A Darker Passion

by Stephanie Bedwell-Grimes

  A Darker Passion

  Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

  Blush: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic).

  For months Aimee has spotted a man, little more than a shadow, while tending to her city’s homeless. Tristan. A mysterious stranger who invades her dreams with gentle caresses and haunted eyes, but evades her in the flesh. Then he saves her life on a cold October night, and Aimee’s search for the enigmatic man intensifies.

  Tristan, however, isn’t what he seems. Allowing Aimee into his life will either lead to his biggest heartbreak…or his greatest salvation.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  A Darker Passion

  ISBN 9781419933394

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  A Darker Passion Copyright © 2011 Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

  Edited by Kelli Collins

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication June 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  A Darker Passion

  Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

  Chapter One

  Gentle hands smoothed her hair. Aimee sighed, turning her face toward that feathersoft caress. The wonderful touch glided lower, mapping the contours of her cheek, tracing the outline of her lips, leaving tendrils of desire flaming in its wake.

  Warm lips brushed her forehead, lingering tenderly over the sore spot at her temple. Strong arms enveloped her, promising shelter, sanctuary. She snuggled deeper into that embrace of velvet steel.

  “Help me,” she whispered.

  “You’re safe,” said a deep, melodic voice beside her ear. “Rest now.” The words rumbled through his chest. Like listening to a lion purr, she thought dimly.

  “Rest,” she repeated, sinking back into a mound of pillows. She nestled deep under the comforting weight of the duvet being pulled up around her chin.

  Those silky lips again, this time against hers. A weightless yet enticing kiss. Then there was only silent air where his hot mouth had been. As if from far away, she heard the window being drawn up, the slap of the heavy drapery falling back into place. For a moment she wondered fuzzily about it, then sleep rose up in gentle waves to drag her under.

  *

  Sunlight splashed the room in amber. By the sun’s position in the sky, it had to be past noon. Aimee sat up gingerly. The left side of her face ached between temple and jaw. She rubbed at it, questing after the hazy half-thoughts that lingered just beyond comprehension’s reach.

  The comforter fell away, revealing not her usual flannel nightshirt but the lacy bra and panties she’d put on yesterday. On the chair beside the bed, a pair of muddy jeans and an equally soiled kangaroo sweatshirt were folded neatly.

  Knitting her eyebrows together, she tried to recall how she came to be so dirty. Memories of delightful sensation swirled through her mind like a tornado, obliterating all other thought.

  Aimee… She could hear that dulcet voice as clearly as if he stood beside her still.

  Safe, he’d said. And she believed him.

  Who? she wondered desperately. Who said that?

  Of one thing she was certain, something awful happened to her last night. Someone rescued her, brought her safely home. And then vanished as surely as the shadows.

  Frowning, she wandered toward the round mirror above her dresser.

  Sapphire eyes, still heavy from sleep, stared back at her. Her dark hair was hopelessly tangled, as though it had been tossed this way and that by the wind. Radiating out from her temple was a nasty-looking purple bruise.

  Last night…

  The sun was a crimson memory by the time she reached the small park. Wind snatched at her hair with chill fingers. Grass, crisp with frost, crunched underfoot as she set out to search for the man she’d come to call “the phantom”.

  For months she’d tracked this newcomer. After two years with the shelter’s outreach service, Aimee knew every character in the street community. Some accepted her offers of coffee and blankets grudgingly, others had become her friends. But none stirred her sympathy more than the dark man with the haunted eyes.

  They circled on the periphery of each other’s territory. He steadfastly refused her efforts to make contact, fading into the darkness, leaving her to wonder if he was simply a trick of light and shade. Though she assured herself there were always going to be people who wouldn’t accept her help, when the mercury threatened to plummet to unseasonable depths, she took an extra blanket on her rounds and resolved to give him one more try.

  As soon as she entered the deserted park, Aimee realized her mistake. She shouldn’t have come here alone so late. Sheltered from the bustle of the street, the park seemed to pause like an indrawn breath. Just a quick look, she promised herself.

  Aimee peered into layers of darkness upon darkness, searching for him, sensing rather than seeing he was there.

  From the shadows behind her, the sound of footsteps sent her whirling to face him.

  “There you are,” she said, relieved. “I brought you a blanket, it’s going to be cold—”

  Alas, not him at all. It took only a glimpse of the rough-looking pair who barred her path to understand the situation.

  “I’m not carrying any money.”

  They sauntered toward her regardless, army surplus boots eating up the ground as they approached. The zippers on their leather jackets jingled as they moved. A chilling thought occurred to her. What if it isn’t money they want?

  Then she was running, falling, smacking her forehead against the park bench that seemed to rear up out of nowhere in the darkness.

