Jules DeMario was a creature of the night, in a city where night was king.

From the shadows under a wrought-iron balcony, he watched the boisterous crowd parading up and down Bourbon Street, the pulsing heart of New Orleans.

It was early in the week. Only Tuesday. But every night was party night in the French Quarter, where no annoying laws barred carrying an alcoholic beverage on the street.

And no traffic marred the scene. In the evening, Bourbon Street became a pedestrian playground where music blared from the bars and jazz clubs, mingling with the raunchy conversation of the crowd that flowed like a great, living beast past bars, strip joints and boutiques selling everything from cheap souvenirs and condoms to voodoo hexes.

As on many nights, Jules was drawn to this throbbing mix of humanity, where the crush of warm bodies sent his superhuman senses humming.

Three hundred years ago, in London where he had been born, he would have been dressed in a waistcoat, linen shirt and breeches. But he'd watched social standards reach new lows over the centuries. Tonight he wore well-washed jeans and a dark T-shirt, the perfect outfit for blending into the crowd.

Once his dark hair had been long enough to tie neatly at the back of his neck. Now it scraped his collar and covered the tops of his ears. A little long by modern business standards. But then, he didn't have to report to an office any morning.

Shouts from a few doors down drew his attention. A man on a wrought-iron balcony was tossing newly minted faux "doubloons" and cheap necklaces to the rowdy crowd below, including a woman who had taken off her T-shirt and bra to attract the attention of the guy with the largesse. The sight of her breasts gave Jules an unwanted sexual jolt. Turning quickly away, he headed for the quieter sections of the French Quarter, searching for prey now, his eyes and ears and nose leading him to the perfect victim fifty feet down a narrow alley.

The drunk was sprawled on the pavement, his breath gin-soaked, his jaw slack.

Jules bent over him, cradling the man's head on his arm almost tenderly as he flexed the neck upward and sank sharp white fangs into warm flesh. The man's eyes fluttered, and he put up a feeble fight. Jules quickly quelled the protest with the mind-numbing fog that he cast over his victims like a cloak of amnesia.

He drew perhaps a quarter pint of blood, the alcohol content sending a pleasant buzz to his brain.

He had discovered long ago that there was no need to kill in order to sustain his own existence. He had learned to be judicious. To take what he needed and spare the donor's life.

Standing again, he pulled out a fine linen handkerchief and wiped the traces of red from his mouth. The blood had slaked his hunger. But he craved something else as well—the sexual gratification that only an erotic relationship with a woman could give him. A mutually satisfying relationship where he gave his partner pleasure and in turn fed off that pleasure.

But sexual desire was a two-edged sword. No liaison could last long for him. Unless he wanted to destroy his partner's life, he had to let her go. Knowing the beginning of a love affair was always the prelude to the end had made him strive to postpone the need.

Still, the thought of sexual satisfaction heated the stolen blood flowing through his veins. He sped up his pace, trying to put that craving out of his mind, as he strode toward the comfortable house he had bought at the edge of the Quarter.

It was three stories, the windows on the upper floor sealed against the light so that he could sleep during the day in safety. A block from home, however, he crossed a street where some of the prostitutes in the area liked to hang out. Most of them were either with customers or had gone home for the night.

But one woman was still leaning against the wall of a house. As he came down the block, she straightened her shoulders and stepped toward him. Her heels were high. Her skirt barely covered her hips. Her knit top was low cut and so thin that he could see every detail of her breasts. She was young—barely out of her teens, and he thought of telling her to get off the streets before it was too late. But he knew he'd be wasting his breath.

"Hello, handsome," she purred, giving him what she probably thought was a seductive smile. "Are you in the mood for some fun?"

He wanted to say no. But it seemed he had reached the limit of his ability to exist on blood alone.

"I might be," he said, taking a step toward her.

Once he'd shown some interest, she wasn't going to let him get away. On the darkened street, she moved her hand down, pressing it against the fly of his jeans. He knew she would feel no erection. That wasn't the way he functioned. Before the change from man to vampire, his penis had been the center of his sexual satisfaction. But his responses were different now.

He lifted her hand away, then followed her into the narrow passageway between two houses.

"The way I get turned on is to touch you," he murmured, his hands sliding over her breasts, lifting and shaping them.

He stroked his thumbs over the nipples, back and forth, urging a response from her, knowing that she usually kept herself detached from the men she serviced. But he also knew he had the power to drag her into a web of sensuality. His mind reached out to hers, bending her to his will. And as he felt her respond to him, he lowered his head, teasing himself by nipping at the tender place where her neck met her shoulder.

He stoked her response, his own carnal excitement rising to meet hers as he sank his teeth into her flesh. He felt it through his whole body, a blissful tingling that increased when he began to draw blood from her.

One hand slid downward to the juncture of her legs, pressing against her clit through the thin fabric of her skirt and panties, stroking in a way that he knew would bring her to orgasm.

It had been so long since he had done this that he had to fight a wave of dizziness. He wanted to go on and on, drawing the sensuality and the life fluid from her. But when she climaxed, he ruthlessly cut off his own gratification, leaving her panting and limp, her shoulders pressing back against the wall.

"What happened?" she moaned. "What did you do to me, honey?"

"You met a customer who made it as good for you as it was for him," he answered easily, even as he sent her soothing mental commands. "But you will forget what we did. You will forget me. You will only remember that you did very well tonight." Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a hundred-dollar bill and folded it into her hand.

Then he left her and walked rapidly toward home, thinking that he needed more than what a prostitute was able to give him. He needed a lover who could meet him as a mental equal.

 

Only a few miles away, Taylor Lawson moved restlessly through the little jewel of a Victorian house that she had rented in the Garden District.

It was beautifully furnished. And she'd fallen in love with it instantly. She'd taken that as a good omen. But that was the only piece of luck she'd encountered since coming to the Crescent City.

With a sigh, she stepped into the artist's studio that she'd set up in one of the bedrooms. As she looked at the partially finished canvas on the easel, she grimaced.

Over the past few months, her work had gone stale. Just like her relationship with her once and former lover, Howard Cumberland.

She'd known for months that he was the wrong man for her, but he'd clung to the dying relationship like a mountain climber scrabbling with his fingernails at the edge of a cliff. The only way she'd been able to cut things off was to move far away—from San Francisco to New Orleans.

She felt a wonderful sense of freedom here. At least in her personal life. But artistically, nothing had changed. She was only plowing old ground. She could still turn out paintings that would sell for thousands of dollars in exclusive galleries. But it wasn't satisfying to her. She needed new inspiration. She needed to take her art in an unexplored direction, if she could only figure where to go.

Turning from the easel, she looked at the paintings she'd hung on the walls. They were some of her best work. One was a scene on the beach at Carmel, where she and another lover, Richard Lampton, had gone when they were first in love. They were walking on the beach, naked. Hand in hand, two people totally enthralled with each other.

Next to it was a self-portrait she'd done the night she and Charles Bingham had first met. Her red hair was like fire around her head. Her green eyes were wild with excitement. And her lips had the look of a woman who had just been thoroughly kissed.

So what did these pictures say about her? That she needed a man for inspiration? That she worked best in the first flush of a new relationship? She hated to think that was the case. She wanted to believe that her own inner resources could sustain her interest in her painting. But if that were true, why was she feeling so restless and uncreative?

Leaving the studio, she went back to the bedroom and pulled out the slip of paper that her friend, Evelyn Bromley, had given her when they'd talked about New Orleans. Evelyn had met an extraordinary man down here. Someone she thought Taylor would like. But she wouldn't give out any details. She'd just said to call him.

Taylor might be bold in her artistic subject matter. But like most creative people, she was an introvert. She hated calling strangers. But as she held the paper in her hand, she made a decision. At worst, he'd turn her down. Or they'd meet and wouldn't hit it off. But why be negative? Perhaps he'd be the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Jules woke the next evening and stretched in his comfortable, four-poster bed. According to legend, a vampire slept in his coffin. But that was just superstitious nonsense, as far as he was concerned.

He'd discovered long ago that any place that was sealed away from the light would do very nicely.

His bedroom was filled with beautifully restored eighteenth-century English antiques. They always gave him a sense of comfort when he woke, because they reminded him of how far he'd come—from the slums of London.

Since then, he had lived all over England—from Kent to Cornwall to Northumberland. And in many countries of the world. But he'd never stayed in one place for very long. Then in the twentieth century, out of curiosity, he'd read some of the books of Anne Rice and decided that New Orleans sounded like a wonderful place for a vampire.

He'd been here ever since. Despite Rice's literary claims, he hadn't run into any others of his kind here. In fact, he'd met very few men like himself—and no women.

His stepfather, John Randolph, the vampire who had saved his life by turning him, had kept his own background hidden. Probably he would have eventually shared his secrets. But he had been killed by a mob almost three hundred years ago, leaving Jules very much alone. With no contacts like himself, the best he could do was read all the books he could find on the subject of the undead. And most of that was hog-wash.

Now he climbed out of bed and dragged in a deep breath. Breathing didn't keep him alive, but it did help him think clearly because it oxygenated his brain.

After taking a quick shower and brushing his teeth, he pulled on a fresh T-shirt and jeans before unlocking the tight-fitting door to his room.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, he leaned over the automatic coffeemaker, drinking in the aroma of a fresh-brewed, rich Cajun blend. Just the smell was wonderful. But over the years he'd trained his body to handle tiny quantities of food, and a little coffee was one of his chief gastronomic pleasures.

Mug in hand, he wandered out to the courtyard at the side of the house and sat in the dim glow from the tiny lights decorating two potted ficus trees. Then he checked his answering service.

The only message was from a woman named Taylor Lawson who cleared her throat before saying:

"I really don't like making calls to strangers. But my friend Evelyn Bromley suggested that I get in touch with you. I'm new in town, and she thought you'd be a good person to show me around."

She followed the observation with a phone number.

He listened again, jotting down the number. The low, throaty voice was very appealing. And he had fond memories of Evelyn. She'd been an intelligent and sensual woman. A good match for him. But his relationship with her had ended like all the others. Usually when a love affair was over, he was able to erase the memory of the liaison from his partner's mind. Evelyn had been too strong-willed for that. He'd only been able to alter her memories slightly.

That was five years ago. And she hadn't sent anyone else to him.

Taylor Lawson must be special. And her voice was a turn-on.

So he called the number.

She picked up on the third ring.

"Hello. This is Jules DeMario."

"Oh yes. I was afraid you weren't going to call," she answered.

"Well, I was away for the day," he lied easily. He'd had centuries to perfect the art of deflecting curiosity about his nocturnal habits.

She cleared her throat. "I was hoping we could get together."

"But you're nervous about meeting a man you don't know," he guessed.

"Yes."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I'm a painter." She hesitated. "And I wanted to do a series on the more shocking aspects of New Orleans nightlife."

"Sounds interesting." Very interesting.

"I've been told there are facets of the city that most tourists don't get to experience. And I've also been told that trying to find them on my own might be dangerous."

"That's true."

"Would you be willing to be my guide?"

"That depends. We should get acquainted first."

"Yes. But it's best if we meet in a public place."

Since the suggestion was wise for both of them, he agreed immediately. "How about the old Jax Brewery building? It's been turned into a shopping mall. There's a bar called Ernie's on the top floor."

"The building down by the river?"

"Yes."

"How will I know you?" she asked.

"I'm five-ten. One hundred and forty-five pounds. I have dark hair. Dark eyes. I'll wear a T-shirt that says 'Let the good times roll.'"

"All right."

"And how will I know you?"

"By my flaming red hair. And my look of uncertainty."

"Fair enough. Will ten o'clock work for you?"

"Yes."

Over the years, Jules had learned to adapt to his environment. He spent much of the time between the phone call and their meeting looking up Taylor Lawson on the Internet.

He found that she was a notable artist whose paintings hung in many small galleries on the West Coast.

She'd started selling in her early twenties, ten years ago, and had worked her way up to the rank of respected artist. Her style was representational, with a touch of the hauntingly romantic. Her use of colors was adventurous.

Her publicity photo was just as tantalizing as her work. She stared boldly out at the camera, her red hair a wreath around her head and her green eyes direct and challenging.

Would she be as striking in person? Eager to find out, he arrived at the rooftop bar early, ordered a beer and poured a lot of it into an empty glass that someone had left behind. Then he settled down to wait.

When a striking redhead walked in, he was lounging comfortably at a table near the door. She'd dressed casually, in dark slacks and an emerald green knit top.

As she stood looking around the room, he gave her a little wave.

With a slightly hesitant smile on her face, she crossed to him.

"Taylor?"

"Yes."

"I'm Jules."

