by Evie Byrne
The surge of jealousy surprised him. It was ridiculous. Helena didn't have a man. First off, she was his and no other's. That was metaphysical fact. And more practically, her kiss was too hungry and her bathrobe too frumpy for her to have a lover. Most likely this man belonged to the girlfriend who had rushed in earlier. Rushed to the aid of poor, helpless Helena.
Alex rolled his eyes at the idea. Maybe she'd injured her knee on his balls.
If he wanted to be spectacularly unethical he could have her tonight. It was almost tempting, but he figured mind control was no way to start a lifelong relationship based on trust and mutual understanding.
He'd fucked this up. Big time.
Alex raked his fingers through his hair, combing out the snow. By rights he should be making love to Helena for the second or third time by now. He should already have discovered what made her wiggle, what made her scream. She was responsive enough on the porch—just before she turned into a hellcat. He'd never had a woman turn on him like that. Then again, he'd never been so out of control. The chemistry between them was dangerously hot. He'd gone too far, too fast, and now his punishment was to sit outside her house doing his Frosty the Snowman imitation.
Friggin' fantastic.
It already hurt to be apart from her. He wondered how much of that was real, and how much was in his head.
A tow truck dragged away his car, but it would trace to a pseudonym and a dead end. While he waited for the cops to settle down, he found the number of a local cab company and confirmed his reservation at the Hyatt. At least the night would be a long one. That was his favorite thing about winter.
Thunk, thunk, crack.
The noise was faint, but persistent. Helena lifted her head. She was sleeping in her big chair. Peter and Lacey slept on the couch. The noise had not disturbed them or the dogs, who were both curled up like sweet rolls next to the fireplace. The clock on the DVD player said 2:07.
Thunk, thunk, crack.
It wasn't coming from inside the house. It wasn't the sound of a madman knocking down the door or forcing the window, either. Wrapping her blanket around her shoulders, she padded to the kitchen window. Because the house was built on a slope, the window sat high above the backyard, giving her a good view of the ground.
And yep, there was her stalker, splitting wood. The bright half moon made the scene look like a black and white movie. The wet wood was black. The snow was stark white. His clothing black. The snow shadows grey. His axe silver. Or her axe, rather.
She was impressed that he knew how to split wood. Not everyone did anymore. He worked with a graceful ease that was almost hypnotic to watch. The split wood piled up fast. His heavy overcoat was gone and he was working with bare hands in shirtsleeves dusted with snow. At two o'clock in the morning. In January. He was crazy as a loon and tragically, disgustingly handsome. Even from the kitchen window she could see his strong profile, his dramatic coloring. He paused to brush the snow out of his curls, then swung the axe again.
Helena did think about calling the police. She thought about it the entire time she watched him, fingering the card they'd given her. She also thought about waking her friends and siccing Newland on him. But she did none of these things. Instead she watched him split every log in the pile, and watched as he began to stack it outside her back door.
Brave because she was out of reach, she opened the window. He stopped in his tracks, his arms full of wood, and looked straight up at her. The outside air hit her face, sharp as a slap, and her nose began to run. She wished she could see his eyes, but he was too far away and his brow shadowed them. His eyebrows she could read, though, and those shot up, waiting for her to speak.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, making pathetic shooing gestures toward the road. "Go away and don't come back again. The police are coming."
"If that's true, why warn me?" His voice drifted up to sit in her ear, as if he stood just beside her.
Why, why, why…because I'm as crazy as you? "Because it's not your fault that you're insane. I don't really want you to go to jail." Though she spoke in a whisper, she knew he heard her just fine, judging by the amused expression on his face. "Just go stalk someone else. Oh, no, I don't mean that. Don't stalk anybody. Find a new hobby. Golf is obsessive, I understand. Go."
A dimple flashed in one cheek as he grinned. "I'd do almost anything for you, Helena, but please don't ask me to take up golf." He went to add the wood in his arms to the stack against the back of the house, and she could no longer see his face. "You see, Helena, you are my hobby from now on, or better, my vocation."
