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Blood Calls
Caridad Pineiro


The scent of blood lured him… But for vampire Diego Rivera, Ramona Escobar’s sensuality proved even more potent. He had to resist – for there could be no such thing as love for him. Five centuries ago Diego had vowed never to turn another with his bite. When the artist’s life was threatened by a reclusive millionaire who had used Ramona’s skills to build a forgery ring, Diego needed to unleash his inner demon to save her.Then he was faced with a choice – lose the woman he loved…or turn her with a vampire’s kiss.







The air rushed against his body, but barely cooled the heat of the demon driving him.

He landed on the ledge of Ramona’s building, and imagined her down below, standing before one of her canvases, stroking the brush across the surface. Immediately the erotic paintings she’d completed came to mind, reawakening his desire. A desire only she could satisfy.

He crept towards the skylight and glanced down. There she was, lying in bed, the sheets in disarray around her naked body.

Diego groaned and reared back, knowing how wrong it was and yet drawn to the sight. This was all he could allow himself with her – this distant passion. Anything else was wrong on so many levels.

She was human. He wasn’t.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caridad Piñeiro was born in Havana, Cuba, and settled in the New York metropolitan area. She attended Villanova University on a presidential scholarship and graduated magna cum laude. Caridad earned her Juris Doctor from St John’s University and became the first female and Latino partner of Abelman, Frayne & Schwab.

Caridad is a multi-published author whose love of the written word developed when her fifth-grade teacher assigned a project – to write a book that would be placed in a class lending library. She has been hooked on writing ever since.

Articles featuring Caridad’s works have been published in various magazines and newspapers. Caridad has appeared on Fox’s Good Day NewYork, New Jersey Network’s Jersey’s Talking with Lee Leonard and WGN-TV’s Adelante Chicago. Caridad was also one of the Latino authors featured at the first ever Spanish Pavilion at the 2000 Chicago BookExpo America. In 2006 Caridad made an appearance at BookExpo America as one of the authors helping launch Nocturne.

Caridad’s novels have been nominated for various readers’ and reviewers’ choice awards, including Affaire de Coeur and RIO awards.

When not writing, Caridad is a mum, wife and lawyer. Caridad also teaches workshops on various topics related to writing and heads a writing group at a local bookstore. For more information on Caridad’s books, contests and appearances, or to contact Caridad, please visit www.caridad.com.



Dear Reader,

Sometimes I can’t believe that we’re here, at book six in THE CALLING series. When I wrote the first novel, Darkness Calls, everyone told me I would never be able to sell a story with vampires, but Mills & Boon believed in the story and in me. I am eternally grateful for that since it provided me the opportunity to create this very different cross-genre series that’s a little bit suspense, a little bit vamp and a little bit romance.

I’ve loved seeing the growth of the characters from the first book and allowing you to become involved in the underworld of Manhattan vampires. I hope you’re enjoying the continuing mention of characters such as Melissa and Sebastian, and I promise that Maggie and David will soon have their story! I know how popular David has been with so many of you and how sad it may have been to realise that in Death Calls David was paralysed as a result of being injured during the terrorist attack.

I’m working on another three books in the series with yet more of the characters you’ve come to know – Blake and Stacia for starters, as well as Diana and Ryder again because their story is the foundation of the entire series. Yes, it’s true! In a future book, Diana and Ryder will face yet another challenge to their love, one which will propel the series into totally new ground. I hope you’ll be back for more! Thanks for all your support and belief in THE CALLING.

Sincerely,

Caridad




Blood Calls


CARIDAD PIÑEIRO




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Leslie Wainger, who believed in my vampires

from the very start and gave me this amazing

opportunity to share them with you.




Prologue


1491, Galicia, Spain

The thought of slowly strangling the life from his wife made the flogging almost bearable for Diego Rivera.

As each lash stripped another bit of skin from his back, he imagined his hands encircling her throat. Imagined himself watching her eyes bulge as he exerted pressure and heard the crack of cartilage beneath his fingers.

The pleasure of his near-delirium daydream evaporated as one particularly sadistic blow penetrated his defenses and his body jerked spasmodically.

“Madre de Dios,” he gasped as fire erupted between his shoulder blades. Beside the heat of the whip as it tore into his flesh, Diego sensed a warmth that could only be blood trickling down his back.

“Confess your sins, convert. It will go easier if you tell us the truth,” the Inquisitor urged from his spot a few feet away. Beside him sat a physician whose job it was to make sure the heretic wasn’t too far gone to confess.

This business of saving lives wasn’t supposed to kill anyone, Diego thought cynically, then laughed out loud.

The sound bounced off the stone walls of the room, shocking his torturers, who looked at him as if he was crazy. Maybe he was, Diego mused, as he heard the eerie echo of his laughter, sounding too much like that of a madman.

As the physician rose from the chair and walked toward him, Diego realized they would stop the punishment now and wait for him to be more lucid. That was the way it had been for weeks now. Maim, wait, repeat.

It was the way it would be today.

The physician jerked his head toward Diego, and two guards quickly undid the shackles that had been cutting into his wrists. Released from his bondage, he slumped and would have fallen to the ground if not for the guards, who dragged him from the chamber toward the small cell that had held him prisoner for nearly a month now.

They tossed him inside unceremoniously. He landed roughly on the floor, his head smacking against the cobblestones, since his arms were too feeble to break his fall.

What was one more bruise? he thought as the chilly humidity of the cell quickly registered his burning flesh. He shivered violently, which brought renewed pain to his mangled back and sore arms. He tried to quell the chatter of his teeth and swore he would get vengeance on those who had betrayed him.

He didn’t know how long a time passed before the slight scuffle of footsteps on the stone floor drew his attention.

“Esperanza?” He glanced upward and smiled as the familiar face of the plain servant girl from his home crept into his vision. Esperanza had been sneaking into the prison to care for him.

“Don Diego, I’m so sorry,” she said as she dabbed at his back with a moist cloth.

At his groan, she explained, “This will keep it from getting infected.”

Diego knew she meant well, but keeping him alive would only benefit the Inquisitor. He gently laid a hand on her thigh as she knelt beside him. “You are a good girl, Esperanza.”

Her gasp confused him. In her vibrant brown eyes, however, he finally saw why she risked her life to help him—she was in love with him. In a way, he cared for her, as well.

Diego had barely noticed her the entire time that she labored in his home. He had been too busy whoring with many more beautiful women, including his own bitch of a wife. His infidelities had been the reason that his wife had lied about him and turned him over to the Inquisitor. Backing her claims that he was a relapsed convert was a lower nobleman who coveted Diego’s properties and wife.

God help the poor man when he discovered the real nature of the harridan Diego had married.

A woman nothing like kind and gentle Esperanza, he thought, passing his hand over her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth and remarkably creamy in color, in sharp contrast to the deep auburn of her hair.

“Do not come again, little one. I am not worth your life,” he said, and in truth, he meant it. Selfish and materialistic, he had not been a good man up until now. It had taken this unfortunate encounter with the Inquisitor to make him realize he needed to change.

“Don Diego—”

“Promise me you will stay away.” As tears filled her eyes and spilled over, he whispered, “I will never forget you.”

She kissed his cheek, then rose and rushed from his cell.

He didn’t expect the loneliness that followed her departure. It was a greater torture than any the Inquisitor could visit on him.

Loneliness had been with him for most of his life, he had realized in the weeks of numbing pain and solitary confinement within this small cell.

He vowed that if he survived, he would strive to change that. Strive to do good.

God had to have visited this torture on him for a reason, and he wasn’t about to question why he had been called.

He just intended to answer when the time was right.


Chapter 1

2007, New York City

Passion.

It didn’t exist in every person who graced the earth, Diego suspected. Only a handful truly knew what it meant to live their lives with such intensity. In the five hundred years since a vampire’s kiss had turned him into an immortal, Diego had surrounded himself with artists and others who lived life to the fullest. Who lived life with passion.

