Her wedding day dawned bright and clear and beautiful. Happy is the bride the sun shines on, she mused as she slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe. She'd heard that old saying often. She hoped it was true.
Too nervous to eat, she drank two cups of coffee. She was starting on a third when her father entered the kitchen.
"Morning, honey."
"Morning, Dad."
"How'd you sleep?"
"Sleep? What bride sleeps the night before the wedding?"
Jack Richards laughed. "None, I guess. That was some trick Grigori performed last night. Sure would like to know how he did it."
"Yeah, me too. Is Mom up yet?"
"Nah, she's snoring away."
Marisa giggled. It was an ongoing joke between her parents, which one of them snored the loudest.
"You're sure about this?" her father asked. "If you're not, it isn't too late to change your mind."
"I'm sure, Dad."
"I just want you to be happy, Marty."
"I am."
"You'd better eat something."
"I can't." She checked the clock, quickly swallowed the rest of her coffee. "I've got to get going. My appointment's at nine-thirty."
"Take your time. I'll hold down the fort till you get back."
"Thanks, Dad." She kissed her father on the cheek, and then hurried into her bedroom. She took a quick shower, dressed, and left the apartment.
Her first stop was the beauty shop for the works - manicure, pedicure, wash and set.
From the beauty shop, she went to the florist's. She had picked white roses and baby's breath for her bouquet. Linda and Nikki were carrying pink roses and carnations. The florist would deliver the altar flowers to the church later that day.
At twelve-thirty, she met her mother and Barbara at the church. They put big white satin bows on the first three pews, checked with the minister to make sure the white runner would be in place down the center aisle, went over the songs that the organist would be playing.
It was almost two when they got home. Barbara left to go to the hotel to get the kids fed and dressed.
"You've got to eat something," Marge Richards said. "You sit down and relax a moment while I fix you something."
"Mom, don't bother."
Marge Richards shook her head. "I didn't eat on my wedding day, either. You could hear my stomach growling all the way in the back of the church."
Jack Richards laughed. "Yeah, she leaned over while the minister was talking and said she wished she had a Big Mac."
Marisa laughed. "You're kidding, right?"
Her father shook his head. "Nope. It's the honest truth."
"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?" Marge asked.
"Maybe later. I'm gonna try to take a nap. Wake me in an hour, okay?"
"All right, sweetie."
Marisa went into her bedroom and shut the door. Kicking off her shoes, she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. In a little over three hours, she would be Grigori's wife...
Marisa, I, too, am counting the hours.
"Grigori!" She sat up, her gaze darting around the room.
Sleep, cara mia, I will be with you soon.
"Where are you?"
I am home, dreaming of you.
With a sigh, she turned on her side and closed her eyes. Moments later, she was asleep.
Marge Richards sniffed softly as she set the veil in place on Marisa's head. "You look beautiful. Just beautiful."
"Thanks, Mom. What time is it?"
"Five o'clock. Stop worrying. They can't start without the bride. Now, let's see... what've you got for something old?"
"Grandma's brooch."
"Right. Something new?"
"My dress."
"Something borrowed?"
"Hanky from Barb."
"Something blue?"
"The ribbon on my garter."
Marge Richards stood back and sighed. Marisa looked like a fairy-tale princess. Her gown was white satin, with a scoop neck, long fitted sleeves, and a full skirt. The veil was like a whisper of moonlight, pale and fragile.
"So, how do I look?"
"Perfect, honey, just perfect."
"Is Dad ready?"
"He's been wearing a rut in your carpet for the last twenty minutes. You know your father, always ready an hour early. I think the big question is, are you ready?"
Marisa nodded as she slipped her arm around her mother's waist. "Thanks for all your help, Mom."
"You did all the work."
"I don't mean just today. You've always been there for me."
Marge Richards blinked back her tears. "Be happy, Marty."
"I will be." Marisa blinked back tears of her own. "Let's go."
Mike and Barbara and the kids were waiting at the church.
