Blue Twilight_[11]

  Praise for the novels of

  MAGGIE SHAYNE

  “Maggie Shayne demonstrates an absolutely superb touch, blending fantasy and romance into an outstanding reading experience.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Embrace the Twilight

  “Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

  “Maggie Shayne delivers sheer delight, and fans new and old of her vampire series can rejoice.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Twilight Hunger

  “Maggie Shayne delivers romance with sweeping intensity and bewitching passion.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Shayne’s gift has made her one of the preeminent voices in paranormal romance today!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Prince of Twilight is guaranteed to delight fans of the long-running Wings in the Night series… Shayne keeps things moving quickly, yet always allows the reader to savor her love scenes.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Prince of Twilight

  Also by Maggie Shayne

  Secrets of Shadow Falls

  KISS ME, KILL ME

  KILL ME AGAIN

  KILLING ME SOFTLY

  BLOODLINE

  ANGEL’S PAIN

  LOVER’S BITE

  DEMON’S KISS

  Wings in the Night series

  PRINCE OF TWILIGHT

  “Before Blue Twilight”

  EDGE OF TWILIGHT

  RUN FROM TWILIGHT

  EMBRACE THE TWILIGHT

  TWILIGHT HUNGER

  TWILIGHT VOWS

  BORN IN TWILIGHT

  BEYOND TWILIGHT

  TWILIGHT ILLUSIONS

  TWILIGHT MEMORIES

  TWILIGHT PHANTASIES

  DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT

  COLDER THAN ICE

  THICKER THAN WATER

  Look for Maggie Shayne’s next novel

  TWILIGHT PROPHECY

  available May 2011

  MAGGIE SHAYNE

  BLUE TWILIGHT

  To all of you fans of Wings in the Night who’ve been following this series since the first “Twilight” book in 1993. And to all of you more recent readers we’ve picked up along the way, who’ve gone above and beyond in your journey to collect the entire series. And to all you brand-new readers who are just discovering this collection for the very first time. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  I truly hope you enjoy the ride as much as I have.

  —Maggie Shayne, May 2010

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The woman cowered on the brown velvet chaise in his parlor, her eyes wide with fear. Blue eyes. Flaming red hair. He would have preferred a blonde with eyes as black as coal—that stunning contrast in a female’s coloring never failed to stir his passion. Or his memory. But so long as they were in the parlor, in view of the portrait, any female would do. It had to be the parlor. He always took his victims there.

  Fieldner had brought him a lovely morsel tonight. She was, perhaps, close to her thirtieth year of mortal life. Though she was lean and tall, and he preferred them petite, she was trembling in a way that aroused him. Her pale-skinned face was finely made, her lips a bit on the thin side, nose a hint too straight, but the cheekbones were high and prominent. He loved good cheekbones in a woman. Yes, his drone had done well this day. The fear in the woman’s eyes, though, that would have to go.

  It would be no trouble, he thought as he moved toward her, mustering a smile and hoping he appeared attractive to her. Women held less fear of attractive men. Foolish, of course, but true. It was difficult not being able to look into a mirror to judge his appearance and its impact on a woman. He knew his hair was long and dark, and that his eyes were deeply set and brown. But it was difficult to remember the precise structure of his own face, or to guess how much he could smile without revealing the unnatural length and razor sharpness of his incisors.

  Even if he were frightening to behold, however, he could ease the fear from her mind. He held an entire town in his thrall—day and night. Asleep or awake. One frightened woman was hardly a challenge.

  “You have nothing to fear,” he told her, moving slowly closer, infusing his words with power even while keeping his voice soft. “This is nothing more than a dream. A fantasy. Nothing can harm you here.”

  Her wide eyes flickered. She drew a stuttering breath.

  “Look into my eyes, lovely one. Hear my words. Feel them. You are not afraid. You are safe, and warm, and completely relaxed.”

  He watched as some of the tension left her body. Her eyes were no longer wide but becoming heavy-lidded. He moved a little closer, reached out and touched her cheek. “Your mind is completely at ease now. You’ve relinquished all control, all responsibility—released it to me. You know only what I tell you. You feel only what I make you feel. You want only what I tell you that you want.”

  Her eyes fell closed; a slow, deep sigh whispered from her lips. The tension eased from her shoulders. That was much, much better.

  “Right now, what you want, my precious, is me. My touch. My caress. You want it more than you want to live. More than you’ve ever wanted anything. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his hand.

  “You will know the most exquisite pleasure you have ever known this night. Perhaps for another night, as well, or maybe several more. Do you want that?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Very good.” To reward her, he let his hand drift across her cheek, over her jaw and neck, and down to brush across her breast. She shivered in reaction, and he smiled. It would be good for her. He would make sure it was good for her. He would plumb her mind, find her deepest fantasies and fulfill them all. And she would remember nothing when it was over. She would be returned to her home with no harm done to her. And he would be sated. At least for a little while.

