Twilight Phantasies

Eric opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the smell of dirt surrounding him. He rested in an awkward position, not upon his bed of satin but on the rough wood floor of the secret room beneath it. He frowned, his head still cloudy, and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He recalled the sudden sense of danger that had roused him from the depths of his deathlike slumber to a state hovering near wakefulness. He'd automatically flexed his forefinger on the hidden button, dumping himself into this place. He was safe and the feeling of mortal danger had passed.



Eric stood on the small stool, placed here for just such a purpose, and reached above him to the handle on the underside of his mattress. He pulled downward, then reached higher to release the lock on the lid. A moment later he swung himself over, landing easily on the floor. He attuned his senses, felt no threat and moved across the room to the coffin Roland had set upon a bier. He tapped on the lid, not surprised when Roland emerged from a concealed door in the bier itself, rather than through the polished hardwood lid.



He straightened, brushed at his wrinkled clothing. "What in God's name has been happening?"



"I'm not certain." Eric stood motionless. "Tamara is here."



Roland too, concentrated. "Others have been. Three-no, four others. Gone now."



Nodding, Eric unlocked the door. They moved quickly through the darkened passage, and Eric unlatched and pushed at the wine rack that served as its entrance. It gave a few inches, then jammed. He shoved harder, forcing it open. Both men took pause when they stepped into the cellar.



The electric light bulb above glowed harshly. What had been a well-stocked wine rack was now a shambles, with only a bottle or two remaining intact. The aroma assaulted Eric, pulling his head around until he saw the plastic pails on the floor, filled to the brim with broken glass and bits of wood. An old push broom and a coal shovel were propped against one pail. The floor beneath his feet was damp with wine. Another scent reached Eric's nostrils and he whirled, immediately spotting the slight stain on the wall near the hidden door, and knew it was blood. Tamara's blood.



He flew up the stairs then, and through the house, skidding to a halt when he entered the parlor.



Tamara lowered the two far legs of a heavy table to the floor. She ran her fingers over the chipped edge, sighed deeply and bent to retrieve an old gilded clock. She brought the piece to her ear, then placed it gently on the marble table. Eric took in the scene around her, realizing she'd already righted much of it. She turned slightly, so he saw the dark purple skin along her jaw, and picked up a toppled chair, setting it in its rightful place.



"Tamara." He moved forward slowly.



She looked up at the sound of his voice, and rushed into his arms. He felt her tears, and the trembling that seemed to come from the center of her body. No part of her was steady. He closed his arms as tightly as he dared around her small waist, and held her hard. Roland had stepped into the room and stood silently surveying the damage.



"Who is responsible for this?" Eric stepped back just enough to tilt her chin in gentle fingers, and examine her bruised face.



"It was. . . it was Curtis, but Eric, I'm all right. It isn't as bad as it looks."



Eric's anger made the words stick in his throat. "He struck you?" She nodded. He reached around to touch the back of her head gently, and knew when she winced that he'd found the cut. "And what else?"



"He. . ." She looked into his eyes and he knew she'd considered lying to him, then realized it would be useless. "He shoved me against the wall and I hit my head, but I'm fine."



He sought the truth of that statement, probing her mind, wondering if she was truly all right.



"Must have come through here like a raging bull," Roland remarked.



"I've never seen him so angry," Tamara said.



"Nor will you ever see it again." Eric let his arms fall away from her and took a single step toward the door. Roland blocked his path quickly and elegantly. Eric knew he had little chance of moving his powerful friend aside.



"I believe we should hear the tale before any action is taken, Eric."



Eric met Roland's gaze for a moment, and finally nodded. "Remember, though," he said. "He was warned what would happen if he harmed her." Eric turned to Tamara, and noted that as she came to him her gait was wobbly. He slipped his arms around her and helped her to the settee. Roland left the room, and returned in a moment with one of the remaining bottles. He took it to the bar, poured a glassful and brought it to Tamara.