He had a slight accent, a New York accent perhaps. Funny vowels. He looked like a New Yorker too, with his pale skin and city clothes. Empty armed, he returned to stand beneath her window.
She said, "Now see, that kind of talk is just plain creepy."
He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and cocked his head at her. This close she could see the long, sweeping curve of his upper lip and the stubble that shadowed his sharp jawline.
"Do you believe in fate or free will?"
"Free will, of course."
"Ah, see, that's the difference between us. I believe in fate. I believe we are meant to be together. It doesn't make me crazy."
Helena didn't know what to say to that. Her ears stung from the cold and she trembled all over. She wasn't so sure that was due to cold.
"Come down, and we'll talk."
"Yeah, just you, me and the axe."
He chuckled, a warm sound. "You can hold the axe."
It wouldn't protect me from you.
"Thanks for splitting my wood."
He shrugged and snow fell off his shoulders. "I like to do it."
"Now please, go away forever."
That made him grin. "I'll be out here when you change your mind."
Helena imagined waking up the next morning to find him frozen to her woodpile. A stalker-sicle. "That's it. I'm really going to call the cops."
"No you won't. Don't worry about me." With that he went back for another armload of wood.
She closed the window and returned to her chair. No, she wouldn't call the cops. It seemed futile—he'd just stroll away like he had before, then come back. He was out there because he expected that she'd fall prey to his irresistibleness and let him pick up where he left off. He was sorely mistaken.
But why had she spoken to him at all? She'd only encouraged him. Generally speaking, she was not that stupid.
It was hard to sleep knowing he was so close, but she dozed on and off until first light, feeling oddly like it was Christmas night. Like something big was going on. And in the morning, it did look like Christmas outside. The snowfall had transformed the neighborhood into a glitter-coated winter wonderland. The flawless blanket of white hid all the dead weeds and abandoned dog toys in her yard. The trees looked like they'd been dipped in frosting.
And Alexander Faustin was nowhere to be seen, but he had shoveled the walks and the drive before he left, and taken her garbage cans to the curb so she wouldn't miss Monday morning pick-up.
Helena muttered to herself as she made coffee for her friends. "Damned domesticated stalker."
Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer were both attractive, charming men by all accounts. They probably were handy around the house, too.
The night clerk at the Boulder Hyatt thought the resident of room 303 was an elderly man named Jonas Liebovitz.
Alex disguised himself when he checked in, unsure of whether the police were proactive enough to send his description to the local hotels. He told the clerk he'd be sleeping through the day and wanted as dark a room as possible. Clerks loved it when someone actually volunteered to take a room looking out on a brick wall or a ventilation shaft.
With dawn coming fast, he rushed to tape a couple of space blankets over the window. Space blankets were a modern miracle for all vamp kind. Made for camping and survival situations, they were lightweight, reflective and completely light proof. Alex kept them on hand everywher
e when he traveled, in his briefcase, his car, several in his suitcase for window blocking. Folded up, a space blanket was smaller than his fist. When he'd first learned the sun could kill him, he slept wrapped in space blankets for over a year, and dragged one around with him at all times because, despite his parent's reassurances, he worried that the sun might sneak up on him at night.
After he'd taped up the window, he tuned the TV to the Food Network. Alex watched cooking shows like other men watched exotic porn—fantasizing about things he was not ever going to experience. Solid food did not sit well with him. Soup he could do. A bowl of bullion would not nourish him much, but it would be warm. He ordered room service and sat down to check his email.
While he waited, he became more and more hungry. The night out in the cold, the hard labor, and not least, Helena herself, had sharpened his appetite and whetted his teeth. Her taste lingered on his tongue, her saliva and skin foreshadowing the flavor of her blood. While fasting for a mate was the romantic thing to do, he decided he'd find something to eat first thing the next evening, just so he could think straight in her presence.
