A Whisper Of Eternity (4 page)

She closed her mind to everything else and lost herself in her art. She loved the smell of the paint, the sense of creativity, of accomplishment, that flowed through her as the scene she saw in her mind took on depth and color and life on the canvas.

She took a short break to get another cup of coffee and something to eat, and then spent the rest of the day in the studio.

She quit when she lost the light. After cleaning her brushes and tidying up the studio, she went into the bathroom, filled the tub, lit a couple of candles, and took a long, hot bubble bath. Lying there with her eyes closed, she decided that cooking didn’t sound appealing, so when the water cooled, she stepped out of the tub, pulled on a pair of gray slacks and a white sweater, and drove down to the village.

 

 

Dominic rose with the setting of the sun, his preternatural senses immediately probing the upper level of the house. He had no sense of her presence. Where had she gone?

He dressed quickly in a pair of black trousers and a shirt and willed himself into the upper house. He walked quickly from room to room until he reached her studio.

He paused in the doorway. There were several lamps located around the room. He supposed they were to provide light when the skies were overcast or when she felt the urge to work after dark. An overstuffed chair took up most of one corner. A couple of paint-stained smocks hung from hooks near the door.

Stepping inside, he moved slowly around the room. Her scent was strong in here, as was the odor of paint and turpentine. There were several blank canvases stacked in a corner. Three easels, each holding paintings in various stages of completion, stood several feet apart along one wall. Though all three were exceptional, he preferred the seascape. It was done mostly in shades of blue and green save for a splash of crimson and gold left behind as the sun sank in the distance. So long since he had seen a sunrise.

Drawing his gaze from the painting, he continued his perusal of the room. A round, wooden piano stool on casters sat in front of the painting in the middle. An oblong table held an assortment of paints, a box of rags, a palette, a can of turpentine, half a dozen bottles and cans, a sketch pad. An old ceramic flower pot held an assortment of brushes. Several photos of the ocean were tacked to a bulletin board. A closet contained an assortment of wooden frames in various sizes and styles.

He was about to leave the room when a canvas turned toward the wall caught his attention. Curious, he walked across the floor and turned it around.

And found himself staring at his own likeness. It took him quite by surprise. He had not seen his own face in centuries. He had almost forgotten what he looked like.

If she had painted him as he truly appeared, then his physical appearance had changed little since Kitana had bestowed the Dark Gift upon him so many centuries ago. He wondered what had prompted Tracy to paint him as a vampire. Was it possible she suspected his true nature?

He studied the painting for several minutes. Forgetting for the moment that he was the subject, he found himself admiring her work. She was a truly talented artist. The lines were bold and confident, the colors well chosen, the balance of light and shadow just right.

Lost in thought, he left the house. Where would she have gone? A look in the garage showed that it was empty. Had she perhaps driven down to the village? It was as good a place as any to start.

Backing his car out of the underground garage, he drove down the hill. He could have willed himself into the village with a thought, but he enjoyed the simple act of driving, enjoyed the feel of the wind in his face, the low purr of the engine. But tonight, even that paled in the anticipation of seeing her again.

He found her car parked in front of Sea Cliff’s only restaurant. After locating a parking place over on the next block, he walked back to the restaurant. The dinner rush was over and after a few words with the hostess, Dominic made his way to Tracy’s table.

She looked up, obviously surprised to see him standing there.

“Good evening.”

She smiled, though it was tentative at best. “Hello.”

He returned her smile. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

She wanted to refuse. It was evident in every line of her body, in the look on her face. It was just as evident that she couldn’t think of any way to refuse without appearing rude, and so she murmured, “No, please do.”

He slid into the seat across from her. “Nice place,” he remarked after noting that there were no mirrors in this section of the restaurant.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Do you come here often?”

“No.”

A waitress appeared at their table. “Are you ready to order?” she asked without much enthusiasm.

“Yes,” Tracy said. “I’ll have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato on sourdough bread and a glass of iced tea, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress made a note on her pad, then glanced at Dominic. Her attitude underwent an immediate change. She straightened up, brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, thrust out her ample chest. And smiled. “And what can I bring you, sir?”

“A glass of red wine.”

“Will that be all?”

Dominic nodded.

“Are you sure? Our apple pie is the best in two counties.”

“Quite sure.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” the waitress purred, and with a last toothy smile, she left the table.

Tracy took a sip of water, then unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “You’re not eating?”

“Not now. Later, perhaps.”

“So, you just came in here for a glass of wine?”

“You’ve caught me out,” he replied. “I saw your car out front and thought I would see if I could entice you to let me share your table.”

Her cheeks grew pink under his blatantly sensual regard.

“Have you plans for tonight?”

“Yes. No, not really . . . that is . . . no.”

“You seem flustered this evening. Is something amiss?”

“No. It’s just . . .” She lifted a hand and let it fall. “I stayed up very late last night, painting. I’m afraid I haven’t caught up on my lost sleep yet.”

