He saw her almost every night after that. She arrived at his house shortly after eleven and stayed until the early hours of the morning.

It was a routine that fit his with remarkable precision. He never had to worry about offering her food because of the lateness of the hour. An occasional cup of coffee, a glass of wine, were all she ever asked for.

Often, they went riding in the moonlight, sharing the quiet intimacy of the night.

Sometimes, as now, they sat on the sofa, watching television. Tonight they were watchingLove at First Bite starring George Hamilton as the infamous Count Dracula in an affectionate spoof of vampire movies.

"He's a very romantic night creature," Leanne remarked. " 'With you, never a quickie, always a longie?' " She grinned impishly as she quoted a line from the movie.

Jason arched one brow as he watched George Hamilton hurrying down a New York street moments before the coming dawn, his black cape swirling behind him like the devil's breath. Romantic, indeed?

He caressed Leanne's cheek with the tip of his finger. "And would you let the count bite your neck if you had the chance?"

Leanne poked him playfully in the ribs. "Oh, I think I'd let Mr. Hamilton bite anything he liked."

"Have you ever thought of what it would be like to be a vampire?"

"Sure, who hasn't?" Leanne smiled at him, her deep green eyes dancing with laughter. "I mean, except for the blood part, the thought of living forever is very appealing, although I'm not sure I'd want to turn into a bat."

The blood. His gaze moved to the pulse in her neck. He could hear the blood moving through her veins, smell the heat of it, the warmth. The thought of drinking from her sickened him even as it excited him.

"And do you believe in vampires?" he asked, his voice low and seductive.

Leanne's, gaze met his, all humor gone from her expression. "Yes, I do." She lifted one brow. "You look surprised."

"I am. Most people don't believe in monsters."

"There are all kinds of monsters."

"Indeed." He glanced at the television, his stomach muscles tightening as George Hamilton enveloped Susan Saint James in the folds of his voluminous black cape to give her the final bite that would change her into a vampire.

He felt Leanne's hand on his thigh, felt his mouth water at the thought of giving her the vampire's kiss.

"Is something wrong, Jason?"

He shook his head, and then, unable to keep from touching her, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

His touch went through her like lightning, igniting every nerve ending, every sense of awareness. His tongue plundered her mouth, stealing her breath away, until she thought she would faint. He whispered her name, his voice urgent, almost rough, as though he were in pain.

She felt his hands slide under her sweater to settle on her bare back, felt the tremors that coursed through him as his fingertips caressed her quivering flesh. His kiss deepened, taking her to places she'd never been. His intensity frightened her even as it excited her. He seemed to know exactly what she liked, what she wanted? what she needed.

She gasped with pleasure as she felt his teeth nip at the lobe of her ear, then nibble the side of her neck. Desire shot through her, and with it an image of darkness that went beyond black.

"Jason!" Alarmed, she drew back.

The light in his eyes burned brighter than any candle, hotter than any sun. His breathing was erratic, his lips slightly parted. She watched him draw several deep breaths, felt the effort it cost him to release her.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "Forgive me."

"It's all right. I'm as much to blame as you are."

"No." He couldn't keep his hands from shaking, couldn't keep his gaze from returning time and again to the pulse beating so rapidly in her throat.

Rising, he extended his hand. "Come, I'll walk you to your car."

She didn't want to go home, she wanted to stay, to spend what was left of the night in his arms, but leaving was definitely the smart thing to do.

Another moment, and she would have lost all control.

Another second, and she would have given him whatever he wanted.

Hand in hand, they walked down the stairs to the driveway.

Jason opened the car door for her, kissing her cheek before she slid behind the wheel.

She closed the door, then rolled down the window and leaned out for one last kiss.

He covered her mouth with his, drinking deeply of her innocence. "Don't come tomorrow night," he said, and before she could ask why, he turned away, taking the stairs two at a time.

From the window in the living room he watched her drive away, wondering if she had any idea of the danger she'd been in.


* * *


He sat in his favorite chair in front of the fireplace in the den, his hands clenched into tight fists as he listened to the sound track fromThe Phantom of the Opera. The haunting words of the Phantom's plaintiff cry as he pleaded for Christine's love filled the room, echoing in Jason's heart.

The Phantom's music of the night might be a ballad of love and longing, Jason thought, but his own song was a requiem of blood and death, of darkness as deep and wide as eternity, as bottomless as the bowels of hell.

The Phantom of the Opera had lived in the darkness of life, Jason mused bitterly, but he was trapped in the everlasting darkness of his soul.

He shuddered to think how close he had come to wrapping Leanne in his embrace, to quenching his unholy thirst by stealing the essence of life from a creature who was pure and innocent.

