"You see," Grigori said, "there's nothing frightening about walking through the park in the evening."
Dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans, he looked like a part of the night he loved, Marisa thought, dark and mysterious and a little dangerous.
"Well, I must admit, it doesn't seem scary when you're with me."
Grigori smiled down at her, pleased that she felt safe in his presence, wondering what she would think if she knew she had never been in more danger in her life.
"I find walking in the evening soothing," he remarked.
"Maybe," Marisa replied, "but I still like the daytime better. Everything looks gray at night. I miss the colors of daytime."
Grigori shrugged. "Life is less harsh in the hours of the night. Flaws are less clearly defined. Ugliness can be hidden in the shadows."
"Well, I guess that's true. But things are also scarier at night, don't you think?"
"Perhaps." He paused, turning the full force of his gaze upon her. "What is it that frightens you, Marisa?"
His voice was as rich as chocolate, as dark and mysterious as the shadows that surrounded them.
"I don't know. The usual things, I guess. Spiders and snakes. Being alone in a strange place." She grinned. "Vampires."
She expected him to laugh, but he didn't.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like, to be a vampyre?"
"Well, not seriously. Why, have you?"
"Once, a long time ago."
"Well, vampires are only fiction. I'm more afraid of the unknown than the unreal."
The unknown... She looked up at Grigori. He was certainly unknown. She laughed selfconsciously, glad that the darkness hid the blush she could feel heating her cheeks.
"You have nothing to fear from me, Marisa. I will let nothing harm you while I am here."
"You say that like you're expecting someone to come along and try to murder me or something."
"Or something," he murmured softly.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He reached for her hand. His skin was smooth and surprisingly cool. She could feel the strength of his long fingers as they wrapped around her hand. It made her feel like a teenager again, walking hand in hand in the park with her latest boyfriend, her insides churning with excitement as she waited to see if he would kiss her.
They walked along a twisting concrete path. Stone benches were placed at intervals along the way. There was a bridle path along the outer edge of the park. A variety of trees grew at irregular intervals. Several narrow wooden bridges spanned the shallow stream that cut through the center of the park.
The moon was bright overhead, shining on the water so that it looked like a ribbon of silver stretching between the grassy banks. The stars winked down at her, as if they knew a secret.
"Come," he said, "let us walk down by the water."
They left the path and made their way across the damp grass. They stood at the edge of the stream, listening to the whisper of the water as it tumbled over the stones of the riverbed, always moving, always changing in its quest for the sea.
"It is pretty here at night," Marisa remarked.
"As are you."
Just three words, yet she felt her heart turn over in her chest. "Thank you."
"You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," he went on. "Your skin is smooth and unblemished, your hair like a waterfall of chestnut silk."
Marisa looked away, her cheeks growing warm with pleasure at his flattery. She could feel him standing close beside her, so close their thighs were almost touching. Would he try to kiss her? Should she let him? He was a stranger. The thought made her feel suddenly vulnerable and she let go of his hand. There was no one else in sight. It was dark, and they were alone, quite alone.
"Marisa." Just her name, nothing more.
His eyes were as black as ebony, enigmatic in the light of the moon. Hypnotic eyes that seemed to be as deep as the ocean; eyes that could see into the most intimate part of her soul, divine her innermost secrets, grant her every wish if she just let herself fall into their depths.
She blinked up at him, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "We... ah, we should go back," she stammered. "It's getting late."
"If you wish, cara."
What was there about his eyes, his voice, that captivated her so? It was easy to believe he was a magician. He certainly seemed to be casting a spell over her.
She stared up at him, relieved that he hadn't kissed her, disappointed that he hadn't even tried.
"Cara?"
It was wrong. It was foolish. Maybe the most foolish thing she had ever done, yet she leaned toward him, her face uplifted, her heart beating a crazy rhythm she had never heard before as he bent down and captured her lips with his.