"Nice to meet you," she said in that low sexy voice that he liked as much in person as over the phone.

They shook, and he also liked the firm strength of her hand. His own hand was large and warm. One thing he'd been amused about in his reading was the notion that a vampire had to be cold. In reality, he had control of his temperature, just the way he had control over a partner's mind when he was drawing blood. And since he walked through the world of men, he kept his own body at a steady ninety-eight-point-six.

He was aware of her tantalizing woman's scent drifting toward him. And of the way she licked her lips with an endearingly nervous gesture.

He cleared his throat. "What can I get you?"

"Chardonnay."

He ordered from the bartender, then ushered her outside onto the cement deck overlooking the river, just as a tourist paddle wheel boat went by. In the warm night, there were few people outside, and it wasn't difficult to find a corner table.

He crossed his legs at the ankles and stretched them out beside the table, trying to look a lot more casual than he felt. He'd rarely been more attracted to a woman. And he wanted to get to know her better. "So what really brings you to the city?"

She hesitated for a moment before saying, "I needed to get away from a man who wanted to continue a relationship with me—when we both knew it was over."

"That's a pretty direct answer."

"I know. But I hate evasions, and I wanted us to start out on the right foot."

Evasions? Like the guy sitting across from you is a vampire?

He lifted the bottle and covered the opening with his tongue, just letting the beer wet his lips, thinking that if he were totally frank with her, she'd run screaming from the premises.

"I checked out some of your work," he said instead.

"How? I presume you didn't make a quick trip to San Francisco or Monterey?"

"Google."

She laughed. "It's hard to keep secrets these days."

"Some people manage it," he answered. "I like your technique and your subject matter."

"In which paintings?" she challenged.

"All of them. You started off experimenting with forms and colors. And you've matured as an artist."

"I've gotten stale," she answered quickly, her slender fingers clenching the stem of the wineglass. Scraping back her chair, she crossed to the railing and stood staring out at the dark river.

He followed her. "Why do you think so?"

"I need a change of scenery and some new subject matter."

"In the nightclubs of Sin City?"

She raised her chin. "If you put it that way, yes. New experiences often spark my creativity."

He was thinking of a new experience he could give her when she asked, "Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"Like what?"

"You have a British accent. Were you born there?"

"Yes. But I was lucky enough to get away from that cold climate."

"So the sun attracted you to New Orleans?"

"The heat, actually." He tipped his head to one side, watching her. "If we're going slumming, I need to know we're completely comfortable with each other."

"What do you mean?" she asked, the fine edge of nerves audible in her voice.

He knew from her work that she was an assertive woman who had artistic talent, training, and bold ideas about her own work. But now he sensed the vulnerability that she strove to keep hidden.

He lifted the glass from her hand and set it on the table before turning back to her.

Clasping her hand with his, he led her around a corner, to a small extension of the balcony where they were alone in the humid night with only the sounds and smells of the city drifting up toward them.

It could begin and end here, he thought with a mixture of dread and anticipation. But he'd decided that if this wasn't going to work out the way he wanted, then ending it immediately was best.

Silently, he pulled her close, swamped by so many sensations at once that his brain went from anticipation to overcharged in the space of a heartbeat. He could feel the shape of her slender body. The pressure of her high breasts against his chest. The brush of her red curls on his cheek.

And he was captured by that sweet woman's scent that had tantalized him from the first moment she'd walked into the bar.

She stood quietly in his arms, as though debating whether to take the next step.

He held his breath, and slowly, slowly she raised her face, meeting his questioning gaze.

There was only a brief moment of eye contact—but enough for a silent question and answer. With her permission, he lowered his lips to hers.

He had wanted to know if they would be good together. Good was hardly the right word.

The touch of their lips was like lightning crackling through the night sky in some dark, primeval forest. From the small sound she made, he knew she felt it, too.

The lightning ignited a fire in his belly, the flames flaring white-hot.

It had been two years since he had kissed a woman on the lips. And he knew he had been saving the pleasure for this one. She tasted better than anything he could remember in his life and beyond. Better than fine wine or pure spring water or even blood.

He gathered her in, pressing her breasts against his chest, holding her to his body, swaying slightly as though he had suddenly become unsteady on his feet. He sipped at her lips, nipped with his teeth, then traced a sensuous path with his tongue.

When he'd taken her in his arms, he had thought he was merely testing their compatibility. But now his mind had spun out of control. He wanted her. This instant. He needed to sink his teeth into her tender flesh and draw some of her essence into himself.

It took all the self-control he possessed to break the kiss and lift his head. As he looked down on her with his keen night vision, he could see the unfocused confusion in her eyes.

Lord, what was he doing? Planning to ravage her out here on this balcony overlooking the river? They had some privacy, but not enough for him to do what he wanted with her.

He ached to take her back to his house where they could be alone. Although she had wanted to meet him in a public place, he knew he could change her mind about that now. But he wasn't going to force her. More than her submission to him, he craved her consent. And he knew that waiting for their ultimate joining would make it all the better.

"So, what next?" he asked in a voice that he couldn't quite hold steady.

Taylor waited a beat before answering. She had impulsively called up a man she didn't know. And now some inner voice warned her to run as fast as she could in the other direction. She had met him less than a half-hour ago, and his kiss had left her head spinning.

He'd said he'd looked her up on the Internet. She should have done the same thing. All she knew about him was that he was handsome as sin. He'd beguiled Evelyn Bromley. He had a trace of a British accent. And he had the power to make her forget where she was and why it was a dumb idea to leap into the arms of a stranger.

Yet at the same time, he had left her aching for more. The question was, could she keep her head long enough to make an informed decision?

Maybe it was the expression on his face and the tone of his voice that swayed her. If he'd looked and sounded smug after that kiss, she would have told him the meeting wasn't working out. But he seemed as overcome by the intimate contact as she. And the look in his dark eyes told her that the answer she gave mattered very much to him.

He hadn't just been playing with her—testing his powers as a lover. He'd been emotionally involved.

She moistened her dry mouth and said, "We were going to go pub crawling or whatever they call it here."

"Where would you like to go?"

"I've heard of a place called the Venus Club," she said boldly.

He raised an eyebrow. "It's not a spot for the timid."

"I think I have the right escort."

He nodded, then held out his hand, ushering her toward the door. "Let's go."

They took the elevator down to the street level, turned right along the busy sidewalk, past the Café du Monde, then across Decatur Street to avoid the dark and shadowed bulk of the French Market. They turned up Ursulines, then onto Dauphine, and she couldn't help feeling a little nervous as they left the crowds and the lights behind.

"Is it safe here?" she whispered, edging closer to Jules. "I mean, we could take a cab."

"It's only another block," he answered.

Her uneasy feeling was confirmed when a man stepped out of a passageway between two houses, a gun in his hand.

The robber hardly had time to demand her purse before Jules turned the tables. In truth, she saw only a blur of motion as he grabbed the assailant by his shirt, spun him around and tossed him back into the passageway, where he landed with a whoosh of breath from his lungs.

She watched, flabbergasted, as Jules kicked the gun away, then waited to see if the man was going to get up. When the robber didn't stir, he calmly pulled out a cell phone and called 911. As soon as he'd finished giving the location, he took her arm and ushered her down the street again.

"Aren't we going to wait for the police?" she asked, trying not to sound dazed.

"I don't want to get involved."

"But can't they trace the source of the call?"

"It's one of those prepaid phones, where you can only call out."

"Oh," she managed to say before asking, "How did you do that? I mean lay him out so fast?"

"Martial arts training," he answered dismissively.

"Oh," she said again, still dazed.

"Let's go, before we miss the show."

"What show?"

"You'll see." He led her up the block and around the corner, where he gestured toward a red brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. The windows were shuttered, but the sound of loud conversation and music drifted toward them.

"Here we are."

She looked at the building, seeing no sign that said VENUS CLUB. Apparently you had to know what it was.

"A nightclub takes up that whole house?"

"Yes, starting with the bar where people hook up if they don't have a date."

"A date! That's a quaint way to put it."

A grin flickered on his handsome face. "Well, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy, so this place shocks my sensibilities."

"Oh? What can I expect besides the bar?"

His voice was teasing now as he said, "A cornucopia of delights. If you dare."

She lifted one shoulder. "Of course I dare. How do you know so much about this place if you find it shocking?"

He leaned closer to whisper, "I like to live dangerously."

The way he said it sent a tingle along her nerve endings. Was he just being theatrical? Or was he giving her some kind of warning?

For a moment she debated hopping into one of the cabs lined up at the corner. But she didn't want to leave him yet. So she accompanied him up a short flight of marble steps to a classic portico with white Ionic columns, where he spoke in a quiet voice to a man guarding the door. Although the fellow wore a tuxedo, he looked like a pro wrestler. But after some cash had been exchanged, he nodded pleasantly as she and Jules crossed the threshold, stepping out of the humid night into an even more heated atmosphere.

The front hall was dark, and it took several moments for her eyes to adjust. Then she saw the paintings on the walls and blinked. They were all close-ups of intimate body parts—breasts, vulvas, penises, in black and white.

Leaning closer to one, she decided that the brushwork wasn't particularly well done.

"Not exactly museum quality," Jules murmured, his lips near her ear.

She laughed, knowing that her case of nerves was bringing out the art critic in her.

"Let's explore." Jules took her hand and led her into a room that looked like it could have come out of a sixties movie, complete with a faceted ball spinning on the ceiling, sending floating dots swirling around the room. Couples were slow-dancing, if you could call it that. When she looked more closely, it appeared to be a giant make-out party. Which was kind of sweet, compared to the room across the hall where a porn flick was showing on a big-screen TV.

"Subtle," she muttered.

"Not my choice either. The more interesting stuff is upstairs," he said, steering her to the wide staircase. They climbed to another hallway. "At the back of the house, you can watch amateur strippers."

"No, thanks."

"Well, the ballet room is probably more your taste."

She followed him into a large space where couples and a few single guys stood facing the stage.

A man and a woman dressed in street clothing came out and bowed to the audience.

Jules bent so that his lips were close to her ear. "We're just in time for a performance."

She didn't know what they were going to see, but she let him lead her to one side, where they had a good view of the stage.

Jules stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders as the strains of Swan Lake came from hidden speakers.

The dancers began what started as a classic pas de deux. But the performance soon became more sexually explicit. When the man lifted his partner up and twirled her above his head, his palm braced itself squarely against her crotch. And when he put her down, his hands cupped her breasts, then went to the buttons at the front of her blouse, which he began to open while she stroked her hand against the fly of his slacks.

It could have been crude. But it was all done with extreme sensuality that made Taylor's blood heat.

The male dancer pulled off his partner's shirt and tossed it away, his hands playing with the cups of her bra, her dark nipples clearly visible through the sheer fabric.

Taylor's response flamed higher, then higher still as Jules pulled her back against himself. Bending his head, he brushed her hair aside, so his lips could nibble at her cheek and then travel to the tender place where her jawline met her neck.

His whole body seemed to vibrate, and he made what was almost a purring sound in his throat as his mouth traveled to her ear and his tongue probed the sensitive channel while his hands traveled up and down her sides, stroking her hips then gliding upward to skim the sides of her breasts.

Her nipples were instantly taut, and she leaned her head back as she arched into the caress.

On the stage, the woman was skinning the man's trousers down his muscular legs. Then he pulled her close, unfastened her bra and tossed it out of the way. She was stripped to her panties now. And he wore only a white dress shirt unbuttoned all the way down the front.

Taylor's gaze remained on the explicit scene, but the show was only a minor part of what she was experiencing now.

Every muscle in her body tightened as Jules's fingers slid inward, inching toward her nipples. But he never quite touched them before he pulled his hands back.

A small sound of protest escaped from her lips.

Onstage, the man pressed on the woman's shoulders so that she went down on her knees in front of him. He sank his fingers into her hair, guiding her face against his crotch.

The edge of his open shirt hid his cock and her face from view, so that it was impossible to tell whether she had really taken him into her mouth. But it seemed that way from the reaction of her partner who threw his head back, his face contorted with pleasure.

Taylor had never seen such an explicit show. Not live and onstage. It might have shocked her if she hadn't been captivated by the sensual currents that Jules awakened in her body with his hands and lips.

He nipped at the side of her neck, pressing his teeth to her pulsing artery as his hands inched downward, stroking over her belly, then her thighs. Again he teased her, trailing his fingers inward, almost touching her throbbing center before moving outward again, leaving her panting for more.

Her neck arched, giving him better access, and his mouth did hot, sexy things to her flesh. In some part of her mind, she was thinking he was a magician who had learned just the right tricks to bring her under his spell.

