Chapter 7

      Callie lay awake long after she’d gone to bed, starting at every noise, every creak, as she replayed her conversation with Quill. He was six hundred years old. He could impregnate a human female. There were two kinds of vampires—his kind and the bloodthirsty ones who killed those they fed on. In spite of the aura of power that clung to him, he didn’t seem menacing—at least not to her. She wasn’t sure why he wanted to stay in her house when he had a lair of his own. Nor did she understand why she wasn’t more afraid of him, of what he was. So, he didn’t kill his prey. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of violence. She had seen ample proof of that in Hunter Park.

      If not a child, what did he really want from her? And how was she to know if any of what he’d said was even true? For all she knew, maybe there was only one kind of vampire and he had invented the story of “his” kind in hopes of gaining her trust.

      She tossed and turned all that night, and when sleep finally claimed her, she dreamed she was being chased by vampires—hideous bat-like creatures with inch-long fangs and hell-red eyes who pursued her through a dark, winding tunnel that had no end.

      * * *

      In the morning, Callie’s first thought was for Quill. She hadn’t heard him come in last night. Had he decided to return to his lair, wherever that might be? But when she tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the guest room, he was there.

      Oh, Lordy, was he there! She gasped when she saw him. He was naked to the waist, the sheet covering his long legs. She couldn’t help staring at him, her gaze moving over the width of his shoulders, traveling down his broad chest to a firm belly ridged with muscle. It wasn’t so much the beauty of his physique that had her staring as the numerous thin white scars that crisscrossed his arms, chest, and belly. Were they all souvenirs of the night he had been attacked? If so, how had he ever survived?

      Her gaze moved to his face. His brow was unlined, his cheekbones high and prominent, his nose a straight slash, his lips . . . she knew their contours, their taste. Even at rest, she could feel the aura of power that surrounded him.

      Hoping to escape unnoticed, she took a step back, but it was too late. His gaze trapped hers, bringing a flush of heat to her cheeks and a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

      He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. Silence stretched between them, so thick it was almost palpable.

      Heart pounding so fast she thought she might faint, Callie moved into the room. One step. Two. And then she hesitated, waiting for some sign from Quill.

      Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. She was relieved to see that he had slept in his jeans.

      With his gaze still on hers, he held out his arms.

      It was all the invitation she needed. He gathered her close, his hand stroking her back while he rained feather-light kisses on her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, before claiming her lips with his.

      She stood nestled between his thighs, one hand resting over his heart, the other delving into the hair at his nape as he kissed her again and yet again. Time ceased to exist as he fell back on the mattress, drawing her down on top of him, her legs straddling his.

      Holding her close, he rolled over and tucked her beneath him. She gasped as she felt the evidence of his desire, felt a rush of apprehension when she dared look at him. His gaze burned into hers, so hot she was surprised it didn’t set her hair on fire. She was acutely aware of the weight of his body pressing down on hers. His musky scent enveloped her, arousing her still more.

      She bit down on her lower lip, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe for fear he might read it as an invitation. Vampire.

      He went suddenly still.

      She didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. She wondered again why she wasn’t more afraid of him, why she was so drawn to him. Sometimes she felt as if she had been waiting for this man, this moment, her whole life.

      “I should have warned you,” he said, his voice gruff. “My hunger and my desire are closely entwined.” His fingertips settled on the pulse throbbing rapidly in the hollow of her throat.

      Now he tells me, she thought—and wondered which he wanted more, her virtue or her blood.

      “I’ll leave that up to you.”

      She swallowed hard. Then, moving ever so slowly, she offered him her arm.

      “Not this time,” he growled.

      Before she could decide what he meant, he lowered his head to her neck. Fear shot through her, followed by a wave of intense sensual pleasure. She closed her eyes, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him close.

      He was drinking from her. It was far more sensual than having him drink from her wrist. She was floating, drifting on a crimson sea, weightless as a feather.

      When she came back to earth, he was gone.

      Callie sat up slowly, a little confused as to what had just happened between them. She had never expected things to get so hot and heavy, or to escalate so fast.

      She lifted a hand that was none too steady to her throat. He had never taken so much before. Had she been in danger? She remembered Quill saying his kind didn’t kill their prey. But there was a first time for everything, and she couldn’t help feeling that she was lucky to be alive.

      * * *

      Quill stormed through the city’s back streets, striking anything that got in his way—trees, block walls, trash cans, stop signs.

      He could have killed her. The knowledge—the fear—burned through him like holy water against preternatural flesh. He had been so close to taking it all, to sheathing himself in her sweet flesh as he buried his fangs in her throat.

      In his six hundred years, he had never felt such an overwhelming desire for any other woman. Why Callie? And why did her blood taste so damnably familiar?

      Witch blood, he thought. It reminded him of witch blood.

      Frowning, he slowed to a walk, hands shoved into his pockets.

      In his long existence, he had only taken blood from one witch, and that had been over a hundred years ago. She had been a pretty young woman. He thought her to be in her mid-twenties. Later, he had learned that she was older. Much older. The sexual attraction between them had been instantaneous. They had made love that very night. He had hoped for a long-term affair but after that first encounter, she had refused to bed him again. When he’d asked why, all she’d said was that it wasn’t meant to be. They had continued to spend time together for several months before he’d moved on. Funny that he remembered her so clearly when he barely remembered any of the other women he’d known.

      Muttering an oath, he came to an abrupt halt. He even remembered her name. Eva something. No, not Eva. Ava. Ava, who’d had the same honey-gold hair as Callie, the same incredibly deep blue eyes.

      * * *

      Callie spent the morning shopping online for the best price on a camera she had seen in a magazine. After making her choice, she added a case and a couple of new lenses. When that was done, she went out to lunch. And all the while, she found herself wondering about Quill. Where was he? He tended to sleep during the day, she mused, then remembered he kept a lair somewhere. No doubt he had gone there.

      She should be relieved he was out of the house, but she couldn’t help wondering if she would ever see him again.

      Later, needing to get her mind off Quill, she called Vivian and asked if she was in the mood to see a movie. They made plans to meet at the theater.

      It felt good to get out of the house, to spend time with her best friend, and yet Quill