She had been kissed before, and often, but never like this. There were no words to describe the incredible wonder of his kiss, nothing in her past experience to compare it to. It was as if he had invented something entirely new, something no one had ever thought of before. As if he had taken a simple kiss and reinvented it. And he wasn't even holding her in his arms, wasn't touching her at all except for his lips pressed to hers.
When he drew back, she felt as if someone had stolen the strength from her limbs, the stars from the sky, the very breath from her body.
Bereft, she stared up at him. Almost, she asked him what he had done, what it was they had shared. But she didn't know how to ask such a question without sounding either incredibly stupid or incredibly naive.
"Come," Grigori said, offering her his hand. "I'll take you home." Now, he thought, before it is too late. For both of us.
"What? Oh, yes, home."
Feeling dazed, she put her hand in his. They didn't say much on the way home. She was acutely aware of his nearness, of his hand holding hers. His grip was gentle; his footsteps seemed extraordinarily light for such a big man. She had the fleeting impression that he was floating over the sidewalk.
All too soon, they reached her apartment building.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked as they walked up the stairs.
"Perhaps."
"Oh." She opened the door, and then glanced over her shoulder. "Well, good night." "
Buono notte, cara."
"Good night."
She stood looking up at him, wondering if he would kiss her again. For a moment, she thought he would. Hoped he would. Prayed he would.
Instead, he bowed over her hand. "Thank you for walking with me, Marisa."
"I enjoyed it, too."
She waited another moment; then, with a smile, she stepped inside and closed the door. It was probably just as well he hadn't kissed her again, she mused as she got ready for bed. If one kiss could affect her like that, she didn't even want to think what making love to him would be like.
But later, lying in her bed, unable to sleep, she could think of nothing else.
She couldn't think of anything else at work the next day, either. Staring at her computer, all she could see were Grigori's depthless black eyes. She recalled the sound of his voice when he called her cara, the incredible touch of his lips against hers. Just thinking about it made her feel warm and tingly all over.
Later, fighting the traffic on the freeway, she could hardly remember how she had gotten through the day.
At home, she changed into jeans and a Jekyll and Hyde sweatshirt, then went into the kitchen. Rummaging in the fridge for something to eat, she was still thinking of Grigori, of the strange effect his nearness had on her. It was more than just his good looks. His voice, perhaps? She had never known a man with such a deep, rich baritone. But even as she considered it, she knew it was more than that. There was something about the man himself. He radiated... what? Charm? Charisma?
She shook her head as she ladled fruit salad into a bowl. No, it was more than that. She had met other men who were charming and charismatic. It was power, she realized, a sense of latent power mixed with a potent dose of raw sex appeal. Even just sitting across from him at Angelo's, she had been aware of an undercurrent of tightly leashed power and sensuality radiating from Grigori.
He might have called her, she thought, annoyed with herself for being disappointed that he hadn't called, and then she realized that she had neglected to give him her phone number. Still, she had told him where she worked. If he had wanted to call, he could have looked it up, or called information. She might have been tempted to call him, but she didn't have his number, either. And then it occurred to her that she didn't even know his last name.
Pouring herself a glass of orange juice, she went into the living room and switched on the evening news, noting that, as always, the news was all bad.
She frowned as the cameras zoomed in on four shrouded bodies being lifted into an ambulance. Leaning forward, she turned up the volume.
"Police today were summoned to the hills behind the Los Angeles Zoo, where the bodies of four women were found by a couple of local teenagers. At this time, the cause of death is unclear. There were no signs of a struggle. Both robbery and rape have been ruled out as a motive. A preliminary investigation by the coroner listed severe blood loss as the probable cause of death. You may recall that the body of Silvano Roskovich, owner of the Roskovich Carnival, was found in a similar condition in a ditch behind the carnival on Halloween night. Two other bodies, as yet unidentified, were found in an alley late last night. In other news..."
Feeling numb, Marisa stared at the screen. Silvano was dead. She might have been one of the last people to see him alive. It made her feel responsible somehow.
