I took a gulp of air and took a step back again, unthinking, and her hand was there, then, at my wrist again as she smoothly pulled me forward, toward her.
“The stairs,” she said softly, apologetically. I’d taken a step closer to her this time, and there was hardly any space between us, even as I realized that my hand was at her waist, steadying myself against her. I took a step to the side, quickly, then, my cheeks burning.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, swallowing. “And…thank you…” Her head was still to the side, but this time, her lips twitched as if she was trying to repress a smile.
“I’ve been meaning to remodel these steps. Not everyone knows how steep they truly are,” she said, and her lips did turn up into a smile, then, making my heart beat a little faster. I took a great gulp of air as she held out her cool fingers to me, palm up.
“I am Kane Sullivan,” she said easily, her tongue smoothing over the syllables as the smile vanished from her face. “You must be Rose Clyde,” she said gently, the thrill of her voice, the deepness of it, the darkness of it, saying my name, the way her lips formed the words…I nodded my head up and down like a puppet, and I placed my hand in hers. Her fingers were so cold, as she shook my hand like a delicate thing, letting her palm slide regretfully over mine as she dropped my hand with a fluid grace I had to watch but still couldn’t fully understand.
I was acting like an idiot. I’d seen beautiful women before. But Kane wasn’t beautiful. Not in that sense. She was…compelling. Her face, her gaze, her eyes, an impossibility of attraction. I felt, as I watched her, that buildings, trees, people would turn as she walked past them, unseeing things still, somehow, gazing at her.
I knew her, then.
The painting. The woman in the painting from last night, with the big, black cat, lounging and regal and triumphant and unspeakably bewitching. The naked woman, I realized, as my face began to redden, warming beneath her cool, silent gaze. She was the woman from the painting. But as I realized that, as we silently watched one another, I realized, too, that that would have been impossible. It had been a while since college, it was true, but I could still tell when a painting was a few hundred years old.
The woman in the painting could not possibly have been Kane Sullivan. And yet, it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I spluttered, realizing—again—how much of an idiot I must look to this incredibly attractive creature. Her lips twitched upward again, and her mouth stretched into a true smile this time, the warmth of it making the air around her seem less frozen.
“You’re fine. It’s not everyday that someone completely uproots their life and charts a course for places unknown,” she said, turning on her heel and inclining her heard toward me. As she turned, I caught the scent of her. Jasmine, vanilla…spice. An intoxicating, cool scent that was warm at the same time. Unmistakable and deeply remarkable. Just like her. I stared up at her with wide eyes as she gestured gracefully with her arm for us to walk together, like she was a gentleman from the past century. True, she was wearing a sharp man’s suit (that I was trying desperately not to stare at or trace the curves of it with my eyes—and failing), but there was something incredibly old fashioned about her. I kept thinking about that at that first meeting. Like she was from a different era, not the one of smart phones and the Internet and fast food french fries. No. The kind of era that had horse-drawn carriages, corsets and bustles and houses that contained parlors. We began to walk down the corridor together, in the opposite direction I had come, me sneaking surreptitious glances at her, her staring straight ahead.
The spell of the moment was broken, but a new spell was beginning to create itself, weaving around the two of us as we walked along the corridor. As she spoke, I stared half up at her, half down the hall stretching out in front of us. All of my actual attention, though, was on this woman.
Every bit of it. She was just like that. So…compelling. She was a gravity that pulled me in, hook, line and sinker. I didn’t know then how much of a gravity she had yet to become to me.
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Acknowledgements
This book, Dark Angel, was especially near and dear to my heart. It was a very intense experience writing something that meant so much to me, and during that time, some very special people cheered me on.
My fans are some of the most supportive, wonderful people in the world. I can’t believe how wonderful you are, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you! Thanks for keeping me sane and asking when my next book is out! You make all of this worthwhile.
Terri is a peach and seriously keeps me going! I’m grateful that her telling me how much she enjoyed my books (which meant the world!) turned into a friendship. Thank you for always cheering me on—you can’t know how much that means to me, Terri, but I hope you know at least a little. You’re wonderful!
P.J. Bryce is not only an amazing author, but one of the most supportive and wonderful friends I could have ever wished on a star for. She understands how a novel can live in your heart, and how hard—and wonderful—it is to coax it out of your heart and onto the page. Thank you so much for your friendship and your support, P.J. You’re a star, and I adore you!
And to save the best for last: to Natalie Vivien, my reason for being, the most beautiful and wonderful woman in this, or any other, world. You make every day magic. Every love story I write is because you’ve inspired me to do so. I love you with all of my heart, sweetie.
About Author Bridget Essex
Bridget Essex has been writing about her beloved vampires for almost two decades. She has a vast collection of knitting needles and teacups, and likes to listen to classical music when she writes. Her first date with her wife was strolling in a garden, so it’s safe to say she’s a bit old fashioned.
Bridget has a black cat she loves very much, and a brown dog who actually convinces her to go outside. Her little house is often much messier than she’d prefer, but she has the perfect excuse: she’s a writer. This excuse doesn’t work nearly as well on her wife as she’d like.
You can find out more about her work at http://BridgetEssex.wordpress.com
Learn more about Rose and Star Press, publishers of lesbian romance and fiction of distinction, at http:///www.LesbianRomance.org
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