The legends and movies were bullshit. Vamps did not have to kill to eat, and civilized vamps never killed their prey. Humans were blood-making factories. You didn't kill a cow to milk it.
Alex didn't hunt much anyway. He fed from his lovers, preferring sensual, leisurely dining to hunting by a long shot. His brother owned one of the most decadent nightclubs in New York. Women who liked blood play gravitated there, and for Alex it was a second home. Since he was fifteen he'd never lacked for a lover or a meal.
But all that would end soon. Once he tasted Helena, he'd only want to feed from her. That would begin the bonding, which would culminate with her conversion. During that honeymoon period he wouldn't be able to stand the taste of anyone else. Later, they'd hunt together.
It was a good thing he hadn't tasted her at the door. Before he bonded with her, he had to tell her what he was—and what he wanted her to be. If he bonded with her prematurely and she couldn't accept him, that would be bad. Maybe even tragic. Like the old vamp tearjerker, The Chanson of Roland and Illysia.
The bellhop arrived bearing a bowl of soup and a basket of nasty, inedible crackers. If he noticed the sealed window, he pretended not to see it.
"Put it down there." Alex pulled out his wallet for a tip, glancing at the soup as he did. Then he glanced back at the bellhop. The bellhop looked better. A boy just out of high school, blond, ruddy, a fine snack.
It was such a bad idea.
"Sign here please, sir."
If only he had not moved so close. If only he did not smell of beer. Alex loved beer in his blood.
Never bring it to your nest, his father always said.
Fuck it. Alex flashed his hand in front of the bellhop's face, stunning him. The bill, tray and pen fell to the ground. He kicked the door closed, tore open the boy's jacket and latched onto his throat, suddenly greedy as hell. The alcohol sugars in the kid's blood made it taste bright and thin at the same time. Pure soda pop.
The bellhop wilted in his arms. Because he was all wound up, Alex drank more than he should have. The kid would feel like crap as a result. After one last sip, he licked the wound closed and buttoned the jacket up again. The entire encounter had taken less than fifteen seconds.
"Are you okay?" The sound of his voice broke the thrall.
The boy opened his eyes, saw Alex's hands on his shoulders and blinked in confusion.
"You're white as a sheet," Alex said. "You'd better sit down."
The bellhop sat on the edge of the bed, his arms limp, completely dazed. And too pale. Alex felt a little guilty.
"Sorry… I do feel weird."
"I think you almost fainted or something. Are you sick? Tired? Dehydrated?" At «dehydrated» the kid shifted his eyes to one side. Alex winked at him like a co-conspirator. "Were you partying last night?"
"Yeah. Sort of."
"Try drinking a big glass of orange juice, then lots of water. It helps."
The bellboy staggered off, clutching a big tip.
Alex tried to berate himself for taking such a risk, but felt too satisfied to do it well. Not one to waste food, he drank the soup too. It was over salted. While he ate, the TV chef taught him how to deglaze a roasting pan by dissolving the scrapings at the bottom in wine. That he might be able to eat—the deglazing or whatever it was called.
Sleepy and bloated, he set a warding spell on the door and rolled himself up in the sheets. His last thoughts were of Helena flirting with him from her kitchen window. She was beautiful by moonlight.
Chapter 2
Lacey offered to spend another night with her. Helena refused.
But she did let Lacey meet her after work, and they opened the house together, checking all the rooms, all the windows and doors, making sure everything was locked tight. He had not been there, but he'd be back that night. She knew he would, but she didn't think he'd harm her. There was something about him, something gentlemanly, something trustworthy. Yeah, a gentleman stalker. Good one.
Truth was, she wanted to talk to him from the window again. And if he wanted to spend another night doing yard work, her fence needed mending.
She hadn't been able to concentrate all day. At an important lunch meeting she'd embarrassed herself by spacing out mid-sentence. More than once. After that she'd gone straight to the high school track. That seemed a safe enough place to run. But even running failed to do the trick.
