"Please," she murmured, "please let me go. I… I don't even know your last name."
"Ognibene." His breath was hot against the side of her neck.
"Is that…" She swallowed against the dryness of her throat. His arms had settled around her waist, holding her firmly against him. She cleared her throat. "Is that Italian?"
"Yes."
"You're from Italy, then?" She was babbling, but she couldn't think clearly, not with his arms around her, not with his breath feathering against her cheek. He smelled of the wind, of musky male sweat, of the night itself.
"Near Vallelunga."
"Never heard of it."
She shifted in his grasp, as though testing the strength of his hold, and he let his arms fall to his sides, though his body was still pressed intimately against hers.
Gabriel held his breath, waiting. He could feel her indecision, knew that she was as aware of the charged atmosphere between them as he was. She wanted him. And he wanted her, wanted her with every fiber of his being.
Sarah worried her lower lip with her teeth, wishing his arms were still holding her because now she had to make the decision whether to remain with her back resting against his chest, or to move away.
Prudence urged her to break all contact with this strange man, to run out the gate and never look back, but every feminine instinct begged her to stay where she was, to rest her head against his shoulder, to let him wrap his arms around her once more and hold her tight.
And then he made the decision for her. Gently but firmly, he gave her a little push.
"Go home, Sarah," he said, his voice harsh, taut with an emotion she did not understand. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, which he pressed into her hand. "Get a cab and go home while you still can."
"But…"
His eyes burned into hers. "Stay away from the park, Sarah," he whispered savagely. "Stay away from me!"
She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes filled with confusion, and then she turned and ran for the garden gate.
He stood in the moonlight long after she had gone. On this night, he did not worry about her getting safely home. It was not yet late, and she was in far more danger from him than from anyone else she might encounter.
Hands clenched, his body rigid, he closed his eyes while the lust for blood roared through him. He grimaced as his fangs lengthened in anticipation of the hunt.
Sarah…
He knew why she had come to him tonight even if she refused to admit it.
Unbidden to his mind came the memory of Sarah crushed against him, her back pressed to his chest, her buttocks cradled by his thighs. The beating of her heart had sounded like thunder in his ears. Even now, he felt his desire stir to life as he remembered the scent of her blood, the heat of her living flesh.
"Stay away from the park, Sarah," he murmured, repeating the words he'd spoken earlier. "Stay away from me."
But this time the words were a plea, not a warning.
She had the cab drop her off at the corner market on the way home. For the first time in months, she had an appetite, not for what her mother had called "real food," but to fill a sudden, unaccountable craving for Oreo cookies.
At home, she went into the kitchen and poured a tall glass of milk, then sat down at the table and opened the package, knowing she'd regret her lack of willpower the next time she stepped on a scale.
Relishing every bite, she polished off half the package, drained the glass, and then walked through the house, turning on the lights, the TV.
She dusted the furniture and vacuumed the rugs, cleaned out the refrigerator, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she threw away an unidentified blob of something hard and brown. She scrubbed the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink and the tub, emptied the trash.
But she didn't go into the nursery. She couldn't face that room, shied away from the knowledge that, sooner or later, she'd have to take down the crib, pack Natalie's clothes in boxes, and admit that she was never coming back.
It was near midnight when Sarah treated herself to a long hot bubble bath. She closed her eyes, and into her mind came the memory of a spacious bathroom and a pale pink tub.
She would not think of him, or the room he professed had been decorated solely for her.
Wrapped in a towel, she stared at the velvet dressing gown she had tossed over a chair, vacillating between folding it up and shoving it in a drawer, or putting it on. Finally, with a huff of disdain for her weakness, she slipped it on, her hands gliding over the rich fabric.
Swathed in luxurious velvet, she sat on the sofa and searched the channels until she found an old movie.
Moments later, she was asleep.
And sleeping, began to dream.
Of being confined to a wheelchair.
Of dancing
Swan Lake
with a handsome young man.
Of flames licking at her skin.
Of a black-haired man kneeling at her feet, his head buried in her lap. She heard his words, bleak and edged with despair, as if all the sadness in the world was carried in his soul.
Can you hold me, and comfort me, just for tonight?
And a young woman's reply:
I don't understand
.
And then his voice again, filled with an aching loneliness that tore at her heart:
Don't ask questions
, cara.
Please, just hold me
.
She woke with the afternoon sun shining in her face, and tears in her eyes.
And her first thought was for Gabriel.
She supposed she shouldn't be surprised to find that he had invaded her dreams again. He had, after all, been at the center of her thoughts ever since the first night she saw him in the park. But who was the girl in her dreams, the one in the wheelchair?
Her brow furrowed in a frown, she went into the kitchen and prepared breakfast, the first one she'd fixed since the accident.
Sitting down at the table, she ate the French toast, hardly tasting it. Who
was
Gabriel? It was obvious that he was rich. Filthy rich. He was also the most outrageously handsome man she had ever seen. And the most mysterious.
Last night, his words, the anger in his voice, had frightened her.
Go home while you still can
, he had said.
Stay away from the park. Stay away from me
!
And that was just what she intended to do. She had buried herself in her grief long enough. It was time to start living again, time to find a job.
She glanced around the cheery sunlit kitchen, remembering the happy Saturday mornings she had spent here, fixing breakfast for David and Natalie. It had been in this room where she had told David she was pregnant, in this room where Natalie had taken her first steps…
There was no help for it, she mused, she'd have to sell the house. She'd never be able to look ahead while she lived here, surrounded by memories.
A fresh start was what she needed. A new job. A new house. A new life…
Some of her optimism vanished as she considered the possibilities. She hadn't worked in four years. She hated moving. She didn't want a new life; she wanted her old one back again.
She wanted to see Gabriel.