A sensual fog wafted through her brain. When his finger traced along her lips, she opened to his touch, moving her head restlessly as his hand dipped inside, stroking over sensitive tissue and then along the serrated line of her teeth.

He was swamping her senses. But she had never been a passive lover. With a small sound, she went from submissive to aggressive—trapping his finger between her teeth, nibbling on him, playing with the skin, elated when she heard his breath catch.

Some time later, Taylor heard people stirring around them. Somewhere along the line she had forgotten where she was and had closed her eyes against the distraction on the lighted stage. Her eyes flew open now, and she saw that the dancers had left the room. She had missed the end of their performance, whatever it had been.

But she had been too wrapped up with Jules to care.

"Do you want to explore some more? Shall we try another club?" he asked.

She wanted to stay with him. She wanted to take him to her house where they could be alone. But some small part of her mind was still warning her that she had just met him.

"Another club," she said, her voice sounding high and a little breathy.

"My pleasure," he murmured, leading her downstairs. This time they got into one of the cabs outside.

"Where are we going?"

"The Warehouse District. To another very eclectic private establishment."

Minutes later, they were getting out in front of what looked like an old factory building. Only some clever person had renamed it THE DEN OF INIQUITY.

This time she insisted on paying the admission fee, then followed Jules into a space where an elaborate crystal chandelier hung on a thick chain from a high ceiling.

To the right was a room where the designers had gone for an industrial look. Guys sat at metal tables and chairs watching girls twist sensuously around chrome poles or dance inside mesh cages.

"Not my taste," Taylor murmured.

"I think you'll like the garden better."

"Okay."

Jules led her toward the back of the building, where they passed through an arched doorway into what looked like an alfresco setting. But she could tell it was actually a large room, laid out like a romantic garden, with the scent of flowers in the air and pathways wandering through the greenery.

He stopped at a bar and bought two glasses of champagne from a dainty little hostess wearing a low-cut white tunic, then led Taylor down one of the brick paths. As they turned a corner into a walkway lined with violet and orange bougainvillea, he was grinning.

"What's so funny? Are you going to let me in on the joke?"

"Soon."

They strolled down the path, taking small sips of champagne, then turned another corner and came to a small bower displaying a Greek sculpture. On the pedestal were a naked man and a woman, entwined in a very intimate pose. He was sitting, and she straddled his lap so that their genitals were pressed together while his hands covered her breasts.

Taylor stared at the tableau, then made a small sound when she realized that they weren't statues at all. They were living people whose skin had been dusted with white powder to make them look like they had been carved from stone.

"How interesting," she murmured, a little embarrassed and yet turned on.

"Just like the people playing statue on the street down by Jackson Square," Jules answered with a note of amusement in his voice.

"Not quite!"

"Let's see what other surprises are hidden among the greenery."

He knit his hand with hers, and they soon came to another display area. This time a woman sat on a chair-height Doric column in a very erotic pose. One of her hands was on her breast, the other stroking between her legs, and her face was suffused with a look of ecstasy. Taylor wondered how anyone could hold that pose, until she realized the figure truly was carved out of marble.

"So the trick is to figure out which are real and which are stone," she murmured.

"Or just enjoy the cultural experience," he said.

She laughed, and he grinned back as they came to a section of the room where the bowers were walled off with trellises and covered by roofs, making them into small summer houses. Inside, she glimpsed couples reclining on wide couches.

"Do you want to be more private?" he asked.

"Yes. But not here," she said.

He arched an eyebrow.

"I wanted to meet you in public. But I'm wondering if you'd show me your house now."

"You mean, you've decided I'm not going to… do anything you wouldn't approve of?"

Her mouth was dry, but she managed to answer, "I'm finding this place a distraction. And I'd rather not be distracted."

He considered her words, finally giving a little nod. They put down their drinks on a small table before leaving the garden and heading for the front door, where he quickly found another cab. Inside, he leaned forward to give the driver an address, then settled beside her, pulling her close.

"Why do you want to come to my house?" he asked.

"To know you better."

He stroked her shoulder, then trailed his hand down her arm, setting up a buzz in her head. This man was sexier than any show a club could put on.

They got out at a town house in the French Quarter. Stepping under a wrought-iron balcony, he unlocked a carved wooden door. As they stepped into a wide front hall, he turned on a sparkling crystal chandelier.

In the soft light, she looked around with pleasure.

A fine Oriental rug lay on the marble floor. Tall brass candlesticks adorned a French sideboard, and a suit of armor stood in one corner. Wandering farther into the house, she saw Victorian sofas and chairs, beautifully carved cabinet pieces and an exquisite Chippendale dining set. It was an eclectic mix, beautifully arranged.

"This is charming. You love antiques," she murmured.

"Yes. I like keeping in touch with the past. I hate the mass-produced furnishings you see today."

"Your decorator must have loved working with you."

"I did the house myself."

Her eyes widened. "Speaking as an artist, I'd say you have an extraordinary eye."

"I had the time to study the subject and indulge my tastes."

He led her into a small conservatory with wicker furniture and orange trees perfuming the air.

Moving to the side of the room, he slid aside a panel and shuffled through a rack of CDs. When he'd loaded the player, slow dance music came from hidden speakers. After dimming the lighting, he held out his arms to her.

She was usually cautious about new relationships. But she had impulsively asked him to take her to his house. Now she felt a spurt of nerves as she let him gather her against him.

The moment they touched, she was instantly as aroused as she had been in the first club.

Jules nibbled at her ear. To her shock, his next words mirrored her thoughts. "I'm thinking it was a mistake to bring you home."

"Why?" she managed.

"Because we could make love right here." He moved his hand between them, cupping her breast, teasing her pebble-hard nipple. "We both want to."

"Yes," she admitted. Why deny the obvious?

"But we won't. Not tonight."

"Why not?" she asked, half disappointed and half relieved.

"I'm not going to rush you into anything. I want you to be sure before we go any further." He gathered her close again, swaying with her, gliding her body against his, and she found it hard to breathe. When he wrapped her in a tight embrace, it was like being folded into a cloak of sensuality as they danced together in the plant-filled room. While his hands moved over her back, his mouth made small forays over the side of her face, her ear.

When he spoke, his voice was gravelly. "I find it very hard to resist you."

She could have said the same thing about him, but he must know what she was feeling from the way she clung to him.

When he moved her upper body away from his, she made a small sound of protest. He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled up her knit top, then tugged her bra up and out of the way so that her breasts were bared.

Lowering his head, he stroked his cheeks against her, the stubble of his beard abrading her sensitive flesh.

She moaned as he took one nipple into his mouth, delicately worrying it with his teeth before sucking strongly. When he took its mate between his thumb and finger, pulling and twisting, she moaned again.

Some part of her was standing back, watching in amazement at what she was doing with a man she barely knew.

"If I asked you to stop, would you?" she managed.

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. "Of course. You are in complete control of this situation."

"I don't think so. I think you're too good at what you're doing now."

He laughed softly. "What am I doing?"

"Arousing me beyond the point of no return."

"Am I?"

His hand slid down her body, pressing against her clit, while he lowered his head again and began to suckle on her once more. Helpless to hold back her reaction, she moved frantically against his hand, feeling as if he was anchoring her to the earth and at the same time sending her into the stratosphere.

He built her need, carrying her up and up until orgasm took her. Her whole body shook with the force of her pleasure. And when she called out something incoherent, he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the sound. She had lost the ability to stand on her own, and he gathered her into his arms. Sitting down on a wicker sofa in a nest of pillows, he pulled her clothing back into place, then held her against him, stroking her hair and shoulders and softly kissing the side of her face.

She kept her head against his chest for several moments, embarrassed. She had never behaved quite so wantonly on a first date. Well, not exactly a date.

And there was something more. She had never been a selfish lover.

That thought made her raise her head. "What about you?" she murmured.

"I'm fine."

"You weren't exactly a disinterested participant—and you didn't come, did you?" she asked.

His voice was firm. "No. But I told you we weren't going to make love tonight."

"Then why did you bring me to climax?" she pressed.

"I couldn't resist the temptation. But I think I should take you home."

She knew he was right, because if she stayed any longer, she was going to end up naked in his bed.

He pulled a sleek, low-slung Jaguar out of the garage attached to the house, then asked for her address.

"Will you come in?" she murmured, when he pulled up in front of her door.

"Tomorrow night."

"Are you going to leave without kissing me?" she asked, hearing the wistful sound of her voice.

He gave her a small grin. "We both know that if I do, I'll come inside and ravish you. So I'll come back at nine, tomorrow."

"You're going to make me wait that long?"

"I'm giving you time to think about us. If you change your mind about seeing me again, leave me a message. I won't be available during the day."

Then he was gone, leaving her with a breathless feeling of anticipation.

It was only a few hours before dawn when Jules reached home. In an agony of need, he prowled the back alleys of the French Quarter looking for his usual prey. Although two drunks slaked his need for blood, his body's demand for sexual gratification threatened to consume him. And he understood that no prostitute would satisfy him now.

Yet he knew he had done the right thing. Taylor must come to him willingly. And he must give her a little time to think about their liaison, even if he knew in his secret heart that he wasn't giving her all the facts.

He had never wanted a woman more. Never been more restless. Once in his light-sealed room, he paced the floor, trying to find the calm center of his being.

But peace eluded him. And even when exhaustion forced him into bed, he lay staring into the darkness.

Usually—pardon the expression—he slept like the dead. Today he didn't doze off until afternoon. And his rest was fitful. The first thing he did when he got up was rush to the phone and check for messages, then thanked God that there was no call from Taylor telling him she had changed her mind. So he was able to relax again—until the craving for her threatened to drive him insane.

He was on her doorstep only seconds after nine. And when he saw her through the sidelight, he breathed out a sigh of profound relief.

"Come in," she said, in the voice he had been hearing in his head for hours.

"You look lovely," he answered, because it was the truth.

Last night she had worn slacks and a casual top. Tonight she was magnificent in a royal blue silk blouse that flowed around her upper body and dark blue silk slacks. Her eyes were bright, and the little bit of makeup she wore enhanced her beauty.

He had to press his hands against his thighs to keep from reaching for her.

"You're renting this house?" he asked as she ushered him into the sitting room. The accoutrements were only a background blur. All he could focus on was Taylor. Above the buzzing in his brain, he heard her speaking.

"Yes, I was lucky to get it furnished."

"What did you do all day?" he heard himself asking.

"First I tried looking you up. You're a very elusive mart."

"By choice."

"I found a few references to your charitable donations. And a few references to financial holdings."

"Am I rich?" he asked.

"Very."

He managed a laugh. "That's good to know."

"Why are you so secretive?"

"An old habit. My stepfather got into some trouble back in England. I found it was safer to keep myself as private as possible."

"You were adopted?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about myself," he said quickly, hoping that she'd accept his decision. "Did you set up a studio when you came here?"

"Yes. But until last night, I hated the work I was turning out."

"And something changed last night?" he asked, feeling his throat tighten.

"Yes. The studio is upstairs. Come see."

She led him up to a room at the back of the house, and he walked into a room that was full of artwork. Some were her own magnificent paintings. On one wall, she had also taped sketches done with a soft pencil. All of them were scenes from the night before. He saw pictures of a man standing behind a woman, his hands in intimate places. He saw other sketches of a couple dancing, their bodies glued together.

All conveyed a scorching sensuality that robbed him of breath. But they were nothing compared to the unfinished acrylic painting on the easel. She had chosen the scene on the balcony outside the bar where they had first met. A man and woman stood by the railing, looking out over the river at night. She had given herself blond hair. And he was shorter than the man in the picture. But he knew who the people were. They weren't touching, yet the scene was alive with sexual tension.

"You did all that? Since last night."

"Yes," she said simply.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Not much."

"I didn't either."

"Why not?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Do you like the painting?" she asked, her voice not quite steady.

"You know I do. I like the sketches, too. And your other paintings. You're very talented."

"I was beginning to think I'd lost that."

"Never!"

"I was depressed. You brought me back to life, I think."

They both took a step forward. Then she was in his arms, and he was clasping her to him, all the needs he had suppressed the night before welling up.

She made a small sound as her body molded itself to his. When she pressed her face to his shoulder and inhaled deeply, a shiver swept across his skin.

"I was afraid you might not come back," she whispered.

"Why?"

"Last night was so intense. That would scare some men off."

"Not me." He managed a gentle laugh. "The first thing I did when I got up was make sure you hadn't called and told me to forget it."

She raised her head and looked into his eyes. "Not a chance."

Her lips were only inches from his. They trembled slightly and parted. "Jules, do you have me under a spell?"

"No more than you have me."

