Everlasting Desire

Before he could decide, Megan reached for her drink. And knocked it over.

“Oh, how clumsy of me!” Grabbing her napkin, Megan dabbed at the dark stain spreading over the tablecloth.

“Nothing to worry about,” Rhys said. “Here, have mine.”

He slid his glass across the table before she could object.

She looked up, her eyes narrowed.

Rhys smiled benignly, curious to see if she would pull the same stunt twice.

Megan hesitated a moment, and then, with a murmured, “Thank you,” she picked up his glass and took a sip. She wasn’t much of a wine connoisseur, but she thought she tasted a hint of cherries and cinnamon.

At his signal, the waitress arrived with a fresh tablecloth and another glass of Pinot Noir.

Rhys leaned back in his chair. She was as nervous as a kitten in a den of coyotes. Bringing her here probably hadn’t been the best idea he’d ever had. But it wasn’t just her surroundings. She was still upset over what had happened at the store last night, although she didn’t want to admit it, even to herself.

With his preternatural power, he reached out to her, willing her to relax.

Megan didn’t know if it was the wine or the heat in Costain’s eyes, but after a few sips, she suddenly felt lethargic.

“Maybe I should take you home so you can get some sleep,” Rhys said, and taking the glass from her hand, he led her outside to the car, buckled her seat belt, and drove her home.

A light burned in the window. Inside, Shirl had left a note saying she wouldn’t be home until morning.

“Are you going to be all right, here alone?” Rhys asked.

“Yes, of course,” Megan replied.

“Would you feel better if I stayed a while?”

She hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you mind?”

“No. Go on up to bed. I’ll stay until first light.” He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be alone. After all, she’d had a hell of a scare last night.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep the bogeyman away.”

With a nod, Megan went upstairs and, after a moment’s indecision, locked her bedroom door. Better to err on the side of caution, she thought, and then shook her head, certain that, if he wanted in, no locked door would keep him out. She still couldn’t believe she had asked a man she scarcely knew to spend the night.

She brushed her teeth, combed out her hair, slipped into a pair of pj’s, and crawled into bed, asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Rhys made himself comfortable on the sofa. With his preternatural hearing, he could track Megan’s movements as she went from bathroom to bedroom. He heard the rustle of sheets as she slid under the covers. For a moment, he considered going upstairs, mesmerizing her with a look, sliding into bed beside her, taking her in his arms, and making love to her, but it was only wishful thinking. When he took Megan DeLacey to bed, he wanted it to be her idea. A short burst of preternatural energy brought the TV to life. He surfed through the channels—game shows, reality shows, world news. Muttering an oath, he switched it off. He sat there a moment, fingers drumming restlessly on the arm of the sofa.

Getting to his feet, he wandered around the room. It was totally feminine, from the pale yellow walls, flowered sofa, and colorful throw pillows, to the knickknacks on the mantel and the fancy curtains at the window. He stopped in front of a bookshelf and spent a few minutes perusing the titles. Her taste ran to mysteries and romances, neither of which appealed to him.

He was about to turn the TV on again when a muffled cry reached his ears. Megan!

A thought carried him up the stairs to her room. The door was locked, but he had yet to come across a lock that could keep him out when he wanted in.

A whisper of preternatural power opened the door, and he stepped into her room. A quick glance showed it was just as feminine as the living room. The walls were pink, the carpet a deep mauve. Flowered curtains hung at the single window. A matching quilt in colors of pink, mauve, and forest green lay folded over the foot of the bed. An antique dresser stood against the wall opposite the bed; a small desk occupied one corner, the seat cushion on the chair covered in the same material as the curtains.

On silent feet, he made his way to Megan’s bedside. She looked incredibly young and innocent lying there, her hair like a splash of reddish gold silk across the flowered pillowcase, the blankets pulled up to her chin. Of course, everyone seemed young and innocent when compared to him and the life he had led, he mused ruefully. No one could do the things he had done, see the carnage he had seen, and remain innocent.

Megan moaned softly. Caught in the throes of a bad dream, her body moved restlessly beneath the covers.

“Megan.” He whispered her name as he toed off his boots. After stretching out beside her, he drew her body against his, one arm holding her close while he lightly stroked her hair. “It’s all right, darlin’. I’m here. No one will hurt you,” he promised. Not even me.

Still asleep, she quieted at the sound of his voice, and then she snuggled against him, her body warm and soft and oh, so alive. And in that moment, as her scent enveloped him, he knew that, for better or worse, he wanted more from Megan DeLacey than her life’s blood.

He stayed at her side until a familiar tingling along his spine warned him of dawn’s approach.

Rising, he pulled on his boots, then rained featherlight kisses along the alluring curve of her slender throat. A thought took him to the theater parking lot where they had left her car the night before.

Taking time to drive her car home was cutting it close, he mused. He parked her car in the driveway, left her keys on the kitchen table, then slid behind the wheel of the Jag and put the pedal to the metal.

She was sweet, he thought, as he sped toward his penthouse. So sweet. And one day soon, she would be his in every way that mattered.

Chapter 5

It was near midnight when Rhys transported himself to his second lair. The house was little more than an empty shell. Except for three large, tan leather sofas and a couple of overstuffed chairs, there was no furniture in the room. No pictures on the walls. No lights save for a large wrought-iron candelabra. A medieval sword hung over the fireplace. The grip was made of wood covered in shagreen leather. It wasn’t merely for decoration. Rhys had used it on more than one occasion. He had, in fact, used it to take the head of the vampire who had recently betrayed him. Rhys used the house as a meeting place to conduct vampire business; on occasion, he took his rest in the walk-in pantry that had been converted to serve that purpose, but not often. There’d been a time when he’d kept a Mastiff to guard the house, but someone had poisoned the dog and he hadn’t gotten around to finding another one.