As Diego thought about the centuries to come in his life—centuries alone—he wondered whether he, too, would lose his humanity. Or whether he’d become like some others he had known and walk out into the sun, never to return to the darkness of eternal life.
He paused outside his apartment building and looked up at the late afternoon sun, already low in the horizon. He was old enough to tolerate such weak sunshine, but still, pins and needles pricked the exposed parts of his skin. He stretched his hands outward and closed his eyes, a supplicant to the sun and its power, until its touch became painful.
Then he snapped into action, striding briskly to the curb and hailing a cab. Once inside, he scooted to the center of the seat, away from the light.
Ramona’s sunny apartment came to mind. It would be warm and golden with both morning and afternoon light, thanks to the skylights. He imagined those rays bathing her as he lay with her in bed, touching her skin and warming it, bringing a flush of color with their kiss.
She would never again experience those things if she became like him.
He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. He cared for her too much to bring her into a world that would deny her children and the joy of growing old.
But fate already denied her those things. He thrust that reality far away because it complicated everything.
No matter how hard you tried, fate had a way of catching up with you. The longer you avoided it, the more it screwed you up when it finally found you.
Just look at me, he thought. Possibly in love with a human. A dying human.
What better punishment could fate deliver?
Chapter 16
R amona paused outside the steps to the gallery. The lights from the display windows illuminated the sidewalk, calling to her. She looked upward, her arms wrapped tightly around herself to battle the chill. One of her smaller pieces hung in the window, along with information about the current showing. Beyond the painting, she could see a few people in the front room, walking from piece to piece.
The show had been a success. Diego’s assistant had called to say all of the paintings had been sold, and for quite a nice sum. Ramona had made arrangements for the check to be sent to the trust fund she had set up. That money would be enough to take care of her mother for some time.
Now she had to take care of her own life, or what was left of it. She had to straighten out the mess she had made of things, including the man—no, make that vampire—who waited inside the gallery.
She checked her watch. Only a half hour remained until the gallery closed its doors. Just enough time for her to go in and apologize for her lies.
Her steps hesitant, she walked straight to the receptionist’s desk. The young woman there, elegantly dressed in a cowl-necked black knit dress, smiled broadly. “Ms. Escobar. It’s a joy to see you.”
A few heads turned their way and people leaned closer, their whispered comments tinged with excitement. She had never quite gotten used to such attention. Forcing a smile, she acknowledged their stares with what she hoped was a cordial nod.
Returning her gaze to Diego’s receptionist, she said, “I was hoping Mr. Rivera had a moment.”
“For you, of course.”
The young woman rose from her chair, but Ramona gestured for her to sit. “I know the way.”
She almost felt as if she was walking to the gallows as she passed through each room, pausing for one last glimpse of the largest painting. The one she had come to think of as theirs.
Of course, nothing in her imagination as she’d painted it could have prepared her for the much better reality of Diego as a lover.
But then the unbidden image came. Diego as a vampire.
Ramona’s hand trembled as she knocked once, briskly, on his office door.
A muffled “Come in” greeted her, but she delayed, suddenly uncertain if this was wise.
A moment later the door flew open and he stood there, the practiced smile on his face turning to a scowl as he realized who it was.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. As she met his gaze, the ice-blue of his eyes slowly bled out to the scary blue-green neon of the demon, and a menacing hint of fang dropped from his top lip.
“You can’t scare me away, Diego.”
She hoped she sounded calm, in control, strong. Someone like him wouldn’t abide weakness. Her gut tightened with trepidation as if to taunt her, but she fought back her fear. Something told her he would never hurt her.
Diego examined her. He let his vamp senses take in everything about her. The weaker beat of her heart and the chill in her body that went beyond the cooler temperature of the night air outside. A bright slash of color stained each cheek, but beyond that blush her skin was pale.
“I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
“Diana came by this afternoon. She told me she was working on the case. I wanted to say thank-you.” Ramona plucked at the sleeves of her coat, clearly uneasy.
“Diana has a mind of her own. She would do what she wanted regardless of what I said.” He kept his tone cold, almost cruel, because anything else would move them toward perilous ground.
She winced as if struck, and the color fled from her face. Despite that, she gathered herself, pulling her shoulders back beneath the loose folds of her dark-blue peacoat. She walked toward him and cradled his jaw.
He flinched, her touch cold on his skin.
She rose on tiptoe and whispered against his lips, “I’m sorry I lied, but I’m not sorry about us. About what happened.”
In the space of a heartbeat, she kissed him and then fled.