Neither of them moved. Then, as he had on the balcony, he lowered his head. The first touch of his lips on hers sent a shock wave zinging along every nerve in his body.

Greedily, he angled his head, slanting his lips over hers for the most intimate contact, and she clasped her arms around his neck as she opened for him.

He was good at kissing. But finesse had deserted him. With a frightening lack of control, he devoured her mouth. And he found her greed matched his.

So did his restless drive to explore—to know. He felt like someone had locked him into a seat on a giant roller coaster and cranked up the speed to supersonic. Only the contact of his mouth with hers would keep him from flying into space.

He couldn't catch his breath, even when his lips left hers to trace a damp, scorching trail across her jaw and down the graceful curve of her throat. When he found the wildly beating pulse point at its base, he pressed his teeth there. But somehow he kept himself from piercing her flesh even when he knew that pulse was keeping time with the pounding of his heart.

"Oh, Jules. Oh," she gasped, making him feel as though his brain might explode.

He managed to bring his mouth back to hers as his fingers glided up and down her ribs. He tasted carnal desire and needs that matched his own.

When she sighed out her pleasure, his hands stole inward to cup the weight of her breasts. And when he stroked his thumbs across the crests, he found them hard and tight with arousal. Like his whole body.

She made a tiny, sobbing noise that almost robbed him of sanity. When he swung her up into his arms, she looked at him with dazed eyes.

"Your bedroom?" he managed to say.

"The next room on the right."

He carried her to the wide bed and laid her gently on the satin coverlet. Then he followed her down to the horizontal surface, pressing the length of his body against hers. But her clothing had become an intolerable barrier.

Rolling to his side, he began to work the buttons of her shirt, trying not to rip the delicate fabric.

When he had dispatched the blouse and her bra, he lowered the zipper on her slacks, so he could peel them away, along with her panties.

As she lay naked on the bed, he paused to admire his handiwork. Reverently he touched her delicate collarbone, the enticing curve of her waist, the hollow of her throat.

"Beautiful. So beautiful," he murmured.

"I want you naked, too," she whispered. "I've wanted that since last night."

"Yes," he murmured, exalted and at the same time sad.

He pulled off his shirt and tossed it away. But he left his slacks on because he didn't want her to see that it was impossible for this incredible encounter to give him an erection.

Her legs parted, and she moved restlessly, invitingly.

He gathered her to him, taking long, luxurious strokes with his fingers through the folds of her sex, then dipping into her, wringing a pleading cry from her.

"Please, now," she gasped.

"Yes, love," he answered.

It was time to take her. But he had never been more reluctant and at the same time, more needy. He wanted her to remember this, to remember everything he had done. But that could not be an option.

So he did what he must. He put her into a light trance, then delicately sank his teeth into the place where her neck joined her shoulder, drawing blood as he continued to stroke her with two stiff fingers that would have to substitute for his cock.

His own pleasure grew as he fed off that sweet blood and the waves of ecstasy coming from her mind and body. Her hips rose and fell, as her arousal built. And when she climaxed, he felt the echoes of her rapture in his own being. It wasn't exactly an orgasm as a man would know it. He dimly remembered that sensation from long ago. This was different but no less satisfying, so satisfying that he had to ruthlessly cut it short so that he didn't take too much blood.

He turned his head, licking the blood from his mouth, tasting her essence on his lips.

Then he bent to her ear, telling her that he had been inside her, that he had made exquisite love to her, and that it had been wonderful for him.

Easing off the bed, he pulled off his slacks and undershorts and tossed them onto the floor where his shirt lay. Then he gathered her into his arms, holding her close as he kissed and stroked her.

She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked in a puzzled voice.

"You were tired. From being up so late. And all that feverish work today."

"Yes." She focused on his face. "That was incredible."

"Yes," he answered, because that much was true. "Sleep some more," he whispered. "So I can hold you in my arms."

She nodded against his shoulder, and he helped her sleep again, then allowed himself the incredible delight of simply holding her, while he absorbed the wonderful woman scent of her body, stroked her silken skin, and listened to the sound of her breathing. He had missed this human contact. This contentment. If he could have kept her in his arms for the next hundred years, he would have done it.

But his pleasure must come in measured increments, governed by the sunrise.

Finally, when he had spent all the time with her he dared, he brought her back to wakefulness. "I have to go."

"But you just got here," she murmured.

"No. It's very late."

Easing away from her, he began picking up clothing from the floor.

She watched him, and he knew that her thoughts were still foggy. "What about tomorrow?" she asked, her words slightly slurred.

"Tomorrow night. We can go down to Jackson Square if you want. Or to one of the other clubs."

"I'd rather be alone with you," she said. "Making love."

He nodded and kissed her one last time. "I don't want you to tire of me too quickly."

"There's no danger of that."

"We'll keep the relationship interesting." He squeezed her hand. "I can let myself out. And I'll be back tomorrow night. At the same time."

"Promise," she whispered.

"I promise."

Taylor lay in bed, feeling relaxed and sated. She remembered Jules coming here. She remembered him kissing and caressing her. She remembered him carrying her to bed and undressing her. And she remembered the part afterwards when she lay naked in his arms. In between, she could remember the ecstasy of orgasm. He was a wonderful lover. And he had brought her rare pleasure. But she couldn't remember exactly what they had done. She tried to recall the weight of his body pressing down on hers. She tried to remember the feel of his penis moving in and out of her. That part was vague. He must have aroused her so thoroughly that she hadn't paid attention to the details, only the feelings.

But that was enough, she told herself. More than enough. Climbing out of bed, she stretched muscles that felt a little bit sore from the exertion of lovemaking.

There was a kink in her neck. Well, not exactly her neck. More like the place where her neck and shoulder met. It felt a little sore, and she rubbed it as she walked into the bathroom, then peered at the spot in the mirror, seeing a little set of red marks. Like insect bites.

She went very still, feeling a small shiver steal up her spine. She had the odd feeling there was something she should remember. Something vitally important. But as soon as the thought surfaced, it skittered away.

She stood for another moment in front of the mirror, then shrugged and turned on the shower.

While she was under the pounding water, she began thinking about what she wanted to work on. Quickly she dried off and threw on some clothing. Then she rushed down the hall to the studio and began sketching.

Two hours later, she had a good start on an acrylic painting of a man and a woman lying in an ornate brass bed, basking in the afterglow of making love. She stopped briefly to run down to the kitchen and grab some cheese and crackers. But she didn't stop for long. When the doorbell rang at nine, she realized she'd been working all day, without thinking about how she looked.

And now Jules was here. Padding barefoot downstairs, she spoke to the closed door. "I've been working all day. I'm a mess."

"Do you think I care?" he answered from the other side of the door. "Or are you making excuses to send me away?"

"I never make excuses." As she spoke, she turned the lock.

He came into the front hall, his gaze searching hers. And in that moment, she saw his vulnerability.

"Did you think I'd changed my mind about us?" she asked softly.

"You could be having second thoughts."

"Never."

"Then let me see what kept you busy all day."

Torn, she finally ushered him upstairs, then held her breath as he stood in front of the canvas she'd started. It wasn't finished. But the lovers were clearly visible, their bodies partially covered by a sheet, their sated expressions proclaiming their recent pleasure.

He didn't speak for a long time, and she took her lower lip between her teeth. She'd thought the painting was good. But now she was showing it to the man who had inspired the burst of creative energy.

"Well?" she finally asked in a small voice.

He turned back to her, and the look of awe on his face made her heart skip a beat. "This is fantastic. I knew you were good. I didn't know how good."

"It's not too… revealing?" she pressed.

"It's perfect. Very erotic and very intimate."

"You inspired me. Well, not just you. Us."

"I'm glad."

"I could use some more inspiration."

His laugh was low and sexy. "Oh, could you?"

"Let me get cleaned up. You're lucky I work with acrylics and not oils."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to have to use turpentine to get the paint off my hands."

She left him in the studio, hurried to her bedroom and then into the bathroom.

After washing her hands, she decided that a shower might be a good idea.

When the water temperature was adjusted to hot, she stepped under the spray, thinking that she could probably keep her hair dry if she showered carefully.

But in the next moment, the sliding door opened, and a hard male body came up behind her. A naked body.

"Jules. What are you doing?"

"Helping you get nice and clean."

She started to turn. But he clasped her shoulders, holding her against his length, a muffled sound rising in his throat as he bent his head and nuzzled her hair.

Now it wasn't simply the heat of the water that enveloped her. It was the heat of the man who held her in his arms.

He touched his fingers to the place on her shoulder that she'd looked at earlier.

"What happened here?" he asked, tension in his voice.

She responded to his obvious worry. "It's nothing. I mean, I'm not sure. An insect bite, I guess."

"Okay."

She felt him relax as he bent his head, nibbling at her earlobe, then tracing the interior whorl with his tongue, before stiffening it and probing deeply. The sensation was so erotic that she couldn't hold back a small gasp.

"You're so sensitive. So responsive," he murmured.

"With you."

She felt him smile against her cheek. Then he reached for the bar of lavender-scented soap. His hands were in front of her, strong, masculine hands.

As she watched, he lathered them.

"This smells good," he said.

"Yes."

She had been working hard all day. Yet she had also been thinking of him, because he had been her inspiration. "Jules, I never met anyone like you," she whispered.

"I can say the same thing. You are a rare treasure."

Some men might have said that casually. She sensed that Jules never would, and the words touched her at some deep level that she barely understood.

Although she had known him only a few days, it seemed as if she belonged to him. But she was afraid that if she let him know the intensity of what she was feeling, she would scare him away.

Wanting to see his face, she tried to turn toward him. But he held her where she was.

His soap-slick hand stroked over her shoulder, then downward to her breast. The sensual touch made her nerves dance and tingle. Heat shot through her, heat that had been building all day while she worked. Heat that his hand on her body released.

She threw her head back so that her lips could find the side of his face. But she wanted more.

"Let me turn around," she begged.

"I want you like this," he answered in a husky voice. "Just like this. For your pleasure. And mine."

"Why?"

"It's very arousing to me—having access to your naked body. Having you in my power."

"Oh," she gasped as his soap-slick hands played over her wet skin with a total lack of resistance that was like fire lapping at her nerve endings.

"Oh Lord," she breathed, when he lifted and shaped her breasts, then circled the nipples.

"You like that?" he purred.

"You know I do."

Just with his knowing touch on her breasts, he brought her close to the edge. Then he rinsed one hand under the shower spray so that he could grasp her nipple, squeezing and pulling and sending the flames licking higher. The hand slid down her body, found the slick, swollen folds of her sex and began to caress her there.

"Jules." She tried to reach behind her to find his cock. But he clamped her hand to her side.

"Let me give you as much pleasure as you're giving me," she begged.

"You are, love. Believe me, you are," he answered and the strangled sound of his voice told her how much he liked what he was doing.

He moved her so that the water beat down on her breasts while he teased her with his fingers, one hand on her sex and the other in the crack of her ass, his touch so sensitive that he brought her to the brink of climax, then moved the front hand away so that she gasped and wiggled and tried to force him to give her satisfaction.

"Please," she begged. "Please. I have to come. Now."

Her plea must have swayed him, because he brought his hand back to her clit, stroking and pressing, making her tremble as the power of her need built.

"Yes, that's right, love," he murmured. "Show me how much you can feel."

She reached one shattering orgasm, that had her screaming with pleasure. But that was only the beginning. He barely let the aftershocks subside before he was pushing her to new heights. And as spasms of pleasure took her, she felt his kiss on her shoulder.

She could barely stand, barely move. Only the support of his arms and his body held her up as he brought her to a third shuddering orgasm.

He turned off the water, opened the door of the shower, and reached for a fluffy towel. Wrapping her like a child fresh from the bath, he cradled her in his arms while he dried her hair and her body before carrying her out of the bathroom and laying her on the bed.

Exhausted, she dozed. And when she blinked her eyes open, he was dressed again and sitting on the side of the bed.

"You are so sexy," he murmured.

"So are you," she answered lazily.

"I promised to show you some more of the French Quarter."

She would have snuggled in the bed, but he got her up, and helped her dress. Then he took her out to a tempting little sweets shop where he bought them both huge waffle-wrapped ice cream cones. Rocky road and strawberry for her. Banana and chocolate for him.

She didn't see him eat much. Maybe she was having too much fun window shopping in the antique stores along Royal Street.

But his ice cream disappeared. And he threw away the cone, saying he had never liked that part.

"I was brought up to eat every bite," she said, finishing the nub of her own cone.

"You were poor?"

"Middle class. But my mom used to remind us about the starving children in India."

"I was one of the starving children in London."

She shot him a surprised look. He'd hardly talked about himself, but apparently she'd gotten him in the mood to reveal something about his past. "But you've done very well since then," she said carefully.

