"Shall I wrap it up for you?" he asked.
Adrianna blinked, startled to find him standing directly in front of her, wondering how he had crossed the room without her even being aware that he'd moved.
She stared up at him, transfixed by his stare. "What?"
"The shaving cup. Shall I wrap it up for you?"
She looked at the object in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. No, no, I… I was… no."
"Why did you come here today, Adrianna?"
She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips, at the husky sound of his voice. "Why?"
Try as she might, she couldn't draw her gaze from the web of his stare. "Because—that is, I…"
She took a deep breath. Lying had never come easily to her, but she was prepared to tell a whopper now, anything to make him stop looking at her like that, as if he knew her every thought, her deepest, most intimate secrets.
She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she was looking for a gift for her boyfriend, but Navarre's eyes were fixed on hers—fathomless gray eyes that delved into the nethermost regions of her very soul.
"Adrianna?" His voice was harsh, demanding the truth.
"I came to see you."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
But he knew. Throughout the centuries of his life, women had been attracted to him, seduced by the dark power he possessed.
"Go home, little girl." He took the cup from her hand and put it back on the shelf. "Go home before you get hurt."
His voice was as soft as the first spring rain, as intimate as a lover's caress.
Adrianna swayed toward him, drawn like the tide to the shore. "I'm not a little girl."
"Aren't you?" His voice was thick, so thick he could scarcely speak.
"No." She tilted her head back, the better to see his face, parting her lips to give him ready access to her mouth.
Navarre gazed into her eyes, and in their clear blue depths he saw sunshine on a summer day, the ocean at rest beneath a cloudless sky, lovers entwined on a sandy beach.
Her nearness enflamed his senses, senses that were sharper, stronger, more discerning, than those of a mortal man. Her nearness was intoxicating, her scent as alluring as the Siren call of the sun.
Muttering an oath, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.
Heat coursed through him, firing his blood, chasing away endless centuries of loneliness. Unable to resist taking her in his arms any more than he could resist the blood hunger that kept him alive, he pulled her into his embrace, gathering her body against his.
Her body fit to his as though she had been sculpted to his measurement. Her breasts were warm and firm against his chest; her hair fell over his arm in a waterfall of honey-gold silk.
She sighed as he deepened the kiss, her breath fanning his cheek, fanning his desire. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart, smell the blood that flowed in a crimson rush through her veins.
His response to her touch, her nearness, was immediate and obvious. He expected her to pull away, to scream for help, to slap his face.
She did none of those things; instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer, her tongue darting out to touch his, a little moan of pleasure rising in her throat.
What insanity was this, he thought as his tongue delved deeper into her mouth. Was she mad, or was he?
Common sense demanded that he put her from him, that he send her away, but the need to hold and be held was stronger than logic, more compelling than reason. He couldn't let her go, not now, not when she felt so good, so right, in his arms.
He could only imagine what would have happened next if he hadn't heard the sound of footsteps in the foyer.
With a muttered oath, he put Adrianna from him and took a step backward.
"Go home, Miss Grant," he said, his voice like sandpaper over steel. "Don't come here again."
Before she could think, before she could argue, he left the room. A moment later, she heard his voice welcoming another customer.
Giving herself a mental shake, Adrianna squared her shoulders and left the house, determined never to go back.
That night, her dreams were filled with drifting shadows, images without form or substance. She heard a voice calling to her from out of the shadows, a deep voice, filled with the loneliness of a thousand lifetimes. It was a sound of such sadness that it caused her heart to ache with compassion, and even though she knew she shouldn't wander into the shadows, even though she knew that danger lurked in the swirling mists of darkness, she felt impelled to follow the sound of that voice.
Abruptly, she found herself adrift in a sea of blackness. Too frightened to move, she searched for a light, any light at all, and then it was as if a movie screen unfolded before her eyes. A barrage of images flickered before her: images of a man in a cage, of a woman with devil-black hair and eyes. She saw another woman, her green eyes filled with love and fear as a tall dark man rose over her. There were scattered images of ancient castles and kingdoms, of time passing, of a man buried deep in the earth, a man who was not dead, but not alive.
She screamed as the blackness dissolved into a warm red river that pulsed with the very essence of life. Nausea rose up within her as the blood engulfed her, filling her mouth and throat, mingling with the blood in her own veins, until she was drowning in the scent and the taste and the texture…
She woke with a scream on her lips. Still caught in the terror of her nightmare, she sat up and flicked on the bedside light. But it wasn't enough to chase away the terror that engulfed her and she bolted out of bed, running through the house, turning on every light in every room.
As she passed the living room window, she felt an overwhelming urge to look outside. Heart pounding with trepidation, she pressed herself close to the wall and peered into the darkness.
At first, she saw nothing and then, as her eyes adjusted to the night, she saw a dark figure lurking in the moon-dappled shadows beneath the old oak tree at the end of her driveway.
She blinked, and he was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined it, or if she had really seen Navarre staring back at her.