"Is Grigori here?" Marisa asked. "Have you seen him?"
"He was here when we got here," Barbara said. "Lordy, you should see what that man does for a tux."
"Hey," Mike said. "What about me? I look darn good, if I do say so myself."
"Of course you do, honey," Barbara said. She looked at Marisa and rolled her eyes. "Men. They've got egos the size of the Grand Canyon."
"What about Linda? Is she here yet?"
"I haven't seen her."
"Geez, you don't think she forgot?"
"I'm sure she didn't," Jack Richards said. "Calm down, Marty."
At five-thirty, the organist began to play. Mike and the kids went to take their places. A few minutes later, Linda arrived at the church.
"Sorry I'm late. My baby-sitter canceled at the last minute and I had to get Jim's mother to come and stay with the kids. Marty, you look gorgeous."
They spent the next few minutes handing out flowers and making sure every hair was in place. And then her mother left to be seated.
And then they were playing her music.
"Ready, honey?" her dad asked.
Marisa nodded.
"No doubts?"
"No."
"Okay, then," he said, taking her arm, "here we go. Smile."
They paused in the doorway, and Marisa took it all in in one swift glance... the few close friends and coworkers sitting in the pews, the flowers on the altar, the minister, Linda and Barbara smiling at her, Mike and Mike Junior looking solemn and proud, and then she saw Grigori and everything else disappeared from her sight.
Save for his white shirt, he was a study in black, from his hair to his tux to his shoes. She felt the power of his eyes as he watched her walk down the aisle, felt the power of the man himself. It reached out to her, enfolding her in a lover's embrace.
Her heart was beating like a wild thing caught in a trap by the time she reached the altar.
She hardly heard a word that was said, was only vaguely aware of her father placing her hand in Grigori's. She felt Grigori's fingers close over her own, firm and cool, felt a quick jolt of electricity arc between them. And then they were exchanging the vows that would bind them together.
Grigori looked deep into her eyes as he placed his ring upon her finger and spoke the words that made her his wife. But it was the words he spoke to her mind that she heard.
I love you, cara. I shall love and cherish you until your dying breath, protect you with my life. So long as I live, you will want for nothing.
And then the ceremony was over. The minister smiled at Grigori. "You may kiss the bride."
She gazed up into Grigori's eyes as he lifted her veil. Gently, as if she were made of the most fragile crystal, he took her face between his hands and kissed her. There was a roaring in her ears. Heat exploded through her as he branded her with his kiss.
Her senses were reeling when he took his mouth from hers. The minister introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Grigori Chiavari, and then they were walking down the aisle.
He kissed her again as soon as they were outside the church. There was nothing gentle in this kiss; it was filled with such passion and fire that she was surprised she didn't melt in his arms.
And then her friends and family were there, wishing them well, hugging Marisa, shaking hands with Grigori.
They went to the Hilton for the reception, which was small and intimate. Her father had insisted on paying for a sit-down dinner. The food was excellent; the champagne flowed like water. There was a band, and dancing, toasts to the bride and groom. They cut the cake.
Marisa hesitated as she offered Grigori a piece of their cake. Her gaze searched his, and then she heard his voice in her mind, assuring her that it was all right, that he could eat one small piece of wedding cake.
They posed for pictures, there were more toasts, and then it was time to leave. The wedding presents were loaded into the limo's trunk.
Marisa hugged her family, bidding them goodbye. Her brother and his family were leaving for home in the morning; her parents were going up to Carmel for a few days before going back to Florida.
She hugged her nieces and nephews, ignoring the tiny niggling voice in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded strangely like Edward Ramsey's, warning her that she had married a vampire and she might not live long enough to see her loved ones again.
A final good-bye, and Grigori swept her into his arms and carried her outside to a waiting limousine amid a shower of rice and good wishes.
They had decided to spend the night at their house instead of going to a hotel.
"Cara." He drew her into his arms as the car pulled away from the curb.