He could not see her again. He loved her too much to put her life in danger, to risk turning her into the kind of monster he had become.

There was no hope for him, but he would not defile Leanne. She was a beautiful woman, made to walk in the sun, to find love in the arms of a mortal man and bear his children.

A hoarse cry rose in his throat, a cry that became an anguished scream of denial as he imagined her in the arms of another man, a man who could take her walking on the beach, who could make love to her in the light of day, a man who didn't live in the shadows.

A man who didn't thirst for that which made him a thief of the worst kind, stealing life itself.


* * *


For the next week he tormented himself by going to the theater, watching her perform on stage, hearing the sweet magic of her voice.

He listened to the Phantom's anguish with renewed pain. Just once, he thought, just once he'd like to see Christine turn her back on Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, and give the Phantom of the Opera the love he craved, the love only she could give.

When the show was over, he hovered in the deep shadows to make sure Leanne made it safely to her car. It was the worst kind of torture, seeing her from a distance, hungering for her touch, yearning to hear the sound of his name on her lips.

Each night he saw her gaze sweep the crowds waiting at the stage door, the hope in her eyes fading when she didn't see him.

And now he stood in the shadows again, a tall figure dressed all in black. Couples passed him by, never knowing he was there. Frustrated beyond reason, hating what he was because it kept him from the woman he loved, it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from destroying the innocent creatures who passed him by. He was torn with the need to lash out, to hurt others as he was hurting.

He watched a young couple pass by, and he wanted to sink his fangs into the man's throat, to turn the man into a monster so that the woman at his side would look at him with loathing instead of desire.

He fought down the growing lust for blood as he saw Leanne coming down the sidewalk. She was late tonight, and he wondered what, or who, had detained her at the theater. Jealousy rose in his throat, as bitter as bile, at the thought of her with another man?a mortal man.

His hands curled into tight fists as he watched her cross the street. More than anything, he wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, for just a moment.

His eyes narrowed as he saw three dark shadows disengage themselves from a doorway and follow her into the parking lot.

He lost sight of her as she turned the corner, and then he heard her scream.

In an instant he was across the street, his hands closing around the throat of the thug nearest to him. The man's choked cry alerted his companions, and they whirled around to face him. One held a knife; the other a pistol.

Jason heard Leanne scream his name as the gunman fired three times in quick succession. Oblivious to the impact of the bullets, Jason lunged forward, a hand locking around the neck of each would-be assailant. Slowly, so slowly, his fingers tightened around their throats. He would have killed them, and gladly, if Leanne had not been there. The sound of her sobs penetrated the red mist that hovered in front of his eyes. With a muttered curse he let them go, and they fell in a tangled heap at his feet.

"Jason!" Leanne ran toward him, her eyes wide with fright.

"I'm all right." His gaze moved over her in a quick assessing glance. "Did they hurt you?"

"No." She stared at the bullet holes in his coat. Unable to believe her eyes, she touched each one with her fingertips, then looked up at him, her face as pale as the moon.

Hating himself because he had to deceive her, he fixed her with his hypnotic gaze, willing her to forget that the man had fired his gun, to remember only that he had come to her rescue. He left her spellbound while he went to his car, removed his coat, and replaced it with a sweater he'd left in the backseat.

Returning to her side, Jason snapped his fingers, releasing her from the power of his mind.

"Come," he said, taking the keys from her hand. "I'll drive you home."

Leanne blinked up at him, then glanced at the three men sprawled on the ground. "What about them?"

"Leave them."

"Aren't you going to arrest them?"

"No, I'm going to get you home."

"But?"

"Very well. Let's go back to the theater. We can call from there."

Twenty minutes later a black-and-white pulled into the parking lot. After the three suspects were handcuffed and tucked into the backseat of the patrol car, Leanne gave the officers her name and address and then told them what had happened. Jason corroborated her story.

The police officer who took Jason's statement frowned as he examined the gun. "This weapon's been fired," he remarked, opening the chamber. "Three times."

"I don't remember any gunshots," Leanne said, looking from the police officer to Jason. "Do you?"

Jason shook his head. "No."

The cop scribbled something in his notebook, thanked Leanne for her time, advised her to be more careful in the future, and bid them good night.

"Now can I take you home?" Jason asked.

"I've never been so scared," Leanne whispered, and as the knowledge of what could have happened hit her, she began to tremble violently.

"It's over," Jason said, wrapping her in his arms. "Don't think about it."

"I can't help it. I know this kind of thing happens all the time, but I never thought it would happen to me."

Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he unlocked the car door and helped her inside, then went around to the driver's side.

Once he'd pulled out of the parking lot, he drew her up against him, holding her close while he drove.

"Where are we going?" Leanne asked as they turned onto the freeway.

"My place."

She didn't argue, merely rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, they were pulling into Jason's driveway.

She was still trembling when she got out of the car. "Nerves, I guess," she murmured, then gasped as Jason swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs and into the house.

Inside, he placed her on the sofa, poured her a glass of wine, then went into the bathroom to fill the tub with hot water.

"You'll feel better after a bath," he said, taking the glass from her hand.

With a nod she went into the bathroom and shut the door. A good hot soak was just what she needed. Undressing, she sank into the tub, willing herself to relax, to forget the terror that had engulfed her. Reaching for the soap, she washed vigorously, knowing she'd never wash away the fear or the vile memory of being touched by an unwanted hand. Thank God for Jason, she mused, and never thought to question what he'd been doing there.

Jason stood in the living room, his keen hearing easily picking up the sounds Leanne made as she undressed and then stepped into the tub. It was so easy to picture her lying there, the water surrounding her, caressing her, as he so longed to do?

With an oath he threw the wine glass into the fireplace, feeling a sense of satisfaction as he watched the glass shatter, falling onto the stone hearth like crystal raindrops. If only he could destroy his need with such ease.

He prowled the room, his fists shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his desire clawing at him with each step. So easy, he thought, so easy to take her, to make her his, to bind her to him forever, body and soul.

The sound of the bathroom door opening echoed in his mind like thunder.

Leanne gasped as he whirled around to face her. The heat in his eyes seemed to engulf her so that she felt suddenly hot all over, as though she were standing in front of a blazing fire.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." She smiled at him, wondering if she had imagined that heated look.

"Would you care for more wine?"

"No. I?"

"What is it?"

"I'm awfully tired. Would you mind if I went to bed?"

"Of course not, but you can't sleep in those clothes."

A faint flush brightened her cheeks. "I don't have anything else."

"I'll get you something."

He went into the bedroom, his gaze lingering on the bed. He'd lived in this house for twenty years, he mused, and no one had ever used the bed. It pleased him to think of Leanne lying there, her hair spread on the pillow, her scent permeating the sheets.

Going to the dresser, he drew out a long nightgown. He'd bought it because the color was the same vibrant green as her eyes; because, for one irrational moment, he had wanted to pretend he was an ordinary man buying a gift for the special lady in his life. He had bought it and put it away. Now, he held it in his hands, the silkiness of the material reminding him of Leanne's satin-smooth skin.

"Is that for me?" She had followed him into the bedroom.

"What do you think?"

"I thought?" She lifted her chin and took a deep breath. "When you stopped coming to the theater, I thought you might have found someone else."

He shook his head. "There will never be anyone else, Leanne."

"Then why? Why haven't you come to see me? Did I do something wrong?"

"No." He thrust the gown into her hands, then left the room, firmly closing the door behind him. He never should have brought her here.

He stood, in the living room in front of the fireplace, fighting the urge to go to her, to sweep her into his arms and satisfy the awful lust that was roaring through him, the lust to possess her, to drink and drink of her life-sustaining sweetness, and then give it back to her.

He clenched his hands into tight fists, wondering if he had the strength to continue seeing her and not possess her. He knew, at the very core of his being, that their joining would be everything he dreamed of, everything he yearned for.

It would be so easy to take her blood, to bind her to him for all eternity, and end the awful loneliness of his existence, but he recoiled at the very idea of condemning her to the kind of life he led. To do so would be the worst kind of betrayal.

Leanne had brought joy back into his life, had drawn him out of the depths of despair and given him a reason to rise in the evening. To condemn her to a life in the shadows would be the worst kind of cruelty.

He should send her away now, before it became impossible, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he would not do it. Soon, he thought, soon he would send her away, but not now, when he had just found her. He hoped only that he was strong enough to keep his accursed lust at bay, that there was enough humanity left in him to let her go when the time came.

He felt his whole body tense as the bedroom door opened. Without looking, he knew she was standing there, watching him. He could feel her gaze on his back, feel her confusion.

"Jason?"

"Go to bed, Leanne." He had not meant the words to sound so harsh.

He sensed her hesitation, her hurt, and then, very quietly, she closed the door.

With a sigh he dropped into his favorite chair and buried his face in his hands, hands that trembled with the need to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her in his arms, to breathe in the scent of her hair and skin. She was so alive, so vibrant?just holding her made him feel a little alive himself.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, staring into nothingness, when he heard her cry out.