Diego remained rooted to the floor, his hands balled into fists, his gut twisted into a knot. He took a faltering step, about to follow her, and then remembered the lunacy of caring for a human.
Holding fast, his muscles trembling from the strain, he reached out with his vamp senses and picked up the lingering remnants of her scent and the hurried lub-dub of her heart as she raced away.
Closing his eyes, he focused on it, memorized its beat until it faded from hearing.
As it would fade when she died.
Ramona mumbled a rushed goodbye to the receptionist as she hurried out the door. She had gone half a block before she slowed her pace, wondering why she was bothering to rush.
She had no one waiting for her at home. Nothing to do except work on Diego’s painting and hope that her stomach would settle down, because the second dose Melissa had prescribed was wreaking havoc on her system.
Pausing for a deep breath, she heard the muffled ring of her cell phone from her coat pocket, and yanked it out.
“Hello.”
“Rather chilly night for a walk, isn’t it, Ms. Escobar?” Van Winter’s tone was obsequious, but his words worried her. Pivoting on her heel, she peered up and down the street, but it seemed to be business as usual on the Soho block. A few passing cars and pedestrians. Over on Broadway, the higher volume of traffic, both automotive and on foot, moved swiftly by.
“What do you want, Mr. van Winter?” she said, but kept her eyes on the road, vigilant after being nearly run over a week earlier. She had no doubt van Winter had been behind that near accident.
“Come now, Ramona. You can call me Frederick by now, don’t you think?”
<
br /> “What do you want, Frederick?” she asked, and began walking rapidly toward Broadway, thinking she would be safer there with the increased activity.
Van Winter finally said, “You’ve been seeing a lot of Mr. Rivera lately. Too much.”
“Mr. Rivera sells my works. That’s it.” She wanted to shift attention from Diego, afraid of what van Winter might do. Afraid of how vulnerable Diego’s vampire state made him.
“He’s been asking questions and it has to stop, Ramona. Do you understand?” In the background she heard an approaching siren. Much like the one now moving closer as she finally turned the corner onto Broadway.
She ended the connection and backed toward the window of one shop, guarding her back as she looked for the late-model black sedan that had nearly run her over the other night.
She saw nothing until the light changed and the cars slowly stopped. Then a familiar stretch limo came into view. It had picked her up many a time to take her to van Winter’s building so she could work.
Her phone rang again. She answered. “What do you want?”
“Ramona?” This was a woman’s voice, and she immediately identified herself. “It’s Diana Reyes.”
“This isn’t a good time,” Ramona said as the light turned green. The limo inched forward slowly and drew up to the bus stop before her.
“Are you okay?” the agent asked.
“Van Winter is here.” The mirrored window of the backseat sluggishly lowered, and there he was, smiling his cold, snakelike grin.
“Where’s ‘here’?” Diana demanded. “Can you keep him there?”
“He’s in a limo and I’m on foot. Doubt it.”
Van Winter quirked his index finger, beckoning her closer. Before Ramona went, she murmured, “I’m putting it on speakerphone. Stay quiet.”
She tucked the phone into the pocket of her purse and slung the bag over her shoulder, praying the position would allow Diana to hear their conversation, and hoping van Winter would say something that the agent could use to build a case. Faking a confident stride, Ramona approached the limo.
“Mr. van Winter. How can I help you tonight?”
“Call off Rivera and whatever other dogs you have sniffing around.”
“And what if I don’t?”
Van Winter gave a phlegmy laugh, then coughed before he said, “You have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”
His comment drew a jerky chuckle from her. “Everything to lose? I’m as good as dead. How much worse could it be, Frederick?” she asked, accenting each syllable of his name.
“You got the package I sent, didn’t you? Think about that.”
Then he waved at his driver and put up the mirrored glass as the limo muscled its way into the traffic.
“Did you hear that?” she said out loud, and then slipped her fingers into her purse to remove her cell phone.
“Most of it. What’s the package he’s referring to?”
“The envelope and photos we gave you last night,” she confirmed.
“We got several fingerprints off the photos. I’ll need to print you and Diego so we can eliminate yours.”
Ramona walked back to the corner and peered down the street toward the gallery, wondering if she should go warn Diego. Then she rethought it. Now that the adrenaline of the meeting had faded away, her stomach had started a weird kind of rumbling. “I’m not really up to it tonight. Can I meet you somewhere tomorrow?”
“I have a few calls to make in the morning. How about a late lunch? Luigi’s near Federal Plaza.”
“Deal.”