Ramona Escobar was such a person, Diego decided as he looked over the latest work she had done.

As he strolled back and forth in front of the six paintings, the vibrant colors called to him, as did the amazing movement and life splashed across the canvases. Beneath it all shimmered the sensuality of the scenes Ramona had depicted in her works—a study of men and women in various stages of making love.

He considered how to best display these paintings in his gallery. He had no doubt he would do so, since they were as wonderful as the others Ramona had done over the years, except…

A yearning existed in these works he hadn’t seen before. A need that connected to something deep within him. He had to take a shaky breath to quell the desire that rose in him as he perused one piece. He was sure other people would feel the same and that the paintings would fetch a good price. Possibly an immense price. Thanks to the many centuries he had mingled with the artsy set, he knew how to recognize talent.

“These are wonderful,” he said.

Petite and slender, Ramona stood beside him, wiping paint off her hands with a rag.

“Do you think so?” she asked, clearly uncertain. He wondered, as he had more than once during the half-dozen years he’d known her, about the kind of woman she was. One with passion mixed with equal parts humility and doubt. She had matured since the day he had met her, during her final year of art school. He had been intrigued back then by the young, tough ragamuffin with so much talent, but little ego.

But then again, had she been a braggadocio like some other artists he had encountered, he doubted their professional relationship would have lasted this long. Diego did not suffer fools or braggarts. They reminded him too much of how he had been before beginning his eternal life.

Driving that thought from his mind, he said, “Truly unique. They will sell well.”

“Que bueno. When do you think you can show them?” She continued wiping her hands with the cloth, the gesture telling.

Diego laid his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, which worried him. “Is something wrong, amiga? If it’s money—”

“I know you would give it to me. It’s nothing, really,” Ramona said, and looked up at Diego’s remarkable face.

He was so handsome and so honorable. When she had first met him, she had been struck by his elegance and beauty. In the many years they had known each another, he had always done right by her, showing her that his beauty went far beyond his physical attributes. He would do right by her this time, as well.

“I’m fine. Let me know when you want to do the show.” She hoped to finish raising the money she needed to care for her mother.

He stroked her hand once again in a gentle gesture, and, unnerved by his touch, because it made her think of things that weren’t possible, she walked away from him. At the table holding her paints and brushes, she set down the cloth.

Diego glanced at the paintings once more before striding toward her. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The blue silk brought out the color of his intense ice-blue eyes.

When he stood before her, he tossed his head, sending the longish strands of his artfully highlighted, nutmeg-brown hair back, which emphasized the strong lines of his pale face.

Ramona had always been intrigued by his looks, a product of the Celtic roots in his part of Spain. A Gallego to the core, he would often tease her when she mentioned her own mixed heritage—part cubana, part Newyorican and part Irish. The only thing they had in common was a bit of the Celt.

Not to mention that no one had to tell her Diego had known wealth all his life. He had the easy confidence of a man who had never experienced true want.

She on the other hand had known nothing but want since the death of her father, and her mother’s illness. And of course, her own illness now.

Ramona was a hard-luck gal, with the hardest luck of all to face—the possibility that she might soon die.

She hadn’t said anything to anyone. Not that she had anyone to say it to, she thought sadly as Diego bent and hugged her. Returning the embrace, she imagined it being more than friendly.

She was shocked when he turned, brushed a kiss across her cheek and whispered, “I’m here if you need me.”

At first it had been just business between them, which slowly developed into friendship over the last six or so years. But beneath it all, even from the first, there had been awareness of him as a man—a very attractive man. She had kept her distance, however, knowing of his involvement with Esperanza. But Esperanza had been dead for over a year now.

Ramona reached up and cradled his cheek, brushed her thumb across his lips. Those fine, full lips she had captured forever on the canvas. Had he seen that in the paintings? she wondered. Had he seen that it was him being loved by the stroke of her brush?

“I know, Diego. I’m fine. Really,” she replied, but eased out of his embrace. It would be unfair to both of them to head down a road that could bring nothing but pain.

His mouth tightened at her withdrawal, but then he promised to call her later that afternoon about the dates for her show.

“The sooner the better, so I can see Mami,” she reminded him.

Her mami was too ill to go out alone anymore, which was why Ramona was in a rush to hold the show. Together with the money she had made from creating some copies for millionaire recluse Frederick van Winter, a good exhibit would help her earn enough to hire care for her mother well after Ramona was gone.

She just had to hold on a little longer, she told herself as she walked Diego to the door and let him out of her loft.

She was feeling the weakness that came when she overextended herself. It was time to rest. Soon she would be even too frail to paint, and when that happened…

Without her beloved art, maybe she would be better off dead.

Diego flipped the pages of his calendar, trying to find a slot where he could have a showing of Ramona’s paintings.

Fortunately for him, business had been good lately and he had few days available. Unfortunate for Ramona, however. He had gotten the sense that she desperately needed the showing. Maybe money was tight again, he thought, remembering that Ramona’s mother had been ill and her care might be a financial drain on the struggling artist.

Although she’d taken advances from him in the past, she had always repaid them from her sales, not that he had asked for repayment.

Centuries of life had made it possible for him to amass quite a fortune. He really had no need of this gallery, but art had always fascinated him. Bored with an eternal existence of doing nothing, he had opened this shop nearly ten years ago after the suicide of a promising young artist he had known. The artist’s death had awakened the art world, making him famous posthumously and convincing Diego that he wanted to become a patron of the arts and prevent similar fates for others. He loved the passion and life of the artists. Loved discovering someone who might be the next Velázquez, Goya, Manet or Picasso, all gentlemen he had been lucky enough to meet thanks to his vampire existence.

Then there were the many parties he was able to host when he did a showing. They reminded him of the days before his wife’s betrayal, when he’d held such fetes at his estate, many times for an artist whom he had commissioned to do a work for him.

Not to mention that gathering with so many mortals let him make believe for a moment that he was like them. That he was still human.

Human like Ramona, he thought, recalling their embrace earlier that day and the sense of rightness he had felt. The desire that had arisen as he smelled her skin and felt her hair against his face.

All wrong sensations, Diego reminded himself. After his wife’s betrayal he had vowed never to let another beautiful face fool him.

Not to mention that Ramona was mortal, and developing any feelings for her would only lead to pain. He couldn’t deal with that right now. He had barely recovered from the grief of Esperanza’s passing, the woman to whom he had been faithful for five hundred years.

Searching through the schedule once more, he realized there were no openings for at least another two months.

Recalling Ramona’s face that morning, he knew she couldn’t wait.

He picked up the phone and dialed. As the man answered, he said, “Julio, I’ve got a favor to ask…”

Ramona couldn’t believe her luck. A last-minute problem with another painter had allowed Diego to schedule her showing in a little over a week.

She slept well that night for the first time in months, which left her feeling so refreshed, she decided to give herself a treat. She would go to the auction house for a final viewing of the masterpieces Mr. van Winter was selling off.

She applauded his generosity in donating the funds raised from the sale to the charitable organization his family had founded so many centuries earlier. The van Winter Foundation aided many different causes. In fact, part of her college scholarship had come from a small donation the foundation had made to her art school.

It must have been a difficult decision to donate such amazing works of art. Despite that, Ramona had been slightly troubled by the reclusive millionaire’s desire to have copies of the famous works.

She didn’t know how he had gotten her name. She only knew that she had been recommended to him as someone with the skills to create worthy imitations of the masterpieces. Despite her misgivings, the money he had offered was more than she could turn down, given her current situation.

She had accepted the job and spent nearly six months painfully and painstakingly recreating the works of the masters.

It had been inspiring to be in the company of such genius. Maybe that was why her latest paintings were so amazing. So filled with passion and yearning.