"My stepfather rescued me. Well, he wasn't really my stepfather. But he took me to his country estate. And saved my life."

"Why?"

"I think he wanted a son. So he picked me."

"He must be proud of the way you turned out."

"He died," Jules said, his voice full of loss.

"He was old?"

"No. He had… an accident." He tightened his grip on her hand. "But I don't want to talk about me or John Randolph."

"You didn't keep his name?"

"He never officially adopted me. But enough about me. I want to know about you. Your family. They must be thrilled with your work."

She laughed. "They hate my work. They are narrow-minded, uptight people who live in the middle of Kansas."

"Well, that explains it!"

She laughed. "Maybe. My mother wanted me to be a teacher. She and Dad were willing to send me to the university to get a teaching degree. But they recoiled in horror at the idea of art school. So I ran away to San Francisco."

"How did you manage?"

"I had a little money saved up. My aunt insisted on giving me a little more. And I worked—sometimes as an artist's model."

"Naked?"

"Does that shock you?"

"Of course not! You must have been quite a distraction for the males in the class."

"I did my best to look frumpy."

He laughed. "Resourceful. But you couldn't hide your lovely figure."

"I slumped."

He laughed again.

She was enjoying herself so much that she didn't realize how late it was until there was almost no one else left on the street.

"I should take you home," he said.

"I don't want tonight to end."

"But you need your beauty sleep. Because you're going to work all day tomorrow."

"I think that's right," she admitted.

When they reached her door, she said, "Stay here with me."

"I want to. But I can't."

"Why not?"

"I need to be alone sometimes."

Alarm leaped inside her. "You're not trying to back out of the relationship, are you?"

"No!"

"Jules…"

He pressed his fingers against her lips. "You are the most exciting woman I have ever met. I want to be with you as much as I can. But I need solitude."

"Why?"

"Maybe I'm writing a book, and I need to work."

"And maybe you're not."

He reached for her and hugged her tight, and then he turned and hurried back to his car, leaving her feeling afraid and a little disoriented.

Over the next few weeks, Taylor's days were filled with feverish work, the best paintings she had done in her life. And her nights were filled with Jules DeMario.

"You should contact some gallery owners," he said one evening as they looked through the collection of paintings she'd turned out.

"Which ones?"

"Montpelier. St. Laurent."

"Oh sure. Those galleries are the best in the city."

"And you should be in them. They'll want you. All you have to do is show them your work."

Although she knew she was good, she wasn't sure she could join those rarefied ranks. But she figured the worst thing that could happen was that the gallery owners would turn her down.

She contacted Martin St. Laurent first. He'd heard of her by reputation, and he came over the same day she called.

Five minutes into the viewing, he asked for an exclusive deal, with terms that made her eyes bug out.

She accepted—giving him ten paintings to start. In the first twenty-four hours, she sold three, at higher prices than she had ever asked in San Francisco.

St. Laurent wanted replacements, which she gladly agreed to supply.

That night, Jules was late, and she waited impatiently for him to arrive so she could tell him the great news. Then she saw the twinkle in his eye.

"You didn't by any chance buy them all?" she asked.

"No. I only bought one, love. The one I wanted so badly—your picture of the couple lying in bed looking so happy and relaxed."

"Jules, I would have given that painting to you, if you'd asked."

"And taken away the pleasure of walking into the gallery and buying it? No! I'm so proud of what you're doing. So proud that I have a small part of it."

"You have a big part. I've never been more creative."

"I'm glad."

She stepped toward him and felt suddenly dizzy. When he caught her in his arms, he looked alarmed.

"It's all right. I just felt a little light-headed."

"How long has this been going on?" he demanded, cradling her in his arms as he sat down on the couch.

"I'm not sure. About a week."

"Have you been to the doctor?" he asked, worry and perhaps guilt clearly visible on his features.

She rushed to reassure him. "I'm just run-down. I mean, I've been working all day—and staying up late with you."

"I know that," he murmured. "You need to slow down."

"It's hard to do that when I wake up every morning with ideas for paintings."

"Then maybe you need to get some sleep at night."

Alarm twisted through her. "What do you mean?"

"I've been putting off a business trip," he said slowly. "Maybe I should take it now."

She wanted to protest. But she could hardly hold him in the city if he had things to take care of elsewhere. Still, she heard herself asking, "What kind of trip?"

"To take care of things I've let go," he answered evasively.

She bent her neck, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Are you using that as an excuse to break off with me?"

His grip tightened on her shoulders. "No! But I think I'm not good for you."

"Why?"

"Between me and your work, you're burning yourself out."

She raised her face to him. "I could stop painting."

"No," he said again. "But you need to get some sleep. I'd guess you're not eating properly. And maybe you need… to build your blood up. You could be anemic."

"I guess that's right."

"If I brought you a voodoo potion, would you drink it?"

"What kind of potion?"

"A health tonic."

"You believe in that kind of thing?"

"Yes."

She was skeptical, but the look in his eyes told her that her agreement was important.

"All right," she said softly, thinking that if it was too unpleasant, she could always pour it down the drain.

"Then let me go get you something now."

"I can come with you."

"I want you to rest." He stood, laying her gently on the sofa, then covering her with a throw that was draped over one arm.

She allowed him to fuss over her, because it was easier to let him take charge at the moment.

"I'll let myself out. And I'll be back soon."

 

Outside, Jules climbed into his car and drove to the French Quarter, his thoughts in an agony of despair. Selfish disregard for Taylor's health had driven him to take too much blood from her. Slowly but surely, he was killing her, and the best thing he could do was disappear from her life. He wasn't good for her in so many ways.

She had told him about her early life. Her father had been a mail carrier. Her mother had been a teacher's aide. She had gone to church and Girl Scouts. And he was thankful that she had broken out of the narrow small-town environment where she had grown up. But deep down she still had a core of conventionality.

He knew she wanted him to make a commitment to her. And he longed to offer her a stable future. Their lives were suddenly twined together so intimately. He felt more for her than he had felt for any other woman in hundreds of years. Yet he only shared with her what was safe to share. And that left a glaring hole in their relationship.

For her own good, he should disappear from her life. But when he thought of walking away from the best thing that had ever happened in his miserable life, blind selfish need made his throat clog. He couldn't give her up. Not yet.

So he drove to a little shop on a side street where the desperate could buy secret potions.

The old woman behind the counter looked at him appraisingly. He had been here fifteen years ago, and he knew that he hadn't changed in that time. Neither had she, really, except that she was a bit more stooped.

"And what brings you to me after all these years?" she asked in a quavery voice.

So she remembered. He acknowledged the comment with a slight inclination of his head. "I need to… strengthen a woman's constitution."

"As you did before?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Is your lover sick?"

"She needs to build up her blood."

"Ah," the crone answered, giving him another long look, and he couldn't help thinking that she knew what he was.

Were there others of his kind in this city? Vampires he hadn't met? And how would they greet him, if they knew he walked among them in the night?

But he didn't ask any questions. And he was profoundly grateful when the woman told him to wait while she prepared something. She went into the back and was gone for about ten minutes. When she returned, she was carrying a small, ornate glass bottle, closed with a cork stopper.

"She should take a few drops of this in a glass of wine, twice a day."

"Thank you."

"Be careful of her."

"I want to."

"Don't make assumptions about the relationship."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply.

But she only gave a shake of her head. "You must find out for yourself."

He left, glad to be away from the woman's probing gaze. Taking care not to break the speed limit and get stopped by a cop, he drove to a liquor store on St. Charles and bought several bottles of good wine, then hurried back to Taylor's house and let himself in.

She was dozing on the sofa, and he hated to wake her. But her eyes snapped open when he approached.

"Jules?"

He knelt beside her. "I've brought you something to drink."

"I won't drink it if it tastes nasty."

He laughed. "You take a few drops twice a day in a glass of wine. I've bought you a couple of very nice Merlots to go with it."

In the kitchen he had uncorked the bottle, added a few drops of the potion, and sipped the results. Even with his acute sense of taste, there was nothing objectionable about it.

So he brought the glass to Taylor, sitting beside her while she took a cautious sniff, then a little swallow.

He couldn't bear the idea of being separated from her. Yet he knew that he must—at least for a few days. So he gathered her close again.

"I was thinking I don't know much about you," she said as she sipped the wine.

"What do you want to know?"

"About your boyhood."

"It was rough and unpleasant. My parents weren't married. My mother tried to do the best she could raising me. But she was sick. And I scrounged dinner from garbage cans. Or stole food from a street vendor. And I was a fairly good pickpocket, too," he added, wondering how she would react to his early history. Perhaps she'd push him away, and that would solve both their problems.

Instead, she took his hand. "That sounds… hard."

"It wasn't much fun."

"How did you meet your stepfather?"

"He sometimes came down to the bad part of town."

"Why?"

"I think he got something out of feeding the poor," Jules answered, and silently added, and it was a safe place for him to find blood. "I guess he saw something in me, because he asked if I wanted to come live with him in the country. Of course I did. And that changed my life."

"I'm glad."

"He sent me to a local prep school. And he taught me a lot at home. He knew so much about the world. About science. And sociology. And agriculture. I was damn lucky. I still miss him."

"I'm sorry. But I understand. I miss my aunt. She'd been a dancer on the Broadway stage. She understood me better than my parents ever did. She was the one who suggested I go to a big city on one of the coasts."

"She wasn't afraid you'd get into trouble?"

"Probably. But she knew I needed my independence."

He loved hearing about her life. But he wasn't going to keep her talking tonight.

As he cradled her against himself, he stroked her temples, sending her into a light trance. When she was under his spell, he gave her orders. "You need to sleep. You need to take care of yourself while I'm gone. Drink your medicine. Get to bed early. And don't work too much."

"Um."

"What did I tell you?"

Dutifully, she repeated his instructions.

"Good." He bent to brush his lips against her temple. "I'll call you as soon as I get back."

Before he could change his mind, he got up and let himself out of the house, fighting the mixture of sadness and dread that threatened to envelop him.

Jules spent the next week in the depths of depression. Mostly he sat inside his house or in his garden, brooding. And every other night, he went out and drew sustenance from the drunks and homeless people who were easy marks for a hungry vampire.

Then he would drive to the vicinity of Taylor's house and watch her through the windows.

It heartened him to see that she drank the potion. And in a strange way, it cheered him to see her wandering around the house looking lost. Sometimes she went into her studio. And he saw that she was trying to work. But the spark had gone out of her paintings. And as often as not, she would slash her pallet knife over what she had done.

He wanted to knock on the door. He knew she would rush into his arms. And he ached to hold her close once again. But he knew that he would make love with her. And he knew that would be dangerous to her health. So he walked quietly away. Sometimes he went back to his empty house. And sometimes he visited shops in the French Quarter and bought her exquisite presents, things he would give her when they got back together again. Tokens of the love he could not express in words.

Six evenings after he had told her he was going out of town, he walked out into his garden and found a lonely figure sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs.

Despite all his good intentions, his heart leaped inside his chest when he saw it was Taylor.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a thick voice.

"I couldn't stay away from you. Just the way you couldn't stay away from me."

"What do you mean?"

"You were out there in the dark, watching me, weren't you?"

"How do you know?"

"I felt you. Suffering the way I was suffering." She stood and went to him. And he was helpless to do anything but clasp her in his arms and hold her tight.

Heat leaped between them. Sensuality that would not be denied clamored for release.

He knew then what he was going to do.

"Come inside."

"I was hoping you weren't going to send me away," she breathed.

He led her up the stairs—not to his bedroom, but to a guest room he had never used.

Then, as he had six nights ago, he touched her temples, putting her into a light trance. "I'll be back in just a few minutes," he murmured. "Wait for me here."

She smiled and closed her eyes. And he charged out of the house and toward the French Market, knowing he would encounter plenty of victims there.

Recklessly, he drank from one man. Then another. And another, filling himself with blood.

John had told him he could make love as a man. Not often, but once every few years if he wanted. He had never felt the need before. But he felt it now.

And when he came back to Taylor, he was engorged with the life fluid from a dozen men.

He touched her temple, waking her, and she blinked. "Where were you?"

"Just getting something for you to wear." He handed her a box, barely breathing as he waited to see her reaction.

She opened the package and lifted up a delicate silk gown.

"It's beautiful," she breathed.

"I kept picturing you in it. Would you put it on for me? Just that. Nothing else."

She nodded wordlessly, then took the box into the bathroom.

While she was gone, he hurried down the hall to his own room. He knew he was good at the ways he had learned to please women. Now he was venturing into barely remembered territory. As a man, long ago, he had made love with a few women. But he probably hadn't been very good at it. Now he could turn out to be a miserable failure.

