She had trouble concentrating at work the next day. All she could think of was Grigori. She had asked him to marry her, but doubts crowded her mind. Oh, she had no doubt that she loved him, but was she strong enough to live with a vampire? He could not give her children, or do so many of the other, more mundane things husbands and wives did together. There would be no summer days at the beach, no bicycle rides through Griffith Park, no tennis games. He couldn't go to church with her on Sunday morning....
The ringing of the phone jerked her out of her reverie. It was Edward, asking if he could take her to dinner.
"I'm sorry, I can't tonight."
There was a long pause. "You're seeing him, aren't you?" There was no mistaking the censure in Edward's voice.
"Yes."
"I don't understand you. How can you date him?"
Marisa blew out a long sigh. Might as well get it over with. "I'm in love with him, Edward. I know you don't approve, but I can't help it."
"What!"
"Listen, Edward, I can't talk now. Please, just try to accept it. Can't you be happy for me?"
"Happy? Are you out of your mind? The man's a vampire."
"Tell me something I don't know," she muttered. "I've got to go. Good-bye."
Marisa stared at the receiver. Strange as it seemed, Edward's call had helped her make up her mind.
She hurried home after work, took a quick shower, and slipped into a pair of white slacks and a green sweater. She ran a brush through her hair, checked her makeup. Her hand was shaking so badly, she could hardly put her lipstick on.
She knew he was there before she heard the front door open. He didn't need a key, she thought, and wondered what it would be like to be able to open doors with a thought, to read minds. To drink blood...
She stared at her reflection in the mirror a moment, and then hurried into the living room. "Hi."
His gaze slid over her, warm with admiration. "Hi."
She bit her lower lip, aware of a sudden tension between them. Usually, he took her in his arms, but not tonight, and she realized that he wouldn't touch her until she told him her decision. But surely he knew. He could read her mind... and then she remembered that he had promised not to invade her thoughts.
"Sit down." She waved a shaky hand toward the couch, wondering why she felt so nervous.
Grigori sat down, and she sat beside him. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of teasing him, of making him wait, of pretending her answer was no. But then she looked into his eyes, those deep dark eyes that could be as impassive as a brick wall. They were not dark and unfathomable now.
"Marisa?"
"I love you, Grigori. I want to be your wife."
With a wordless cry, he swept her into his arms and held her close. He had hoped, but hadn't dared to believe....
"Cara!" Holding her close, he kissed her. Kissed her until they were both breathless. "Are you sure?" He drew back a little so he could see her face.
"I'm sure." She smiled up at him, thinking how endearing it was to know he'd had doubts. "Did you think I'd change my mind?"
"I had prepared myself for the worst," he admitted. And because he had the power, because he had to know how she really felt, he let his mind brush hers. The love she felt for him burned like a pure white flame, brighter and stronger than the misgivings that plagued her.
"I'll do my best to make you happy, cara mia," he vowed. "I shall love you for as long as you live. Love you until my last breath."
"Oh, Grigori, you do say the sweetest things."
"When?" He kissed the tip of her nose.
"Is tomorrow too soon?"
"Not for me." He gazed into her eyes. "But I think you'll need more time."
"I suppose. I'll have to find a dress. And talk to Reverend Stacy about a date." Slipping out of his arms, she found a paper and pencil and began to make notes. "I'll have to call my folks and Mike.
And ask Barbara if she'll be my maid of honor. And Linda if she'll be a bridesmaid. Two attendants should be enough, don't you think? It's just going to be a small wedding. We'll need a photographer, and a cake. And I'll need to get some time off from work for a honeymoon. And - "
Grigori crossed the floor and plucked the pencil from her hand. "Make your lists tomorrow," he said with a growl.
She laughed as he swung her into his arms. "Bossing me around already, are you?"
"I have only a few hours to spend with you," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "I don't want to waste a minute."
"But we need to plan for our wedding."
"I shall leave that to you. Only tell me where and when, and I shall be there."
She wound her arms around his neck. "Is there anyone you want to invite?"
"No." He sat down on the sofa and cradled her in his arms.
"Don't you have any friends? Someone to be your best man?"
A deep sigh escaped his lips. "I've only been in this country a few months," he reminded her. But he could have been here for years and it wouldn't have made any difference. He was by nature a solitary creature, never trusting those of his own kind, hesitant to trust mankind.