Navarre turned away, blending into the night as he headed toward home. He had known from the beginning that going to her house would be a mistake, but he had been unable to stay away. Knowing he must never see her again, he had nevertheless felt the urge to be near her one last time, and so he had gone to her house in the dead of night.
Standing in the shadows, he had given free rein to his senses as he focused on Adrianna. In his mind's eye, he had seen her sleeping in her bed, seen her as clearly as if he stood in the room. She slept on her left side, one hand pillowed beneath her cheek, her hair splashed like gold paint upon a white pillowcase. He had inhaled and drawn her fragrance into his nostrils, into the very essence of his being, absorbing the smell of her shampoo, her toothpaste, the soap she had bathed with, and, overall, her own feminine scent.
Knowing it was wrong, he had probed her mind, curious to know what dreams kept her company while she slept. He had been unprepared for the link that had formed between them, startled to discover that, even as he was probing her thoughts, she was delving into his. Scattered images of his past lives had been woven into her dreams, though she had not been aware that it was his past she was dreaming about. And then, before he could close his mind to hers, before he could erase the growing horror that filled her mind like a dark plague, she had come awake with a scream on her lips.
And still he had lingered in the dark, waiting. He had seen the lights go on in every room of the house, and then he had seen her peering into the darkness. Their gazes had locked for one brief instant, and then he had turned away, feeling as though he had left a vital part of himself behind.
By morning, Adrianna had convinced herself it was all just a bad dream.
She got ready for work, ate a quick breakfast, and left the house. She paused at the end of the driveway, staring at the old oak
tree where she had imagined she saw Navarre. She moved to stand under the tree, then felt her skin prickle as if she had received a mild electric shock.
Alarmed, she jumped onto the sidewalk, then glanced up and down the street, wondering if anyone had seen her behaving so foolishly.
Clutching her handbag in a death grip, she hurried up the driveway, opened the garage door, slid behind the wheel of her car, and drove to work.
She still felt a sense of pride when she saw her name on the door. She had bought the bookstore a year after she graduated from high school. For Adrianna, it had been a dream come true, made possible by the inheritance her great-grandmother had left her when she passed away. Still, it had been scary, going into business when she was only nineteen. But it had been good for her, giving her a feeling of self-confidence she'd never had before.
Sitting in her office helped put everything in perspective. She had met a rather odd man. She'd had a scary nightmare, and that was all.
Adrianna heaved a sigh as she opened her checkbook. It was time to put the night's foolishness behind her and get down to business.
But, try as she might, she could not put Navarre from her thoughts. No matter how often she pushed his brooding image away, it sprang right back up again. What secrets was he hiding behind those fathomless gray eyes? Why did he keep such peculiar hours? Why had he kissed her with such passion, and then sent her away with a warning?
What did the V stand for? She had the most peculiar feeling that if she could discover his first name, she would unlock the mystery that was Navarre.
Like a sleuth on the trail of a killer, she went to work. She called her friend, Nancy, who worked at the DMV and asked her to check Navarre's records.
"V. Navarre," Nancy said a few minutes later. "Says he was born in New Mexico on September first, nineteen-seventy. He's six foot, four inches tall, has black hair, gray eyes, weighs two hundred and twenty pounds."
"Yes, that's him," Adrianna remarked. "Thanks, Nancy."
"Why the sudden interest in this guy?" Nancy asked. "I've never heard you mention him before."
"Nothing, just curious."
"Uh-huh."
"Honestly, Nancy. I just wondered if the V stood for anything."
"Why don't you just ask him?"
"Because I'll probably never see him again."
"Navarre? Navarre? Say, isn't that the name of the guy who owns the antique store out on Old Piney Branch Road?"
"Yeah. I bought a bed from him last weekend."
"I see."
"No, you don't. Listen, I've got to go."
"Sure, well, keep me posted."
"All right, I will. Bye."
Frowning, Adrianna hung up the phone and went out to wait on a customer. Apparently, there was no mystery to be solved. The letter V didn't stand for anything.
Chapter Four
A week passed. For Navarre, they were the longest seven days of his entire life.
Why, he raged as he paced restlessly from one end of the house to the other, why was he so intrigued by Miss Adrianna Grant? In his time, he had known women who were smarter, women who were more beautiful, more voluptuous, more everything. But he had never known one who had eyes quite that shade of blue, hair quite that shade of blond, a smile that made him believe anything was possible. She filled his thoughts by night and his dreams by day.
Like a schoolboy in the throes of his first crush, he made excuses to pass by her house, her shop. Sometimes, feeling like an adolescent fool, he followed her, always keeping out of sight, always careful to screen his presence from her mind.
He followed her home from work in the evening; he followed her when she went out to dinner with a girlfriend; he followed her into the movie theater one night.
Sitting in the back and off to the side, he had spent two hours watching her face, watching her reactions to the bittersweet love story unfolding on the screen. Her laughter filled him with sunshine; her tears made him long to comfort her.