Wanting to set the scene as perfectly as possible, he changed the sheets. Then he got out a pair of the silk pajamas he sometimes wore when he wanted to lounge around the house.

When he came out of the bathroom, he found Taylor standing by his bed, looking as lovely as he had imagined in the green silk.

"This is your room?" she asked in a voice that told him she was as nervous as he was himself.

"Yes."

"I love it. You're not afraid to admit you like elegant furnishings."

"Yes," he managed to say around the lump in his throat.

He saw her slick her palms against her sides, saw her flush and loved the effect of the rosy hue. "It may sound strange, but I feel like this could be our wedding night," she whispered.

"Yes. This is a special night for us," he answered, thinking again that he felt like an inexperienced bridegroom.

His stomach muscles clenched. He didn't even know if what he had planned was going to work.

Praying he could please her the way a normal man would, he reached for her and gathered her close. To his delight and relief, his penis instantly filled with blood.

"Oh!" he heard himself exclaim. The sensation was extraordinary. He had experienced a normal male erection so long ago that he hardly remembered the wonderfully full sensation, the centering of his arousal in that one part of his body.

He didn't know how long it would last. But he wanted to enjoy it while he could. Not just for himself, but for the generous and beautiful woman in his arms.

His hands stroked up and down her back, trailing over the silky fabric of the gown. Hungry for her taste, he angled his head, bringing his lips to hers, gratified by her instant response. She breathed his name, then opened for him, meeting his tongue with darting strokes that made him light-headed.

"I want this night to last forever," he said into her mouth, raising his hands and cupping her breasts, loving the exquisite feel of her hard nipples through the thin fabric.

"That's so good," she whispered into his mouth as her hands slid downward, pulling his hips against her body.

He was so unprepared for the sensation that the feel of his engorged cock pressed tightly to her middle made him gasp.

Then her hand slid between them, cupping around his penis through the silk pajama bottoms, and he thought he might explode in her fingers.

He must have made some kind of exclamation because she nodded against his chest. "Lord, you feel so good." She dragged in a breath and let it out. "You never let me do this, do you?" she asked in a slightly puzzled voice.

"Because it's so intense," he managed to dredge up an answer to her question, as he took her hand away from his erection, then dragged the gown over her head before laying her on the bed. Stretching out beside her, he let his gaze caress her as though this were their first time together. The tight points of her nipples seemed to beg for his attention, and he circled them delicately, then took them between his thumbs and fingers, smiling as she arched toward him.

She returned the favor, removing his pajama top, then stroking her hands over his chest, playing with the thick hair, then finding his nipples and circling them with her fingers, making them throb with sensation.

But they weren't the only part of him that throbbed. He could feel the blood beating in his penis. And as she undid the snap at the top of his pajama bottoms and pushed the front open, he looked down at himself in a kind of daze.

His penis was standing up from his body, hard and stiff, the sight fascinating and thrilling.

When she slid her hand down his chest and then his abdomen, stroking his ribs and stomach, he heard himself make a pleading sound.

He had told her that grasping his cock was too intense. But he wanted it. Wanted it badly.

And she obviously knew it. This time her touch was dainty as her fingers delicately circled the head, then stroked up and down the shaft. All his senses went dim. He could barely see. Barely hear. There was only the magnificent pleasure of her fingers teasing him, before she suddenly took him in her fist and slid her hand firmly up and down his length.

As if from far away, he heard himself moan.

"You are velvet-covered steel," she whispered.

His voice turned low and urgent. "I feel like I'm going to explode. I don't want it to happen like this. I want to be deep in you when I climax." As he spoke, he marveled that he could manage coherent sentences.

"God, yes." She lay back against the sheet and held out her arms to him.

He was still worried about his performance. But need was greater than fear of failure. With a sense of wonder, he moved over her, the tip of his penis poised at the feminine entrance he had only explored with his fingers. Slowly, savoring the sensation, he pressed into her, hardly able to believe the feel of her tight sheath closing around him.

Exalted and awed, he looked down at her, stunned that he was joined to this woman.

"Taylor," he murmured.

"Yes, love."

He kissed her lips as he began to move, focused on her and the wonderfully erotic sensation of his shaft moving in and out of her.

He wanted to hold back. But the feelings were too intense and too unfamiliar.

His penis jerked inside her. And as he climaxed, he felt her inner muscles contract around him.

She cried out her pleasure, following him over the edge into a free fall of rapture that was so unique for him and so unexpected that he could only gasp out a wordless sob.

Sunlight filtered in around the edges of the curtains when Taylor woke in her own bed. After their glorious lovemaking, she had wanted to spend the whole night with Jules, but he had taken her home just before dawn, then left.

Closing her eyes, she lay in bed, smiling as she savored every detail of the night before. They'd had intercourse three times. And she could recall every glorious, sexually fulfilling moment with him. Making love last night had been magical. But as she thought about the night of lovemaking, a feeling of uneasiness began to steal over her.

She could remember last night in vivid color, like a movie in her mind. The way an idea for a painting came to her.

No other night with Jules came to her with that kind of clarity. Not in detail. Every other time, she could picture him stimulating her. She remembered the glorious climaxes, the sense of fulfillment. But she couldn't recall any of the actual things they'd done when she'd been most aroused.

A shiver went over her skin. Except for last night, the details of their lovemaking were a blank. If she was honest with herself, last night was the only time she could be sure she'd actually had intercourse with him.

And there was so much she didn't know about him. He'd hardly talked about his background. She didn't know any of his friends or the people he did business with—whoever they were. She'd only met him at night. And she'd never spent the whole night with him because he'd locked himself in his own house before dawn.

Throwing back the covers, she stood and found her legs were shaky. Stiffening her knees, she marched into the bathroom. Not wanting to look, yet feeling compelled, she studied the place on her neck where she'd thought the insects had bitten her. The place was bruised and the wounds were healing. But she found similar places on her body. One on the other shoulder. Another on her inner thigh. And a third at the top of her right breast.

She stared at the spots. Maybe there were some kind of insects living in her bed, biting her while she slept. But why did the marks always come in twos?

She didn't want to think about the answer. But she knew that she'd been drifting along for too long in a sensual fog-created by Jules DeMario. She'd let him run her life.

No, that wasn't fair, she corrected herself. But she'd certainly fit herself into his strange schedule.

He'd met her for drinks that first time at the bar in the Jax Brewery building. But they'd never gone there for lunch when the view from the balcony would have been spectacular.

A shiver went through her. Back in her room, she pulled on a robe, then went into the small bedroom where she'd set up her computer.

She sat for a long time staring at the screen, feeling her heart pound. Finally she booted it up, connected to the Web and brought up a search engine.

Again she hesitated before typing "vampire" into the find box.

 

With one exception, her nights with Jules had been a blur. The night after her computer search was the worst of all, because she was so nervous and scared that she could barely function normally.

But she couldn't condemn Jules on the basis of her own wild speculations. So she greeted him enthusiastically and tried to say the right things to him, tried to act like she was eager to make love with him again after the joy of the night before. And it must have worked. Because they did make love again. This time in her bed.

And when she woke the next morning, it was the way it had always been in their relationship. She could remember him turning her on. She could remember vibrating to the orgasm he gave her. But she couldn't remember the details.

Of course, now she didn't have to.

Getting out of bed on shaky legs, she went to the ornate basket she'd set on her dresser and took out the small, very expensive video camera that she'd hidden there.

With hands that she couldn't keep steady, she rewound the tape, then brought it down to the den, where she put it into the VCR.

"Do you really want to see this?" she asked herself.

The answer was no.

But she knew that she had to see what had transpired between herself and her lover the night before.

So she sat rigidly in an easy chair with her pulse pounding in her ears as she fast-forwarded to the moment when they'd walked into the bedroom.

Everything started off normally, and she breathed out a little sigh as she watched them kiss, watched herself slowly unbutton his shirt, take it off and stroke his chest the way she had the night before.

She remembered that. She remembered him slowly, tenderly undressing her as they stood beside the bed. But when she had tried to clasp his penis, he'd grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away.

Her heart began to drum so hard in her chest that she thought she might have a heart attack. But she kept watching.

She didn't recall him grabbing her hand. She didn't remember him laying her on the bed naked and coming down beside her, still wearing his slacks.

She watched him kiss and caress her, murmuring soft endearments, watched his knowing fingers slip into her vagina, stroke her clit.

Then he spoke again, and the words made her blood run cold. "Forgive me, love. Forgive me, but I can't get enough of you."

As she watched, he bent his head to her shoulder, pressing his mouth against her flesh.

Thank God she couldn't see much of what he was doing because his face was pressed against her. But she saw his fingers stroke her sex, saw her own hips rise and fall as she strove to reach climax. And as the shuddering spasms took her, she saw his body vibrate with hers as he shared her ecstasy.

When he lifted his head, his mouth was bloody, and she gasped. She saw him lick his lips, then lick the blood from her shoulder while she lay on the bed with her eyes closed, unmoving.

Then he got up and took off his clothing, climbed into bed and gathered her close as though they'd both been naked the whole time. She could see his penis now. It was flaccid. Probably it had been flaccid the whole time, because that wasn't the way he usually got his sexual gratification.

"So now you know," a voice said from behind her.

She screamed and jerked around. Jules was standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his middle, as though he had a terrible pain in his stomach.

"How… how?" she gasped out.

"I usually sleep during the day. As you may know, sunshine is poisonous to my skin. But the sunblock they make these days is amazing. If I put it on carefully, it protects me for short periods of time. Of course, it's an effort to stay awake in the daylight. But I did it today."

"Why?"

"Because you were acting nervous last night. You weren't yourself. And when I thought about it, I remembered the basket on your dresser. It hadn't been there before."

"Then why did you go ahead with what you were doing?"

"At the time, I wanted you too badly to think straight."

"And now what?" she asked in a quivery voice.

He gave a small shrug. "That's up to you."

"Are you going to kill me?"

He didn't move from the doorway. "You mean, murder you because you've found out my secret?"

"Yes, that," she said, feeling frightened and at the same time strangely detached.

"If I want, I could make you forget anything disturbing about me. You know, like your friend Evelyn."

"Yes. She wouldn't tell me any details of your relationship. At the time, I thought she was being coy. Now I know why." She raised her chin. "You broke it off with her."

"I always do," he said, his voice low and edged with pain.

She knit her hands together and squeezed hard, fighting to ignore her emotions. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. She didn't want to feel anything. Coldly she asked, "If you kept taking blood from me the way you've been doing, would that kill me?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's refreshingly honest. Do you usually kill your victims?"

He winced. "I never kill my… victims. Well, three hundred years ago after John Randolph saved my life by turning me, I killed a few people. It was my inexperience. I had to learn how to control what I do. I only take enough blood to live."

"Except with your lovers," she said, pressing him because he was finally telling her the truth about himself.

"I need blood to survive. But I need sexual gratification too. I try to go without that. But eventually the need becomes too great for me to ignore. You came along at the end of a long, dry spell."

"What a flattering way to put it!"

"That might be why it started. It changed pretty quickly. You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. I…" He stopped, and she saw his Adam's apple bob. "I couldn't give you up. I tried."

"How did you manage to have intercourse with me—that one time?"

"I left you at my house and went out. I took blood from a dozen men. I was in a hurry to get back to you, and I was reckless."

She winced. He was silent for several moments, then went on. "But our relationship has sorted itself out, hasn't it."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I took advantage of you. I won't bother you again," he said stiffly. "You should go back to San Francisco."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do. If I want to stay here, I will."

He gave a tight nod. "Of course. I shouldn't presume to tell you what to do."

The look of sadness on his face tore at her. She had cared about this man on some deep, hidden level, but she turned her head away. "I think there's no point in continuing this conversation," she said.

"As you wish," he answered stiffly.

She listened as he walked down the hall and out the door.

Would the sun hurt him? Had he taken sufficient precautions? Why should she care? As he said, he had used her. In the worst possible way. He had taken blood from her. He had risked her life. And now she was safe.

She should feel angry. She should feel relieved. But all she could feel was sad.

He should be angry. She had made that video recording without his permission. But all he could feel was sad and lost. He was the one who had lied to her from the beginning. She had only been trying to protect herself. And he couldn't blame her for that.

He had told her to go back to San Francisco because he couldn't stand the idea of knowing she was just a few miles away.

Maybe he should be the one to leave. He had spent eighteen years making himself comfortable in his house. But he could sell it. He could move back to England. Or he could pick some other location entirely.

