Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

Hair dark as midnight shone in the light from the door. The same light that gleamed on the leather covering his shoulders and turned the pallor of his skin to nacre. He smiled. Dixie forbade her heart to thaw.

      “Hello, Dixie,” he said. It sounded like the opening bars of a sonata. Warmth caressed her skin. Hope and excitement wriggled in her belly. She dug her heels in the doormat and clenched every muscle in her back.

      “Why, hello, Christopher.” At this rate the conversation wouldn’t go far enough to cause problems.

      “I’ve been away for a couple of days.”

      That explained the deserted house but not the car parked in front. “Have a good trip?”

      “Visited a friend in town.”

      This was ludicrous. Talking on the doorstep, as if he were a brush salesman. She had to get rid of him. She didn’t want him in the house. She didn’t trust herself near him. Just standing this close she could smell him and if she dared think about it, she’d imagine his touch again. “I ran into Guildford today and dropped off the books. I’ll have a valuation by Friday.”

      “Wonderful. Just name your price.” He took a fourth of a step forward. “Could I come in?”

      “No!” It came out like a muffled shriek that tore the roots of her mind. “Not now.” Ten minutes in the same room as him and her resolve would fade as surely as daylight. “It’s not a good time.” She gestured with her head to imply someone was in the house. The lie ripped deep within her. The look on Christopher’s face made her want to cringe.

      “Indeed,” he said and stepped backwards out of the circle of light. A shadow seemed to slip over him. “Get back to me, Dixie. When it’s a good time.”

      In the dark, she never even saw him reach the gate. Slamming and locking the front door, she leaned against it. Her heart raced like a Derby winner, her chest heaved so fast each breath hurt. Her blood seethed in her veins, pounded her temples and surged like a boiling flood ready to burst a dam. She wanted Christopher. She wanted his arms around her, his body against hers and his lips’ warm caress. Forget it. Never. Not now.

      Visceral pain tore through her. She pressed into the heavy oak door as if pulled by an outside force. She shook and wanted to cry out his name, but hurt gagged every sound but a moan. Her body slumped, her legs wobbled like a newborn foal’s, and her lungs felt filled with concrete. Only her fingers clenched around the doorknob and her hip against the mail slot stopped her from crumpling on the doormat.

      Her breathing normalized. Her heart rate calmed. Shaking her head as if stunned, she wobbled back to the kitchen. A half-eaten baked potato waited on the table. Dixie wasn’t sure if she remembered how to chew. That did it! No man was tweaking her buttons. The minute they concluded their deal, she wanted nothing more to do with Christopher Marlowe.

      Christopher leapt back from the stoop as if blasted. What conniving human was in there with Dixie? Sebastian, with his slick tongue and scheming heart? James, with his poisonous mind? Jealousy burned like acid, blocking Christopher’s thoughts and shuttering his reason.

      Transmogrifying in a blaze of fury, he shot through the night sky in an eastern trajectory until he reached the heart of the city. He found his safe haven high on St. Paul’s dome. Strange, how often he came here to roost—but he’d loved the view ever since the new St. Paul’s rose from the ashes of the Great Fire. He watched the quiet streets beneath his feet, deserted except for the stray taxi, and looked across the river to where the new Globe stood near the site of the old. He could trust London. A city wasn’t fickle like mortals or perfidious like womankind.

      Images racked his mind. Dixie was his. He’d tasted and marked her, but without her knowledge. The claim and need were his alone. And alone he’d forever endure his pain. Tom’s warning had come too late. Socializing with mortals brought misery and danger, even death. A quest for knowledge and his own frailty for a pretty mortal had brought him to the rim of disaster but he’d pulled back in time. He’d close the deal then take Tom’s advice and leave Bringham. With the coven strengthening, the village was too dangerous for his kind.

      Christopher returned to his cottage less than half an hour before dawn. His body ached like the rotten tooth he’d once had pulled by the barber in Fleet Alley. Tom had been right about feeding; farm animals didn’t offer enough nourishment to transmogrify twice in one day. His empty veins screamed for sustenance. The heart he didn’t have called out for Dixie.

      Dixie! She’d been here! He sensed her presence and smelled her sweetness. His mouth watered at the thought as fast as his mind seized with horror. Half-transmogrified hands grabbed the scrubbed pine table. He watched the return of human skin and nails with a wonder that never ceased. Nothing would alter the thrill he always felt at the power within his own body. He splayed his re-formed hands on the table, leaning into it on wobbly shoulders. He had to rest.

      His head felt like a cannonball as he raised it and looked across the table. His eyebrows tightened as he noticed the plate on the table. Neatly encased in cling film, the even squares of chocolate appeared like pieces of a puzzle—the conundrum of Dixie LePage. The paper shook in his hand. He recognized a sheet from his own writing tablet. “Christopher,” she had written in a hand as clear and open as her smile. “Forgive me for barging into your house but the door was unlocked. Here are some brownies, Gran’s recipe, a thank you for the wonderful lunch. Went into Guildford this morning and left your books. He promised me a price by Friday so I’ll get back to you. Take care and see you soon, Dixie.”

      The note crumpled in his grasp. Too weary to even consider the implications, Christopher dragged himself upstairs to his shuttered study and let sleep swallow his confusion.

      Dixie drove back from Guildford in a daze. She had a small fortune in books on the backseat. Her throat tied itself into a dry knot at the prospect of actually asking for a check that large. Had Christopher any idea of their worth? Could he afford that much? She’d find out soon and demand an explanation about her appointment book. It had better be good.

      He was in. She knew it as she turned the corner and saw the moss growing on the uneven roof tiles. Of course he was in. He was expecting her.

      He was waiting, leaning against the open doorway of his cottage, watching for her from the shade of the front porch. He filled the doorway, with his long, slim legs stretching in front, one broad shoulder propped against the frame, and his head almost touching the lintel. Of course it was a cottage. He hadn’t blocked her doorway quite the same way but he still had the smile that could melt permafrost.

      As she opened the gate with one hand, balancing the box in the other, she sensed his excitement. He came towards her. Warm, rippling waves of anticipation came at her like a flowing tide. No one got this excited over a bunch of books. Well, he could want all he wanted. She had a deal to make and a bone to pick. He took the box of books from her. His arms shook as they hefted the weight. “Come on in and let me know the damage.”

      She followed him into the kitchen and noticed how his shoulders sagged with relief as he set the box on the scrubbed table. “I’ve got the valuation.” She handed over the sheet of paper and waited for the shock to register.

      He read every word and figure, his head moving from side to side as he scanned the paper. A slight crease of his brows and a little tightening of his mouth showed concentration, nothing more. He looked up and smiled, his eye gleaming with something like triumph. “Seems fair enough. I assume you’re satisfied with the valuation?”

      Dry-mouthed, Dixie nodded. Satisfied? This was more than she’d earned in six months as a school librarian. “Of course, I said you could have them.”

      He reached into the drawer in the table. “Check okay?” he asked, uncapping his fountain pen.

      “Yes, I suppose.” She’d never seen anyone write a check that large. He did it as easily as paying for a tank of gas.

      “It won’t bounce. I made sure I had enough to cover this.”

      “You knew how