"Take your time," he said softly. "Tell it from the start." He sat in an undamaged chair, while Eric stood stiffly, waiting, wishing he could reach the bastard's throat in the next few seconds.



Tamara sipped the wine. "I guess the start isn't all that bad. I convinced Daniel to drop the research. He agreed when I told him I'd leave forever if he didn't."



Eric frowned. "He agreed?"



"Yes, and that's not all. I asked him to meet you, talk to you. I want him to see you the way I do, and know you would never hurt me. He agreed to that, too."



Eric sat down hard. "I'll be damned-"



"I'm not at all convinced this is a good idea," Roland said. "But I'll leave that for later. Go on with the story, my dear."



Eric saw Tamara sip again, and her hand on the glass still wasn't steady. He sat closer to her. "When Daniel told Curtis he was dropping the research. Curt was furious, but defiant. He said he'd continue with or without Daniel's help. Daniel told him to drop it, or lose his job at DPI. Curt left madder than ever. . . but I still never thought he'd come here."



Eric frowned and shook his head. "How did you know?"



"It was Jamey, the boy I work with. He's something of a clairvoyant, though it's a weak power except where I'm concerned. He knew your name, Eric. He picked up on my nightmares, too. He called me, frantic, and when I picked him up he insisted we come here. He said someone was trying to kill you."



Eric glanced up at Roland, and both men frowned hard. Tamara, not noticing, went on with her story.



"When we got here I heard Curt down below, smashing things. Jamey called the police and I went down to stop Curt. I was terrified your resting place was down there somewhere." She closed her eyes, and Eric knew she had truly been afraid for his life. "I told Jamey to stay by the front door, but he came down, too."



"Stubborn lad," Roland observed.



Tamara's eyes lit then, and her chin came up. "You should have seen him. He charged Curt like a bull, took him right to the floor when Curt tried to hit me again."



"Was the boy injured?" Again it was Roland who spoke. Eric was busy watching the changing expressions on Tamara's face, and reading the emotions behind them. It changed again now, with a silent rage. He felt it rise up within her, and its ferocity amazed him. He hadn't known she was capable of a violent thought.



Her voice oddly low, she said, "If Curt had hurt Jamey, I'd have killed him."



Eric shot a puzzled glance toward Roland, who seemed to be studying her just as intently. Tamara seemed to shake herself. She blinked twice, and the fire in her eyes died slowly. "The police arrived then. I pressed assault charges. He'll be in jail overnight, so you'll have time to regroup." She placed a hand on Eric's arm. "I'm sorry the police got involved. They expect both of us to show up tonight, to give statements."



"I should be angry with you, Tamara, but not for calling the police. For risking your life. You could have been killed."



"If he'd killed you, I'd have died, anyway. Don't you know that yet?" As she spoke she leaned into his embrace, and settled her head on his shoulder. "You have to get this place fixed up. Curt will flash his DPI card around and get himself out by morning."



"Unfortunate for him, should he decide to give up the protection of a jail cell so soon."



"Eric, you can't ... do anything to him. It would only give those idiots at DPI more reason to hound your every step."



"You think I care?"



"I care." She sat up and stared into his eyes. "I intend to be with you from now on, Eric, wherever you go. I'd like it if we were free to come and go as we please, and I could visit Daniel from time to time. I want to enjoy our life together. Please, don't let your anger ruin it before it's even begun."



Her words worked like ice water on his rage. The points she made were valid, and while he still thought St Claire a moral deviate, he knew she loved the man. He glanced helplessly toward Roland.



"I wouldn't want to square off against her in a debate," he said dryly.



Eric sighed. There was no way in God's earth he could allow Curtis Rogers to get away with what he'd done. But he supposed he'd have to plot a fitting retribution later. There was no use arguing with Tamara. She hadn't a vengeful bone in her beautiful body-except where this boy, Jamey, was concerned. And that puzzled him.