  Falling again into strong arms. A resonant voice murmured in her ear, asking her something…where she lived…got away with her purse…

  “Sorry,” he said.

  After that the memories didn’t make a lot of sense. The darkness, the sound of the window opening, the drapery fluttering in the wind.

  And that touch, the velvet caress that promised so much more…

  Sorry about your purse. The words echoed in her mind.

  She searched her bedroom, the living room, even the kitchen. Not so much as a speck of dust out of place. Jars of cosmetics were still neatly arranged on her dresser, the front door securely bolted. Everything just the way it had been when she’d left for work yesterday ev
ening.

  Except her purse.

  I live on the third floor. How did I get in without my keys? Aimee fingered the chain lock on the front door.

  What really happened last night?

  There was only one way to find out, she decided.

  *

  An hour later she’d showered and begged a spare key from the building’s superintendent. Sipping coffee from a cardboard cup, she hastened through the crowds of Saturday afternoon shoppers to confront the park in the safety of daylight.

  The sun was warm, despite the bite in the late October wind. Stoic hotdog vendors still manned each corner. Adults strode purposefully along, while their children lingered behind to gaze longingly at the Halloween costumes in store windows.

  Aimee slipped behind a wall of monolithic office buildings, intent on the tiny park they sheltered. She had to find out what lay behind that mysterious void in her memory. She had to know what happened last night.

  Rounding the corner, she faced down her fear. There it was. A twenty-square-foot plot of grass sporting two park benches, a garbage can, and looking completely innocuous in the late afternoon sun.

  Last night she’d come searching for a ghost and met instead an all too human threat.

  Scouring the scene of the crime didn’t offer any relevant clues. The fall day faded rapidly. Colors dimmed to shades of gray as the sun sank behind the tall fence of buildings. The air cooled uncomfortably. An icy wind snaked down her spine. Aimee turned to leave.

  In the alley ahead, something moved. She caught a flash of pale skin against a black trench coat as he slunk between pools of light.

  Him. Had to be.

  Cloaking herself in the darkness between the buildings, Aimee followed, resolutely fastening her eyes on the fleeing shape ahead.

  He seemed to melt into the shadows, his body momentarily losing form only to materialize again in the fading light. The alley soon pitched them back into the street.

  With the fall of night, the bar crowd had already begun to claim the street, throngs of blue denim and black leather. Streetlights splashed the sidewalk in liquid gold. Clad in anonymous black, her phantom dissolved into the crowd and disappeared.

  Aimee rubbed a hand across her eyes. I’ve been working too hard, she told herself. That’s what it is. The stress of too much pressure and too little sleep. I’m imagining things.

  The memory of that seductive, comforting voice lingered in the depths of her mind. Shaking her head in confusion, Aimee headed for the subway.

  She’d go home, make herself a hot cup of tea, curl up with a good book. Tomorrow she’d talk to the landlord about getting her lock changed.

  Ahead, the subway entrance poured forth an unending stream of Saturday night partiers. She grasped the railing to steady herself against the flow, the chrome cold beneath her ungloved hand. Just a few steps down the staircase, she glanced up—and froze.

  In the doorway of a trendy leather goods boutique across the street, she caught a glimpse of black on black.

  Caught by the wind, a trench coat billowed out behind the man like a pair of great wings. Under the coat he wore dark pants and immaculately polished shoes. Glossy black hair cascaded over his shoulders, mingling with the darkness of his coat. Contrasted against his coat sleeves were slender hands of smooth alabaster.

  From her stolen glimpses of him over the summer, Aimee had thought him bereft, destitute. His tormented eyes and thin frame allowed him to blend in with the street population. Yet now, illuminated by the light of the trendy boutique, his clothes revealed him to be anything but.

  He paused in the entrance long enough to shift his purchase in its fancy bag under his arm. Fathomless dark eyes scanned the street, stopping abruptly as they fastened upon her. It was almost as though he knew she’d be there, so easily had he picked her out of the crowd.

  For several long seconds, they stared at each other across the traffic, the phantom frozen in the doorway and Aimee motionless upon the subway stairs. A streetcar rattled down the street between them.

  When it passed, she saw only the fluorescent lights of the boutique blazing into the street.

  “Wait!” Weaving through the traffic, Aimee scrambled for the far side of the street. He couldn’t be far. She’d been staring at him only a few seconds ago.

  Except for the lone clerk in a tasteful suit, the boutique was empty. He hadn’t gone back in then. A quick glance in either direction didn’t place him among the crowds. A narrow laneway ran alongside the shop. Aimee slipped inside.

  She floundered in the unexpected blackness, groping for the wall to steady herself. Against the concrete came a scraping sound…like that of nails or claws. Aimee tripped, falling headlong into a mound of plastic garbage bags. With the sound of a flag unfurling, something very large passed over her.

  Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a huge bird against the streetlight.

  *

  By the time she reached her apartment building, Aimee had resolved to stay out of deserted parks and back alleys forever. And to request two weeks’ holiday at the shelter’s earliest convenience.

  The squat, low-rise building sat quietly at the end of a residential street. Leaves of gold and crimson swirled around her ankles as she turned onto the walkway. With a sigh she looked up at her window, illuminated from the glow of the lamp she always left on in the living room.

  A pair of onyx eyes blinked back at her.

  Aimee clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped nonetheless. Perched on the ledge outside her window was the gray-and-black-flecked profile of an enormous owl.

  An owl in the city!

  Eyes glittered like black jewels, regarding her with keen intelligence. The wind stirred the majestic bird’s feathers. With a soft hiss, leaves drifted lazily to the ground.

  Aimee.

  The whisper caressed her mind, stirring again the inexplicable memory of feathersoft lips against hers, before it was lost in the sigh of the leaves.

  Those incredible eyes seemed to swim toward her as the huge bird leaned forward. For a moment she was afraid it would topple from its precarious perch. Massive wings spread with calculated grace. It swooped low over her before rising in a sweeping arc against the night sky.

  By the time she reached the front door, she’d convinced herself it was only a large bird. Had to be. The owl she’d thought she’d seen was merely a trick of the light and an overactive imagination.

  Stuffy warm air greeted her as she trudged across the lobby and leaned against the wall to wait for the elevator. The doors opened to reveal an empty interior. Alone with her thoughts while she rode up to the third floor, she couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of tailing a stranger through the Queen Street hordes.

  As if I can’t think of better things to do on a Saturday night. But it was true. Her date book had been empty for the past six months, ever since her boyfriend, Tony, had suggested they see other people.

  So much for love in the big city. With a pang of regret, Aimee unlocked her apartment door and headed to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea.

  She stopped halfway across the room.

  There, in the center of her kitchen table, was a fancy green bag with knotted wool handles. The name of a pricey boutique was scrawled across the paper in gold lettering.

  Curiosity dragged her forward and she peered inside. Nestled in tissue paper was a tan purse of butter-soft leather. On a parchment card was a message written with a blue fountain pen.

  Sorry about your purse.

  The note was scripted in a strong yet decorative hand that spoke of a more elegant and leisurely time. Aimee reached for the purse and ran her hand over the smooth leather. It warmed beneath her touch.

  Contrasting piping trimmed the purse’s square shape. A fancy gold clasp fastened in the front. It was stylish, expensive looking. She could never have afforded such a thing. Oddly touched, she thought of the battered black duffel bag she’d lost.

  Not only had her
mysterious phantom saved her, he’d worried about what she’d lost, cared enough to want to replace it.

  Cared. The word made her catch her breath. Watching over her during her work in the night was a stranger who cared for her. Her own guardian angel.

  Still pondering that thought, Aimee quickly made tea before retiring to her room with her gift. She set the purse on her dresser and, cradling the warm cup of tea in her hand, collapsed gratefully against the thick comforter of her bed.

  *

  An icy breeze brushed her hair against her cheek. Impatiently, she swatted at it. What on earth had possessed her to leave the window open on such a cold night? In the dreamy lethargy of sleep, she rose to shut it.

  The hall lamp cast planes of light across the bedroom floor. Against the window, the shape of a man blocked the glow of the streetlights.

  Breath caught in her throat. A scream died on her lips.

  I should be afraid. The thought seemed very far away, shrouded in gauzy layers of sleep. She should…what?

  Tendrils of mist roiled over the windowsill to cling to the drapery and carpet. Fascinated, Aimee watched the man glide toward her, shrinking the plot of carpet between them.

  Had he moved? Had she?

  Smooth ivory skin covered the angular planes of his face. A silk shirt draped exquisitely over his broad shoulders. Black hair tumbled almost to his elbows, mingling with the darkness of his shirt. Aimee had never liked long hair on men, thought it looked effeminate. Yet on him, it was explicitly male.

  And undeniably virile.

  “Who are you?” The words seemed to catch in her throat.

  Onyx eyes glittered in the stolen light from the street. He smiled down into her face.

  “Tristan,” he said in that voice of molten gold.

  “Tristan,” she repeated drowsily. His voice was like a long-forgotten melody. Tomorrow she would wake and wonder about it. But tonight she was content merely to dream and to feel.

  Lost in the sparkling depths of his eyes, she felt tranquility spreading through her body. Here was comfort. Here was shelter.

  So close. She reached out a hand to touch him, to satisfy herself he did have substance and wasn’t just a mirage of the mist. Through the material of his shirt she felt a well-muscled arm. With a soft gasp, she pulled her hand away. A most vivid dream, she decided.