She switched off the TV, then went into the kitchen and put her dishes into the dishwasher. Going into the bedroom, she gathered up her dirty clothes and headed for the laundry room that was located on the first floor in the rear of the building.
For once, she had the place all to her herself. She was adding soap to one of the machines when she had the sudden, unmistakable feeling that she was no longer alone.
Whirling around, she glanced at the door, which she had shut behind her. The windows on the far wall stared back at her like black, empty eyes. There was no one there, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone, that something was watching her, something evil....
She stood there for several minutes, her heart pounding in her ears, wishing gossipy old Mrs. Patteri or one of the other tenants would join her.
As abruptly as it had come, the sense of evil vanished. She heard footsteps approaching, and then Mr. Abbott, the landlord, entered the room carrying a mop and pail. He was a tall, thin man in his early sixties, with lank gray hair, brown eyes, and an easy smile.
"Evening, Marisa," he said.
"Hi, Mr. Abbott."
"Didn't think anyone was in here," he said. "I'll come back later."
"I'll be done soon."
"Take your time." He smiled at her. "Give me a chance to watch the end of M*A*S*H." Leaving the mop and bucket in a corner, he left the room.
In the space of a heartbeat, Marisa was out the door behind him. Her laundry could wait until tomorrow.
Grigori stood outside Marisa's apartment complex, his senses testing the night. He could hear voices coming from the apartment building - an old couple arguing about whether they should visit their son in jail, a baby's hungry cry, a man snoring, the blare of a stereo, a half dozen television sets, each tuned to a different station. The strong scent of fried food and human waste stung his nostrils. And, over all, the scent of blood and warm living flesh, the low thrumming of beating hearts, calling to him...
He had come here simply to make certain she was safe. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he had any other motive.
She was home. He could sense her life force, smell the warmth and the heat of her. And then, just as he was about to climb the stairs to her apartment, he felt Alexi's presence.
With preternatural speed, he followed Marisa's scent to the back of the building. His sense of the other vampyre was stronger here. Rage rose up within him, bringing with it the fear that he might be too late.
The sense of evil grew stronger still as he neared the back of the building. He saw a shadow separate itself from the darkness, heard the faint sound of mocking laughter, and then the specter vanished from his sight.
With a wordless cry of frustration, Grigori gave chase. He followed the vampyre down dark alleys and over rooftops, never able to catch more than a glimpse of his quarry. He chased him for hours, never able to get close enough to catch him, though he often heard the mocking sound of his laughter. Anger and frustration burned within him as he realized Alexi was toying with him.
Refusing to give up, he continued to chase Kristov until the dawn threatened to steal the darkness from the sky.
Cursing softly, he turned back, heading for his resting place lest the sun find him.
Marisa felt foolish in the morning, and more than a little irritated that the blouse she had planned to wear to work that day was still in the washing machine.
Muttering about being a foolish, over-imaginative idiot, she ran down to the laundry room and tossed her clothes in the dryer.
Returning to her apartment, she ate breakfast, combed her hair, and brushed her teeth, then went down to the laundry room to take her clothes from the dryer. She folded what was necessary, leaving the rest in a heap on the bed. Dressing quickly, she grabbed her keys and drove to work.
In spite of herself, she found herself thinking of Grigori, wondering whether he would have called if she had thought to give him her number, or if she had read more into their brief encounter than was there.
The day passed quickly. Mr. Salazar was handling a high-profile case, and that always meant a ton of paperwork. Today, she had been glad of it, glad she had been too busy to give much thought to a man with dark hair and sinfully black eyes.
It was late when she finally left work. She had just unlocked her car door when she saw Grigori striding toward her. She frowned, wondering what he was doing downtown and, more specifically, what he was doing in the parking structure of her building. He wore a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, snug black jeans, black boots.
He looked tall and dark and dangerous, and she felt ridiculously happy to see him.
"Good evening," he murmured.
"Hi. What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Oh."
"I wondered if I might impose upon you for a ride in exchange for dinner."