"As for the gate and the door," he said, sensing her lingering worry for his safety, "I can make a few calls tonight and have a reliable crew here by first light."



"But he got in once, Eric," Tamara said.



"Dogs!" Roland stood quickly. "That would solve it. We'll acquire ten-no, twelve-of those attack dogs you hear about. Dobermans or some such breed. Tear a man to shreds."



"I think a direct line to the police department will be just as effective." Eric couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. Roland did possess a brutal streak. "An alarm that alerts the police the moment security is breached. I admit, I hate depending on them for security, but it will only be necessary until-" he stopped, and slanted a glance at Tamara "-until I think of something better. Meantime, why don't we visit the police station and get the unpleasantness over with. We may still salvage what remains of the night. I had such plans. . . ."



* * * * *



How he managed to make her laugh after what she'd been through tonight, she couldn't imagine. But he did. By the time they left the police station he was behind the wheel of what he referred to as her "oddly misshapen automobile," and she was splitting a side over his shifting technique.



The house had been restored to order as much as possible. Roland had left a fire blazing brightly, and a vase stood in the room's center, filled with twelve graceful white roses. A card dangling from one stem drew her attention. She lifted it and read, "My thanks for your earlier heroism, Roland."



She shook her head, and turned when she heard strains of music filling the room. Mozart again. "Your friend is certainly chivalrous."



"You inspire that sort of thing in a man," he told her.



She smiled and went into his arms. "What about these plans you mentioned earlier?"



"I thought you might like to dance."



She tilted her head back and kissed his chin. "I would."



"Oh, no. I couldn't possibly dance with you dressed like that."



She frowned, stepping away from him and looking down at her jeans and sweatshirt. "I admit, I'm not exactly elegant tonight, but-"



"I've a surprise for you, Tamara. Come." He turned her toward the stairs and urged her up them. He led her into the bedroom she'd seen before, and left her waiting inside the doorway while he lit two oil lamps. He turned to a wardrobe, gripped its double handles and opened it with a flourish.



Curious, she moved forward as he reached into the dark confines and removed a garment carefully, draping it over his arms. When he turned toward her Tamara's heart skipped a beat. It was something made for Cinderella. The jade-colored fabric shimmered. The neckline was heart shaped, the sleeves puffy and the skirt so fully flared she knew there must be petticoats attached. The green satin was gathered up from the hemline and held with tiny white bows at intervals all along the bottom, to show the frilly white underskirt.



Her mouth opened, but only air escaped. "It belonged to my sister," Eric told her. "She used to cinch her waist with corsets, but she wasn't as petite as you. I suspect it will suit you without them."



She forced her eyes away from the dress and back to him her heart tightening. "Your sister... Jaqueline. And you've kept it all this time."



"I supposed I am a bit sentimental where my little sister is concerned. She wore that gown the night she accompanied me to a performance of young Amadeus, in Paris."



Her eyes had wandered downward to the glittering silk, but snapped up again. "Mozart?"



"The same. She was not overly impressed, as I recall."



He smiled down at her. "I should like to see you in the gown, Tamara."



She gasped. "Oh, but I couldn't-it's so precious to you. My God, it must have cost a fortune to keep it so well preserved all this time."



"And no good deal of fuss, as well," he said. "But nothing is too precious for you, my love. It will make me happy to see you wear it. Do it for me."



She nodded, and Eric left the room. She was surprised, but didn't question it. She shimmied out of her own clothing, including her bra, since the upper halves of her breasts would be revealed by the daring neckline. She touched the dress reverently, and stepped into it with great care, terrified she'd rip it while putting it on. She slid her hands through the armholes, and adjusted the shoulders. "Eric!"



At her call he returned, and she presented her back to him. Wordlessly he tightened the laces and tied them in place. He took two steps backward, and she turned slowly to face him. His gaze moved over her, gleaming with emotion. He blinked quickly and shook his head. "You are a vision, Tamara. Too lovely to be real. I could almost wonder if you would disappear, should I blink."