Or maybe it was something inside of her, calling her to lay her heart on the canvas so that when she passed, someone might know that she had existed. That she had been filled with love, but hadn’t found anyone to share it with.

Unless Diego—

Before she let that thought go where it shouldn’t, she showered, dressed and headed to the auction house for a last glimpse of the paintings. She didn’t regret paying the money to enter the exhibit and see them, only…

Dios mio, this couldn’t be right, she thought as she stared at the works on display for the world to see. Three supposed masterpieces, but the longer she stared at them, the more it became obvious that it was her brushstrokes on the canvases. As careful as she had been to recreate those of the masters, an artist always recognized her own work.

Maybe it was a mistake, she thought as she went from painting to painting and carefully examined them for any trace that would tell her they hadn’t been done by Ramona Escobar, a mutt of dubious origins with no claim to fame in the art world.

But as she lingered before each painting, scrutinizing every line, loitering over each shadow and color, she realized this was her work being shown. These were her copies and not the originals. And each had been signed with the name of the original artist—something she had not done because of her niggling doubt. In her mind, and possibly that of others, signing them might seem as if she intended to pass them off as the originals.

She hadn’t realized how long she had stood there until one of the guards from the auction house came up to her.

“Miss, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Ramona’s stomach roiled with anxiety. She placed a hand there to quell its nervous motion.

“Thank you. I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed by their beauty,” she said, and glanced at her watch, finally realizing that she had been there for several hours.

The old man smiled at her and nodded. “They are amazing, aren’t they? Mr. van Winter was so kind to donate them to his foundation.”

“Yes, very kind,” she said, although in her heart she was beginning to question his generosity and intent.

Or maybe she was wrong in being a doubting Thomas. Maybe the copies were on display to protect the originals. Gazing at the old man and at the other guard at the door, she realized that security measures seemed to be minimal in this area.

That must be the reason, she told herself, but the little voice in her head wouldn’t be silenced.

And maybe pigs can fly.

She had no other choice but to attend tomorrow’s sale and see for herself which paintings were placed on the auction block.

Diego wanted a last look at the masterpieces. It had been nearly a century since he had seen the Manet.

He had wanted to attend the public exhibition the day before, but Simon, his keeper, had been feeling unwell. Much like Diego, Simon had never really recovered from losing Esperanza, or from the events leading up to her death.

Simon had been caring for Diego and Esperanza, tending to their vampire needs, for nearly a century now, his human life prolonged by the special bite Diego could bestow.

But now the old man said he was tired, and refused to accept the bite that would prolong his life.

Diego understood. Simon wanted to let his life run its natural course. He was ready for what awaited him on the other side.

Diego would honor Simon’s unspoken request and the vow he himself had made centuries earlier not to turn another human. After saving Esperanza by turning her, he had dealt with her grief as she witnessed the death of all their loved ones. He had seen her longing every time a mother passed by with a baby in her arms, something Esperanza would never experience.

Her grief and despair had altered her. Although he’d still loved her, he had recognized how needy she had become of him, the one constant in her life. That neediness had made her jealous and petty at times, dependent to the point of almost smothering his love for her.

It had almost kept him from making Simon his keeper, only Simon had begged for life after they had found him in the ruins of his home following the San Francisco earthquake. The keeper’s kiss Diego had bestowed had healed some of Simon’s injuries and kept him alive to search for his family in the rubble. He had found them a day later—dead beneath the remains of their home.

As Diego had helped Simon bury them, he had seen grief like Esperanza’s in the man’s eyes. It had only made Diego regret making him a keeper, and had reinforced his decision never to use his vampire’s kiss again.

He shook off the unpleasant thoughts, comforted by the fact that he had left Simon ensconced in his favorite chair, watching a History Channel special on the San Francisco earthquake, and muttering about his own survival.

Diego pushed through the door of the auction gallery, but stopped short as he collided with a woman in his haste to see the Manet. He reached out to keep her from falling.

“I’m sorry,” he began, but smiled when he recognized Ramona. “I didn’t expect you here, little one.”

Ramona gazed up at Diego, thinking he looked as elegant and polished as ever. He had grabbed her arms to steady her, and she in turn had placed her hand on the sleeve of his overcoat. The expensive cashmere felt smooth against her fingers, in sharp contrast to the itchy wool of her own peacoat.

She pulled away from him, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, both to keep from touching him again and because the chill of the late fall night had bitten into her body.

“I came to see the auction, too,” she explained, walking toward a row with two empty chairs. But then she stopped short. “I’m sorry. I just assumed you were here alone, but if you’re with—”

“I’m with you,” he said with a smile, and confirmed her choice of seating.

Ramona told herself he was just being kind, much as he always was, but it was tough not to imagine how it might be if it were different. If he saw her not as an eccentric, reclusive painter always living on the edge, but as an attractive woman.

Although how could he? she wondered, gazing down at the coat that was a bit too big on her, thanks to all the weight she had recently lost. Even before her illness, his actions had been nothing other than brotherly. She’d always admired his faithfulness to the woman in his life.

When she sat, he paused to remove his overcoat, and revealed yet another fine silk suit and shirt. The top two buttons of the shirt were open, exposing the curly, light brown hairs on his chest. She wondered whether that hair would be crisp beneath her fingers.

“Ramona?” Diego said, and she realized that he had asked her a question.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Do you want to take your coat off?”

Cold lingered in her body from the autumn night, so she shook her head. “Not just yet.”

He sat beside her, his size and strength striking her again, but she had little time to think about him as the auctioneer came to the podium.

She leaned forward, eagerly watching as a covered painting was brought in and placed on the easel. A hush fell over the room, replaced by murmurs when the painting was unveiled and the auctioneer named the opening price. Fifteen million dollars.

She held her breath, examining the painting from afar. She told herself it must be the original, but once again her artist’s eye could pick out the differences. Why hadn’t anyone at the auction house seen that this wasn’t the authentic masterpiece? Why didn’t any of the prospective buyers realize it?

As the bidding for the painting climbed ever higher, she shifted closer and closer to the edge of the chair, her arms wrapped tight around her to ward off the frost filling her body. When the bidding ended at thirty million, she gasped, shocked by both the price and the fact that it seemed as if van Winter was going to get away with his deception.

Diego’s hand lit on her back, and she glanced over her shoulder and met his concerned gaze.

“Estas bien?” he asked, rubbing his hand against her shoulder in a soothing gesture.

“I’m fine. I just can’t imagine…” She wanted to say that she couldn’t believe that no one had realized the fraud, not even Diego, who was usually so astute.

“It is a lot, but one day you may command similar prices.”

“Sure. When I’m dead,” she muttered, and Diego chuckled, not realizing the irony behind her statement.

“Do not worry, little one. Your day will come.”

She forced a smile and fixed her attention back up at the front of the room. As had happened for the first painting, the next two were sold swiftly.

All three of her paintings fetched a grand total of nearly one hundred and twenty million dollars. She wanted to stand up and shout to everyone that they had been deceived, but who would believe her?

This was one of the city’s better known auction houses, selling off paintings for one of the world’s richest men, and she was no one.

Merely the struggling unknown who had unwittingly helped him carry out the deception.

A sick feeling twisted her gut, and the chill that hadn’t left her all night made her numb inside, weak, she realized as she tried to stand, and found that her legs were a little wobbly. The anxiety and the late hour had taken their toll on her.

“Ramona?” Diego questioned, but she couldn’t answer as spots began to dance before her eyes.

She had pushed herself way too much, she realized as Diego slipped his arm around her waist, providing stability.

“Let me get you home,” he said, and she didn’t argue, lacking the strength to make the trip on her own.

Besides, she needed to conserve her strength for what would be a tough road ahead—proving that van Winter had sold forgeries, and even more importantly, clearing her name of any involvement in the crime.