Alexander Faustin just wouldn't leave her thoughts. It was like she was in heat or something, and as her temperature rose, her intellect dropped by equal degrees. She didn't want to tangle with him again, but another moonlight talk was tempting. Because as horny as she was, she was also curious. The journalist in her wanted to know more. Why would a man like that stalk her? She had good instincts—not for relationships, admittedly, but for strangers—and he honestly didn't seem dangerous. If he didn't mean to harm her, why did he lie to her? Was it a habit of his? Did he get a buzz from the risk? Maybe another talk would help her see the outlines of his subtle insanity. Then she'd feel better about turning him over to the police.
That morning she'd Googled his name, trying different spellings and came up with nothing. A Lexis-Nexis search revealed nothing about Alex or Alexander but did yield some hits on a Gregor Faustin who was some kind of nightclub impresario in New York. A small picture of a man in his thirties or early forties scowling at a flashbulb accompanied one of the articles. All she could say was that their coloring was the same. A relative?
Hell, she didn't even know if Alexander Faustin was his real name.
As soon as Lacey left, Helena stepped out onto her balcony and surveyed the back yard.
"Looking for me?"
She yelped. He was on the balcony with her, standing in the shadows.
Helena backed away. "How'd you get up here?"
He advanced, stepping into a pool of light. He wore the long woolen overcoat, the one that had rubbed against her naked body. It was open. Beneath, he wore a black turtleneck sweater, the chunky fisherman kind, jeans and expensive work boots. GQ Italy. He shrugged. "Ladder?"
What ladder?
Helena darted back into the house, slammed the sliding glass door shut and clicked the tiny locking arm into place, thinking that maybe this home-alone thing was not such a good idea after all. She picked up the phone, but didn't call anyone. Instead, she returned to the door.
He stood just on the other side of the glass, smiling a crooked smile. What beautiful lips he had. Oh God, he was hot. Why did he have to be so hot? He drew his finger along the glass as if he could touch her face through it.
"Helena…" He spoke as if they knew each other, as if he'd been missing her for years. "You shouldn't be afraid."
"I don't know you." Helena's voice wavered. She tried to strengthen it. "This is too strange. It's just not right."
Yet she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. Instead she spla
yed her palm against the glass and he matched it with his own hand, so much bigger than hers. She had thought of those hands all day, how they held her breasts and circled her waist. She'd thought of his mouth on her throat, open and wet.
"It's an unusual way to meet, I'll give you that, but that doesn't make it wrong. What do you want to know about me? I'll tell you anything."
The glass muffled his voice a little, made it sound like it was coming from a distance. She didn't know what else to do, so she thought of a question.
"Well, where are you from?"
"New York. I live in the city."
Ah ha.
"What are you doing in Colorado?"
His dark eyes bored into hers, sincere, yet so forceful she lowered her lashes. "I came to meet you."
"Why?"
"My mother told me to find you. That you'd be my perfect one."
Mother? Like Norman Bates's mother? Oh man, that was creepy. "Who is your mother?" she snapped. "And what the hell does she know about me?"
Faustin was a model of patience, standing out there in the freezing cold. It didn't seem to bother him. His nose wasn't even red. And he didn't seem to mind her shrewish tone either. "My mother's name is Natalia Grigorevna Faustin." He ground through those hard consonants like a real Russian. "She lives in Brooklyn. She…well…she dreamed about you, dreamed you and I were meant for each other. It's sort of an old world thing."
"And on the basis of her dream, you came here to find me?"
He lifted one shoulder and smiled, as if the whole thing was a little embarrassing, but unavoidable. "It's better than internet dating."
"Yeah, I'm sure you've had to resort to that." Helena sniffed, imagining him striding around Manhattan with hordes of Sarah Jessica Parker types staggering after him in their expensive heels.
"My family, our traditions, they mean a lot to me, Helena. I'm ready to settle down and I want to do it in the old way. It worked for my parents."
"They met by dream?"