makes you think we were discussing you? Actually, we were talking about a case. One we obviously disagree about.”
She smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, really? Which case?”
“Sorry, Tammy,” Curt snapped. “Your security clearance isn’t high enough.”
“When has it ever been high enough?”
“Tam, please.” Daniel came toward her, folded her in a gentle embrace and kissed her cheek. He stood back and searched her face. “Are you all right?”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I be?” His concern softened her somewhat, but she was still sick and tired of his coddling.
“Curt told me you met Marquand last night.” He shook his head. “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Everything he said to you, did to you. Did…” Daniel paled right before her eyes. “Did he touch you?”
“Had her crushed against him like he’d never let go,” Curt exploded. “I told you, Daniel—”
“I’d like to hear her tell me.” His pale blue eyes sought hers again. They dropped to the collar of her turquoise turtleneck, under the baggy white pullover sweater. She thought he would collapse.
Curtis seemed to notice her choice of attire at the same instant, and he caught his breath. “Tammy, my God, did he—”
“He most certainly did not! Do you two have any idea how insane you both sound?”
“Show me,” Daniel said softly.
She shook her head and expelled a rush of air. “All right, but first I want to explain something. Marquand seems to be very well aware of what you two think he is. This meeting at the rink last night, I think, was his way of sending you a message, and the message is lay off. I don’t think he was kidding.” She hooked her first two fingers beneath the neck of the shirt and pulled it down to show them the blue-and-violet bruise he’d left on her neck.
Daniel gasped. “Look closely, you two. There are no fang marks, just a…well, let’s be frank about it, a hickey. I let a perfect stranger give me a hickey, which should illustrate to you both just how much stress I’ve been under lately. Between this sleep disorder and your overprotectiveness, I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker.” Daniel was leaning closer, breathing down her neck as he inspected the bruise.
He satisfied himself and put a hand on her shoulder. “Did he hurt you, sweetheart?”
She couldn’t stop the little smile that question evoked, even though she erased it immediately. “Hurt her?” Curtis slapped one hand on the surface of the desk. “She was loving every minute of it.” He glared at her. “Don’t you realize what could’ve happened out there?”
“Of course I do, Curtis. He could’ve ripped my jugular open and sucked all my blood out and left me dying there on the ice with two holes in my throat!”
“If I hadn’t scared him off,” Curt began.
“Keep your story straight, Curt. It was he who scared you off. You were shaking me until my teeth rattled, if you remember correctly. If he hadn’t come to my defense I might have come into work wearing a neck brace today.”
Curt clamped his jaw shut under Daniel’s withering gaze. Daniel shifted his glance to Tamara again. “He came to your defense, you say?” She nodded. “Hmm.”
“And,” Tamara went on, almost as an afterthought, “he took the crucifix right out of Curt’s hand. It did not even burn a brand in his palm, or whatever it’s supposed to do. Doesn’t that prove anything?”
“Yeah.” Curt wore a sulking-child look on his face. “Proves vampires are not affected by religious symbols.”
Tamara rolled her eyes, then heard Daniel mutter, “Interesting.” She felt as if she, even with her strange symptoms, was the only sane person in the room.
“I know you think we’re overreacting to this, Tam,” Daniel told her. “But I don’t want you leaving the house after dark anymore.”
She bristled. “I will go where I want, when I want. I am twenty-six years old, Daniel, and if this nonsense doesn’t stop, then I’m…” She paused long enough to get his full attention before she blurted, “Moving out.”
“Tam, you wouldn’t—”
“Not unless you force me, Daniel. And if I find either you or Curt following me again, I’ll consider myself forced.” She felt a lump in her throat at the pained look on Daniel’s face. She made her tone gentler when she said, “I’m going home now. Good night.”
3
Her mental cries woke him earlier tonight than last. Eric stood less than erect and squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if doing so might clear his mind. Rising before sunset produced an effect in him not unlike what humans feel after a night of heavy drinking. Bracing one hand upon the smooth mahogany, his fingertips brushing the satin lining within, he focused on Tamara. He wanted only to comfort her. If he could ease the torment of her subconscious mind, though she might not be fully aware of it, she’d feel better. She might even be more able to sleep. He couldn’t be sure, though. Her situation was unique, after all.
He focused on her mind, still hearing her whispered pleas. Where are you, Eric? Why won’t you come to me? I’m lost. I need you.
He swallowed once, and concentrated every ounce of his power into a single invisible beam of thought, shooting through time and space, directed at her. I am here, Tamara.
I can’t see you!
The immediate response shocked him. He hadn’t been certain he could make her aware of his thoughts. Again he focused. I am near. I will come to you soon, love. Now you must rest. You needn’t call to me in your dreams anymore. I have heard—I will come.
He awaited a response, but felt none. The emotions that reached him, though, were tense, uncertain. He wanted to ease her mind, but he’d done all he could for the moment. The sun far above, though unseen by him, was not unfelt. It sapped his strength. He took a moment to be certain of his balance and crossed slowly to the hearth, bending to rekindle the sparks of this morning’s fire. That done, he used a long wooden match to ignite the three oil lamps posted around the room. With fragrant cherry logs emitting aromatic warmth, and the golden lamplight, the Oriental rugs over the concrete floor and the paintings he’d hung, the place seemed a bit less like a tomb in the bowels of the earth. He sat himself carefully in the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.
A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He’d seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He’d been enthralled—an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He’d talked about it until his poor mother’s ears were sore. He’d had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she’d fallen in love with a man she’d never met, and she’d teased and cajoled until he’d managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night’s performance.