He had made elaborate arrangements in the past. But doing any of that now seemed like too much trouble. He was tired. Maybe it was time to end his own life. All he'd have to do is drive out into the countryside where there was no shelter and wait for the sunrise. But he couldn't even work up the energy to do that.

He was so weary that he slept long hours, then went out briefly when hunger drove him to take enough blood to sustain his miserable existence.

Sometimes he wasn't even sure why he was doing that.

Other times he knew that he was living to watch Taylor work as he lingered outside her windows.

She was still in the house she had rented. And she was painting late into the night. Her work wasn't joyful. It was dark and disturbing. Now she painted lovers surrounded by shadows. And the man in the pictures was often pale and almost transparent, like a ghost.

He saw sadness and anger. And a new maturity that made him so proud of her.

He hadn't destroyed her ability to work—just her trust. He hated that. But he knew he would never let his own selfish needs rule him again.

He dragged himself out of bed one evening and went through the motions of getting dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He hadn't bothered with coffee in weeks. It no longer gave him pleasure to take a few sips. But he was still drawn to the garden.

After switching on the small lights, he wandered onto the patio. As soon as he set foot on the old bricks, he knew that the aroma of the flowers was mingled with another familiar scent.

His gaze darted to the wrought-iron patio set. Taylor was sitting rigidly in one of the chairs, her gaze fixed in his direction.

His mind stopped working. Without thinking about what he was doing, he surged across the patio, dragged her out of the chair and into his arms, holding tight, stroking his hands up and down her back and across her shoulders, his lips pressing into her hair as he said her name.

It took several moments for him to realize that she was standing rigid and unmoving in his embrace.

"I'm sorry." Carefully he turned her loose and took a step back. His heart was pounding, but he managed to say, "Why did you come here?"

He watched her take her lower lip between her teeth. "I had trouble staying away."

He could only nod.

He ached to reach for her again. Instead, he pressed his palms against his thighs, watching the play of emotions on her face.

She clenched and unclenched her hands. "I came back to see how I'd feel if I saw you again."

"And how is that?" he managed to ask.

She sucked in a breath and let it out. "I feel guilty."

"About what?" he asked, hardly able to believe what she'd said.

"I was angry about your using me. But you're not the only one. I called you up because I had come to a point in my artistic life where I couldn't work. And I felt like I needed new experiences. You provided them. I used you to spark my creativity. And it was a success. It still is, actually."

"I know," he whispered. "The paintings you're doing now take my breath away."

"You've been outside my house at night, haven't you?"

"Yes. I keep coming back, because I can't help myself. If you want to stay in the city, I'll move away."

Her hands clenched and unclenched. "That's not what I want," she said in a barely audible voice.

He managed to ask, "Then what?"

"I want…" She stopped and cleared her throat. "I want us to try again."

"How?" he asked, hardly daring to believe that he'd heard her correctly.

He saw her swallow convulsively. "We have to be totally honest with each other. I mean we have to make the sexual relationship honest." She paused again and dragged in a breath, before letting it out. "I want to make love with you. But I have to know I can handle what you're really doing. So you have to promise that you won't put me into a trance. I have to know what's going on."

She had handed him hope. Now she snatched it away. "You think you can deal with that?" he asked in a low voice.

She raised her chin. "I don't know. Can you?" she challenged.

He knew then that his greatest enemy might be his own fear. A cold chill came over him when he tried to imagine what it would be like taking blood from her while she watched him do it.

Could he? He didn't know.

Hearing the thickness in his own voice, he asked, "When would you want to try that?"

"Now."

Not now, a terrified voice inside him screamed. Not yet. But he refused to play the coward.

Instead, he closed the distance between them, folding her close. When she trembled in his arms, he couldn't stop himself from thinking this might be his one last time with her. Her words had been bold. But did she really know what she was asking?

Still, he was helpless to deny himself what she had so recklessly offered. His eyes closed as he stroked his lips against hers, entranced by the sensation. It was remarkable how such a light touch could start up a buzzing in his brain. But he had always known this woman's power over him was beyond anything else in his experience.

He savored every nuance of the kiss, starting with that light touch, then gradually deepening the contact. Her tongue met his, and he was intoxicated all over again by the taste of her and the feel of her in his arms.

Yet some part of him couldn't quite relax into the pleasure of being with her again. Trying to ignore his doubts, he slid his lips against her cheek, then nibbled at her ear.

Her fingers winnowed through his hair. As though she knew what he was feeling, she whispered against his jaw, "It's all right. Don't hold anything back. See what you're doing to me. Right from the first I knew we would be wonderful together."

She took his hand and carried it to her breast, and he felt the hard pebble of her nipple pressing into his palm.

Raising her face toward his, she murmured, "We're not going to do anything I haven't asked for."

"Yes," he answered above the roaring in his ears, because he still couldn't imagine the crucial moment. The moment when she felt him sink his teeth into her tender flesh and begin to draw her blood.

She strung kisses over his cheeks, his chin, his nose, and those sweet tokens made him bold. Captive to the heady pleasure of the moment, he knit her hand with his and led her inside.

When hesitation caught up with him again, he found she wasn't going to allow his second thoughts. Taking charge, she led him to the comfortable den off the living room. Yet when she began to open the buttons down the front of her blouse, he saw her hand tremble. Gravely, he reached to help her, their fingers getting tangled up together as they opened the placket. She raised her face to his as she pulled the blouse off and reached to open the catch at the back of her bra.

Then she was standing naked to the waist in front of him.

With a sound deep in his throat, he traced the sweet shape of her breasts. They were soft and quivering, the tips wonderfully hard, stabbing into his palms.

Bending, he swirled his tongue around one pebbled crest, then sucked it into his mouth.

"Oh, Jules," she gasped, clasping her hands around the back of his head, holding him to her for a long moment, before stepping back and skimming her slacks and panties down her legs.

She was gloriously naked, so totally vulnerable that she made his heart ache. She was silently proclaiming her trust in him. And he knew he must give her the same trust. So he pulled off his T-shirt, then reached for the snap at the top of his jeans.

He didn't want to stand naked in front of her and have her see that he wasn't aroused in the way a normal man would be. But he took off his jeans and shorts, because living a lie with her was no longer an option.

For better or worse, he must reveal his true self.

"Jules, you have a wonderful body," she murmured.

"I wish it responded like any other man's would."

She moved closer, combing her fingers through the hair on his chest, then lowering her head to circle one taut nipple with her tongue.

When he sucked in a sharp breath, she raised questioning eyes to his. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad. Glad of everything we have together."

She took his hand, tugging him down to the soft rug, then snuggling beside him. Reaching for his cock, she stroked her fingers over the head, then circled him with her fist.

He didn't have an erection, but her touch was like sweet fire traveling over his penis.

"That's good," he breathed. "So good. With you."

She kept her gaze on him. "You've never felt this way… with another woman?"

"No. I never let another woman see my naked body or touch me like that."

"I'm glad. Glad I'm the first. And now I want you to love me."

"We can't have intercourse," he said quickly, because he didn't want to give her any false ideas.

"I know," she answered just as quickly. "Love me the way you have before. Well, not exactly like before. I want to enjoy every moment of it."

He was helpless to deny her. To deny himself what he had been craving all these long weeks of separation. Still, his movements were slow and deliberate as he stroked the inner curve of one breast, then the other, gratified when he heard her breath catch and then quicken for him.

He bent to her and sucked one distended nipple into his mouth while he tugged and squeezed the other, wringing a small sob from her.

Every fiber of his concentration was tuned to her, to the tiny sounds she made and the ripples of sensation that flowed across her body as he stroked downward toward her sex. When he reached his goal, his fingers played with her, easing her velvet folds apart for his attention.

She was hot and wet for him, her color deep. Her clit was standing up, begging for his touch, and relief flooded through him as he drank in her response. She was with him every step of the way—so far.

He dipped two fingers into her vagina, then withdrew to the sensitive rim, pleasuring her there before stroking upward toward her clit, giving her the amount of pressure he had learned that she liked.

She lay in his arms with her eyes closed, but she kept her hand on his penis, gently stroking and squeezing him, and he realized that he liked the contact and that he had hardened somewhat in her hand.

He felt her tension gathering. Then her eyes blinked open and focused on his face.

"Don't make me wait any longer. I need to come," she gasped out. "And I need you to take your pleasure."

He had never wanted a woman more urgently, more violently. Yet this was the moment he had dreaded. He could make her come and forget about his own pleasure.

But then she would get up and walk away from him, and he would never see her again. That might happen anyway.

He felt poised on a knife edge of dread. He wanted to plead for understanding. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her shoulder. Tenderly, he kissed her ivory flesh. Then he pierced her skin with his special teeth.

Taylor made a small sound, and he felt as though barbed wire was twisting in his gut. He needed to ask if he had hurt her—was still hurting her. But he couldn't lift his mouth now.

He started to do what he always did. He started to invade her mind and turn her thoughts into a rosy glow. But she gripped his arm.

"Don't," she gasped out. "Don't mess with my head. Not this time."

It was difficult for him to obey her command because hiding his true nature was so ingrained. But he did it, because it meant the difference between keeping her with him or losing her.

And he couldn't deal with the loss. So he drew his mental powers back into his own mind, even as he drank her sweet blood while he stroked her sex. When he felt the first contractions of climax take her, he stoked her pleasure, staying with her, drinking her life fluid and the passion she gave him.

She cried out, her inner muscles clenching and unclenching around his fingers, her hand squeezing his cock. And he felt a shudder go through his whole body as his own pleasure reached its ultimate peak.

She gasped his name, then went still in his arms. He lifted his head, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he cradled her close, his anxious gaze on her face.

Tension stiffened his whole body. He had done something dark and forbidden to her. She had asked him to do it. But the request had nothing to do with how she was feeling now—about him, about them.

"Taylor?" he managed to ask.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you for sharing your secret self with me."

He was too overwhelmed to answer. All he could do was gather her to himself, feeling a wave of relief like a warm wind blowing through the room.

She moved her head comfortingly against his shoulder and reached for his hand, knitting her fingers with his, holding tight to him.

"Taylor, oh God, Taylor," he murmured, touching the place on her shoulder where he had drawn from her, where he had marred her white, almost translucent skin. "Did I hurt you?"

"Just a little."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That little pain added to my pleasure."

His gaze searched her face. "You wouldn't lie to me?"

"Never."

He nodded, reading the truth in her eyes, and impassioned words tumbled from his lips. "I've never felt for any other woman what I feel for you."

She kissed his collarbone, his neck, his cheek.

"Thank you for trusting me," she murmured. "I know it was hard for you."

"Yes. But I had to. I wanted you too badly to back out—once we started."

"I was counting on that." She stroked her thumb over his lips. "I think I've fallen in love with you. That's the real reason why I came back."

He felt his chest tighten. Sitting up, he propped his back against the bottom of the sofa and looked down at her.

"You can love a man who has to go out at night and drink the blood of innocent victims to live?"

"That's a pretty stark way to put it." She sat up, too, then reached for the shirt she'd discarded on the floor. When she started gathering the rest of her clothing, he reached for his, too.

Dressed again, she sat down on the sofa, and he joined her.

"I want you to understand what you're getting into," he said.

She found his hand again. "When I stopped being upset, I started thinking a lot about my feelings. And reading about… vampires."

She had said the word, and it hung in the air between them.

"A lot of what you read is garbage," he said tightly.

"Well, I'm hoping you'll set me straight. I'm hoping you can let me into your life."

"It's not pretty."

"It's what it must be."

He marveled at the understanding she was willing to give him. He had never dared ask for such understanding. Perhaps no other woman could have given it to him. But he knew from her work that her ability to share her emotions was extraordinary.

"You are very brave to know what I am and want to be with me."

"I'm not brave. I'm selfish."

"No."

"Let's not waste time arguing." Changing the subject abruptly, she said, "I've seen you eat food. So that's possible for you."

"Just a little."

"Good—because I'm not much of a cook."

He laughed. "I guess there's some advantage to getting hooked up with me."

She nodded, then asked softly, "Will you tell me about John Randolph?"

He had kept his secrets for so long. Now it was a strange experience to let down his guard.

"John Randolph was a lonely man. I think my kind are all lonely. And he felt guilty because he had killed people before he learned how to take only a small amount of blood. I think he went down to the London slums looking for victims. But he was also looking for a way to atone for the deaths he had caused. He took me back to his estate and raised me like a son. And by the time I found out what he was, I loved him. I don't mean sexual love. He was like the father I never had."

"Why did he make you like him?"

"Because I had what you'd call TB today. I was slowly dying, and that was the only way to save me." He raised up on his elbow and looked down at her. "He told me that making a vampire isn't easy or safe. He told me that he'd tried it before and no one had ever lived through the transformation. I didn't have much to lose at that point. Just a few weeks of pain and coughing."

