Claimed by a Vampire. Rachel Lee

looked brand-new hung from the racks.

      “I never use this,” he said. “I have my own off the master bedroom. I have a second bedroom, but I never got around to furnishing it, which is why I have to offer you the couch.”

      “The couch is fine, really. It looks comfortable.”

      “I’ll get the sheets and blankets for you.”

      “Wait,” she said as he turned away. He paused to look at her, and she felt a frisson of excitement as his golden gaze settled on her. God, he had an intense stare. And his nostrils flared just a bit, as if he were testing the scents in the air.

      “Yes?”

      “What exactly did you sense in my apartment? What thing were you referring to?”

      This time there was no way to mistake his hesitation. “You’d need to ask Jude that, honestly. But you know he deals in the unusual. The stuff that most people don’t begin to want to deal with.”

      “The paranormal.”

      “I guess that’s a fair word. Well, there’s something he’s looking for right now. And I smelled it in your condo.”

      “Smelled it?”

      He nodded. “Think back. I know you were overwhelmed by what you felt, but you probably smelled it, too. It wasn’t exactly faint.”

      Now she hesitated, thinking back, feeling an icy prickle along her spine. Had she smelled something? She couldn’t be sure. “All I was aware of was this … this sense of something there, a thickening of the air, a feeling of menace. God, that sounds crazy.”

      “Not to me, it doesn’t.” His mouth drew into a grim line. “There are forces we don’t believe in until we meet them face-to-face, Yvonne. I’ve met a few of them. I believe.”

      Before she could answer, he turned again. “I’ll make up your bed for you, then I need to work a bit. Most people don’t have enough hours in a day. I never have enough in a night.”

      She watched him disappear down the hall, and was abruptly struck by what he had told her about his illness. Imagine never being able to see the day again. Imagine living in a world where light was a threat.

      And she thought she had problems? But she couldn’t help shuddering again.

      She changed in the bathroom, touched that he had chosen her one pair of modest pajamas rather than one of the more sensual garments she wore to bed just because they made her feel feminine. He’d even packed her slippers and robe.

      Stepping back out into the living room, she found the couch transformed into a bed, and Creed was over at his desk, a distance away given the huge size of this room, working only by the light from his computer screen. The only other light was a dim lamp on the side table at the end of the couch where he’d placed a couple of pillows. Once she switched off that light, the room would be in near-darkness, dappled by the city lights that seemed far away for the most part. Dark enough for sleep.

      But instead of heading straight toward the bed, she stopped instead to look at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that framed the entry door, covering nearly the entire wall. They were jammed with nonfiction, some of the books looking as if they were a century or more old. Not a work of fiction among them that she could tell.

      Then she came upon a section of classics, from Twain to Hawthorne, to Swift. Plays by Shakespeare, Ibsen and others. And all bore the signs of having been handled often.

      She wondered if he was an intellectual snob, then decided that wouldn’t be a fair assessment to make, especially when he’d been so kind to her.

      “Do you need something to read?”

      His voice was unexpected and startled her. She turned from his bookshelves to find he had swiveled his desk chair and was looking at her.

      “Sorry, I was just curious. Few people these days decorate their walls with books.”

      He laughed quietly. “Some still do. Most of that is references I need for my work. I’m especially fond of books, and I have a passion for old books. But if you’d prefer something of more recent vintage, I do have some novels lying around. I just don’t tend to keep them. I find they’re welcome donations at nursing homes.”

      So he didn’t stick to the classics. That relieved her a bit, given that she wrote popular fiction. She hated people who looked down on her for that, and sometimes reminded them that Dickens was a hack who wrote serials for newspapers, and that Tolstoy had been paid by the word, hence his lengthy volumes. Apparently she wouldn’t need that defense here.

      “Thanks, but I was just curious. And I guess I’m edgy.”

      “Understandable. Frankly, I’m not sure how you managed to stand a whole week in that apartment.”

      She wandered closer, feeling inexplicably drawn to him. Only when she saw him tense a bit did she stop. Was there something wrong with her?

      “It got worse,” she said, forcing herself to ignore an unreasoning sense of rejection. “It was awful tonight, the worst ever. When I first moved in I was able to brush the feeling off, but over the week it just kept getting stronger.”

      “I’m glad you didn’t come home alone tonight. I’d hate to think of you forcing yourself to walk in there because it was all you could do.”

      “I’m not sure I could have.” She found an upholstered chair at what she thought might be a safe distance from him, and sat. “It felt like a gut punch tonight. But you said it wasn’t still there. To Jude, when you called him.”

      “But it had been there recently enough to leave its stench and fingerprints everywhere. And apparently it came back long enough to evince disapproval of my presence.”

      “But what is it?”

      “Jude will have to explain. I’m a relative newcomer to all of this. He has the experience and knowledge.”

      “But you said you’ve seen things, and now you believe.”

      His eyes seemed to darken, and she wondered if it was some trick of the dim lighting, because for a moment they looked almost black.

      “I’ve seen things,” he agreed. “But not this thing. I don’t know anything about it except it has Jude concerned.”

      “So he’ll tell me tomorrow?”

      “Tomorrow night.”

      She felt an unreasoning chill again. “Why night?”

      “He suffers from the same problem that I do. So he works only at night.”

      “Are you related?”

      He shook his head. “Friends. Drawn together by a common experience.”

      That made sense, so she let it go. “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting your work. I should just try to sleep.”

      “I have surprisingly little interest in work tonight.” He smiled. “Events can be distracting.”

      “I’ve gotten very little writing done this week,” she admitted. “It’s hard to work when you feel someone is looking over your shoulder.”

      Which, she realized with sudden embarrassment, was exactly what she was doing to him. Basically looking over his shoulder. But as she tried to find a believable reason to go lie on the couch and pretend to sleep when she felt wound as tightly as a spring, he rose.

      “Would you like coffee or tea?” he asked. “Or something to eat? I must have something lying around.”

      “I’d love coffee if you don’t mind.”

      “I don’t mind in the least.” He walked into the kitchen and pulled a coffeepot out of the cupboard.

      He kept his coffeepot in the cupboard? Then he must not drink it often. Everyone