Linda Nightingale: Black Swan

And the face she'd glimpsed before Tristan leapt from bed, his mouth blood-smeared.

Pain seared a trail through Holly's brain. She inhaled a gasp, pressing her fingertips into her eyes. She had to get upstairs. She couldn't remember what she'd said, couldn't remember any damn thing, but she knew the argument had been a vicious screaming match—on her part—and he'd been silent.

“Oh my God, I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

Two at the time, she took the stairs. On the door to Tristan’s apartment, an orange plastic sign announced:

FOR RENT

TELEPHONE 733-9112

Heart for rent.

“Next time I want a nice normal guy, not an artist but a housepainter or something.” Trailing her hand along the ornate rail, Holly descended, one step at the time, the stairs she'd climbed in a panic a few moments ago.

“Tristan I'll never―I repeat―never think of you again.”

Halfway across the country, a black-haired man stared out the window of an eastbound 747. In the darkness, he saw a pretty face framed by straight blonde hair. For a moment, he relived what he’d thought to be love. Regret and guilt darkened azure eyes. In fact, when he'd told Holly he loved her, it had been true. Love had many shades, shapes, and facets.

Monogamy for my kind is impossible .

A lesson hard learned. The battle against his nature—against self—was lost, and he was weary of the war that had raged inside for far too long. A vampire's very nature is to kill .

“May I get you a drink?” The flight attendant, a delectable redhead, gazed at him with mahogany eyes.

If you only knew .

He smiled and shook his head. “No thank you.”

Tristan had taken a dangerous risk by refusing to erase their last night together from Holly's memory. The steadfast disbelief in his kind, fostered by The Vampyre, more or less insured that if Holly Pritchard recalled the dead woman and the blood, she'd dismiss it as a bad dream. Before he had eased her to sleep and carried her to her apartment, he'd placed a powerful mind block on any recollection of what she'd seen in his bedroom and the intimacy of their only Kiss. If visions surfaced, her head would hurt and the memory would disappear with the pain.

To explain his sudden exit, Tristan had implanted a suggestion that they'd argued and she'd stormed out of his place, shouting that she never wanted to see him again.

He studied his translucent nails. Damn. He hadn't intended to hurt Holly. He hurt but there was no remedy for it. He'd planned to break up with her before she caught him taking a victim. For several weeks, his demons had been beckoning him home.

Tristan rested his forehead against the window, his thoughts shifting to the woman who understood his needs and accepted what he was. The woman he truly loved. The woman he'd fled for fear of falling in love.

“Carol,” he whispered, willing her to hear.

Tristan McLachlan was going home to his Black Swan.

If there was one thing Carol had learned about dating vampires, it was never be surprised. She and her friend Lisa were at this lavish party to shop the stunning array available for the evening. Tonight, Carol needed a lover to provide the thrills and chills only a vampire could. A girl could get spoiled to the best.

After Carol's devastating divorce, Lisa had introduced her to the elite circle called Black Swans, mortals willing to trade blood for pleasure and an occasional taste of the immortal elixir that allowed fleeting glimpses of the glories of vampirism. Of course, great sex was usually part of the blood bargain. Vampire guys could make good the claim,”I’m always up for it.” Other perks included hobnobbing with the rich and famous. A lot of vampires fell into that category.

At first, the thought of loving the Undead had repulsed Carol—until her friend gave her a crash course on The Vampyre Effect—the mutation of the human genome by a rare blood-born pathogen that changed a mortal meat-and-potatoes man to an immortal bloodsucker. The Vampyre, as a separate species, inherited dynamic sexual energy, could move faster than the human eye could see, read thoughts and mesmerize. In short, the perfect predator.

Then Carol had sampled the heady delights the night world offered, and the rest was history. A philandering husband had already taught her that fidelity wasn't only a lost art but a shameful waste of time. In the beginning, she was uncomfortable kissing another man while last night’s lover looked on, but it hadn’t taken her long to learn to appreciate variety.

As Lisa said, “Why limit yourself to caviar when there were so many delectable choices on the menu?” Actually, Carol liked being a bit free and frivolous with her affections.

Most of the Swan Songs they’d attended were in London. Tonight, they’d driven south to a fabulous country estate of manicured lawns and gardens that once belonged to a famous actor.

A uniformed valet parked Lisa's car. A servant in frock coat and hose motioned them toward the manor's broad stairs. As Carol's foot landed on the first step, she heard the whisper of her name.

She froze, cocking her head to listen. “Lisa, I could have sworn I heard Tristan call my name.”

Her friend laughed. “It's not Tristan but the Devil calling you home to Hell, Hussy.”

“Pot calling the kettle black.” Carol shrugged. “I'll never forget his voice,” and under her breath, “or him.”

Lisa elbowed her. “How do we spell gone?”

They joined the highly select party animals in formal attire, the men gorgeous in tuxedoes and the women a rainbow of expensive gowns. Some floated; some walked up the wide stone staircase. There were more immortals than mortals, more men than women. Carol liked the odds. The low-cut emerald beaded gown and her waist-length dark hair drew admiring glances from both sexes. Chamber Music drifted into the misty night. Edward Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor that Tristan had performed with the London Symphony Orchestra.

She'd been in the audience, and they'd been in love. Her heart cramped. Sadness caught Carol mid-smile.

At just such a party, she’d met Tristan. Black Irish, black-haired, blue-eyed, he looked like a young Pierce Brosnan. Gifted with a devilish sense of humor, he had an artist's passion and zeal. They’d been an item—and true blue—for nearly a year before vampire wanderlust set in. Six months ago, he’d run away to America. If he’d asked her to go with him, she’d be listening to a rainy night in Seattle instead of England.

Carol had a gold medal in loving and losing.

BT—before Tristan—she’d never gotten the one she wanted. BT she'd never truly been in love. At least, he’d been a gorgeous improvement on her previous track record. Everyone dealt with heartbreak in a different way. Carol had tried to outrun it but a six-week parade of good-looking immortal lovers hadn’t filled the emptiness he’d left in her heart. Damn and double damn, she’d promised not to think of him tonight! She was here to have fun and perhaps other f-words.

Blonde Lisa, in blue sequins, leaned near to whisper, “Heads up, Carol.”

Carol looked up, halted, gripping the rail. She’d never seen the godlike creature standing regally at the top of the stairs, one long, elegant hand resting on the head of a stone lion. He radiated power—and arrogance. Straight, thick hair, black and soft as the country night, washed over his shoulders. He was so intense, so handsome that the people greeting him faded to ghosts. Lisa captured her hand to pull her along. When they mounted the step beside him, black eyes captured Carol's and, in one fluttering heartbeat, the stranger had taken the measure of her soul. He didn’t smile or hold her gaze long enough to mesmerize, yet Carol felt wobbly on her feet—and enthralled. For a moment, she actually forgot Tristan.