Shades of Gray

Lost in thought, Grigori walked the dark streets. Before Alexi's escape from Silvano, before Marisa, his life had followed a set path. He had traveled the world, following winter, when darkness was long upon the earth. He was not a eunuch, not a monk. There had been women in his life. He had felt a warm affection for them all, but none had claimed his heart or spoken to his soul. He had pursued knowledge, embraced the arts, enjoyed theater and opera. His physical wants were few and easily satisfied.



But when Silvano had taken Alexi on tour, his peaceful days had been shattered. And then he had met Marisa... ah, Marisa, with her sun-kissed beauty and clear green eyes. Marisa, whose blood sang a siren song to his hunger, whose beauty tugged at his heart and soul even as her shapely form whispered to the desire of the flesh. But it was more than outer beauty or lust that drew him to her side again and again. It was the purity of her soul, her innate sweetness, the compassion that allowed her to look past what he had become and see the man he had once been.



Marisa . . Could he hold her, make love to her as he longed to do, and not destroy her? Since being made Vampyre, he had made love to many women, but never to a woman he loved.



A wave of guilt rose up within him. How could he think of loving Marisa when he had stood at Antoinette's graveside only weeks ago? And yet, she had been dead to him for centuries.



Awareness flowed through him and he whirled around, his eyes probing the shadows. "Come out, Ramsey. I know you are there."



A dark form materialized from behind a tree.



Edward Ramsey hunched his shoulders. Standing in the glow of a streetlight, he felt exposed, vulnerable. "Chiavari."



"Did you want to see me?" Grigori asked. And then he saw the bag hanging from Ramsey's shoulder. "Let me guess. Would you be carrying a hammer and a stake in that sack?"



Edward cleared his throat. Sweat beaded on his brow and pooled under his arms, but he kept his expression blank.



Grigori took a step forward. "Afraid, vampyre hunter?"



Ramsey lifted his chin a notch and shook his head.



"Liar." The softly spoken word seemed to hang in the air between them. "Did you perhaps think I would be foolish enough to lead you to my lair?"



Edward shrugged. He could feel his pulse racing. What was worse, he knew the vampire could smell his fear, hear the frantic beating of his heart.



"So," Grigori mused, "I take it you've decided you don't need me anymore."



"Alexi's gone. He's no threat now. But you are."



"I mean you no harm, Ramsey. You, or anyone else."



"You're a killer! You're all killers!"



"I've killed no one."



"Who's lying now?"



"Save for those who have tried to destroy me, I've killed no one in over a hundred and fifty years."



"I don't believe you."



"I don't care what you believe. It's true."



Grigori took a step forward. Edward stood his ground, one hand curling around the crucifix hanging around his neck. "Stay away from me."



Slowly, Grigori shook his head. "Edward, come to me."



"No." Ramsey took a step backward. "Stay away from me!"



"Why do you fight me? Your blood has nourished me, made you a part of me."



"No! No, damn you! Leave me alone." Tears of frustration rose in Edward's eyes as Grigori's voice drew him forward until, helpless, his whole body trembling with terror, Edward stood in front of the vampire, held in place by a pair of dark, impenetrable eyes.



Grigori folded his hand over Ramsey's left shoulder. He could feel the power thrumming through his own body, strengthening him. His fangs pricked his tongue as the Hunger rose up within him. Ramsey stood there, unmoving, as the vampire's fangs pierced his flesh.



Grigori drank quickly, sparingly, and then released his hold on Ramsey. "Go home, Edward. Go home and go to bed."



Ramsey nodded. "Yes," he murmured. "Home."



He blinked several times, then turned and headed back the way he had come.



Grigori watched him out of sight, wondering if he should have erased Ramsey's memory, wiped every recollection of their meetings from the man's mind. It was tempting, and he would have done it save for one thing: Ramsey had given him his blood when he desperately needed it. Like it or not, he owed the vampyre hunter a debt. He would not repay the man by stealing a part of his mind.



Grigori blew out a soul-deep sigh. Debt or not, he would do what he must to survive, and if that meant killing Edward Ramsey, then so be it. He would not let himself be destroyed, not now, when Marisa was almost his.



Edward woke in his bed the following morning with no recollection of how he had gotten there.



Sitting up, he glanced around the room. What the... And then he saw his bag on the floor near the door and it all came back to him. He had gone to Marisa's apartment in hopes that he would find Grigori there, had been exulting in his good fortune when the vampire sensed his presence.



Muttering an oath, Edward scrambled out of bed and ran into the bathroom. It couldn't be true. But it was. Turning his head to the side, he saw the two telltale marks on his neck. Damn! Grigori had taken his blood. Damn, it was one thing for the vampire to take his blood when it was offered, another thing entirely when he took it as though it were his right!