"Does it really look all right?" It felt tight, and her breasts were squished so high they were fairly popping out of the thing.



Eric smiled, took her hand and turned her toward the wardrobe doors, which still stood open. She hadn't noticed the mirrors on the inside of the doors, but she did now. He left her standing there and turned to lift a lamp, better for her to see her reflection.



She caught her breath again. It wasn't Tamara Dey looking back at her. It was a raven-haired eighteenth-century beauty. She couldn't believe the transformation. And the dress! It was more like a work of art than a piece of clothing. She glanced gratefully up at Eric, then froze, and looked back toward the mirror again. "It's true! You have no reflection!"



"An oddity I still seek to solve, love." He closed the doors and took her hand. "Now, about the dancing. . ."



He led her back downstairs into the roomy parlor, thumbed a button and the piano sonata stopped abruptly. A moment later a minuet lilted from the speakers. Eric faced her, pointed one toe and bowed formally. Tamara laughed, picking up his thoughts. She dropped into a deep curtsy, imitating those she'd seen in movies. He took her hand and drew her to her feet.



"Look at me as we turn," he instructed moments later. "The eyes are as important to the dance as the feet."



She fixed her gaze to his, rather than keeping it on her bare toes peeping from beneath the hemline. She tried to imitate his pace as they circled one another.



"That's it." His voice was soft but his gaze intense as the flames in the hearth. "You're a quick study."



"I have an excellent teacher." She met him as he stepped forward, then retreated just as he did. "You must have danced with every beautiful girl in Paris."



His lips quirked upward. "Hardly. I always loathed this type of thing." He lifted her hand in his, high above their heads, placed his other hand on her buttocks and urged her to turn beneath their joined fingers. " Perhaps one needs the right partner."



"I know what you mean. I never liked dancing before, either, even in high school." She stopped abruptly.



"Now you've broken the rhythm. We shall have to begin again."



"No. I think it's my turn to be the teacher." She stepped away from him and hurried to the stereo, fiddling with buttons until she'd stopped the CD, and turned on the FM stereo. She scanned stations until she heard the familiar harmony of The Righteous Brothers on the oldies station. "Perfect." She went back to Eric, slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her body as close to his as the full skirted dress would allow. "This is the way my generation dances. . . when they find the right partner. Put your arms around my waist and hold me close." He did, and she settled her head on his shoulder and very slowly began to sway their bodies in time to "Unchained Melody."



"Your method does have its merits. Is this all there is to it? Certainly easily learned."



"Well, there are variations." To demonstrate, she turned her face toward him and nuzzled his neck with her lips. He moved his hands lower, cupping her buttocks and squeezing her to him. He lowered his head and nibbled her ear. "You're a quick study," she told him, repeating his compliment.



"I have an excellent teacher," he replied. He lifted his head slowly, moving his lips to her chin and then capturing her mouth with his. He kissed her deeply, leaving her breathless and warm inside. His hands at the small of her back, he bent over her and moved his tantalizing lips down the front of her throat to kiss her breasts.



She arched backward, her hands tangling in his hair. Her fingers nimbly loosened the ribbon and threaded in the thick jet waves. One of his hands came around her, to scoop a breast out of its satin confines and hold it to his mouth. He nicked his tongue over the nipple, already throbbing and hard, then closed his lips around it and suckled her roughly. She didn't realize he'd moved her until she felt her back pressed to a wall. She opened her eyes, forcing words despite the sighs of pleasure he was evoking. "Eric. . . what about. . . Roland. . ."



"He knows better than to interrupt." He had to stop what he was doing to speak, but he quickly returned to the business of driving her crazy with desire. When she strained against his mouth he responded by closing his teeth on her nipple. She shuddered with pleasure. He anchored her to the wall with his body and used his hands to gather the voluminous skirts upward in the front, no easy task. Nonetheless, he soon had them arranged high enough to allow his hands ample access to her naked thighs and the unclothed moistness between them.



