made no move to resist as the other plucked the weapon from his fist and carelessly tossed it aside.

“Who . . . who . . . ?” He shrieked as the other’s hand closed over his shoulder, the fingers grasping his arm in a vise-like hold. “What are you?”

“Does it matter?”

The man was shaking so badly now, he could scarcely speak. “Are you . . . going to . . . to . . . kill me?”

“It depends.” He had not killed in years yet some perverse devil made him tease his prey, like a cat with a mouse. He smiled, revealing long white fangs. “On how thirsty I am.”

Tracy woke abruptly, the sound of her own scream lingering in the air. Reaching blindly for the lamp on the table beside her bed, she switched on the light with fingers that trembled.

She sat up, her heart pounding as though she had run a mile down the beach. “Only a dream,” she whispered. “It was only a dream.”

Clutching the blankets to her chest, she glanced around the room. Everything was as it should be. There were no monsters hiding in the corners, no slitted eyes glowing at her with a fiendish light, no fangs stained and dripping with blood.

“Just a dream.” She laughed uneasily. “That’s what I get for painting vampires before I go to bed.”

Gradually, her heartbeat slowed. Her breathing returned to normal. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her bathrobe and padded downstairs. She switched on the light at the bottom of the steps, then headed for the kitchen, turning on every light she passed along the way.

Entering the kitchen, she gasped, one hand flying to her throat as she saw a vague shape moving toward her. She opened her mouth to scream then she realized it was merely her own reflection staring back at her from the window over the sink.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she quickly closed the curtains. Lifting the teapot from the counter, she filled it with water and set it on the stove to heat.

Maybe buying a house way out here hadn’t been such a good idea. Standing there, waiting for the water to get hot, she was acutely aware of how alone she was. There were no other houses within shouting distance. If she telephoned for help, it would take the police a good ten or fifteen minutes to arrive. She could be a headline in the morning paper by then.

The whistling of the kettle made her jump. Turning, she grabbed the handle and lifted the pot from the stove, only to drop it on the counter when the handle burned her palm.

“Ouch!”

Sucking on her fingers, she turned off the stove. She was as nervous as a hen in a thunderstorm.

Willing herself to calm down, she took a mug from the cupboard, filled it with hot water, dropped a tea bag inside, and added a spoonful of honey.

Standing there, waiting for the tea to steep, she shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. What
was
the matter with her tonight? Whatever had possessed her to paint Dominic as a vampire?

Carrying the cup to the table, she sat down, her gaze darting around the room as if . . . as if what?

She took several deep breaths, admonishing herself to calm down. There was no one there. Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. With a sigh, she went back to bed.

Deep in the underground lair below the house, Dominic was aware of Tracy’s unease. It was impossible for her to know what he was. No one had ever perceived what he was unless he wished it. And yet he sensed her uneasiness, her awareness that something preternatural lurked nearby. It was the same kind of uneasiness his prey experienced when they knew he was close at hand. No doubt she would be shocked to discover that there was a vampire dwelling below Nightingale House, that it was his presence she found so disturbing.

If he told her what he was, if he told her that he had known her in many lifetimes before this one, would she believe him, or think him mad? He had followed her through the centuries, sometimes loving her from afar but always waiting, always hoping she would accept the Dark Gift and take her rightful place at his side.

Perhaps this time.

It was his last thought before the darkness dragged him down into oblivion.

 

 

“
Jocelyn.” His voice was filled with respect, and the longing of a thousand years.

She woke with a start, one hand spread over her stomach, her eyes damp with tears. Never had she had a dream like that before, a dream so vivid, so real, that she had felt the pain. What was happening to her?

Flinging the covers aside, she slipped out of bed, padded barefoot across the floor and drew back the curtains, then opened the window. With a sigh, she lifted her face toward the heavens, basking in the sunlight, reveling in the warmth of it against her skin.

The light of a new day, the sound of the waves dancing cheerfully on the shore below, banished the last remnants of the dream from her mind. This was reality! And she had work to do.

After taking a quick shower, she dressed in a faded pair of paint-stained denims and an old shirt, then went downstairs to make a pot of coffee. Pouring herself a cup, she carried it upstairs.

When she opened the door to her studio, the first thing she saw was the painting she had done. It was just as unsettling in the bright light of day as it had been the night before. She couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine as she moved into the room. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the painting was somehow alive. It was disconcerting, the way the eyes seemed to follow her.

With a huff of annoyance, she lifted the canvas from the easel and put it on the floor, facing the wall. Feeling better, she drained her cup, then put on her smock, grabbed a fresh canvas, and placed it on the easel. She had no time to waste. She still had to paint that English castle, and she had a seascape that had to be finished for a new client by next week. If the buyer, Mr. Petersen, liked it, he had promised to purchase a dozen similar paintings for all the offices in his bank.

She studied the numerous snapshots of the ocean she had taken a few days earlier—pictures of the ocean when it was calm, photos of the waves crashing against the shore, pictures taken at all hours of the day and night.