Midnight Embrace

Analisa had Farleigh take her into the city the following day and spent the afternoon in a shopping spree the likes of which she had never imagined. She bought dozens of new dresses in every style and color available, as well as shoes, gloves, and hats to match. She bought ball gowns in deep blue silk and rich red velvet. She bought delicate undergarments and stockings. She bought a new nightgown that was no more than a whisper of lace and silk. She was fitted for a costume for Mr. Starke's masquerade. She bought anything and everything that caught her fancy, and charged it all to Alesandro.

It was near dusk when she returned to the house. Hurrying upstairs, she washed her hands and face, then dressed in a fine gray wool trimmed in ermine.

Sitting in front of her dressing table, she brushed her hair, thinking she would have to hire a new maid soon. She would have to speak to Mrs. Thornfield about it.

Though she had no appetite, she forced herself to eat a hearty supper, knowing that if she didn't eat, Mrs. Thornfield would tell Alesandro. He mustn't think she was unhappy about his decision.

She was sitting in the parlor, her feet curled beneath her, a book in her lap, when Alesandro entered the room.

He stood in the doorway a moment, his gaze moving over her. The light of the fire played over her face, casting her in a warm, golden glow. Her hair fell down her back and over her shoulders in waves of black silk, tempting his touch, but he stayed his hand, afraid that if he touched her he would drag her into his arms and ravish her there, on the floor, in front of the hearth.

He moved into the room, a wry smile touching his lips when he saw she was reading a book on vampire lore.

"Are you learning anything you did not already know?" he asked.

She looked up at him slowly, making him think she had been aware of his presence all along.

"Some of it sounds like nonsense to me." She looked down at the book. "Like this, where it says that if you surround a vampire with seeds, he'll have to stop and count them. What kind of foolishness is that?" She shook her head. "And this: 'One method of destroying a vampire is to steal his left sock, which must be filled with grave dirt and thrown out of the village in the direction of a river.' "

"Maybe it works," he said, fighting the uncommon urge to laugh out loud as he sat down on the other end of the sofa.

She made a face at him. "According to this book, a person might become a vampire if he is conceived on a holy day, or weaned too early, or if he eats a sheep that was killed by a wolf. Or you might become a vampire if a cat jumps over your corpse, or you're murdered and your death goes unavenged, or if your brother is a sleepwalker."

She shook her head again. "Are any of those things true?"

"No, Analisa. There is only one way to be made a vampire, and that is by another vampire."

"Does it hurt?"

He stared at her, flabbergasted by the question.

"The book says that to prevent someone rising from the dead you should cut off the head of the deceased and bury it in a separate grave."

"That would certainly do it," he muttered, still distracted by her earlier question. He told himself it had been based on curiosity, nothing more. There was no reason to think otherwise. Still, it troubled him.

"So," she said, putting the book aside. "Are you going to attend Mr. Starke's masquerade with me?"

"Of course. Unless you wish for Mrs. Thornfield to attend you. You are an unmarried woman. As such, you need a chaperone."

"Will you go in costume?"

"Perhaps. What are you wearing?"

"I thought I'd go as a biblical character," she said just to provoke him. "Delilah, perhaps, or maybe Salome."

Alesandro stared at her, his mind filling with images of Analisa clad in seven diaphanous veils, her thick black hair falling in wild disarray over her slender shoulders.

"Salome?" he asked, his voice suddenly thick.

Analisa nodded. "And you could go as King Herod. What do you think?"

He thought he would lock her in her room before he would let her out of the house in such provocative attire.

"I think you had best consider wearing something else."

"Oh?" she asked innocently. "Why?"

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Was she teasing him? What if he called her bluff? What if she was serious?

He was still trying to think of a suitable reply when she burst out laughing. "Oh, Alesandro, I wish you could see your face!"

He grunted softly. It was a common expression, spoken without thought, but it only served to emphasize, once again, the vast gulf between them.

Analisa's laughter stilled abruptly. "I'm sorry, Alesandro. I never should have said that."

He shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. He had not seen his reflection in four hundred years. It was the reason he'd had his portraits painted, so he could recall what he looked like. The artist had thought it odd when Alesandro had asked that the pool and the mirror reflect the head of a wolf instead of his own face.

Leaning forward, Analisa cupped his cheek. "It's such a strong, handsome face," she said quietly. "Such a fine straight nose," she went on, running the tip of her forefinger down its length. "A firm jaw," she said, stroking it lightly, "with just a touch of arrogance."

He lifted one brow, his whole body tingling at the touch of her hand.

"You know it's true."

He supposed she was right. He was arrogant. And stubborn. And selfish, or she would not be here.

His gaze caught and held hers. He heard the sudden increase in her heartbeat as the tension between them heightened, grew palpable. She was remembering the nights she had spent in his arms as clearly as he was. Remembering. And wanting.

" 'Lisa."

She moved toward him, drawn by his voice, the power in his eyes, her own desires.

His hands curled around her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto his lap. She stared up at him, her eyes cloudy with passion as he lowered his head, his lips claiming hers. Her arms twined around his neck, drawing him closer. As always, he was conscious of her warmth, her softness, the sweet scent of her blood, the flowery fragrance that clung to her hair and skin. She was perfection in the guise of woman, light to his darkness, goodness to the evil that lay dormant within him. An answer to the hunger that was never far from him.