The thought made him feel cold all over, violated, as a woman who is raped must feel. Shivering, he grabbed his robe and slipped it on. He remembered now, remembered it all, the sound of the vampire's voice permeating his mind, bending his thoughts, until they were not his thoughts at all. As if he had no will of his own, his legs had carried him to the vampire. He shuddered as he recalled offering his neck to that bloodsucking monster, standing there like some mindless zombie while Grigori drank his fill.



A cold rage engulfed him. To think he had once given his blood to that monster freely, and this was the thanks he got in return. Ah, but it hadn't been freely, he mused ruefully. It had been at Marisa's urging. She had begged so prettily, smiled so sweetly.... He swore under his breath. Marisa!



He dialed her number, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for her to answer the phone.



"Hello?"



"Marisa, it's Edward. Are you all right?"



"Of course, why? Is something wrong?"



"No, no, nothing. I was... uh, just worried about you. I haven't seen you lately."



"I went to Florida to see my folks, remember? I told you I was going."



"Yeah, right, I guess I forgot. Is everything okay?"



"Fine. Listen, I've got to go. I'm going to be late for work."



"Can I see you later? For dinner?"



"Gee, I'd love to, but I can't."



"You can't?"



"I'm sorry, I have a date."



"Oh?" He felt his mouth go dry. "Anyone I know?"



"Well, I'm expecting Grigori, if you must know."



Edward sagged against the wall. "Do you think that's wise?"



"I think it's wonderful," she replied, her voice soft and dreamy. "I've got to go. Bye."



He stared at the receiver, and then gently replaced it in the cradle. She thought it was wonderful. Damn Chiavari! He'd mesmerized her.



"You may have won this battle, Chiavari," Edward muttered. "But you won't win the war!"



She found herself smiling at the office Monday morning, humming while she worked. She typed up a bankruptcy report, but all she could hear was the sound of Grigori's voice whispering her name. She answered the phones, opened the mail, but always a part of her mind was thinking of him, counting the hours until she would see him again.



Grigori...



She skipped lunch and went shopping instead. She needed something to wear to the company New Year's Eve party, but what she really wanted was something new to wear for Grigori. She chose a slinky teal blue slip dress for the party. She tried it on, and knew she had to have it. She was leaving the department when a pair of black silk pants and a top caught her eye.



"Perfect," she muttered. She quickly found her size and carried the outfit to the salesgirl before she could talk herself out of making another extravagant purchase.



The next few hours went by in a blur, and then it was time to go home. She quickly shut off her computer, grabbed her handbag and packages, said a hasty farewell to Linda, and practically ran for the elevator.



At home, she took a quick shower, and then changed into her new outfit. The silk felt wonderful against her skin, smooth and sexy.



She had just finished spritzing herself with perfume when the doorbell rang.



Feeling as though a million butterflies were fluttering in her stomach, she ran to open the door.



Grigori felt his breath catch in his throat as he took her in his arms. Bellissima! His hands slid over her back, the feel of the warm black silk she wore making his palms tingle. An exotic fragrance rose from the dark cloud of her hair. Her lips tasted of sunshine and strawberries, the warmth and sweetness of which he had been denied for two hundred years.



He deepened the kiss, and she came alive in his arms, a living, breathing flame that threatened to consume him like the rays of the sun.



He drew her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. She heard a faint whoosh, and a fire sprang to life in the hearth.



Magic, she thought, vampire magic.



His arms held her close, his hands played over her body, his long fingers exploring the curve of her thigh, her breast, sliding up and down her back in long, shivery caresses that left her reeling, drowning in sensual sensation.



Her own hands moved restlessly over him, measuring the width of his shoulders, the rock-hard muscles in his arms, the solid expanse of his chest. Her fingers caressed his nape, slid up into his hair.



And all the while his lips never left hers. His tongue dueled with hers in a dance that was both old and new, and she was on fire, burning in his hands.



He bent her back on the sofa, his body covering hers, his hands and lips arousing her until she could scarcely think, scarcely breathe.



She opened her eyes and met his gaze, and the blatant desire she read there filled her with fear and exhilaration.



"Marisa. Cara..." His words were harsh, ragged with the need pulsing through him.



She blinked up at him, her beautiful green eyes dark with passion. "Grigori."



He blew out a ragged breath. "I want you."



Marisa stared up at him, incapable of speech, as a montage of jumbled thoughts and images raced through her mind: Grigori bending over Edward, taking his blood; Grigori as she had first seen him, tall and dark and mysterious; Grigori, lying on the floor of her closet; Grigori, his eyes filled with anguish as he begged Edward to be merciful. She thought of Alexi. He was a monster, a killer, a creature who delighted in death and misery. And she thought of Edward, who claimed all vampires were evil and should be destroyed.