Chapter 2

So maybe he was wrong to be taking advantage of the fact that she was feeling unwell, Diego thought. But it was the first opportunity to be close to her since Esperanza’s death. He had noticed Ramona well before that, but being an honorable man, unlike he had been in his human life, he had banked his attraction to her.

Even now a part of him said this wasn’t right. She was human and he was undead. He could offer nothing, but he couldn’t deny that he liked the weight of her in his arms as he held her on his lap the entire cab ride home.

She murmured a protest when they arrived at her loft and he insisted on carrying her upstairs. With his vampire powers, he barely registered her weight. Actually, even with just his human strength he could have easily managed. She was so petite. Thinner than she had been a few months ago, he belatedly realized.

It brought out protective feelings in him that should have sent up major warning bells. The last woman he had felt this way toward was Esperanza, and look how that had ended. With death both times.

But that didn’t stop him from depositing Ramona on the sofa in the living area of the large loft, and getting her settled. Despite her continued reassurances that she was fine, he insisted she rest while he prepared some tea, since he noticed yet again that her hands were ice cold.

Way too cold, combined with way too pale…

Diego opened up his vampire senses, but found Ramona’s energy to be totally human and a little frail. The hunter in him recognized she was easy prey, but he tamped down such a thought.

He hadn’t fed from an unwilling human for quite some time. He wasn’t about to begin now.

Although the look that she gave him as he approached with the tea hinted that Ramona might not be so unwilling.

Handing her the mug with the honey-laced concoction, he sat on the coffee table before her.

“Gracias, Diego. You didn’t have to do this.” She cradled the cup with her long fingers, her actions graceful as she brought it to her full lips and took a delicate sip.

Desire rose in him again, much as it had the other day. Intent on fighting it, he said, “I need to take care of my investment, don’t I?”

A crushed look swept across her features before she contained her emotions. “Of course. I understand how expensive it is for you to show—”

“Your masterpieces,” he said, and because he couldn’t sit there any longer, staring at her wounded, doe-brown eyes, he rose and stalked across the loft to her work area.

As he had two days earlier, he stood before her paintings, admiring the sweep of her brush as it almost made love to the figures she had placed on the canvas. The movement of the brushstrokes was so alive, he found himself laying his fingertips against the image on the canvas as if to prove to himself that they weren’t real.

Ramona wondered what he was doing as he stood there, scrutinizing her artwork once more. When he raised his hand and touched the canvas, she had to go see what had drawn him. She set the mug on the table and joined him.

When he ran his fingertips along the line of the woman’s hip in the painting, tracing the slender sweep of her waist, Ramona imagined his hand against her own body. Imagined how it would be for him to touch her the way he caressed the woman on the canvas—the woman she had imagined herself to be, lost in the throes of a lover’s embrace.

As he shifted his hand upward, over the shadow beneath the woman’s breast, she felt his energy beside her. Sensed his growing desire and her own.

When he looked at her, his ice-blue eyes blazed with fire. “Did you feel this way as you painted?”

She had felt that way and more. But she couldn’t confess that with each stroke of the brush, she had imagined it was them together.

“No,” she said.

But he faced her and, laying a hand at her waist, murmured “Liar.”

He bent from his larger height, but she was already meeting him halfway, wanting to experience him if only for this one moment. A moment that had sprung from nowhere, but was not to be missed.

His lips were a bit cold, but wonderfully soft on hers. They sampled the edges of her mouth as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

The body she had admired from afar was much like she had imagined. Big. Strong. Firm.

He was hard beneath her hands as she grabbed hold of his shoulders. Hard against the flatness of her belly as he swept his arm beneath her buttocks and drew her to him.

She moaned at the thought of that hardness within her. Of his big body urging her downward into the softness of the bed that was just at the other side of the loft.

Her whimper of need jolted Diego from the enjoyment of her response.

As right as she felt in his arms, this was wrong, he thought, and slowly eased away from her.

“Perdóname, Ramona. This should never have happened.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, too,” she said, and shifted away, nervously rubbing her palms up and down the front of the figure-hugging jeans she wore.

He reached out and took her hands to stop the jittery motion. “Please don’t take this wrong, little one. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“You’re gay?” she squeaked, obviously confused by his statement.

“No, not at all,” he began with a chuckle. “I’m just a…heartbreaker. A cad.”

“A cad? Fossilized much?” she teased uneasily at his choice of the rather old-fashioned term.

“Let’s just say I’ll break your heart, and I’d rather not do that.”

She slipped her hands from his and nodded. “I get it, Diego. No harm, no foul.”

“Right,” he said, only he didn’t think either of them believed that there had been no harm.

After the heat of that kiss, their relationship would never be the same, and that wasn’t a good thing.

Diego was always amused by a visit to the Lair. His friend Ryder had managed to create quite a tongue-in-cheek homage to his vampire self. From the faux stone walls to the hundreds of realistic bats clinging to the ceiling, everything about the establishment created the illusion of being in a cavern deep belowground.

As Diego strolled to the bar, he smiled at the sign for the club, which dripped neon blood from its bright red letters onto the gleaming stainless steel surface below.

Diego realized the crowd here only liked to play at being in the darkness, unlike those who frequented the Blood Bank, where he used to hang out before meeting Ryder nearly two years ago. Up until then, he and Esperanza had visited the place fairly regularly, knowing that they could always sip from a willing neck or drink the bloody libations the Blood Bank carried for its vamp clientele. Totally unlike Ryder’s club, which had a strict No Bite No Blood policy.

Diego had to acknowledge that coming here and being with Ryder had mellowed him somewhat, making him more of a human wanna-be than ever before. Maybe that was the reason Ramona was now so intriguing. Hanging with Ryder and his friends the past two years had blurred the lines between his true vamp world and the human world to which he could never belong.

Or maybe it was because his friend Ryder was in love with a human—something Diego refused to consider.

Ryder approached, his mortal lover at his side. Diana didn’t look well, Diego thought; her pale countenance and slight frame seemed even more delicate than it had just a few weeks ago, when he’d last seen her. As she neared, his vamp senses picked up the unusual thrum of power cast from her body, and he shot a puzzled look at Ryder.

Had he turned her? he wondered, sensing that there was something more vamp than human about Ryder’s lover. However, Diego knew if there was anyone more adamant than he about not turning anyone, it was Ryder.

“How are you?” Diego said as he rose and embraced Diana, sensing the fragility in her petite body.

“I’m fine. What brings you here?” she asked, slipping onto a stool beside him.

Ryder took a spot behind her, clearly offering her support. She shot him a look that was both grateful and sensual, as if just his touch could rouse her.

Diego realized it was enough for his friend as he bent and nuzzled the side of Diana’s face in a loving gesture, a human gesture. Even when Ryder dropped his head lower, to the crook of her neck, the vampire stayed in check.

With the scene too painful to behold, Diego turned away, focusing on the deep red of the wine in his glass. He imagined it was a fresh O positive, to remind himself of what he was. Of why emotion such as that plainly visible on Ryder’s face would bring only pain and despair.

As Diana picked up her own glass of wine, he once again wondered at her paleness and the power spilling off her body. Of course, Ryder was plastered so close that maybe it was a remnant of his vampire energy that Diego sensed.

But maybe it was time to press the issue.

“Bite any good necks lately?” His gaze skimmed to Diana’s jugular before he took an idle sip of his wine.

Ryder straightened, an angry look on his face. Diana flinched at the remark and her own face darkened with anger.

“Something on your mind, Diego?” Ryder asked, easing his hand to her shoulder, where he rubbed it back and forth as if to soothe the prickly special agent, who was clearly not amused by Diego’s comment.

“Diana just seems a bit…under the weather. Maybe she needs a more experienced vamp—”

The human Ryder had been the one to escort Diana to the bar, but it was his demon side now acting with a vehemence and swiftness Diego hadn’t expected. He found himself lifted off the stool as Ryder snared his neck in one strong hand.