She smiled up at him, a riot of emotions roiling through her. He was devastatingly handsome. His eyes were dark, blazing with barely restrained desire. Soon they would be at his home... her home, too, now. It was her wedding night... how did vampires make love?
"Relax, Marisa, I'm not going to eat you."
He smiled at her, that incredibly sexy, heartbreaking smile, and all her fears dissolved. She snuggled up against him. "It was a pretty wedding, wasn't it?"
Grigori nodded. "Did I tell you how beautiful you are?"
"No." He hadn't spoken the words, but she had seen it in his eyes.
"Molto bella."
"Thank you." She frowned. "The pictures - "
"What about them?"
"Do vampires photograph?"
"I'm not a ghost, cara."
"Good. I'd look silly standing in front of the cake alone. The cake! Did you really eat, or was it just an illusion?"
"It wasn't an illusion, cara. Not this time." He did not tell her how distasteful it had been, or that, even now, he could feel that lump of sugar and flour and thick white frosting sitting heavily in his stomach.
They arrived at the house a few minutes later. Grigori and the driver carried the presents inside.
She stood in the living room, which was the only room in the house that lacked furniture. She heard Grigori bid the driver good night, heard the front door close, and then he was there, taking her in his arms, his dark gaze searching hers. There was passion in those deep black eyes, passion and a hint of fear.
Marisa frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong?"
"You're looking at me as if you're afraid of me."
"Not of you. Myself. I'm afraid I might do something to hurt you, or" - he took a deep breath - "or frighten you."
"Frighten me?"
He smiled at her. "It's been a long time since I made love to a woman I cared for." He ran a finger down her cheek. "I'll try to be careful." He swore under his breath. "I've only made you more afraid, haven't I?"
She shook her head, but it was a lie.
"Have I told you how much I love you, how grateful I am that you're here?"
"No."
"If I ever do anything to frighten you, you must tell me."
She wished he would stop saying that.
His hands slid up her back and began unfastening the tiny cloth-covered buttons on her gown. Slowly, he drew the dress over her shoulders, down her arms, until, with a whisper of satin over silk, it pooled around her ankles. Her slip followed.
Grigori sucked in a deep breath as his gaze moved over her. Clad in a lacy bra, bikini panties, a white garter belt, stockings, and heels, she was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.
He started to remove her bra, but she caught his hand. "Not yet," she murmured.
He looked at her askance. "Change your mind?"
"No, now it's my turn."
She removed his coat and tossed it aside, then slowly unfastened his shirt. He wasn't wearing a T-shirt, and she let her fingers slide over his skin, felt him shudder at her touch.
She pulled his shirttail out, ran her hands up and down his back, and then tossed his shirt after his coat. She kept her gaze on his as she removed his belt.
He sucked in a deep breath as she began to unfasten his trousers. "You're playing with fire, you know."
"Am I?" She unzipped his fly and pushed his trousers over his hips, letting them puddle around his ankles. He wore a pair of black briefs that left little to the imagination.
"My turn again," he said. He brushed his lips across her cheek, and then knelt down, his hands sliding over her thighs and calves, caressing her ankles before he removed her shoes and tossed them onto the growing pile of discarded clothing.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, kissing her from her navel to her breasts. His hands were quick and sure as he unfastened her bra.
He wadded it up in his hand, his breath catching in his throat as his hungry gaze moved over her. Her skin was smooth and clear, perfection upon perfection, and he thought he had never seen anything more tempting in all his life.
The heat between them was potent, flammable. He started to remove his shoes, but she stayed his hand, then knelt down and removed his shoes and socks. She looked up at him, and he lifted first one leg and then the other so she could fling his trousers aside.
He took her hands and helped her to her feet, his heart pounding wildly as she unfastened her garter belt and slowly, oh so slowly, peeled off her nylons to stand before him wearing nothing but a scrap of white lace.
"Marisa." His voice was warm and thick, like sun-warmed molasses, as he swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to the bedroom. He paused inside the door to rain feather-soft kisses over her cheeks, her nose, her brow.