His hand stilled when it found no scrap of nylon barring its way. She'd seen no need for panties, knowing instinctively where the night would lead. His fingers moved over her, opened her and slipped inside, stroking her to a fever pitch. When they finally moved away it was only to release his own barriers, and then his manhood, hot and solid, nudged against her thigh. His hands slipped down the backs of her legs, and he lifted her. He speared her with a single, unerring thrust, and Tamara's head fell backward as the air was forced from her lungs. That action put her breasts once again in reach of his mouth and he took advantage.



She locked her legs around his body, her arms around his neck, and she rode him like an untamed stallion. He drove into her, his hands clutching her buttocks like a vise and pulling her downward with every upward thrust. In minutes he trembled, and she hovered near a violent release. His teeth on her breasts clamped tighter, and rather than pain she felt intense pleasure. That other kind of climax enticed her nearer. Her entire body vibrated, her every nerve ending tensed at the two places where they were joined. Closer and closer he drove her, until she writhed with need.



Even when the spasms began, she craved more. "Please," she moaned, he fingers raking through his hair. It was all the encouragement he needed. She felt the prick at the tip of her breast, and then the unbearable tingling as he sucked harder. With his first greedy swallows she exploded in sensation, both climaxes rocking her at once. Her entire body shook with pleasure, even as she realized he'd stiffened, plunged himself into her one last time and groaned long and low against her heated skin.



As if his knees had weakened he sank slowly to the floor, taking her with him. He brought her down on top of him, still not withdrawing from her. He released her breast and cradled her to his chest, rocking her slowly. "My God, woman," he whispered into her hair. "You take me higher than I knew was possible. You thrill me to the marrow. Have I told you how very much I love you?"



"Yes, silently. But I won't mind if you tell me again."



His lips caressed her skin, just above her temple. "More than my own existence, Tamara. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I would die for you."



She licked her lips. "Would you meet with Daniel?"



He hesitated, and she felt the tightening of his jaw. "It will not change anything."



"I think it will." She lifted her upper body slightly, and regarded his face. "It would mean so much to me."



He cupped her head to pull her down to him again, buried his face in her hair and inhaled its scent. "If it is so important to you, I will do it. When you return to St Claire at dawn, tell him I'll come just after nightfall."



She found his hands with hers, and laced her fingers through his. "Thank you, Eric. It will make a difference. You'll see." She lifted her head and pressed her lips to his. "But I'll call him. I don't want to leave at dawn."



She felt his body stiffen and knew he'd argue the point. "Eric, they'll only keep Curtis overnight. What if he comes back here while you rest?"



"No doubt you'd like to meet him at the door with claws extended, my tigress. But I'll not have you in harm's way to protect me. What kind of man do you take me for?"



"You'd be defenseless if he found you during the day."



"Tamara, the workmen will be here at first light, and the repairs completed by noon. They will be under instructions to notify police of any intruders, and to arm the new security system before they leave. No one will disturb my rest."



"I'll leave when they do, then."



His eyes flashed impatience. "You will leave at dawn."



She shook her head from side to side. "I won't go."



"I won't have a woman taking my place in battle."



The harshness in his voice brought burning tears springing to her eyes. "I'm not just a woman. I am the woman who loves you, Eric. I'd sooner peel every inch of flesh from Curt with my nails and teeth than to let him near you during the day." A sob rose in her throat, but she fought it down. "You don't know how I felt when I realized he was in here today.. that he might have already murdered you. My God, if I lost you now, I couldn't go on."



The hands that came back to her shoulders and nape were gentle, not angry. "And you do not know, my love, how I felt when I woke to find you had been beaten while I lay only a short distance away, helpless to defend you. How could I bear it if I woke to find you murdered in my own home?"