He leaned forward. “Were you working on a new canvas?”

The blush in her cheeks deepened. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you would show it to me later.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just a seascape. If my client likes it, he’s promised to order a dozen or so for the offices in his building.”

He knew it was not the seascape that had put that becoming blush in her cheeks, but the painting she had done of him.

“I should still like to see it,” he remarked. “If you have no other plans, perhaps you would show it to me after you’ve had your dinner.”

Tracy nodded. Why was it so difficult to tell him no?

A moment later, the waitress arrived with their order.

Dominic sat back and sipped his wine. Time and again, his gaze moved to her neck, to the pulse beating steadily in the hollow of her throat. Thinking of the rich red blood that flowed through her veins made the wine in his glass taste like water. He licked his lips as he thought of running his hands over the mortal heat of her skin, tasting the warm, sweet essence of her life on his tongue.

Clenching one hand into a fist, he thrust such thoughts from his mind lest she see them mirrored in his eyes.

Tracy found it difficult to enjoy her meal with Dominic sitting across from her. It was terribly disconcerting to know he was watching her every move. If only he would eat something, too! But he simply sat there, occasionally sipping his drink, his gaze intent upon her face.

She looked up, her meal momentarily forgotten, when he asked her if she believed in reincarnation.

“No, I don’t,” she replied firmly. “Do you?”

He nodded slowly. “I sense that you have a very old soul.”

“Me?” Her voice emerged in a high-pitched squeak. “Why would you think that?”

His eyes darkened as he leaned across the table. “Have you had dreams of things you could not possibly know? Remembered people or places where you know you have never been?”

“Of course,” she said. “Who hasn’t? But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Have you ever dreamed of being a doctor? Or of being a queen during the Crusades? A witch in Old Salem?”

“Stop it!”

He drew back and took a sip of his wine. “Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

She stared at him, remembering the dream that she’d had the night before. She had been a queen then. And Dominic had been her bodyguard. . . .

With a start, she realized that she had dreamed of him in the past, dreamed of him even before they met. That was why she had thought he looked familiar when she met him on the beach.

A cold chill ran down her spine. How was it possible to dream of someone she had never met?

She pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. “I . . . I’ve got to go.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I . . . I have . . . uh . . . an appointment with a future client, and I’m . . . I’m late . . . and . . .” Grabbing her handbag, she quickly slid out of the booth. “I’m sorry.”

He watched her hurry toward the cash register.

She didn’t look back.

“
Annie Williams,” she replied. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall meeting you before, Mr. St. John. Was it here, in town?”

“
Change your mind,” Dominic urged softly.

“Dominic.” She woke with his name on her lips, the memory of her dream still vivid. Was it only a dream?

Sitting up in bed, she stared out the window. Where were these dreams—she refused to call them memories—coming from? Was it just the power of suggestion? That would have been the easy answer, she thought, if she hadn’t had them before she met Dominic on the beach.

With a sigh, she turned onto her stomach and closed her eyes.

“
Annie, please do not leave me.”

“
Then stay. Trust me to help you.”

“
Annie, it is the only way!” He caught her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair. “Please, my best beloved one, please do not leave me again!”

“No!” Tracy woke abruptly, her body bathed in sweat. She glanced at the window, relieved to see that night was withdrawing her cloak from the face of the land.

 

 

On the brink of the dark sleep of his kind, he stared into the darkness, his senses filled with Tracy. The scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils. The memory of her voice whispered in his ear. Her smile warmed his heart. He closed his eyes and images from the past flooded his mind.

He saw a scantily clad Tracy dancing in front of a tent full of men, holding them spellbound as she moved in sinuous grace, her long golden hair falling like a veil of silk past her waist. Her hips moved in slow, sensual allure, the hint of a smile promising to fulfill the fantasy of every man in the place. Only she wasn’t Tracy then—she was Kiya, the enchantress.

And he had found her, again and again and again, only to lose her when death took her beyond his reach.

But no more.

“No more.” He murmured the words as the sun climbed high in the sky, dragging him down into the dreamless depths of that sleep that was like death itself.

 

 

It was late afternoon when Tracy laid her brush aside and stood to stretch her back and shoulders. She had risen with the dawn, eager to put her dreams behind her, to lose herself in her painting. Her art had always been an escape from whatever problems were worrying her. She was in control at the canvas, her whole being focused on the intimate act of creation. This morning, she had not painted from any sketches or photographs; she had simply stood in front of a blank square of canvas and let her imagination take flight.

Now, she stared at her work in wonder. A tall, dusky-skinned woman danced across the canvas, her long hair shimmering around her shoulders. Her colorful skirts swirled around her ankles, revealing shapely calves. A bracelet of rubies and emeralds reflected the light of the candles that lit the tent. Men of all ages sat in a wide circle around her, staring avidly. And in the background, blending in with the shadows, stood a tall, dark man.