“Why are you doing this?” his friend hissed against his face, his eyes bleeding out to an intense blue-green as a hint of fang slid downward.

“Woman trouble,” Diego confessed. For the last hour he had prowled Ryder’s vamp-themed club and engaged in dances with an assortment of nubile young women in the hopes of driving Ramona from his mind. When he realized that every female he had chosen reminded him of the eccentric artist, he’d given up and decided to resort to wine to force thoughts of her away.

Diana laid a hand on Ryder’s arm, urging him to release Diego, which he did. She slipped from her stool and said, “I’ll let you two talk. Be back later.”

With a quick kiss on Ryder’s cheek, she walked away, leaving the vampires alone. Reining in the anger that had brought forth the demon, Ryder said, “It’s been over a year now. Don’t you think it’s time you forgot about Esperanza?”

“You can never forget a true love, but actually, this is about someone else.”

“Someone else? This warrants something stronger than wine, I believe.” Ryder motioned to a waiter. “A bottle of Cuervo and glasses, please.”

The bartender obliged. He placed a shaker of salt and a small bowl of limes next to the tequila.

Ryder poured full shots of the liquor, then grabbed his glass. Heedless of the salt and lime, he held it up and said, “To women.”

Diego shook his head. “Never again, amigo.”

“But you said—”

“Woman trouble. As in major mistake never going to happen in my eternal life if I can help it.” With that said, he slugged back a full shot. He quickly refilled the glass, prompting a chuckle from his friend.

“This is serious. I’ve never known you to have more than one.”

With a careless shrug, Diego took his time with the second drink, sipping the tequila slowly. He winced at the sharp taste of it, so much less pleasing than either a glass of wine or a nice nip from the neck of someone willing.

Like that attractive young woman eyeing him from the end of the bar. She was barely thirty, with long chestnut-colored hair and dark eyes much like—

No. He hated that his thoughts had strayed back to Ramona. After Esperanza’s death, he had assumed he would spend the rest of his eternal life sans partner. That Ramona kept intruding into his psyche troubled him deeply.

“So tell me, Diego. Who’s the unlucky vamp who’s displeased you so?”

In the vampire hierarchy in Manhattan, Diego’s age and corresponding power put him high on the pecking order. Those who angered him could be handled without encountering much opposition from the other vampires in the city. Not that Diego took advantage of such rank. If anything, the other vampires considered him a human wannabe because he normally refused to benefit from his powers and his undead state.

As for Ramona, she knew nothing of his eternal life. Nothing other than the face he presented to the mortal world—that he was a well-off dilettante who had rather successfully dabbled in the art world. He imagined that like most humans, Ramona would not be able to deal with his true self.

“Diego?” Ryder prompted at his delay in answering.

“She’s not a vampire. She’s a mortal.”

Ryder shook his head as if to clear it. “Did I hear you right? A mortal? Like Diana?”

Diego thought about Ryder’s mortal lover, only Ramona was nothing like Diana. With a shake of his head, he teased, “Amigo, there isn’t anyone quite like your lover.”

Ryder looked toward Diana, who was busy talking to someone at the edge of the bar. He tarried in refilling the shot glass before bolting back another slug of tequila.

“Is everything okay with you?” Diego asked, sensing his friend’s suddenly troubled state.

With a shrug, Ryder said, “Diana has been tired lately.”

Diego sensed that it went beyond tiredness, but if that was what his friend wished to call it, he wouldn’t worry him more. “I’m sure she’s been working long hours on some case.”

“I guess desk duty can be difficult.”

Desk duty would be the death of someone like Ryder’s very empowered lover, he thought. “They still haven’t released her?”

“No. The review board suspension hasn’t been lifted. But enough of that. Who is this mortal woman who has you so twisted up?” Ryder asked, starting to refill their glasses for a third time. Diego waved him off. “I’m afraid I may need something more satisfying, mi amigo.” Something that would remind him of what he was and why someone like Ramona Escobar was thoroughly wrong for him.

“I’d go with you, but…”

Surprised, Diego shot a puzzled glance at his friend. Ryder only occasionally indulged his vampire needs, usually at times of extreme stress, when releasing the beast within helped restore balance.

It also helped restore the reality of their situation—that they were no longer human. That playing at being so and acquiring human desires and attachments could only bring eternal pain.

Slipping from the stool, Diego clapped his friend on the back. “Comprendo, amigo. However, a willing neck waits for me at the Blood Bank.”


Chapter 3

Diego slipped payment to the vampire guarding the back rooms and walked past him with the young girl in tow. She was medium height, with short red hair and a plain face, but her body made up for it. The black leather she wore exposed womanly curves and alabaster skin. She was much like Esperanza, who beneath her servant’s clothes had been blessed with a voluptuousness that he’d lovingly cherished for five hundred years.

He opened the door to the first room, one of a series that Foley, the owner of the Blood Bank, kept for those who wanted some unusual enjoyment. As Diego entered, he noted the chains, whips and other accoutrements on the far wall.

When the young woman saw them, she let out a squeal of delight and rushed over, selecting a small whip, which she snapped with relish.

The noise unnerved him, and in a blast of vamp speed, he raced forward and ripped the whip from her grasp.

She glanced up at his face, her head tilted at what she probably thought was an engaging angle, but which only served to expose the pale skin of her neck and the pulse that beat there.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of a little pain?” she asked coyly.

Diego laid a finger on that pulse point and met her gaze. “You know nothing of real pain,” he said, his tone soft but threatening.

“Really? But I know one thing.” She leaned closer and reached down to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

“Yes, you do know.” He sucked in a breath as she undid the zipper, slipped her hand inside and beneath his briefs to wrap her soft palm around his rock-hard erection.

“You like?” she asked, and at his nod, she dropped to her knees, freed him from his pants and took him into her mouth.

Dios, Diego thought, enjoying how she satisfied him with her gifted mouth and tongue, while wondering at the same time why modern women debased themselves so quickly in this fashion. In his day, only the street whores would go at a man like this, without prelude or passion.

But that thought didn’t stop him from holding her head to him until he felt his climax rise to the edge, and with it, the beast who needed satisfaction of another kind.

Shaking his head, he drove the demon back, wishing to at least pleasure the woman before he allowed his own release and indulged the vampire with a different kind of fulfillment.

Urging her to her feet, he undressed her slowly, revealing each luscious curve. He paused to caress her generous breasts, which filled his hands, and the large, rosy peaks of her nipples. She moaned as he sucked at them, but with a little love bite, he moved lower down her body until he was the supplicant before her, peeling away her leather pants to reveal the nest of auburn curls between her thighs.

She gazed down at him then, her brown eyes dilated with passion, her lips full, not that he would kiss her. He never kissed any of his conquests on the mouth.

Instead he grasped her hips and urged her forward. He nuzzled the curls with his nose and then slipped his hand around and parted her, eased one finger and then another into her while he licked the nub between her legs.

She gasped in delight and grabbed hold of his shoulders. Her soft moans drove him on, until he could wait no longer. Surging to his feet, he raised her off the floor and drove into her before walking them to the far wall of the room.

With her back against the rough plaster, she shifted her hips, moving on him, and he hammered into her again and again until she nearly screamed from the force of his thrusts and the pleasure they wrought in her.

The pulse at her neck beat rapidly. Violently. Blood called him to fulfill another need.

Diego bent his head and placed his lips there. He licked her skin, finding it slightly salty from the sweat of their lovemaking. Sweet beneath the sweat.

She shot him a look from the corner of her eye, and he whispered against the side of her face, “You know what I want.”

At her nod, he surged upward into her one last time, liberating a climax that made her scream.

Then he finally freed the demon. His eyes bled out and fangs erupted from his mouth. Fangs that he drove deep into the skin at her neck.

