Night's Touch. Amanda Ashley

her mother was a witch?

      “Brenna?”

      Brenna took her daughter’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “Years ago, while traveling in Africa, your father and I contracted a rare disease. The sun is like poison to us now, so we sleep during the day.”

      Cara nodded. She knew she was adopted. Her parents had told her that as soon as she was old enough to understand. It explained why she wasn’t affected by the same disease that plagued her mom and dad.

      “Maybe we could eat dinner together?” Cara suggested. “Like other families. You know, like the ones on TV.”

      Brenna and Roshan exchanged glances.

      “Due to our ailment, your father and I are on a rather strict liquid diet,” Brenna said after a moment, “but we’ll be happy to sit at the table with you while you eat, if you like.”

      “I’d like that very much,” Cara said, smiling. “At least once in a while.”

      “Then that’s what we’ll do,” her father said.

      “Are we very rich?” Cara asked.

      “Yes,” her father replied soberly. “Very.”

      “Do you think I could have a car?”

      “When you’re eighteen,” her father said.

      Cara sighed. “Lily got a new car for her sixteenth birthday. So did Jennifer. Why can’t I have a car now?”

      Brenna looked at her husband, one brow raised as she, too, waited for his answer.

      Roshan glanced from his daughter to his wife and back again. “We’ll compromise,” he said. “You can have the car of your choice when you turn seventeen.”

      The car she chose was a baby blue convertible with black interior.

      Cara was twenty-two years old when she finally discovered why her parents weren’t like everyone else’s.

      Chapter 1

      Cara Aideen DeLongpre sipped her drink, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to pay any attention to the crowd and the noise that surrounded her. She had grown up knowing her mother and father weren’t like other parents. Once she had started going to school, she had discovered a whole new world. Other kids went on vacation with their parents when school was out. They went out to dinner and to the zoo and to Disneyland and Sea World. They had birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Other kids had brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and cousins and grandparents. When Cara asked why she didn’t have brothers or sisters or aunts and uncles, her father had explained that her mother couldn’t have children, and that he and her mother didn’t have any siblings, and that her grandparents had all passed away.

      It was a perfectly logical explanation, but it didn’t make her feel any less lonely. It would have been nice to have an older brother, or a sister she could share confidences with.

      What wasn’t logical was the fact that, in over twenty years, her parents hadn’t changed at all. She told herself she was being foolish, that she was overreacting, imagining things, but there was no arguing with the proof of her own eyes. They both looked exactly the way they had when Cara was a little girl. Her mother never gained or lost an ounce. Her face was as smooth and clear as it had always been. The same was true of her father. Roshan DeLongpre looked like a man in his mid-thirties, and he had looked that way for as long as Cara could remember. He had taken her to the movies one night last week and they had run into a couple of Cara’s acquaintances. Before she could introduce her father, her friend, Cindy, had taken her aside and asked how long she had been dating that “good-looking older man.”

      Cara stared into her drink, wishing she had the nerve to ask her parents why Di Giorgio aged and they didn’t and why their lifestyle was so different from everyone else’s. She knew about their aversion to the sun and their liquid diet, but why did that keep them from other normal activities? Why did they encourage her to make friends but discourage her from bringing them home? Why did they keep the door to their bedroom locked during the day? What were they doing in there?

      She looked up as a man sat down beside her. He smiled, then pointed with his chin at her drink. “Can I buy you another?”

      “No, thank you.”

      He lifted a hand. “Hey, no problem. You just looked a little down. I thought you might like some company.”

      He had a nice voice, blond hair, and dark brown eyes. What harm could it do to share a drink with him?

      “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” he coaxed, as if sensing her indecision.

      “Well, I would like another.”

      “What are you drinking?” he asked, signaling for the bartender.

      “A virgin pineapple daiquiri.”

      He ordered her drink and a scotch and water for himself, then held out his hand. “I’m Anton.”

      “Cara.” She hesitated a moment before taking his hand. Though she had been on her share of dates, she tended to be shy around strangers. She wasn’t sure why—maybe because she had never forgotten her father’s warning that he had “ruthless enemies.” Still, she told herself there was nothing to worry about. Frank was here.

      Anton’s grip was firm, his skin warm. “Do you come here often?”

      “No, this is my first time. I was just passing by and I heard the music and…” She shrugged. “I thought it might cheer me up.”

      “If you tell me what’s got you feeling so blue, I might be able to help.”

      “I don’t think so, but thanks for offering.”

      Cara glanced out at the dance floor as the lights dimmed. The music, which had been upbeat, changed to something slow and sensual with a dark, sexual undertone. It called to something earthy deep within her.

      “Would you like to dance?” Anton asked.

      Again, she hesitated a moment before agreeing.

      Anton took her by the hand and led her out onto the floor. “So,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Tell me about yourself.”

      “What do you want to know?”

      “Let’s see. What do you like to do for fun? Do you work, or are you an heiress? Who’s your favorite singer? And, most important of all, are you a chocoholic like every other woman I’ve ever met?”

      She laughed. “Guilty on the chocolate,” she said, and then frowned as she realized she had never seen her mother eat or drink anything chocolate. Even the most rigid dieters cheated every now and then.

      “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

      “No. I work at the library, and I don’t really have a favorite singer.” She didn’t tell him that she was, in fact, an heiress. After all, he was a stranger and she wasn’t a fool. Not that she had anything to worry about, not with Frank Di Giorgio sitting at the far end of the bar watching her like a hawk.

      “You’re a librarian?” Anton exclaimed.

      “Is something wrong with that?”

      “No, no, but…well, you’re a knockout. I sort of thought you might be a model or an actress.”

      Cara smiled, flattered in spite of herself. “Disappointed?”

      “Not at all.”

      When the music ended, he escorted her back to their seats. Their drinks were waiting for them. Cara sipped hers, thinking how glad she was she had stopped in here tonight. Di Giorgio had tried to dissuade her, but she had insisted. Once inside, she almost hadn’t stayed, it was such a strange place. For one thing, she was the only one in the place who wasn’t wearing black. Voodoo masks and ancient Indian burial masks decorated the walls. Tall black candles flickered