Shadow Lover. Lydia Parks
under her weight.
Silent, he did the same, settling into the chair to her right, crossing one leg over the other, then placing his hat on his knee.
She sat there, shaking like a leaf in a spring gale; he looked like he awaited delivery of a mint julep.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“As I’ve already stated, I’m Griffin.”
“Just Griffin?”
“Just Griffin. And you are Serena Brockman—psychologist, orator and writer, born in Atlanta and living in Santa Fe, thirty-two years old.”
“I know who I am,” she said, anger surging at the one-sided feel of the whole encounter. “How do you know all that?”
“I attended your lecture.”
“I didn’t say anything about my age or where I was born. And you weren’t at the lecture.”
His eyebrows lifted in innocence, and he smiled. “I tend to listen from doorways.”
“Why?”
“Unfortunately, my appearance causes difficulties.”
Her senses seeming to have returned, she studied him more carefully. He watched her with unearthly intensity. Her body warmed in response, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the sensuous quality of his gaze.
Pale skin gave his fine features the look of marble, then as she stared, his face morphed into something feral.
She blinked hard, found his original appearance restored, and decided that her system must be on overload.
“Look, Griffin,” she said as she got up from her chair, “I think you should leave.”
He rose in front of her and stood very close to her, as if they were intimate. “Do you really want me to?”
Time stopped, and the air around her disappeared. For some reason, she couldn’t lie, couldn’t breathe and couldn’t send him away. She met his unblinking gaze and shook her head.
“No.”
He smiled again. “Good.” He stepped back to a reasonable distance. “Do you plan to invite me in?”
Every cell in her body screamed, “No!” She’d grown up in cities and knew the stories, the horror stories. If he stepped over her threshold, past the deadbolts, she had no defenses. She didn’t own a handgun.
“Yes,” she said.
Holding his hat at his side, he followed her into the house.
“It’s quite charming.”
She walked around the living room, turning on lamps, taking comfort in the light. Griffin followed her, switching off all but two of the lamps.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but my eyes are unable to tolerate bright lights.”
“Oh.”
He stopped directly in front of her, smiling wickedly, as if eyeing dessert.
She backed away, toward the safety of her kitchen. “Would you like some tea or something?”
“Something, perhaps,” he said.
“If you want to wait here,” she said, motioning nonchalantly over her shoulder.
But he didn’t wait. In the kitchen, he leaned against the tile counter and watched her fill the kettle, place it on the stove and juggle a mug from the cupboard, which escaped her grasp. In a blurred movement, he scooped up the mug just inches from the floor and handed it to her.
“Holy shit,” she said, again less eloquent than usual. “How did you do that?”
“I have wonderful reflexes.”
“No joke.” She placed the mug on the counter beside the stove, drew in a deep breath for courage, and then turned to face him.
“Okay, I want a straight answer. Who are you and why are you here?”
Griffin dropped his hat on the counter behind him and nodded, admitting defeat. “My name truly is Griffin, and I’m here to erase your memory of me.”
“What? Why would you want to do that, assuming you could? What are you, a hypnotist?”
He moved forward again, and the lights in the room dimmed as he neared. With his lips not quite touching her skin, he moved his mouth across her cheek.
Her throat constricted and her heart pounded. She couldn’t explain or control the erotic excitement tingling in her belly, nor did she want it to stop. She closed her eyes and turned her head, aware of his mouth following the line of her neck, still without touching her.
“No,” he whispered, his cool breath caressing her skin. “I’m a vampire.”
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