He glanced at the hearth, and it blazed to life. The crackle of the flames was the only sound in the room as he carried her to the bed.
The covers had already been turned down. There was a bottle of champagne, a bottle of red wine, and two glasses on the bedside table, along with a slender crystal vase that held a single, perfect red rose.
He lowered her to the mattress, and followed her down, gathering her into his arms. "I can't believe you are here," he whispered, "that you are mine."
His eyes blazed with fervent heat as he kissed her, the touch of his lips igniting a fever of desire deep within her. Her arms twined around his neck, holding him close, as she returned his kisses. His hands caressed her, aroused her, until she writhed beneath him in sweet agony.
He tore off his briefs, removed her panties, and then hovered over her, his dark eyes intent upon her face. "Tell me," he said hoarsely, "tell me that you love me."
"I love you." She lifted her hips in silent invitation. "Love you, love you!"
"Ah, cara." He breathed the words as he made her his.
She gasped, then clutched him to her, trembling as her body stretched to accommodate him.
"Shhh, cara," he murmured, "I'll never hurt you again."
She nodded, her face buried in his shoulder, as he began to move slowly within her, the tension melting away as pleasure built deep inside her. He whispered soft words in her ear, love words spoken in French and Italian. She felt his breath hot against her neck, felt his tongue sweep over her heated flesh. She moaned with delight, her body moving with his.
She closed her eyes, awash in a sea of pleasure, and he was there beside her, his breath harsh, his body slick with perspiration, his voice moving over her like black velvet. She was reaching, reaching, and he was there, lifting her higher, taking her where she wanted to go, until she was hovering on the brink. She cried his name, felt his teeth at her neck, and then she was flying, soaring, as wave after wave of ecstacy washed over her.
Slowly, like a feather drifting on the wind, she floated back to earth. She was smiling and couldn't seem to stop. Sleepy, yet wide awake. All her life she had waited for this moment. Had it been as wonderful for him as it had been for her?
She ran her hand through his hair, caressed his shoulder. He started to pull away, but she held him close. "Not yet."
"I must be heavy."
"No, I like it."
Resting on his elbows, he turned his head so he could see her face, frowned when he saw the tears in her eyes. "Cara!" he exclaimed softly. "Did I hurt you?"
"No. Oh, no. It was wonderful."
A smile of pure masculine delight curved his lips.
Marisa lifted a hand to her neck. Had she imagined it, or had she felt his teeth nipping at her throat?
She felt him stiffen as the thought crossed her mind.
His gaze slid away from hers. "Forgive me, cara."
She caressed his cheek, ran her finger over his lips. "It's all right, really."
"I had hoped - " He shook his head.
"Hoped what?"
"I had hoped I could separate my love for you from the Hunger, but my desire for your sweet flesh arouses my thirst until I cannot resist." He ran his fingertips over the two tiny marks on her throat. "I took but a little."
She didn't know what to think, what to say. She tried to feel repulsed, betrayed. Instead, she felt a sense of fulfillment in knowing that she had nourished his Hunger and satisfied his desire.
She ran her hands down his arms, marveling at the latent strength she felt there. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.
Grigori closed his eyes and surrendered to the touch of her hands. Her fingertips explored the muscles in his arms, traveled over his chest, massaged his shoulders, slid over his back, his buttocks.
He groaned softly, felt his body's quick response to the sheer pleasure of her touch as she continued her exploration. He drew a deep breath, fighting to keep his Hunger under control as she began to kiss his neck. Her breath tickled his skin; her breasts were warm and soft against his chest. And he wanted her again, wanted to hold her and kiss her, to bury himself deep within her, to drink in her sweetness again and yet again.
"Marisa..."
"Hmmm?"
He kissed her, kissed her until she was breathless, until she cried out for him to take her. He held nothing back this time, overcome by his need to possess her, to brand her as his forevermore. He brought her to the brink and carried her over, his mind melding with hers, making them one in mind and body, and when, at last, she fell asleep in his arms, he knew he would never let her go.
