Chapter 1

I was born in a small village in Rumania, the youngest of seven sons. There was an old legend that decreed that the seventh son of a seventh son was destined to become a vampire. As a child, the thought terrified me. Vampires lived in darkness and drank the blood of the living. The thought of drinking blood sickened me, but it was the thought of dwelling forever in darkness that left me numb with fear, for I had a deep and abiding fear of the night. As far back as I could remember, my dreams had been haunted by nameless terrors. Numerous times I had begged my mother to tell me it wasn't true, that I would not grow up to be a vampire. Numerous times she had held me in her arms and assured me that it was only an old wives' tale. Why did I never see the truth in her eyes?

As I grew older, my dreams grew more intense. The terror that haunted me was no longer nameless, or faceless. It was a woman who embodied the terror that haunted my nights, a woman with olive-hued skin and hair as black as coal. A woman whose amber eyes burned with the fires of the damned.

When I turned two-and-twenty, I fell in love with the blacksmith's daughter. A year later, we were married, and for the next five years I knew only happiness. Our one sadness was that AnnaMara failed to conceive, but I, being somewhat selfish, did not mind. I wanted only AnnaMara. My nightmares had ceased long since. My fear of the dark was swallowed up in AnnaMara's sweet embrace. And then, late one night while we lay entwined in each other's arms, she told me she was carrying my child. Only then did I realize what true joy was. Ah, those blissful days and nights when life was full and perfect, when my love's belly swelled with child, and each day saw our love grow stronger, deeper.

Our daughter was born on a sunlit morning in early spring. She died the following dawn, and her mother with her. Unfortunate, the midwife said. The child had come too soon; AnnaMara died of childbed fever. I buried them on a windswept hill, my wife, my daughter, and my heart.

The nightmares came back that night. . . .

Alexander sat back in his chair and stretched his legs. He had named his heroine after his consort. AnnaMara, with hair like yellow silk and eyes as brown as the soil of earth. He had not willingly thought of her in centuries, yet now, just seeing her name brought it all back_the love they had shared, the happiness they had once known. She had named their daughter AnTares. AnTares, the only child he had ever fathered. The only child that would ever be born to him.

He stared at the computer screen, the words blurring before his eyes. He had not loved a woman since AnnaMara. There had been other women in his life, paid professionals who had eased his lust, but no special woman, none he dared trust with the reality of what he was.

Only now, after more than two hundred years, had he found a woman whose heart he wanted to win, a woman in whom he yearned to confide. But he dared not love her.

For her sake, he dared not love her.

Kara sat on the swing in the backyard, staring at the hills that rose to the east beyond Moulton Bay. As always of late, her thoughts were on Alexander. Where was he tonight? What was he doing? Did he spend his every waking moment thinking of her? Did he find himself suddenly staring into the distance, wondering what she was doing, thinking, wearing?

Seven weeks. Seven weeks since she had seen him last. She'd thought there had been something between them, a mutual attraction, but apparently she'd been wrong. Surely, if he had felt even half of what she still felt, he would have called. After four weeks, she had put her pride and good judgment aside and tried to call him, but the operator had informed her there was no listing for an Alexander Claybourne, or for A. Lucard.

She'd read all his books. Twice. The first time, they had frightened her. The second time, she had detected a common thread running through each story. No matter who the hero might be, he always carried a heavy burden or harbored a dark secret, and he was always a man alone, afraid to love, afraid to trust. A coincidence? A silent plea for help? Or was she just being fanciful?

Where was he? Why didn't he call? Why hadn't he come to see her? Why couldn't she stop thinking of him?

"Kara."

His voice, so soft that she wasn't sure if she'd actually heard it or if her mind was playing tricks on her because she wanted so badly to see him again.

"Kara."

Slowly, hardly daring to hope, she turned toward the sound of his voice. And he was there, a tall, dark figure silhouetted against the blackness of the night.

"Alexander."

Slowly, he moved toward her. A stray moonbeam washed him in silver. And then he was there, standing in front of her, as tall and broad-shouldered as she remembered. His hair, long and black and windblown, framed a strong, angular face.

"How have you been?" he asked.

His voice was as soft as a prayer, as intimate as a lover's caress.

"Fine," she replied. "And you?"

"Fine," he said. "As always."

"How's your new book coming along?"

"Slowly."

"Oh? Why?"

His gaze met hers, his dark eyes intense. "I've had other things on my mind."

"Oh." She felt suddenly breathless, as though someone had sucked all the oxygen from the air. "What things?"

"Kara . . ."

She leaned forward, waiting for his next words, hoping he would tell her that he had missed her, that he had spent his every waking moment thinking only of her.