Her body tightened around him, held him closer as the vampire’s kiss created a different kind of hunger within her. Within him.

He sucked, savoring her blood, singing with the passion from their sex. He felt filled with youthful energy. Her blood charged every inch of his vampire body with renewed strength.

He could have kept on feeding, as many did, until there was no choice but to turn the human or let her die. Instead, he took only enough to sate the night’s hunger, knowing that tomorrow there would be another willing human or a delicious libation at the Blood Bank.

Rearing back, he carried the nearly unconscious young woman to the bed. His hands trembled with the energy zipping through his veins from his feeding, but somehow he managed to rearrange her clothing and his.

As he gazed down at her, she seemed to be peacefully asleep. The bite marks on her neck were already healing. When she woke, she would feel as if she merely had a bad hangover, and remember little of their encounter.

And what will you feel when you wake? the voice inside his head asked. But Diego knew there was no waking from this eternal nightmare. From the endless days filled with only one certain thing. Death. No end to the loneliness that had returned with Esperanza’s death. Especially not with a human, he reminded himself. With a last look at the woman, he fled the Blood Bank. Though hunger was abated, the encounter had left him unsatisfied. He dived into the night to find a different kind of delight.

With the energy of the young woman’s blood rushing through his veins, Diego leaped up to the rooftop of the adjacent building. A harvest moon filled the night sky, illuminating the city below, lighting the night for him, as if knowing of his intent.

A burst of vamp speed had him nearly flying over the rooftops, vaulting from one building to another in his haste to reach his destination. The air rushed against his body, but barely cooled the heat of the demon driving him. With one last, almost desperate jump, he was on the ledge of Ramona’s building, an old converted warehouse in a part of town that had yet to be gentrified. It was probably why she could afford to have the uppermost loft. It boasted skylights at various locations that flooded the space with light so she could paint.

He imagined her down below, standing before one of her canvases, as he neared one skylight. Imagined her stroking the brush across the surface, and immediately the paintings she had completed came to mind, reawakening his earlier desire. A desire that taking the young woman hadn’t satisfied.

He suspected only one woman could slake his need tonight.

Slowly he crept to the skylight and glanced downward. The paintings were there, but that wasn’t what he wanted to see.

He shifted to the next skylight—smaller than the first, but still generous enough to provide a view.

She was there, below the glass, lying in bed, the sheets in disarray around her naked body.

Diego groaned and reared back from the sight, knowing how wrong it was, and yet unable to deny himself this. This was all he could allow himself with her—this distant passion. Anything else would be wrong on so many levels.

She was human.

He wasn’t.

She would die.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t keep her with him. He wouldn’t turn her and see her change. See all that he admired about her become twisted by the grief that would inevitably follow as the years passed and life went on around them. As loved ones and familiar things were lost.

He had seen how it had affected Esperanza. How it had touched the lives of Ryder and all his other friends. He had encountered one too many vampires whose hearts had grown cold, or who had gone nearly insane from the loss of those for whom they cared, and all they held dear.

He wouldn’t visit that kind of distress on anyone else. But he wouldn’t deny himself satisfaction this night, he decided, as he inched back to the edge of the glass and peered down.

Her breasts were full and as beautiful as he had imagined, with dark coral nipples he hungered to taste. The sheet draped across her body just beneath her breasts, the dark maroon color highlighting the paleness of her skin and accenting the chestnut highlights in her hair.

She shifted in bed and her long dark hair fell against her breast. She brushed the errant lock away, but then paused, her hand lingering there.

Diego swallowed back a groan as she touched herself, cupping her breast and fingering her nipple until it peaked to a hard point.

She was awake.

With his vamp senses he could detect the rhythm of her heartbeat and breathing, which said she was conscious of what she was doing. He could hear the beat grow faster and see the pulse in her neck jump as she played with the tip, rotating it between thumb and forefinger. Pulling and pinching it as a lover might.

After their brief interlude earlier that night, was she imagining that it was him?

At the thought, his erection swelled painfully against his jeans, human desire overriding the demon. As wrong as he knew it was, he couldn’t pull away from the sight of her, couldn’t stop himself from reaching down and imagining it was her palm on him.

His mouth watered as she moved her other hand downward, past the rounded curve of her hip visible above the sheet. He stroked harder as her fingers found her center beneath the sheets, and the beat of her heart surged in response.

When her hips raised off the bed, he groaned and closed his eyes, imagining how he might grasp those hips and drive into her. How he might stroke her to a release the way he now pulled at himself, harder and faster as his vamp senses picked up the erratic breaths spilling from her lips. He heard the soft moan of desire followed by a sharp gasp as fulfillment chased through her body.

He came then, violently and so swiftly he grew light-headed from the force of it.

Dropping away from the skylight, he sat at the edge, spent. Humiliated at how little control he had exhibited. Only it had been so long since he had felt such need. And it wasn’t just since Esperanza’s death nearly eighteen months earlier. Diego realized that it had been too long since life and passion had filled his being. Since he had truly lived.

At that, he bent his legs and buried his head in his knees, tears threatening as he realized the emptiness of his life. Of all that had been his existence for five hundred years.

Just because one woman’s passion had roused him as never before. A woman he could never have.

With a rough breath, he forced himself to rise and put things to right, but as he did so, he allowed himself one quick look before he left.

One look too much, he realized, when he saw that she had curled up into a ball and was crying. Her tears tugged at his heart, but before he did something he would truly regret, Diego surged off the roof, the sight of her crying driving him away, since all he could do was bring her yet more tears.

* * *

Ramona dashed the tears from her face, chastising herself for her weakness. She should never have given in to the remnants of the dream—one filled with her and Diego making love.

But she had let her need guide her, and the physical satisfaction she had given herself had been gratifying at first. Then the realization had come of how empty it was. Much like her life. Much the way her life would end.

Empty and alone.

She had spent her early teen years struggling to survive in the barrio, joining a small street gang for protection and company. With her dad gone and her mother slowly losing her mind, there hadn’t been anyone else to turn to.

A bad mistake. Their petty thievery and rivalry with another gang had landed Ramona in juvie for a few difficult months. It wasn’t the time in the detention center that had been hard, it was worrying whether her mother was coping alone. Luckily, a caring counselor had helped her out and provided her mother with a visiting nurse.

That and an art class during her incarceration had set Ramona on the path to a college scholarship. After, she had devoted much of her later teen years and early twenties to her art, perfecting it at the cost of a social life. Any time not in the studio was spent caring for her mother at home, until the Alzheimer’s worsened and her mom had to be institutionalized.

Ramona had dated now and again during the last few years, but had found no man she could imagine spending the rest of her life with. No man as attractive as Diego, who had become her patron shortly after her graduation from college.

Now thirty was just a stone’s throw away, only she wasn’t sure she would reach that age. She had been battling the anemia robbing her of life for almost three years, since the diagnosis that had rocked her world.

Dying didn’t bother her as much as the thought of dying alone and unsatisfied. Of dying without ever knowing the kind of love she had seen her parents share before her father’s own untimely death and her mother’s illness.

Diego, she knew, was capable of a love like that. She had known of his devotion to Esperanza and had seen his pain after his lover had passed.

What would it be like to love or be loved like that?

Sadness filled Ramona as she realized she could never explore her attraction to Diego. It wouldn’t be fair to him, because of her illness. Not to mention that they were from such different worlds, his one of wealth and hers of the streets.

Had she stayed in the old neighborhood, stealing would have been part of her life. A life possibly meant to end quickly by gang violence.

Her art had helped her escape the streets, but not her fate—a life cut short, and tainted now by the fact that her skills had helped someone steal from others.

She should have realized something had been odd about van Winter’s request and refused it, but she had been desperate for the money for her mother’s care.

But maybe Ramona hadn’t been deceived. Maybe there was some rational explanation for why her paintings had been on display.