He had sought nourishment elsewhere during the past few days, determined to put distance between them, to give her the chance to be sure that staying with him was what she wanted.

He rained kisses on her eyelids, her cheeks; his tongue stroked the sensitive skin behind her ear, his lips slowly drifting down her neck. She moaned softly. It was a sound filled with pleasure, a wordless entreaty for more of the same.

Desire and hunger stirred within him, urging him on, tempting him to ease her down on the sofa. She could satisfy all his hungers, leave him drowning in ecstasy even as she sated his hellish thirst.

Exerting his considerable self-control, he released her and drew back, his hands clenched at his sides.

She blinked at him, her lips parted and slightly swollen, her cheeks flushed. She was beautiful, so beautiful. What would he do if she decided to leave him,if she fell in love with some handsome young rake who could give her everything she deserved?

He feared that even his monumental self-control would not be strong enough to keep him from killing any man who dared lay hands on her. What misplaced sense of honor, what foolishness, had made him think he needed to give her a chance to meet other men? He was not noble or kind. He was a vampire, a creature who obeyed no laws of land or society but his own. And he wanted this woman as no other.

"Alesandro, is something wrong?"

He had stolen her virginity, yet she was still an innocent, as lovely as a night-blooming flower, without guile or deceit. Reining in his jealousy, he smiled at her.

"No, my sweet Analisa, all is well. We will attend Starke's masquerade, and any other entertainments you wish. And I will dress as Herod or Lucifer or a court jester, whatever pleases you."

She laughed softly. "A court jester, Alesandro?"

It was a costume well suited to him, he thought ruefully, for where Analisa was concerned, he was truly a fool.

The next five nights tested the limits of Alesandro's patience. Each day saw the arrival of a new suitor -  sometimes two or three in one day. It seemed as though every young man she had danced with at the ball wanted to court her. Invitations arrived each day for parties later in the season.

Analisa spoke candidly of the men who came to call - this one was boring, that one was quite full of himself, another was rather crude, yet another too frivolous. But not all were dismissed out of hand. Mr. Huntington wrote her poetry. Mr. Wharton sent her a book of sonnets. Mr. Gray took her horseback riding. Mr. Starke took her for long walks in the garden, regaling her with tales of his recent voyage to India. It was obvious she quite preferred Mr. Geoffrey Starke over all the others. According to Analisa, he was the most handsome, polite, entertaining, witty, educated, and charming.

All the things he was not, Alesandro thought bleakly as he made his way into the parlor where Analisa was sitting in front of the fire, her head bent over a piece of embroidery. As always, he was captivated by her beauty, drawn by her warmth.

When she looked up at him and smiled, he felt his heart expand until he thought it might explode. Impossible as it seemed, he loved her more every day, or perhaps it was only the thought of losing her that made every moment, every smile, seem more precious.

"Alesandro," she said.

" 'Lisa." He moved toward her, feeling like a callow youth, his emotions in turmoil.

She put her needlework aside, her gaze settling on his face. "Where do you go now, to... to... you know."

Her question took him by surprise, but then, she had been doing that often of late.

"Alesandro?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because - " her gaze slid away from his - "because I don't like thinking of you going to someone else."

He stared at her bowed head, unable to speak, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"Have you found someone else?"

" 'Lisa!"

She looked up at him. "Have you?"

"No, 'Lisa, there is no one else."

"Then I don't please you anymore?"

Dropping to one knee in front of her, he took her hands in his. Warm hands, soft, smooth. For a moment, he closed his eyes, remembering the touch of her hands moving over his skin. Thrusting the memory aside, he lifted one hand and kissed her palm.

"Everything about you pleases me, my sweet Analisa. The color of your hair, the sound of your laughter, the warmth of your smile, the touch of your body against mine, the taste of your skin..."

"Oh, Alesandro," she murmured. "That's so... so poetic."

"No woman I have ever known has pleased me as much as you do, in as many ways as you do."

"I still love you, Alesandro. Do you still love me?"

"You know I do."

"But you're still determined I should see other men?"

He fought down the jealousy that surged within him. He had wanted her to meet other people her age; he had not expected such an overwhelming response. Men swarmed around her like bees around a flower. Why hadn't he foreseen such a possibility? She was young and beautiful, with a sense of artlessness that set her apart from other women. She was innocent in the art of coquetry and guile.

"Alesandro?"

"Yes." The word was torn from his throat, and even as he uttered it, he wondered why he was trying to be noble when every instinct he possessed urged him to take her back to Blackbriar and hide her away from the rest of the world. And always, in the back of his mind, the thought of Rodrigo overshadowed everything else. Rodrigo, whose thirst for vengeance had endured for four hundred years. Rodrigo, whose hatred grew ever stronger. The other vampire would never stop looking for him, never rest until one of them had been destroyed. Rodrigo, who would like nothing better than to kill Analisa and, in so doing, bring his enemy to his knees once and for all.

As much as Alesandro yearned to keep Analisa for his own, he doubted his ability to protect her from the ruthless creature Rodrigo had become. Sally's image filled his mind, her throat ripped out, her dead eyes reflecting the sheer terror that had possessed her at the moment of death. The thought of Rodrigo finding Analisa, killing her as he had killed Sally, filled him with raw terror.

Analisa took a deep breath. "The masquerade is tomorrow night, my lord."

"I have not forgotten."

"Have you a costume?"

He nodded. Releasing her hands, he stood. "I bid you good night until tomorrow."