Ryder rolled Diego’s thumb in the ink and then moved it to the card, where he rotated it against the paper to record its print. He repeated the procedure until all of his friend’s fingerprints were on the sheet. Smiling, Ryder said, “All done,” and handed him a premoistened wipe to clean his hands.
Diego mangled the small cloth as he rubbed at his fingers, trying to remove all the ink. “I’m glad. Why didn’t your little friend come and do this herself?”
Unexpectedly, Ryder’s smile broadened. “Because I didn’t want to see you get hurt again.”
He snorted in disbelief, but then realized Ryder wasn’t kidding. “Is that what intrigues you? Her violence?”
His friend shook his head. “She definitely intrigues me, amigo. As for violence, her edge can be quite sharp at times.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to endure the pain of a mortal’s love?” Diego said as he rose and walked to the small bar at the edge of Ryder’s office. Perusing the offerings, he realized his friend kept no blood there.
Pouring brandy into two snifters, he waited for an answer, but it didn’t come. He returned to the desk and handed him a glass. “So, why do you do this?”
Ryder raised his snifter and said, “When love calls, only a fool refuses to answer.”
“Love,” he said with a sniff. After taking a sip of the brandy, he retorted, “You confuse the call of her blood with what you think is love.”
Ryder shook his head. “Foolish Diego. How long will you deny it?”
“Can you deny that you’ve bitten her?”
“No, I can’t. Can you be as truthful?” Ryder challenged.
“Blood, amigo. It’s what sustains us. Nothing else will satisfy.”
To which his friend replied, “Liar.”
Chapter 17
R amona hugged the toilet bowl as her body spasmed over and over. By the time she finished, she was drenched in cold sweat and her limbs trembled with weakness. She struggled to her knees, then somehow found the strength to get to her feet. Her steps slow, she shuffled to the sink, where she rinsed her face and mouth.
She stripped off the sweat-dampened clothes and turned on the shower. When the water was deliciously hot, she stepped in and just stood there, letting it warm her. The chill she’d felt was due to so much more than the medicines battling with her out-of-control immune system.
Van Winter’s threat had troubled her all night long, robbing her of badly needed sleep.
She wondered whether Diana would have any information later that afternoon, and thought about what the agent had said the day before—that the transport company hadn’t packed the artwork.
There hadn’t been that many people van Winter had allowed near her when she’d been doing the copies. Who among them had he trusted to pack the works? Even more importantly, who had he gotten to sign them?
Finishing up, she stepped from the shower and started her day.
First thing on her list was calling Melissa to tell her about her body’s reactions to the cocktail of medicines.
The doctor answered on the second ring. “How are you?”
“A little sick,” Ramona said, and tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she put the kettle on the stove, hoping some chamomile tea would help soothe her stomach.
“A little or a lot?”
Reluctantly, she admitted, “A lot. I can’t keep the morning mix down at all. The afternoon dose lingers a little longer. But only a little.”
Melissa hesitated, but then quickly rattled off an adjustment, splitting the doses into three. “Make sure not to skip a dose. They’re keeping everything in balance until—”
“I’m not hoping for that donor to
miraculously appear, Melissa. I have to have my head straight about this, not filled with unrealistic possibilities.”
“Then what made you change your mind about looking for one? Why even embrace that hope?” the doctor asked.
“I thought I had something more…I was wrong.”
With that, she hung up. The teakettle whistled, the sound becoming a hissing screech as she stood there, considering what she had told Melissa.
She had thought she’d found love. Love made everything possible.
Even beating death.
Located a few blocks from Federal Plaza, Luigi’s was an old-fashioned Italian restaurant, much like one might find on the rapidly vanishing streets of Little Italy, which were being swallowed by an ever-expanding Chinatown.
A quick look revealed that Diana had yet to arrive, so Ramona loitered inside the front door, checking out the menu posted there. Her stomach grumbled—in a good way, thanks to her medicine change—at the thought of a nice plate of chicken parmigiana.
The front door opened, allowing a bright beam of light into the darkened interior, and Diana entered, dressed as usual in a dark suit and white shirt. When the agent noticed Ramona standing there, she smiled and walked over. “Glad you could make it.”
“Diana, mia amica. So good to see you,” the hostess said. The Rubenesque older woman stepped around the podium and embraced her in meaty arms.
“Nice to see you, too. Do you have a table for us?” Diana asked.
“Your usual.” She ushered them to a booth toward the back of the restaurant.
“Come here often?” Ramona teased after they were seated.
“Not as much as I used to, unfortunately,” Diana replied.
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