"I suppose that could be arranged," Marisa replied. Slipping behind the wheel, she reached over and unlocked the passenger door. "Get in."
He settled into the seat, arms folded across his chest. His presence seemed to fill her small car. Once again, she was aware of the power that radiated from him like heat off a stove.
She started the car and drove toward the exit. "What were you doing downtown?"
"Taking care of some business." The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. He was here because she was here. "It is a remarkable city. So many big buildings, so much concrete and glass. So many people wandering around with no purpose in life..."
"I know," Marisa said. She glanced in the rearview mirror before changing lanes. "There are an awful lot of homeless people living on the streets. It's so sad."
"Yes. It makes me yearn for my old home," Grigori murmured.
"Where's that?"
"Italy."
"Were you born there?"
"Yes. It is a beautiful country." Sadness flickered in the depths of his eyes. "I've not been there for many years."
"Where do you live now? I mean, when you're not working. I guess you must do a lot of traveling."
"Yes. I have a small villa in Naples, and an apartment in Paris. When I'm... on the road, I stay in hotels."
"That can't be much fun. I think I'd like the traveling part, but living out of a suitcase must get old fast."
"It does, indeed. Where would you like to eat?"
"You don't have to take me out," Marisa said.
"It would be my pleasure."
"Well..." She considered for a moment. She knew a wonderful little restaurant uptown, but somehow the thought of sitting beside Grigori at a small table in a dark, intimate cafe was too unsettling. "How about the North Woods Inn?"
"Whatever you wish."
"Have you ever eaten there?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "No."
"It's one of my favorite places."
She exited the freeway, and he noted she drove with ease and skill. He sat back in the seat, admiring her from the corner of his eye. She wore a pale yellow blouse under a dark green jacket, and a matching skirt that was long enough to be businesslike and modest, yet short enough to show off a pair of very shapely legs.
A few minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot. The building had been designed to look as if it were made of logs. The roof was painted to look like snow.
Grigori held the door for her, then followed her inside. There was a bar to the left. The restaurant was located at the end of a long hallway to the right.
A pretty brunette in a very short red dress and black stockings led them to a table in the back room. She brought them a bowl of peanuts, a menu, and two glasses of water.
Marisa reached for a peanut, shelled it, and tossed the shells on the floor. She laughed softly at Grigori's expression. "It's all right. It's expected."
"Ah." Glancing around, he noticed that peanut shells did, indeed, litter the floor at every table.
Marisa studied the menu. "What are you going to have?"
"Steak."
"Hmmm. I can't decide whether to have the seafood platter or a turkey sandwich."
She was still trying to decide when the waiter came to take their order.
Grigori ordered a steak, very rare, and a glass of red wine.
"The seafood platter, I guess," Marisa said.
With a nod, the waiter took the menu and left the table.
"Do you come here often?" Grigori asked.
"Not really. So, when are you performing again? I'd love to see one of your shows."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible. The show closed last week."
"Oh, that's too bad. Where are you going next?"
His dark gaze moved over her and she flushed, wondering if her words betrayed her disappointment at the thought of his leaving town.
"I'm thinking of taking a vacation," he replied.
"Here?" She couldn't disguise the hope in her voice. "In L.A.?"
"Yes." His gaze swept over her in a most disconcerting manner. "There is still much I haven't seen."
She looked away, her cheeks suddenly warm. The arrival of their dinner couldn't have come at a better time.
"You weren't kidding when you said rare, were you?" Marisa asked when he cut into his steak. "I think it's still moving,"
He glanced at the rich red juice that oozed from the meat. "It is the only way to eat a steak." He speared a chunk and offered it to her.
"No, thank you. I prefer mine to be at least a little bit cooked."
"You do not know what you are missing."
She wrinkled her nose with distaste. "To each his own," she murmured, and felt his gaze move over her again.
"Yes," he replied quietly, "to each his own."
She had the distinct impression he wasn't talking about steak.