Trailing after her as she walked home from the theater, he had cursed himself for being a fool. But he couldn't stop thinking of her, couldn't stop remembering the sweet womanly scent of her skin and hair, the way she had fit into his embrace, the intoxicating taste of her kisses.
He couldn't stop thinking of her; could not stop wanting her.
Prowling through the quiet rooms of his house, he told himself to take her and be done with it. She wanted him, whether she knew it or not. He could make her his at any time. With the power of his mind, he could call her to him. He could mesmerize her with the power of his gaze, bend her will to his, take what he wanted and send her away, the knowledge of what transpired between them erased from her mind with a word…
He swore a vile oath as he brought his fist down on a heavy oak table. He didn't want her like that—no better than a puppet while he pulled the strings. He wanted her warm and willing, fully aware of what was happening between them. He wanted to hear the sound of his name on her lips; he wanted to gaze deep into her eyes and see love reflected there…
Love! He cursed under his breath. Where had that come from? Love, indeed. What woman would love a creature like him, a man who was not a man at all, a man who lived by night and existed on the blood of others?
He thought of Katlaina, and pain ripped through him. She had promised to love him forever, and he had believed her. Even now, almost two thousand years later, he could remember the look in her eyes when he appeared to her after he'd been changed. She had stared at him in revulsion, sickened by the look of death in his eyes. She had recognized him for what he was—an inhuman monster. Even the recollection of her acceptance of him years later, when she was dying, could not banish the agony of that moment when she had backed away from him, her face as pale as death, her eyes wide with fear and loathing.
He cursed bitterly. He had lived almost two thousand years, and in all that time, he had never loved another woman. He had lived alone, though he could have taken any woman he desired, taken her and used her and tossed her away.
But now he was wanting a woman, one particular woman, very badly. Adrianna… Surely he deserved to have this one woman. He had lived alone for almost two thousand years, taking only the blood he needed to survive, leaving those he drank from alive when he could so easily have killed them. He had spared countless lives. Surely he deserved this one woman…
With a strangled cry, he stalked out of the house. He wanted her, and he would have her before the night was out, and heaven help anyone who got in his way!
With preternatural speed, he made it to her house in a matter of minutes. The drapes in the living room were open, and he could see her sitting on the sofa, her face bathed in lamplight, an open book, on her lap.
Lingering in the shadows under the oak tree, he saw a faint smile curve her lips as she turned a page. Curious to know what had brought such a melancholy expression to her face, he probed her mind, surprised to discover that she was wishing a knight in shining armor would ride into her life, sweep her off her feet, and carry her away.
He cursed softly. She was so young, so innocent. There were no fairy-tale endings in life—only pain and loss and endless loneliness.
A rueful grin twisted his lips. It would not be a gallant warrior in sun-bright armor sweeping her off her feet this night, but a monster in the guise of a man. For too long, he had pretended to be something he wasn't.
Tonight, he would unleash the beast within him.
A low, animal-like growl of remorse rumbled deep in his throat. For a moment, he thought of turning away, of returning home, his desire unfulfilled, his hunger unfed. With sheer effort of will, he forced the thought from his mind. A lion did not feel sympathy for its prey. It made its kill, clean and quick, took what it needed to survive, and moved on.
And so would he. Like the lion, he would take what he needed, what he wanted, and move on.
Adrianna sighed as she put the book aside and went to answer the door. She was no dreamer, no schoolgirl, to belie
ve in fairy tales and happily-ever-after, but, oh, how she wished the man of her dreams would suddenly appear.
Wondering who would be coming to see her so late at night, she slid the safety chain in place, then opened the door.
She gasped when she saw Navarre standing on the porch. Speechless, she blinked up at him. Maybe dreams did come true!
She swallowed, then moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Hello."
Navarre's nod was curt. "Hello."
He wasn't wearing armor or riding a white horse, she mused, but he looked terribly handsome in a dark gray sweater and sweat pants.
She lifted one hand to the safety chain. "Would you like to come in?"
He stared down at her, at the pulse throbbing at the base of her throat, at the wonder in her blue eyes, and slowly shook his head. "No."
"Oh."
He felt the keen edge of her disappointment, knew, instinctively, that she had foolishly cast him in the role of white knight. White, indeed, he mused, when his whole life had been spent in darkness.
She licked her lips again, and he felt the stirrings of desire unfurl within him. "Did you want something?"
"The bed." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had picked the wrong topic of conversation. It was all too easy to picture her in the bed he had once slept in, lying beneath the canopy, her hair spread over the pillow, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion.
"The bed?" she repeated, puzzled.
"Yes, I… I came by to make sure you were happy with it."
She hesitated a moment before answering. She was happy with the bed. It was beautiful and comfortable and yet, even though she knew it was silly, she couldn't help feeling that her new bed was somehow responsible for the strange dreams she'd been having.
"Is something wrong with it?" Navarre asked.
"No, of course not. I found an old lace bedspread for it in my great-grandmother's trunk. My mother told me it was part of great-grandmother Hall's dowry from the old country. Would you like to see it?"
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