Linda Nightingale: Black Swan

He sank his hands into her hair, captured the back of her neck and angled her head for a kiss. She stiffened as a memory of Tristan's kiss made everything inside her melt. Mesmerized by the fire in Lucien’s eyes, she watched his mouth coming to claim hers. Anticipating the taste of his kiss, her lips parted. He crushed her to him. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue plundering between her teeth. Need blazed in the core chakra as her tongue battled his. Fangs lacerated her tongue. When she flinched, Lucien broke the devouring kiss.

Tristan's fangs had never cut her tongue. Flash of remorse and regret. Nor the vampire lovers she'd taken since he kicked her to the curb.

Lucien purred a laugh. “Warning, kissing a vampire can cause severe laceration of the tongue. If you allow me to lead this dance, I can protect you from that risk.”

Lisa whirled as the door opened. Lucien simply disappeared from Carol's arms to reappear perched on the arm of the loveseat, smiling at the newcomer.

“Good evening, Lucien.” The voice was music. The man framed in the doorway, a cloak of shadows spread like dark wings behind him, looked like an archangel.

“Ladies,” Lucien paused. “May I present the Dorian Gray of vampires? In fact, I believe Morgan was Wilde's inspiration.”

“Very funny.” Morgan glided into the room, casually discarding a satin-lined cloak on a nearby chair. “Sorry I’m late. Two bloody encores. Couldn’t dash with the Queen in attendance.”

When she saw the blonde vampire, Lisa had inhaled a gasp and stopped breathing. The question came out a breathless rush, “The Queen?”

He smiled, nodded as if the presence of Royalty were of no consequence. Carol recognized the friend who spent a lot of time at the keyboard—not a computer, a grand piano.

Lucien introduced them to, “Morgan D’Arcy.”

Six-feet of slender sophistication in tailored tux and tails, Lord D’Arcy, world-famous concert pianist, ducked a graceful bow. Firelight bronzed a cascade of silken straight, shoulder length hair. Svelte, poised, he straightened, raked a long, elegant hand through his mane, gave them a to-die-for smile.

“Have I missed anything?” He asked with a high-class accent. “Come, come, I'm all expectation.”

Carol felt the heat of Lucien’s gaze. Her head whipped left. The Dark Prince studied her, one side of his mouth quirked. Oops, busted .

At Swan Songs, mind reading was forbidden but she knew Lucien had stolen her thoughts. She very much suspected these two glorious predators—the raven and the golden falcon—lived above the rules, both Vampyre and mortal. Amusement sparkled in the fathomless black eyes, and Lucien nodded, confirming what she suspected. Then his black velvet voice spoke in her head.

He is magnificent, isn’t he?

Dumfounded, she nodded.

Lucien wasn’t angry with her for gawking at his friend. Of course not. He'd only been toying with her all evening. Disappointment, humiliation, and something like relief swirled in her stomach.

Morgan eddied across the room, washed up against Lisa. “Hullo.”

Never taking his gaze from hers, in a hypnotic dance, he glided around her shoulder to stand close behind her. Lisa’s cheeks flushed, and Carol saw her tremble as he lifted her hair to the side and brushed his lips to her throat. Talented fingers caressed her friend's neck, drifted over her shoulders to linger on her arms until she panted for breath. Slowly, he turned her to face him and stared into her eyes, reading, if not her mind, her soul as Lucien had done with Carol earlier. Lisa's head rolled to the side, her lips parted and eyes closed. Morgan whispered a melodic laugh, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Lust shocked through Carol. Entranced, she watched the pianist embrace her friend and deepen the kiss. Ah, yes, the prelude to seduction.

A knock at the door shattered the erotic, fire-lit scene. Morgan broke the kiss but didn't free Lisa. Both vampires gazed expectantly at the door. Carol lifted her gaze and inhaled a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Across the room, luminescent azure eyes captured hers.

Tristan smiled, and every misbegotten desire that had plagued each misadventure dissolved. From the doorway arched above him, gargoyles leered accusations at her. She shifted away from Lucien, unconsciously leaning toward the man one-step inside the door. She’d thought of Tristan every day but had forgotten how he made her feel—pulse racing, hot all over—the way one felt in love. Damn if he didn't look as cool and as good as sin.

In eleven months, she'd never seen a trace of uncertainty, never seen him look unsure of himself. Now he clung to the shadows. What had happened to him? Had someone hurt her Tristan?

He lifted a hand and beckoned. Carol knew vampires could entrance but she was under a totally different spell. Afraid to believe her eyes, she forced herself to walk―not run―to him. Pain liberally spiced the pleasure of seeing Tristan. She stopped a safe distance outside the shadows and gazed at him. That was a fatal mistake. He was more beautiful than Morgan or Lucien, than anyone in the world. She'd always loved him in a tux. All the sensations she remembered came flooding back. She recalled how he'd touched her, how kind he could be and how dynamic. She’d loved him, and he'd hurt her worse than her cheating husband. He'd left without saying goodbye, as if she'd never existed, and she hadn’t heard a word from him since.

Vampire eyes reflected vampire emotions by changing colors. A wary shade of dark blue, Tristan’s eyes met hers. In the room behind them, no one spoke. No one moved.

The lovers, Tristan and Carol, didn't speak either, the silence complete like a bubble isolating them from the rest of the world. That sweet crooked grin turned her inside out. When she didn't smile back, his smile fled, his eyes darkening another shade. His gaze dropped to the floor as he folded the long slender hands of an artist tightly before him. He was very pale, but there was an unusual feverishness about him. His expression and posture were tense, the swift vampire movements not as graceful as the Tristan she'd loved.

His voice came husky with emotion, even so more beautiful than any mortal's. “Hello, Carol. I hope you’re still speaking to me.”

“Of course,” she said, coolly noncommittal, dying inside. “How was America?”

“I just got off a plane home. Seattle was rainy and cool—much like London.” He shrugged, pursed his lips.

“And the symphony?” She hoped the question didn’t sound like an accusation.

“Good. Good.” His gaze flickered away, flashed back. He took her hand. “I'd like to talk to you. Will you come with me? Somewhere we can be alone. I've so much to say to you.”

“What happened?” The racing beat of her heart, racing of her pulse betrayed her calm, collected pretense.

He squeezed her hand. “It's difficult to explain. I ran away from me. It failed.”

She looked at her hand in his, charges of electricity blazing up her arm. “Let's go outside.” Her lips had had enough of not smiling at the vision before her eyes. “You remember how it is. Every room will be occupied at this hour.”

He nodded, smiling as he slid an arm around her waist, and steered her through the dimly lit corridor. Soft moans and sharp inhalations of passion—love in the shadows.

As they walked in silence, she wondered how old Tristan was, who'd made him, and where. She'd probably never know. He’d always danced around her inquiries about his past.

Ghosts of fog loomed around the trees. The night was hazy, rain clinging like diamonds to the leaves. A breeze smoothed damp across the terrace. From somewhere, music sounded surreal, ghosts singing. Finally, Carol couldn't stand the silence any longer.