Shadow Lover. Lydia Parks

walk his path alone.

      Chapter One: The Illusion

      The first time Serena saw him, she thought she was hallucinating.

      He appeared suddenly as a looming apparition directly in front of her when she stepped into the street, and sent her staggering backwards. She tripped on the curb and fell back hard, her teeth gnashing together so abruptly she thought she might lose a few.

      And then a pickup truck roared past, swerving, speeding through the space she would have simultaneously occupied if not for her strange savior.

      She searched the street and sidewalk, trying to recall exactly what he’d looked like. All she drew from her senses was tall, dark and scary.

      Sitting there, she couldn’t have sworn he’d even had eyes, or any other features. Had he been wearing a mask of some kind?

      Another car passed, slower than the truck, and tinny music grated over the empty sidewalk.

      As the realization that she’d nearly faced eternity on a lonely Santa Fe street bubbled into her brain, she pushed herself to her shaky feet and brushed off the back of her jeans. And she looked around again, studying the shadows for any hint of movement, but saw none.

      With her heart pounding, she picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder and started home at a fast walk, listening for the sound of footsteps behind her. Once home, she locked both dead bolts, checked the back door and windows, then crawled into an ancient velvet-covered chair and curled into a protective ball.

      Had she been wrong all these years? Were there really angels of some kind? Or ghosts? Had an ethereal being just saved her life?

      And then she recalled his scent. She’d only caught a hint of it when she gasped in surprise, but it left an impact. Masculine. Leather, smoke and rosemary. And maybe mothballs. Would a guardian angel have an aroma?

      But he couldn’t have been real.

      A memory wormed its way to the surface—a dark memory she’d locked away years earlier. Sometime in college, Serena had started fantasizing about a tall, gorgeous stranger, dangerous yet attractive. He wanted her and she wanted him, but they could never touch because he existed in a shadow world, in another dimension. She’d thought of him when she was alone at night. And she’d thought of him when she walked dark alleys, hoping he was the one she felt watching her. Sometimes, he seemed so real, she could smell him, hear him, even see him if she turned her head quickly. She dreamed he’d eventually take her to his world where they’d live together for eternity.

      When she met Robert, she quit thinking about her shadow hero.

      That earlier part of life, that dream, must have subconsciously sparked her most recent lectures on the human need for dark fantasies of eternal life in order to deny death.

      As she sifted through the event on the street, analyzing memories and possibilities, Serena realized she’d probably only seen a reflection of the approaching truck, and smelled scents from nearby houses. The whole thing had been a fortunate set of coincidences that resulted in her nearly biting off the end of her tongue, but also avoiding one horrific accident.

      And she felt better.

      Until she saw him again.

      Two days later, she had been walking home from an evening seminar where she’d lectured on dark fantasies and denying death, when she caught a glimpse of him standing at the corner of a building, watching her. Although he looked rooted to the spot, she was sure he hadn’t been there one second earlier. He wore black clothing, a black cape that left him almost indistinguishable from the shadows, and a black hat, a wide-brimmed 1940s fedora, tilted low and to one side.

      Once again she couldn’t see his eyes, but this time she knew they were there. She physically felt his gaze, subtle yet definite, like the movement of water across submerged skin.

      A shiver ran down and back up her spine.

      Fighting flight instincts, she stopped, turned and stared back.

      He didn’t move, not even to take a breath, and she thought for a moment that he might be a statue like so many found in unexpected places in this city.

      The street sounds disappeared under the rush of her own blood past her eardrums as she walked toward him, forcing one foot in front of the other. She felt as if she were approaching the end of the world, and wouldn’t be able to stop until she’d peered over the edge.

      When she did stop, she stood less than three feet from the stranger, staring up into his face. He must have been at least six feet tall with broad shoulders and a square jaw. All else about him was conjecture.

      Until he nodded and said, “Dr. Brockman.”

      His voice had the fine quality of an oboe, and although he whispered, it seemed to echo through her chest like the aftereffect of a kettledrum.

      She swallowed hard and licked her dry lips. “Who are you?”

      His mouth stretched into a smile, then he bowed his head in salute. “A fantasy, I believe.”

      “Excuse me?”

      He laughed, and his laughter was even more incredible than his voice.

      Serena shuddered.

      And then she jumped when, in a sudden rush, he swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply at the waist like some hammy silent-screen actor.

      “Griffin, at your service.”

      She couldn’t respond right away. He was terribly good-looking, in a dark sort of way, much as her youthful fantasy man had been. His wavy black hair just touched his shoulders, and his features were exquisite, almost regal.

      But his eyes blew her away. He had blue eyes, so light in color, they seemed to glow as if reflecting a full moon hidden somewhere behind her.

      A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she staggered backward to keep her balance.

      As quickly as he’d appeared that first night in the street, he materialized at her side, clutching her arm. “My dear, are you all right?”

      She looked up at him. “Who the hell are you? And how do you know my name?”

      He chuckled. “Well put.”

      “Huh?”

      She was usually more articulate than “huh,” but felt as if she’d stepped into a thick purple fog she couldn’t explain.

      “Now, now,” he said, patting her arm, “don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” Then he leaned close and whispered, “Unless you ask me to.”

      They walked toward her house, alone on the street, her boot’s heels thudding on sidewalk. Although she was terrified, it wasn’t for the usual reasons. She didn’t expect him to drag her into a dark alley, rape and kill her, or even to take her purse. Something deeper, more primal, drove her fear. She knew, somehow, that her world would never be the same.

      “Would you like to sit and talk?” he asked.

      “What?”

      “Are you having trouble hearing me? Or is English not your native tongue?”

      Serena pushed herself free from him and shook her head to loosen her thoughts.

      How had they reached her front porch?

      She eased into one of the wicker chairs, and it squeaked 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?”