He was watching her closely, his gaze fixed on her face. She could feel the heat of it, the power of it. At that moment, she would have told him anything he wanted to hear, done anything he asked. Though they weren't touching, it was almost as if he were stroking her hair, caressing her cheek.

And then he took a step back, releasing her from his gaze.

"Alexander." Her voice was shaky, uncertain.

"What do you want from me, Kara?"

"Want?"

"I've been much in your mind these past weeks."

Kara stared at him. How had he known that?

"I hear your thoughts. I feel your loneliness, your restlessness." He clenched his hands to keep from reaching for her. "What do you want of me?"

"I . . . nothing."

"You cannot lie to me, Kara. I know that your nights are long and that sleep brings you no rest. You've wondered why I have not called on you, wondered what I've been doing that would keep me away."

"How do you know these things? You can't read my mind. It's impossible."

"If there's one thing I have learned, Kara, it's that few things in life are impossible."

She looked away, embarrassed to know he had divined her innermost thoughts.

"Do not look away, Kara. I don't have to read your mind to know your thoughts because your thoughts have been mine. My nights, too, are long and lonely. Your image haunts my days. The memory of your smile lingers in my dreams. I want . . ."

"What?" she asked, her voice hoarse. Never had any man said such romantic things to her, or made her feel so desirable. "What do you want?"

"This," he said, and kneeling before her, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

She had been kissed before, and often, but never like this. His touch went through her like satin fire, hot and seductive. His fingers slid to her shoulders, holding her fast, and she felt the latent strength of his hands, sensed the power that radiated from him like heat from the sun.

Kara heard a low groan. Had it come from her, or him? His tongue slid over her lower lip, dipping inside to caress the soft inner flesh. And she felt herself melting, melting from the heat of his touch, the gentle pressure of his fingers kneading her shoulders, gliding down her arms. His hands were cool against her bare skin.

"Kara." His voice was uneven as he drew back.

Drowning in sensation, she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He caressed her cheek, and she turned her face against his palm, wanting more.

He should not have come here. He started to rise, to tell her it had been a mistake, but she grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

"Don't go."

"Kara, listen to me . . ."

"No. I don't think I want to hear what you have to say."

"It's for your own good."

"Now I know I don't want to hear it."

Like a wolf on the scent, Alex turned toward the house. Lena Corley was stirring.

"I've got to go," he said.

"Not until you promise me you'll come back tomorrow."

He could hear Lena Corley calling for Kara. He didn't want the woman to find him here, didn't want to try to explain something that was, at the moment, unexplainable.

"Alexander?"

"Very well. Tomorrow night."

"What time?"

"Is ten too late?"

"No."

"Here, then, at ten." He took a step forward, raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. "Until tomorrow," he whispered, and stepping into the darkness, he disappeared into the shadows.

"Until tomorrow," Kara repeated, and wondered how she'd ever survive the hours until she saw him again.

He sat in front of the computer, his gaze fixed on the screen, taking up where he had left off.

The nightmares came back that night, more real, more frightening than before. With AnnaMara gone, there was nothing to hold me to my old life, my old home. I bade my parents farewell and left the village without looking back. I was running. Running away from the memory of my wife and child. Running away from the images that again haunted my dreams. How foolish I was, to think I could outrun my destiny. I was in France, trying to drown my grief in a tankard of ale, the night she found me.

I don't know how long she stood beside me before she touched me. I only remember looking up into a pair of the most exquisite amber-colored eyes I had ever seen. I knew, at that moment, that I was lost, hopelessly and forever lost, that I would dowhatever she asked.

She spoke my name, and I did not question how she knew it.

She took my hand, and I followed her out of the tavern, down a dark street, into a dark house.

I was her prisoner from that night. She did not imprison me with chains, nor did she keep me locked in a dungeon. It was the power of her eyes, the strength of her will, that enslaved me.

I slept by day, and came awake at night. She told me her name was Lilith, and she had been waiting for me since the day of my birth. I thought that an odd statement, as she was a young woman. A beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her hair, as black as the night, fell past her hips like a river of darkness. Her skin was like porcelain, her lips the palest pink imaginable.

She was a wealthy woman. Her house was huge and well-appointed, filled with paintings and tapestries and exotic pottery and figurines. She took me to the opera and the theater, dressed me in fine clothes, taught me to read and to write.

I never saw her during the day. I never saw her eat. When I dared question her, she said she preferred to stay up late and sleep late, and that she preferred to dine alone.

And I believed her. Only later did I realize that she had clouded my mind so that those facts did not seem unusual or important.

Months passed. I was neither happy nor sad. I did as I was told and gave no thought to the morrow.

Until the night when I woke and Lilith was not there . . . .

Alexander leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning from Lilith to Kara. She would be waiting for him tomorrow night.

The thought filled him with anticipation. And dread.

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