"Maybe Edward," she mused, and then, remembering his phone call that afternoon, she shook her head. "Maybe not. I'm sure my brother and Mike Junior would be glad to stand up with you."
"If you wish."
"You don't mind?"
"No, cara."
She snuggled against him, content to be in his embrace, to feel his arms locked around her waist.
"We'll have to go shopping," Grigori remarked. "I have a big, empty house for you to fill." He kissed the top of her head, knowing that it was not furniture that would turn his house into a home, but Marisa herself.
"It'll be expensive."
"Spend what you wish."
"Really?" She sat up a little, her eyes sparkling. "Do you like antiques?"
"I am an antique," he muttered.
"Very funny. I love antiques, but I could never afford to buy them."
"Now you can."
"Oh, it'll be such fun."
Grigori glanced around her apartment. "I suppose you'll do the rooms in blue." His gaze settled on the rug in front of the window. She'd had the carpet cleaned, but the bloodstains he'd left were still evident if one looked closely.
He stared at the darkness beyond the glass. What right did he have to marry this woman? He had entered her life and brought her nothing but trouble.
"Grigori?"
"Cara?"
"Where'd you go?"
He frowned at her. "Go?"
"You seem very far away. You haven't changed your mind, have you?"
"No, but perhaps you should change yours."
"Why? What's wrong?"
He felt the change in her, the increase in her heartbeat as she stared at him, suddenly apprehensive. "I don't want you to be hurt, Marisa."
"Then don't leave me."
"I won't." He drew her head toward his. "I won't."
His kiss was ever so gentle, sweet and light. Her eyelids fluttered down as she surrendered to his lips. Warmth flooded her limbs; shivers of ecstasy engulfed her as his tongue slid over her lower lip.
"More." She whispered the word into his mouth. "More..."
With a low moan, he deepened the kiss. There was nothing gentle about him now. His arms were like bands of steel as he held her close. His mouth ravaged hers, bruising her lips. She felt the prick of his fangs, tasted her own blood on her tongue.
Grigori drew back instantly, his gaze searching hers. "Forgive me."
Marisa licked the blood from her lower lip, felt the sudden tremor in his arms. She stared into his eyes, saw the hunger that shadowed his gaze.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Yes. Did I hurt you?"
She shook her head. "Does it bother you?"
He didn't pretend he didn't know what she meant. He blew out a deep breath. "No, but - " He swept the tip of one finger over her lip, and licked the blood from his finger. "It tempts me in ways you cannot imagine."
"Oh. Do you... did you... you know?"
"Yes." His gaze was drawn to the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat.
"But you're still... ah, hungry?"
"In a way. I'm afraid the hunger for blood rises hand in hand with my desire for you. I can't separate the two."
"So what does that mean, exactly?"
"It means I shall have to be very careful."
"You said it was painful when you went for a long time without... without, you know. Is it pleasurable for you, then, when you drink" - she forced the word out - "blood?"
"Very. And yours is the sweetest nectar of all."
It seemed odd to take pride in such a bizarre compliment, but she couldn't help it.
"How soon?" he whispered, his voice low and husky with desire. "How soon?"
"The sixteenth," she replied breathlessly. It would be rushing it, but a big wedding paled in the face of his need, her desire. She had only a few close friends, anyway. She didn't need dozens of casual acquaintances as witnesses. She didn't need a round of bridal showers. All she needed was Grigori.
The sixteenth was just a little over two weeks away. That would give her parents and her brother and his family time enough to get here. She would ask Mr. Salazar if she could take her vacation early. She needed to find a dress. Something long and white with a round neck and fitted sleeves. Satin, or maybe silk. And a veil. And white heels. And something old and something new, something borrowed, and something blue.
Two weeks and three days, and then she would he his.
He kissed her again, his hands feathering over her breasts, her thighs. She felt the rough satin of his tongue slide across her throat, felt his whole body quiver as he drew her up against him, letting her feel the proof of his desire. She ached deep, deep inside, ached with the need to hold him within the deepest part of her being.
Two weeks and three days... how would she ever wait that long?
New Year's Eve was cool and clear. Marisa stood in front of the mirror, trying to see herself as Grigori would see her.
The dress's teal blue made her eyes seem darker, deeper. The silk clung to her figure, outlining every curve, baring her shoulders and a good bit of cleavage.