With an effort, she put him from her mind. Rising from the table, she washed her few dishes, took a quick shower, and drove to the mall, telling herself she'd feel better if she got her hair done, had a manicure, and bought something new to wear.
He prowled the silent house, restless, edgy. Hungry. For blood. For the touch of a human hand. The love of a woman.
Sarah…
Over and over again, he paced from room to room. All were empty of furniture, of life, save for the front parlor and the bedroom he had furnished for Sarah.
Why had he bought this place, he wondered. What need had he of a mansion with eight bedrooms when he preferred to sleep in the quiet darkness of the cellar? He had no need of a kitchen or a formal dining room, no opportunity to sit in the glass-enclosed solarium and enjoy the beauty of a summer's day.
He stared out the window at the gardens, imagining Sarah there cutting a bouquet of roses, wandering along the narrow tree-lined paths, sitting in the swing, sunning herself near the goldfish pond.
Sarah.
Swearing softly, he turned away from the window. He wanted her, wanted her as he had wanted his other Sara. But he could not endure the pain of loving again, could not endure the agony of watching another woman die in his arms, her body ravaged by age or disease while he remained forever young, a mockery of life.
With a roar of impotent rage, he dropped to his knees and smashed his fist against the hearth, again and again, welcoming the pain that splintered through his hand and up his arm. Blood spurted from his knuckles, and he cursed himself for the monster he was, cursed the hunger that fed upon his anger, and fueled his unfulfilled desire.
For Sarah…
With an oath, he rose to his feet, needing to get out of the house. She had spent but one night here, and yet the walls whispered her name, the air was tinged with her perfume, his very soul had been branded with her essence.
On swift and silent feet, he walked the moon-dappled streets. Pity any poor human who stumbled across his path tonight, he thought darkly. For there was no compassion within him now, no mercy for those weaker than himself, only a terrible hunger coupled with a seething rage. He wanted to hurt someone as he was hurting, to drain the life out of another as the will to live was being drained from his soul.
For centuries, he had wandered the earth alone, with no one to love, no one to love him. And then he had found Sara Jayne, and she had given meaning to his existence, but, all too soon, death had claimed her. And now he, who had thought never to love again, had found another woman who warmed his heart, who possessed the same strength of spirit as the woman he had lost.
He stalked the darkness, drawn inevitably toward the park. Hoping, all the while, that she'd had the good sense to heed his warning and stay away.
His gaze pierced the darkness as soon as he entered the park. And she was there, a bright beacon in the blackness of the night.
He would leave, he told himself. He would stay just long enough to see her face, to breathe in her scent, and then he would leave.
On silent feet, he drew ever nearer, drawn toward her as though he had no will of his own.
And then he was there beside her, his whole being vibrating with her nearness as he sat down on the bench, warming himself in the welcome of her smile.
She didn't speak, but he read everything she was thinking, feeling, in the depth of her eyes. She was afraid. She was lonely. She needed comfort, the nearness of another being. She wanted him, and that frightened her more than anything else.
"Sarah…"
Trapped in the web of his gaze, she slowly shook her head. "I can't. I'm afraid."
"Of me?"
"Yes."
"I won't hurt you," he promised, and hoped it was a vow he could keep.
"I don't even know you," she retorted, angry with him for making her feel alive again, angry with herself for wanting this man when David was dead.
But he knew her. He looked deep into her eyes, and he knew her. Recognition
mingled with shock. The improbability, the possibilities, struck him with the
force of a blow. He knew her. She was older than when they'd met before. Her
eyes were brown instead of blue. She had known another man. But her heart and soul remained the same.
Sara Jayne.
The wonder of it rocked him to the core of his being.
"What's wrong?" Sarah asked, alarmed by the sudden intensity of his gaze.
Slowly, he shook his head. "Nothing."
"You're scaring me."
"Sara." Her name whispered past his lips, tinged with awe. And then he knelt at her feet, his arms wrapping around her waist as he buried his face in her lap.
"Gabriel!"
"Don't ask questions," he murmured. "Please, just hold me, touch me."
She stared at his bowed head, his words echoing in her mind as she lightly stroked his hair. She'd heard those words before, only last night, in a dream. But it had been another woman's hand stroking his hair…
A cold chill swept through her, and she jerked her hand away from his head. What did it mean?
His arms tightened around her waist. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you, I swear it. Just hold me," he pleaded. "Just let me hold you a moment more."
Contentment washed through him as he felt her hand move in his hair again. Ah, the touch of a human hand, warm with compassion, flowing with life. It was the touch of Sara's hand, so welcome, so familiar.
Sara, Sara, can it really be you?
Tears burned her eyes as she lightly stroked his hair, caressed his nape, brushed her fingers across his cheek. She could feel his body trembling, or was it her own?
Sometime later, he raised his head, his gaze meeting hers, and in the dark gray depths of his eyes she saw a hunger so deep, a yearning so painful, that it caused her heart to ache.
Almost without conscious thought, she bent her head to his and kissed him.
And time stood still, trapped in the depths of his eyes.
And then his eyelids fluttered down and he kissed her with all the longing in his heart, with the loneliness born of more than half a century without her. Kissed her with all the love in his heart, a love which would always be hers, only hers.
Passion, need, longing. They swept through Sarah like a forest fire, burning away every doubt. She forgot everything but the need to comfort this man, to take him into herself, to fill all the empty spaces in his heart and soul. She wanted to hold him to her breast and whisper that everything would be all right, that he would never again be alone. And in some deep corner of her mind, she had the strange, overwhelming feeling that she had done it all once before.
After an eternity, he drew back. "Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," she replied quietly.
His eyes were deep, dark gray. She had seen those eyes before, she thought, felt their magnetism in childhood dreams.