Night's Touch

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 in wrought-iron wall sconces, casting eerie shadows over the faces of the patrons; a good number of them wore long black cloaks or capes with hoods.



"So," Anton said, "what do you think of The Nocturne?"



"I'm not sure. Why is everyone wearing black?"



"This is a Goth hangout."



"Oh! Silly me, I should have guessed."



He grinned at her. "I take it you're not into the Goth scene."



"Not really," she replied, and then frowned, thinking that her father would be right at home in a place like this. He had an affinity for dark clothing, and he had a long black cloak. It was more than that, though.



From time to time, she had sensed a darkness in her father that she couldn't explain and didn't understand.



Cara finished her drink, then looked at her watch, surprised to find it was so late. "I should be going," she said reluctantly. "My folks will be worried."



"Don't tell me you still live at home with mom and dad!"



Cara shrugged. "I like it there." And she did, although sometimes, especially when the days were long and the nights were short, it was like living alone.



"One more dance?" he coaxed.



"I don't think so. I really need to go," she said, and then wondered why she had to be home before midnight. She wasn't a child anymore. Why did she still have a curfew? Lately, she'd had so many questions about the way she lived. Why did she still live at home? Why did she still need a bodyguard?



She was twenty-two years old and no one had ever tried to kidnap her or molest her or so much as give her a dirty look. Of course, Di Giorgio was probably responsible for that. A man would have to be crazy to try anything with the Hulk lurking in the background. Still, maybe it was time to sit her folks down and ask the questions that had been plaguing her more and more in the last few months.



"Thank you for the drink and the dance," she said, rising.



"Any chance you'll be here tomorrow night about this time?" he asked.



She canted her head to the side, considering it, and then smiled. "I'd say the odds were good."



"Great. I'll see you then."



Leaning back against the bar, Anton Bouchard watched his enemy's daughter leave the bar, followed by a big bear of a man who looked as if he could easily take on every other man in the place without breaking a sweat.



Anton grunted softly, thinking how pleased his mother would be when he told her he had put the first part



of her plan into operation.