A thrill of anticipation rose up within her as she heard the front door open. He was here!
She saw his reflection in the mirror as he entered her bedroom. Their gazes met and held, and she saw the admiration in his eyes, the love, the desire.
"Like it?" she asked.
He let out a long, low whistle. "Like is hardly the word."
She was a vision, an angel fallen to earth, a seductress come to play havoc with his self-control. Her hair framed her face like a dark silken cloud. Her green eyes were luminous, her skin the color of ripe peaches. His gaze moved over her softly rounded shoulders, over her breasts, the curve of her hips, down her long, shapely legs.
He swore under his breath as he felt the Hunger rise with his desire.
"You look very pretty, too," Marisa said, smiling.
"Pretty?"
She nodded. He wore a black suit that had obviously been tailored just for him, a white shirt, a tie of maroon silk.
"Wow," she murmured. "Wow. I'll have to beat the other women off with a stick."
"Indeed?" One corner of his mouth went up in a wry smile. "And I shall have to keep you close to my side lest some other man try to steal you away."
"That will never happen. I'm gonna stick to your side like glue." She smiled up at him, and reached for her coat. "Ready?"
The Salazars lived in what could only be called a mansion. Marisa was certain her whole apartment building, including the yard and the parking area, could fit inside. The rooms were luxuriously decorated, from the plush cream-colored carpets to the vaulted ceilings. Expensive paintings hung from the walls; there were glass shelves filled with costly crystal figurines and imported china.
A maid took Marisa's coat. Mrs. Salazar came forward to greet her, and after Marisa introduced Grigori, Mrs. Salazar gave Marisa a hug and told them to make themselves at home.
"This is quite a place, don't you think?"
"Indeed." Grigori glanced around, taking note of a painting on one wall. Either it was an original Picasso, or an extremely good copy.
"Look, there's Linda and her husband. Come on," Marisa said, grabbing his hand, "I want to introduce you."
Linda Hauf was a tall, slender woman with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her husband, Jim, was in real estate.
Grigori murmured that he was pleased to meet her, shook her husband's hand, engaged in a few moments of mindless small talk with the man while Marisa asked Linda to be her bridesmaid.
"Married!" Linda exclaimed. "Did you hear that, Jim? They're getting married." She looked at Grigori, as if judging his worthiness to marry her friend, and then gave Marisa a hug. "When did all this happen? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Jim Hauf rolled his eyes. "Come on, Chiavari, let's go get a drink," he suggested. "All this wedding talk could take hours."
With a shrug, Grigori followed the man to the wet bar. He ordered a glass of burgundy, then stood nursing his drink, listening as the man started talking about the upcoming Rose Bowl. Grigori nodded from time to time, but his attention was on Marisa. Soft candlelight caressed her face and shimmered in her hair. He watched her laugh, noting the way her eyes sparkled, the way she tossed her head, the way her hair floated around her shoulders. Even from across the room, he could smell the flowery scent of her perfume, the warm, womanly scent of her skin.
Once she looked over at him, her gaze catching his, and he felt such a rush of desire it almost brought him to his knees. In little more than two weeks, she would be his.
Dinner was served twenty minutes later. Opulent was the only word for the dining room. Crystal and translucent china and gleaming gold flatware reflected the light from the enormous chandelier that hung over the center of the table.
Grigori sat across from Marisa, sandwiched between an elderly matron with blue hair and a young woman he recognized as a television model. Conversation at the table was lively. There was a good deal of laughter mixed with the lobster bisque and the wine. The matron wanted to know if he was eligible; the model wanted to know if he was available later.
He caught Marisa staring at him and shrugged. Not my fault.
She grimaced at him, then turned to answer a question posed to her by the matron's portly husband.
The meal lasted over an hour. Grigori was uncomfortable, being in such close quarters with so many people. His senses reeled from the sound of so many beating hearts. His nostrils stung with the cloying scent of perfume and aftershave and perspiration. The smell of so much rich food, so many kinds of food, sickened him. He tried to recall the last time he had eaten, the last thing he had eaten, but the memory had been lost in two hundred years. He could scarcely remember what it had been like to eat solid food, to drink anything other than blood and an occasional glass of wine.
He realized Marisa was staring at him, and then he heard her voice in his mind. Are you all right?
He nodded faintly. Yes, but I could use some fresh air.