As she settled back against the pillows, she knew she had to find out and make things right.

Her stint in juvie had hurt her mother and dishonored her father’s name. She didn’t plan to die with people thinking that she was thief.

The facility Ramona had chosen for her mother supposedly provided the best care for patients with Alzheimer’s disease. But what had cinched the selection had been the wonderfully manicured grounds and almost parklike settings around the buildings.

Her mom loved the outdoors, and Ramona knew the lush gardens and lawns would give her joy even when she could no longer understand anything else.

It was the reason Ramona didn’t mind the long ride out on the railroad to the institution, although she regretted that her own illness had cut back on her visits. Lately there were days when she didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed, much less spend several hours on the train. Beyond the physical demands was also the emotional drain of seeing her once loving and caring mother fade before her eyes. It was sometimes more than Ramona could bear.

She had been feeling physically stronger today and needed to visit, to talk with her mami about all that had happened. If it was a good day, her mother might actually be able to understand bits and pieces, and listen and nod. Ramona imagined those nods to be answers and not just twitches.

On a bad day, her mom would stare at her vacantly, as if she didn’t even know she was there, much less recognize her.

As the train chugged along, making stop after stop, Ramona prayed today would be a good day.

She arrived at the facility nearly two hours later, and was greeted by the receptionist.

“Ms. Escobar. So good to see you again. Dr. Cavanaugh wanted to speak with you if you have a moment,” the woman said as she handed Ramona a visitor’s badge.

“Of course, Mabel.” The older black lady had always been pleasant and helpful during her many visits. “I’d like to see my mother first, though.”

With an efficient bob of her head, Mabel called down for an orderly to escort her to her room.

“I’ll let Dr. Cavanaugh know that you’re here.”

Ramona nodded and followed the attendant down the hall to the first-floor room with a view of the grounds. He opened the door for her and she walked in.

Her mother was in a comfortable rocker by the windows facing the gardens, her back to the door. A nurse was at her side, patting her mom on the shoulder as she said, “That’s wonderful, Anita. Wonderful.”

As the woman saw Ramona, she forced a smile, patted her again and said, “You have a visitor, Anita. Ramona is here.”

It was a bad day, Ramona realized immediately.

She walked to her mother’s side and pulled up a chair. As she met the nurse’s gaze, she noted the kindness and concern there and mouthed a thank-you.

The woman nodded and left her alone with the shell of what had once been her lively and vivacious mother. Ramona slipped her hand over Anita’s where it rested on the arm of the rocker. Nothing hinted that she even sensed her touch.

Anita just stared straight ahead at the gardens, a blank, distant look on her face.

Tears threatened and Ramona’s throat choked up from the emotion she suppressed. She wouldn’t allow sadness to intrude on their time together, so instead, she sat by the rocker and told her mother all about the new paintings she had done and the show Diego had arranged. She skipped possibly being part of an art fraud, and instead focused on her plans for the gallery opening in barely a week.

She even allowed herself to fantasize for a moment, describing what she might wear and how Diego would notice her, how he’d spend the night at her side and maybe even take her for a celebratory drink after. And then who knew?

Ramona talked until she was almost hoarse, but she doubted her mother even heard a word.

When she looked at her watch, she realized she had been there for nearly two hours, and Dr. Cavanaugh might be waiting for her. Rising, she dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. The skin was familiar against her lips, and her mami’s smell that of her youth. Ramona had made a point of getting her mother’s favorite cologne and had requested the nurses use it as a way to try and keep her mind focused on familiar things.

It was the reason that many of the items that had once been in their Spanish Harlem apartment were now in her mother’s room. Her parents’ wedding pictures. School photos of Ramona at various ages. Some other photos of distant cousins, since both of Ramona’s parents had been only children, leaving her without much immediate family.

Near the door, Ramona stopped to call the front desk to find out if Dr. Cavanaugh was still available. Minutes later she entered his office, and the kindly older man smiled and stood. He walked over and hugged her hard, everything about his demeanor calm and soothing.

He guided her to a couch at the side of his office and he sat down beside her, holding her hand as he spoke.

“How are you, Ramona? You’re looking well today,” he said, his gaze inquisitive as he examined her.

“I’m fine, Dr. Cavanaugh. How’s mami doing?” she asked, not that she needed to be told her condition was growing worse. Despite that, his report still saddened her.

“Anita’s condition is deteriorating rapidly. Her moments of awareness and lucidity are fewer and fewer.”

Ramona thought of her mom, vacantly sitting in the chair, her mind gone but her body alive. Quite the opposite of her own state. Ironic.

“How long before…”

Dr. Cavanaugh gently squeezed her hand. “Before she can no longer function at all? Not long, unfortunately.”

Ramona sucked in a shaky breath, battling to remain calm. “The trust fund I’ve set up… It will be enough to take care of her for some time, right?”

“You needn’t worry about that. Concentrate on getting better yourself,” he said, and Ramona didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was nothing she could do to make herself better. All she could do was prolong her life just a little bit more. Just enough to make the money she needed to guarantee her mother would be cared for when she was gone.

“I will, Dr. Cavanaugh. I’ll be back soon to see mami,” she said, but as she left his office she sensed his scrutiny and knew he hadn’t been fooled by her words.

They both knew her promise to return might be an empty one.


Chapter 4

Deranged Artist Stalks Rich Millionaire. More on the news at ten. Ramona could not stop the odd thoughts as the two guards at the entrance to the van Winter building watched her closely, their hands crossed before them in that practiced pose law enforcement types must learn in a class called How to Look Menacing 101.

She’d been calling for days, but her many requests to speak to Mr. van Winter all met with the same response: he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

Quite a difference from his behavior during the six months she had been busy copying the paintings. Then the reclusive millionaire would visit her at least twice a day to check on her progress and comment on her artistic abilities. The time they’d shared had alleviated some of her concerns about his reasons for copying the paintings.

Coming down to the building to try to speak to him hadn’t helped at all. She wasn’t on any approved-visitors list, and calls to van Winter’s assistant revealed that the woman was no longer with the company.

With determination, Ramona swept her gaze up the gleaming metal-and-glass structure of Van Winter Enterprises and thought, If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, I’ll just bring the mountain to Mohammed.

Julio Vasquez strolled from painting to painting, stroking his goateed chin with long, elegant fingers while Diego stood by patiently, waiting for his old friend’s opinion.

“Brilliant!” he said, and whirled to face him, his arms stretched wide. “Absolutely brilliant. I can see why you would toss me aside for these gems, amigo.”

Theatrical as always, Diego thought. He approached and laid his arm across Julio’s shoulders. “You know I would never toss you aside, but—”

“You have feelings for the señorita,” Julio teased.

Diego tried to defuse any further inquiry. “I believe in her work, Julio. Nothing more.”

With a flamboyant swish of his hand, Julio slipped from beneath his arm and walked to stand before one of the paintings again. After a moment, he called over his shoulder, “She desires, you as well. It’s here, amigo. In her work. Can you not see it?”

Diego stepped up beside his friend and examined the painting once again, the one he had stood before a few nights ago with Ramona at his side. The one that had led to that rather interesting, but ill-advised, encounter.

Once again he noted the loving sweep of the brush across the woman’s hip, the possessive strokes delineating the man’s arm as it wrapped around her waist. He tracked the line of that arm up to the indistinct face.

He had thought Ramona had left the man virtually faceless as her way of allowing the observer to complete the canvas in his or her own mind. Now, though, prompted by Julio’s words, he noticed the familiar line of the jaw, the way the hair—longish and of a similar color to his—fell forward as his might if he cupped her hips to him and bent his head to taste the flesh of her neck.

“Dios mio, amigo,” Julio said with a strangled breath, and Diego suddenly realized that with his friend’s vampire abilities, he would pick up on that thrum of power that sexual desire created in their kind.