"But that would never happen. Curt couldn't really hurt me. He only acted so crazy because he cares so much."



Eric's long fingers caught her chin and turned her slightly, so his eyes could scan the bruise. "And I suppose this is a token of his undying esteem."



"He was in a rage. He regretted it as soon as he realized what he'd done."



"No doubt he'd regret killing you the instant the deed was done, as well."



"But he wouldn't-"



"My love, you trust too freely, and too deeply. As much as I hate being forced to do so, I can see I must give you an ultimatum. You will leave here at dawn, or I will not meet with St Claire. And before you agree, with the intent of stealing back here as I rest, you should be aware that I will sense your presence. I know when you are near, my love." His voice softened, and he touched the skin of her cheek with his fingertips.



She blinked away the stupid urge to cry. One tear spilled over despite her efforts, and he leaned up to catch it with his lips. "Do you truly wish to spend what remains of this night bickering?"



She shook her head, unable to sustain her anger. He only wanted to protect her, just as she wanted to protect him. She understood his motivations all too well. She lowered her head until her pliant lips had settled over his coaxing ones, and she tasted the salt of her own tear.



* * * * *



Eric stood in the doorway long after she'd driven out of sight, heedless of the growing light in the eastern sky. "Stand gaping like that another five minutes and you will be there permanently, my love struck friend." Roland came around Eric, shoved the heavy door closed and eyed the broken lock. "I suppose your men will arrive within the hour to repair that?"



Eric nodded mutely.



"For God's sake, man, snap out of it!"



Eric started, glanced at Roland and grinned foolishly. "Isn't she something?"



Roland rolled his eyes ceiling ward, and shoved a glass into Eric's hand. "You're whiter than alabaster. You haven't been feeding properly. The few sips you allow yourself are no doubt sweet, Eric, but not enough to sustain you."



Eric scowled at Roland's rather crude observation, but realized he was right. He felt weak and light-headed. He drained the glass, and moved to the bar to refill it.



"Tell me," Roland said slowly. "Has anything been decided?"



"Such as?" Eric sipped and waited.



"You know precisely what I refer to, Eric. The decision to be made. Has our lady voiced an opinion?"



"You cannot think I'm considering passing my curse on to her."



Roland sighed hard. "When did you begin seeing immortality as a curse?"



"That is what it is." Eric slammed the glass down on the polished hardwood surface. "It's been unending hell for me."



"And what kind of hell has it been these past days, Eric?" Eric didn't answer that, knowing Roland had a valid point. "I thought to save your life two centuries ago in Paris, not curse it. Eric, I live in solitude because it is the only way for me. I had my chance at happiness centuries ago, and lost it. I don't expect another. But you... you are throwing yours away."



Eric bowed his head and pressed his fingertips to his eyes. "I don't know if I could do it to her." He heard Roland's sigh and raised his head. "I have made one decision, though. I've agreed to meet with St. Claire."



"You can't be serious."



"Quite serious. It means a great deal to Tamara that St Claire be reassured of her safety. She seems to think I can accomplish that by talking with the man. I have my doubts, of course, but-"



"The only thing to be accomplished by such a meeting is your destruction. Think about it, Eric. Wittingly or not, Tamara has lured you into the spider's web, just as St Claire planned from the start. Once in, there will be no escape."



Eric stood silent, contemplating Roland's words. The idea that the whole meeting scheme might be a trap had niggled at him since Tamara had first broached the subject. Of course, he knew she was no part of it. And if it was a trap, what better way to show Tamara the true nature of those she trusted? Providing, of course, he was able to escape.



Reading his thoughts, Roland bristled. "And suppose you prove this valuable point to the girl, and lose you own life in the process?"



"I won't. I can't, for Tamara's sake. Without me she'd be as she was before. At their mercy."



Roland grimaced. "At the moment, my friend, I fear it is you who are at hers."



Eric smiled. "I can think of no place I'd rather be."