She looked at him, her eyes alight with mischief as she wondered what her companions would think if they knew there was a vampire sharing their table. But the most fun of all was being able to send her thoughts to Grigori, and being able to read his in return.
You're beautiful, carissima.
And you're very handsome.
I want to make love to you...
She felt a wave of color wash into her cheeks. His words sounded so clear in her mind that she glanced around, certain Mr. Abercrombie and the others had heard every word. Quit it. You're making me blush.
And it's very becoming.
Grigori...
How long do we have to stay?
Until after dinner. We can sneak out then.
After dinner. He had rarely seen so much food at one meal. It just kept coming and coming, trays and platters and covered bowls. His village in Tuscany could have eaten for a week on the food that passed in front of him.
At last, the meal was over and the guests moved into the ballroom. As they filed out of the dining room, Grigori grabbed Marisa by the hand and led her outside, away from the crush of people.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air. And then he pulled Marisa into his arms and kissed her. And kissed her again. And yet again.
"Oh, Grigori, when you kiss me like that - "
"What?" He nuzzled her neck, feeling the pulse racing there. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin, the fragrance of her perfume.
"Don't you know? Can't you feel what I'm feeling?"
"Yes, love," he replied thickly. He felt everything she was feeling, and more. The siren call of the blood flowing in her veins stirred his hunger. He ached with the need to taste her sweetness, felt his fangs lengthen in response to his thoughts.
She sighed and rested her cheek on his chest. "I'm not sure I can wait two weeks."
Fighting to suppress the dark need within him, he took a deep, calming breath, then kissed the tip of her nose.
"But wait we will," he vowed. "You will be my bride when I take you to my bed, cara mia, and once you are mine, I will never, never let you go."
She sighed as he kissed her again, certain that a lifetime in his arms would not be long enough.
Music drifted out onto the balcony as the orchestra began to play. Marisa swayed against Grigori.
"Dance with me?" she murmured, and the next thing she knew, his right hand was at her waist, his left hand was holding hers, and they were waltzing.
He danced divinely. It seemed his feet scarcely touched the floor as he twirled her around. He moved gracefully, effortlessly, leading her though the steps as though they had been waltzing together for years.
It was a glorious night. The sky was like a bed of black velvet strewn with a million twinkling lights. They danced for hours, oblivious to everything save each other.
There was a drum roll as midnight approached and the bandleader began the countdown.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
Marisa gazed into Grigori's eyes, wondering if he felt the same magic she did, the same sense of wonder.
Seven. Six. Five.
He stroked her cheek with his fingertip, and she felt the touch clear down to her toes.
Four. Three. Two.
One.
"Happy New Year, Grigori," she whispered.
"Happy New Year, cara mia."
He kissed her gently. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Close your eyes, cara."
She waited, excitement flowing through her, as he took her hand in his.
"You can open them now," he said, and she watched him slide a ring over her ringer.
"Oh, Grigori," she murmured. "It's beautiful."
She'd never seen a diamond so big in her whole life. She held her hand up, turning it this way and that, watching it reflect the lights from the ballroom.
"You like it?"
"I love it. I love you!"
"Ah, Marisa, when you look at me like that, I believe anything is possible."
"You're not having doubts about us, are you?"
Doubts? He had dozens, hundreds, but he shook them off. Marisa was here, in his arms. She had promised to be his wife, and that was all that mattered.
They spent the next few days shopping for furniture. Marisa was enchanted by the house Grigori had bought. The rooms were all large, with vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors. There was a large stone fireplace in the living room, smaller ones in all the bedrooms. There was a huge pantry in the kitchen, a solarium with large leaded-glass windows and a skylight, an old-fashioned music room.
Grigori approved of everything she picked out for the house: a beautiful antique oak bedroom set with a four-poster bed, a large round oak table and four chairs for the kitchen, another more formal table and chairs for the dining room, an intricately carved oak sideboard.
They bought sheets and towels, dishes and flatware. Money was never a problem. Several times, she by-passed what she really wanted and picked something less expensive, and every time Grigori insisted she buy the lamp or the table or the chair she preferred.
"You're a wealthy woman now," he reminded her. "Buy whatever you wish."
"You're going to spoil me," she muttered as they left an exclusive furniture store one night.
Outside, he took her in his arms and his lips brushed hers. "That, my sweet, is exactly what I plan to do."