"Marisa  -  "



"I want you, too, you know I do." She moistened lips gone suddenly dry. "I  -  "



He saw the hesitation in her eyes, heard it in her voice. Fighting the urge to take what he wanted, as he had been wont to do since he became Vampyre, he slid away from her, so that his body was no longer covering hers. But he couldn't let her go, not entirely.



Taking her hand in his, he waited for her to go on.



"I... I can't."



"You want me."



He lifted her hand to his mouth and his tongue stroked her palm, making her go all shivery inside.



She nodded, unable to deny it. "But wanting isn't enough."



His eyes narrowed. "Ah," he murmured, and wondered how he could have been so blind. "You want the words." His free hand caressed her cheek. "I love you, cara mia."



Anger penetrated the layers of passion. "Do you think I can be had for the price of a few endearments?"



He frowned. "What do you want of me?"



"I want more than empty words!"



"They are not empty, Marisa." He released her hand and sat up, his back toward her. "I have lived alone for two hundred years. I have not loved a woman in all that time, nor have I pretended to. I am not a eunuch, nor have I lived like one. I have taken women to my bed when it pleased me."



How many women? she wondered. How many in two hundred years?



Slowly, he turned to face her. "Save for Antoinette, I have never told a woman I loved her. I would not say it now if it were not true."



"Oh, Grigori, I'm sorry!"



He rose to his feet with the lithe grace of a dancing master. "Come," he said, offering her his hand. "I will take you to dinner."



She shook her head, thinking she had never felt more miserable or churlish in her life. "I'm not hungry."



"Do not pout, cara. It is most unbecoming."



"I'm not pouting. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."



He smiled down at her. "I promised I would not rush you, nor force you to do anything you did not wish to do." He reached for her hands and drew her to her feet. "You look beautiful. I wish to take you out and show you off. Where would you like to go?"



"You're not mad at me?"



"No." He brushed a kiss across her lips. "Get your coat. It's cold outside."



He took her to the Velvet Turtle for dinner, sipped a glass of dry red wine while she ate. Marisa couldn't help noticing that Grigori caught the eye of every female in the room. Tall and dark, dressed in gray slacks and a white wool sweater, he looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.



After dinner, they drove to the beach. Ignoring the cold, they took off their shoes and stockings, rolled up their pant legs, and walked along the shore. Marisa shrieked as a wave swirled around her ankles.



In an instant, she was in Grigori's arms. His eyes were like pools of liquid ebony in the moonlight, his mouth warm and moist as he kissed her. The heat of his lips chased away the cold, and she wound her arms around his neck, kissing him hungrily.



He held her effortlessly, his tongue sliding over her lower lip, delving into her mouth.



He kissed her, and it seemed as though skyrockets went off inside her head. All the colors of the rainbow came together, until she was engulfed in a bright white light. And Grigori stood in the middle of that light, his eyes burning like the sun.



She felt like a child who had been hopelessly lost in the darkness and was suddenly found. It was a most peculiar thought, for Grigori was a man born of darkness, as mysterious as the night that surrounded them, as elusive as the moonbeams that danced upon the sea.



"Marisa?"



"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me you love me."



"Ti amo, cara mia. Mi vita, mi amore."



"Grigori." Her voice was husky, her breath warm as it tickled his ear. "Let's go home."



With a nod, he scooped up their shoes and socks and carried her to the car. Settling her in the passenger seat, he kissed her cheek, then went around and slid behind the wheel.



He felt her gaze on him as he drove home. Her hand rested on his thigh, as light as thistledown, warm and alive, keeping him in a constant state of arousal. She wanted him. He could sense it, smell it, feel it, taste it. Tonight, she would be his for the taking. She had banished whatever fears and doubts had troubled her and now she was ripe, like a peach ready for the picking.



She leaned across the seat and rained kisses on his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, and each touch was like a ray of sunlight burning his skin. "I love you."



Three words, spoken so softly a mere mortal would not have heard them. But they seared his heart, his soul. He let out a deep breath. She was his now, his for the taking.



And in that instant, he knew he could not defile her, knew he could not take her to his bed as if she meant no more to him than the other women he had used to satisfy the hungers of the flesh.



He was shaking with barely controlled need when they reached her apartment. He got out of the car and took a deep breath, then went to her side and opened the door.



She smiled up at him, a beautiful, sensual smile, as he took her hand and helped her out of the car.



He followed her up the stairs, his whole body quivering, every sense attuned to the woman before him, to the gentle sway of her hips, the curve of a shapely calf.



He unlocked the door, but didn't follow her inside.



Marisa frowned at him. "Aren't you coming in?"



Hands clenched at his sides, he shook his head.



"But I thought  -  "



"Not tonight," he said, his voice gruff. And then, calling on the strength of will he had developed over two hundred years, he kissed her good night.



"Domani, Marisa," he promised, and left her there, alone and untouched.



Domani... tomorrow.