She tightened her grip on him.

"Maybe I trusted him enough for it to work. After the change, he taught me what he knew. He taught me how to feed without killing. Then a new vicar came to the little church in our village, and he started preaching about godless creatures of the night. A mob came after us. John led them away from the house. That's how I escaped."

"He saved you."

"Yes. I was able to take some of the gold and jewels he had hidden in the house. His fortune gave me a good start."

"But you've been alone all this time."

"For close to three hundred years. Except for the times when I linked up with a woman. And that was never for very long." He dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush. "And I don't know what to do about us. When I'm with you, I want to make love with you. But it's clear that I can't keep taking blood from you."

"When we make love, your pleasure comes from drawing my blood?" she asked softly.

"Yes. And from my feeling your climax."

"And when we had intercourse? That night was good for you?"

"God, yes."

"And a little while ago, it felt good when I stroked your penis?"

"Yes," he answered, marveling that they were having this conversation.

"So if we could have intercourse some of the time instead of what we just did—that would work for you?"

He wanted to look away, but he kept his gaze steady. "Yes, but I don't think it's possible very often."

She reached in the pocket of her slacks and brought out a flat packet. Inside were elongated blue pills.

"What are those?" he asked.

"Viagra. You've heard of it?"

"It's something that men take—to make them get an erection."

"Exactly." She cleared her throat. "Would you consider trying them?"

He got up and walked to the window, staring out at the garden, seeing the flowers shimmering in his night vision. Because there was no alternative, he had accepted his life away from the sun—and along with that many other things about himself. But what if long-established habits had blinded him to new alternatives?

He had been desperate to make love with Taylor the way a man made love. And he had done it the only way he thought was possible. Now she was telling him there might be another way. An easier way. Would it work? Or would his hopes be crushed?

He turned back to her and saw the unguarded look of wanting on her face. "For you," he said. "Anything for you."

"You don't want it?" she asked.

"Yes, I do. It's just a little difficult to rearrange three hundred years of thinking."

"But you're very adaptable. They didn't have cell phones three hundred years ago, did they? Or the Internet."

"Right." He took the packet from her and looked down at the directions.

"I think you take one. With some water."

"Then what?"

"You have to wait for a half hour—or an hour."

"Would you wait for me in the garden?" he asked.

"Yes."

 

Taylor didn't know if she'd done the right thing. What if the Viagra had no effect on his system? Well, they'd be no worse off than before. Jules DeMario was the most extraordinary man she had ever met. She wanted to be with him, and it was clear he wanted to be with her. When she'd given him an ultimatum, he'd broken rules he'd laid down hundreds of years ago.

He wanted this to work—and so did she. That might be the crucial factor.

Still, her nerves were strung taut as she stood in the garden staring at a bank of vivid yellow flowers. When she heard footsteps crossing the patio, she stiffened. It had to be Jules. Yet he said nothing. And she was sure the experiment had been a failure.

He came up close behind her, the way he had at the nightclub. And later in the shower. Only this time was different. This time she felt an unmistakable hard shaft pressed to her bottom.

"Jules," she breathed.

His hands came around her as he bent to nibble his lips against her neck, her ear.

When he had done this before, he had kept her facing away from him, and she understood the reason why. This time, he turned her in his arms, and she saw the look of wonder and gratitude on his face.

"It appears that magic blue pill was a good idea," she murmured.

"Very good."

He gazed down at her for a long moment, looking so powerful and yet so vulnerable that she wanted to weep.

When he lowered his head toward hers, she raised up on tiptoes, meeting him halfway. The mouth-to-mouth contact was like a bolt of white-hot fire, sizzling along her nerve endings.

But that was only the beginning. He used his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and she did the same, while they touched each other, hands stroking over backs and shoulders, gliding over ribs, drifting down to hips.

A groan welled in his throat when he angled his mouth, first one way and then the other, as though this were their first kiss, and he was just beginning to explore the magic between them.

When he lifted his head, he took her by the shoulders, creating a small space between them so that he could meet her gaze, his eyes burning into her.

"I didn't know how lucky I was when you called me on the phone," he said in a husky voice.

"Both of us were lucky." She gripped his muscular forearms. "Jules, whatever happens now, however this comes out, I want you any way I can have you."

"When I put you in a trance, I didn't give you a choice," he said in a thick voice, and she knew he still couldn't believe that she would come to him of her own free will.

She stroked her finger over his lips, then inserted it into his mouth, touching the teeth that he had used to pierce her flesh.

"I had a choice when we made love a little while ago. I have a choice now," she said in a strong, clear voice. "And I choose to be with you."

"Oh Lord, Taylor."

He swept her into his powerful arms, lifting her up. As though she had no more weight than flower petals, he carried her down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. No ordinary man could have done it so easily. He showed no signs of exertion as he set her on the floor beside his bed.

She looked around in wonder. The only illumination came from the glow of candles flickering around the room, and she saw how he had used the time since he'd taken the pill. The room was like a warm, secret cave, complete with a sensuous velvet spread on the bed.

"This is beautiful."

"Like you."

Between kisses, he began removing her clothing and his.

And she helped him, trying not to tremble. When they were both naked, standing side by side on the rich carpet, she reached to touch him.

Except for that one time, he had made love to her only with his hands and lips. But he was hard now, his penis standing out proud and firm from his body. And she caressed him gently, gratified that her idea had worked.

"This is so new for me," he said in a husky voice.

"For me, too. Now that we're communicating in a way we never did before."

"Yes."

"So can I ask you—how often have you done this?"

"Had intercourse?"

She nodded.

"The only time since I changed was with you. I never felt the need for it with any other woman. Only you."

She kissed his shoulder, his jaw. "And how many times before that?"

"Only with two women. One was a servant in John Randolph's house. The other was the nurse who took care of me when I was sick. I think she felt sorry for the dying young man."

She thought about what those encounters might have been like, and about his later experiences. Certainly in this sexually explicit culture, he'd seen lots of things that weren't even whispered about when he'd been young. Maybe he'd even watched porn movies. But there was a big difference between watching and participating.

Perhaps he was following her train of thought because he said in a gruff voice, "And you have more experience."

"Does that upset you?"

"It makes me worry about pleasing you."

"Put that worry out of your mind. What would please me now is to have my wicked way with you."

"What did you have in mind?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out," she answered, striving to sound bold when her insides were quivering.

She wanted to please him. She wanted to show him there was more to a sexual encounter than he could imagine. And she hoped she had the skill to do it.

"Lie down," she murmured.

When he had stretched out on the velvet coverlet, she knelt on the bed beside him.

As she expected, he reached for her, but she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it before putting it back on the bed.

"Let me enjoy myself with you," she said. "Let me have control of our lovemaking this time."

"All right," he whispered.

Giving them both time to adjust to her dominant role, she stroked her fingers over his shoulders, then combed through the hair on his chest, enjoying the feel of the springy strands before finding his nipples, circling and teasing them.

When he sucked in a sharp breath, she smiled down at him, then trailed one hand lower, over his ribs, his abdomen. His muscles jumped under her fingers.

Probably he thought she would go right for his cock. It was standing up tall and firm, begging for her attention. With a little pang of guilt, she bypassed that hard shaft and stroked her hand over first one thigh and then the other.

"Are you trying to drive me insane?" he asked in a strangled voice.

"Haven't you ever seen that TV ad—for anticipation?" she asked, then leaned over his body, to give him a long, lingering kiss on the lips while she brushed her breasts against his chest.

When she lifted her head away, he looked up pleadingly.

"Maybe it's time to get specific," she said as she reached down with a hand he couldn't see and took his cock in her fist, giving him a few sensuous strokes that wrung a throaty exclamation from him. Before he could get too far into that, she switched to a lighter touch, using her fingers to stroke his hard shaft and then circle round and round the head.

He gasped out his pleasure, his hands digging into the sheets. Then he gasped again as she leaned down, dragging her tongue along the length of his erection before taking as much of it as she could manage into her mouth. He cried out when she began to suck on him as though someone had just given her a delicious lollipop.

His hips bucked off the bed, and his cry of pleasure ended in a strangled groan.

She pulled back, nibbling her lips against the head of his shaft as she spoke. "You like that?"

"I… didn't know anything could feel that good."

She smiled at him, lifting his balls into her hands, gently playing with them as she slid his penis into her mouth again, moving up and down his length as she sucked and licked, devoting herself to what she knew would give him pleasure.

He was making deep, strangled sounds now, his hips straining as she felt tremors gathering in his body.

One of her hands reached to link with his as she quickened the pace of her attentions to him. He cried out, orgasm rocketing through him.

Swallowing had never been her favorite part of going down on a man. But she remembered from the previous experience that his body produced only a small amount of ejaculate.

So she continued to pleasure him until she felt his hand on her chin.

"Taylor. Taylor." Her name rumbled in his chest, and she looked up at him, seeing the satisfaction—and the wonder—in his eyes.

He reached for her, and she came down beside him.

"I… didn't know… that would be… so intense," he whispered.

"I thought you might not. My guess is that your partners were pretty conservative."

He stroked her hair, then raised up on one elbow so that he could look down at her.

"That was beyond anything I could imagine. And I want to return the favor."

"I was hoping you would."

"But I've never done that to a woman. My mouth was always busy doing something else."

"Well, you're a wonderful lover. I have every confidence in you."

When he lowered his head to her breast, she remembered he had plenty of experience using his mouth to give pleasure.

"That's so good," she whispered.

He gave her a wicked grin, then trailed his tongue down her body, pausing to play with her navel before finding the hot, swollen folds of her sex.

He was a quick learner. Or more accurately, he was adapting techniques he had already learned. He had made himself into an expert at arousing a woman and bringing her to the peak of sensation, and now he pressed two fingers into her, stroking in and out while he used his mouth and tongue on her labia, then her clit.

But he didn't finish it quickly. Maybe he was acting on the concept that turnabout was fair play, because he brought her close to orgasm, then backed off, until she was writhing on the bed, raising her hips.

"Jules, for God's sake, Jules," she pleaded, grabbing frantically at his hair, and he went back to her clit with his mouth and tongue while he thrust deep into her vagina with his fingers.

She made a high, frantic sound as her inner muscles clamped around those fingers, and she went up in flames. He kept stimulating her until the aftershocks subsided. Then he moved up beside her and gathered her in his arms.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"The pleasure was mine. All of it."

He held her, stroked her, rained small kisses on her face and neck. And when she felt his cock pressing stiffly against her thigh, she raised her eyebrows. "Are you telling me you're ready for another round?"

The smug expression on his face was priceless. "Maybe this time we can try what I think is called 'the missionary position.'"

"Just so you're willing to try something more adventurous after that."

They spent the night making love. The Viagra combined with his iron constitution was mind-blowing. When it was close to dawn, she raised her head and looked down at him. "I'm exhausted. Do I have to go home for the day?"

His expression turned uncertain. "I'm going to sleep like the dead. Especially after that workout you gave me."

"Do you mind my staying?"

"A little."

She knit her fingers with his. "I'll go if it makes you feel… safer."

"No. I have to keep reminding myself that I can trust you completely."

She squeezed his hand tighter. "You can. The way I know I can trust you."

"Yes."

He folded the comforter at the end of the bed, then slipped under the covers, and she settled down beside him.

"If you go downstairs, close the door behind you."

"I will."

After he had fallen asleep, she sat up, stroking back the dark hair from his forehead.

It was still hard for her to grasp that she was in a relationship with a man who was so much more than he had first seemed to be. And it was still hard to come to grips with their future.

They had agreed to be together—for now. But there were things they hadn't talked about in detail. He'd told her that making her like him was dangerous. Was she willing to take the risk? Not yet. Not now. But when she got old, would she change her mind? She didn't know.

All she knew was that, for the present, she and Jules DeMario had something together that she had never imagined. Something good. Was it going too far to call him her soul mate?

She couldn't answer that yet, either.

But she thanked God that she had the time to explore their relationship. She slept for a few hours. When she woke up, she turned to kiss him on the cheek.

He stirred, and his eyes blinked open. For a moment, he looked shocked and confused. Then he focused on her, and he smiled. "I never wake until the next night," he murmured.

"A lot has changed," she said.

"Yes."

"Maybe we'll have you out waterskiing on the gulf."

He managed a sleepy smile. "I doubt it. But we've already done things I never imagined."

"And there's more to come." She pressed her face against his shoulder, loving the feel of his strong arm around her. No couple had a guarantee, but what she saw for herself and Jules was bright with all kinds of possibilities. And maybe forty years from now, they'd have to reevaluate where they were going.