“I have not felt that from you since Esperanza,” his old friend said, for Julio had been with him for so long. Had been instrumental in giving him the eternal life he now had.

Regret filled Diego as he remembered the events that had forever changed his world.

A shadow wavered before him, waking him.

“Esperanza?”

He opened his eyes, but instead encountered an old friend—another nobleman and an aspiring artist with whom he regularly shared a cup or two.

“Don Julio.” He lacked the strength to say more or ask how the lordly painter had managed to get past the guards. The torture earlier that day had sapped what little life was left in Diego.

“Amigo, you have managed to create quite a stir with your refusal to confess.” Don Julio helped him into a sitting position.

“I am innocent,” he said, but found it hard to speak due to the weakness in his body.

“You may be, but that won’t save you. Your wife and her lover are dying from a fever. Some say it is the devil’s work.”

Don Julio knelt beside him, and as the moonlight played across his old friend’s face, Diego noted it looked ashen, almost otherworldly in the pale glow.

“Are you well?” Diego asked, concerned for his friend.

“Never better, unlike you. You are to be burned alive in a few days. They prepare for an immense auto de fé in the plaza.”

So he was to die a public spectacle in the town square, deprived of dignity up to the very last second of his life? If there was any consolation, it was that his wife and her lapdog of a lover might shortly follow him to hell for what they had done.

“Gracias, amigo, for the news.”

Don Julio hesitated, and a glimmer of anxiety swept across his features before he said, “I bring more than news. I bring a chance for life.”

“Life?”

“Life such as you can’t imagine, Diego. Are you brave enough to take the chance?”

Diego thought of the vows he had made to himself in the last month. Of all the dreams he had yet to fulfill. Of Esperanza, with her kind eyes and gentle touch. Of how he had yet to properly thank her for all she’d done for him.

“Sí, I am brave enough.”

His friend nodded, and Diego watched with fascination and horror as the dark brown of Julio’s eyes bled out to an oddly glowing blue-green. He was so fascinated by the change that for a second he failed to notice the long fangs descending from Don Julio’s mouth.

“Madre de Dios,” he said, shocked by the transformation. But he didn’t flinch as his friend bent toward him.

If anything, he bared his neck, wanting to make the task easier. The brush of his friend’s lips against his skin was a shock, an almost loving gesture beforethe bite and its pain. But soon after, the distress receded, followed by passion that made him hold Julio’s head to him, wanting his embrace never to end.

But it did, as his eyesight dimmed from the loss of blood, and Julio whispered against his ear, “Bite me.”

The fever of the vampire transformation had racked his body with alternating chills and fever for over a day before imprisoning him in a world of darkness from which he fought to escape. When he finally woke, he found himself tightly bound in foul-smelling sheets. Struggling against the fabric, he rent it with his hands and emerged, only to find Julio kneeling beside him, knife in hand.

“Always the impatient one,” his friend teased, but then his look grew serious. “They discovered Esperenza was helping you. She’s to be burned alive tomorrow. We must hurry.”

After cutting away the rest of the linens, Julio rose and led Diego along the edges of the building the Inquisitor had turned into his prison. At the back, Julio paused at the entrance to a root cellar, where a large boulder blocked the thick wooden door. Julio lifted the immense stone as if it weighed nothing. At Diego’s questioning glance, his friend whispered, “You will soon be able to test your own powers.”

They entered the cellar and then the basement storage areas that had been converted into holding cells for the sinners awaiting punishment.

A few doors down, Julio halted and pointed at one cell. Diego peered in through the bars.

Esperanza lay on the ground, sprawled across the dirt and straw. A rat rooted around her skirts, but she seemed either unaware or uncaring. He whispered her name, but she didn’t move, creating the fear in him that she had already slipped from life.

“Esperanza,” he whispered again, but she didn’tstir.

He grabbed the lock with his hands and, remembering Julio’s earlier words and action, violently twisted it. It bent as if made of putty, and he quickly removed it and made his way to Esperanza’s side.

Her eyes were closed, but as he laid his hand on her cold cheek, they fluttered open. “I heard you call my name. I thought it was a dream.”

A wisp of a smile crept across her lips before her eyes fluttered shut again.

He placed his hands on the pulse point of her neck and noted how weak and thready it was. Cursing beneath his breath, he cradled her to his chest, wanting to offer the comfort of his body’s warmth, only he had no warmth to give. He had nothing to give her except the love he had come to feel for her and the kiss that Julio had offered him. Diego wanted her to have another chance at life. A life in which they could explore their burgeoning love.

Cradling her cheek, he managed to rouse heragain, her expressive brown eyes sparking with a bit of life. “Diego. You’re truly here,” she said weakly.

“Amor, I’m here for you. Will you come withme?” He brushed his hand across the matted strands of her once luxuriant auburn locks.

“I am yours, Diego. Forever.”

He waited no longer.

With the instinct of the demon’s blood now flowing through his veins, he called forth the beast. Heat pooled at the center of him and sped outward, charging his body as everything around him came to even sharper focus. Hunger rose, needing appeasement, and in answer, he sensed the fangs slipping downward, heard the erratic beat of her heart, urging him to act before death called.

He bent his head, and shivered at the first brush of his fangs against her pulse point. Dragging in one last breath, he whispered, “Forgive me, mi amor,” and plunged his teeth into her neck.


Chapter 5

Ramona had already prepared for a few openings in her short career as an artist, and they always filled her with excitement. This visit to the gallery to check things out was no different and possibly even more compelling, since it would likely be her last.

The gallery was closed to the public in anticipation of the showing, which was now only two nights away. She was anxious to see how Diego had placed her paintings and decorated the space, since he always seemed to find just the right way to highlight the chosen works.

She was filled with trepidation at one other thing she planned to do that night—ask Diego for the phone number of one of the buyers from the van Winter auction. She knew he had it because the woman in question was a frequent visitor to his gallery and had, in fact, bought one of Ramona’s earlier works.

Although Ramona didn’t plan on calling the woman right away, she hoped that letting van Winter know that she was in possession of the number would spur him to see her and answer some of her questions. She didn’t want to consider what she would do if he ignored her request.

The buyer might consent to speak with her, but then what? The woman would likely think Ramona crazy if she accused van Winter of putting a forgery up for sale. Worse, the accusations would impact on Diego, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen.

Diego had been too good to her, and she didn’t want to hurt him in any way.

Slowly she climbed the three short steps to the exclusive Soho gallery. A rich satin drape with a fanciful crest and Diego’s name blocked the main display window. She rapped on the glass door with her knuckle and a light snapped on in one of the back rooms. A second later, Diego strolled out.

He was dressed casually in black jeans and a charcoal-gray sweater that seemed painted to his body. Seeing her at the door, he rushed to open it.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” He took her hand and noticed the cold once again, much like a few nights before.

“Not long.” She eased her hand from his and rubbed it self-consciously as she stepped into the gallery and looked around, clearly eager to see how he had prepared for the showing.

Diego did not plan on rushing the surprise. “Let’s get you comfortable.” He slipped his hands to her shoulders and eased off her coat, tossing it on a chair. Then he walked to a long table set in the anteroom, where a lone bottle of wine sat beside two glasses. “At the show we’ll have some refreshments here before we direct everyone inside to the main displays,” he explained.

Ramona flicked a finger in the direction of the central exhibit area of the gallery. “When can I see?”

Diego chuckled, approached her and cupped her cheek. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed, little one,” he teased, determined to make everything perfect for her. He ignored the voice in his head that said becoming personally involved with her was a mistake.

For starters, she was human. And beautiful. A definite strike against her. The last beautiful woman he had become involved with had betrayed him and cost him his mortal life. He knew little about Ramona, but he had seen the shadows of secrets in her eyes.

The yearning in the paintings, however, and the possibility that he had produced such hunger, overrode common sense and caution.




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