  She rose to her feet and unbuttoned the dress she wore, then slid it from her shoulders and let it lie on the floor. He watched her as she removed her bra and panties without a hint of inhibition, and he was careful to keep his attention on her body, not her face. The only face he wanted to see was above and behind her, gazing down at him with love in her eyes.

  He drew the woman to him, touched and caressed her, using his mind as much as his hands to make her feel sensations everywhere at once. And he probed inside her mind to hear every desire. When she wished he would touch her breasts he did so, caressing until she wanted more, then tugging the responsive nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. When she wanted his mouth, he kissed her, then eased her backward onto the chaise. When she parted her legs to him, he moved his hand between them, every touch infused with his power. He could make her climax without even touching her, but he preferred it this way.

  When she was twisting and writhing against him, he lay atop her. He hadn’t undressed. He didn’t need to. She would feel him penetrating her even though he had no intention of doing so. She would experience him deep inside her, and he would take the satisfaction he so needed in his own man
ner.

  From her throat.

  “Call me ‘My Prince,’” he instructed.

  “Yes, you are my prince.”

  He tipped her head back, gently moved her hair away from her neck. She was moving now, her hips rocking to take him, even though he wasn’t there. Humping air and a fantasy he’d implanted in her mind. “Say it in my tongue, pretty one. Say ‘prin meu.’”

  She repeated the phrase, even as he gathered her upper body, lifting her slightly, so that he could keep his gaze on the portrait above. And then he lowered his head, pressed his mouth to the tender skin of her neck. She whimpered and clutched the back of his head, straining to reach her peak. But he wouldn’t allow that, not until he was ready. “Tell me to take you. To drink you into me.”

  “Yes, print meu. Take me. Drink me. I need you to. You must!”

  “Then I shall.” He parted his lips, closed his teeth over her throat and pierced her jugular, his eyes riveted to the ebony eyes of the portrait as the elixir, the stuff of life, flowed into him. He drank, and as he did, the woman shrieked and shuddered as the orgasm rocked her body.

  Still staring at the portrait, he lifted his head, sated. The woman reached for him, but at a wave of his hand, she relaxed back against the cushions, her eyes falling closed. He curled up on the chaise and wrapped her in his arms, holding her gently against his chest. Gazing up at the portrait, he whispered, “Can you feel my love, where you are? I hope you can, my heart. It was you, you know that. It was you. They all are.”

  1

  White Plains, New York

  “He’ll be here,” Maxine Stuart said as she smoothed packing tape over the flaps of a cardboard box. “There’s no way he’ll let me leave without coming to say goodbye. He’s nuts about me.”

  Stormy leaned over the box with her black marker and scrawled Kitchen Stuff across the top. Then she capped the pen and put it back into her pocket. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s the last of it.” She picked up the box and started for the door.

  Max snatched it from her hands. “I told you, no heavy lifting.”

  “Knock it off, Max. The doctors say I’m fine.”

  Subconsciously, perhaps, Stormy ran a hand over her short hair. It had grown back by now, short, spiky, platinum blond and overly moussed, just as it had always been. Her hair covered the scar where the bullet had rocketed through her skull only a few months ago, plunging Stormy into a coma and nearly killing her. But though Max couldn’t see it, she was acutely aware that the scar remained. She would never forget how close she had come to losing her best friend. It shook her still, to remember.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Stormy said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like those coppery curls of yours are going to catch fire from the intensity. I really am fine.”

  “You’d better be.” Max shook off the melodrama, knowing Stormy hated it. “Get the door, would you? My arms are breaking here.”

  Stormy opened the door, and the two walked out of the cozy white Cape Cod, down the concrete front steps and around to the back of the bright yellow rental van that waited in the driveway. Its back doors were open. Max climbed aboard and crammed the final box into the one remaining spot, near the top of the pile. Her whole life, she thought, was in that van. Sighing, she jumped down and closed the doors.

  “Excited?” Stormy asked.

  “To be starting a whole new life, yeah. I am. Are you?”

  “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have agreed to come with you. Besides, what’s not to be excited about? We’re moving into a restored mansion, for crying out loud. Hanging up our shingle. Starting a new business.”

  “Think it will succeed?”

  “I think it will kick ass,” Stormy said. “What with those flyers we sent out with both our pics on them, full color, no less? They made us sound like the best detective agency since Sam Spade’s. And besides, we’re hot.”

  “We are hot,” Max said.

  Stormy pursed her lips. “You don’t look very excited, Maxie. You look as if your heart’s breaking.”

  Max leaned back against the van and eyed the house where she’d grown up, its neatly trimmed hedges and freshly mown lawn. “I’m a little bummed we’re going to have to make two trips. I mean, if I trusted myself to drive this van with the car behind it, I’d use the tow bar that came with the thing. But I’m not that confident.”

  “Uh-huh.” Stormy crossed her arms and tapped her foot, giving Max a look that said she knew perfectly well that was not what was bothering her.

  Max nodded and gave in. “I really thought Lou would agree to go into business with us. I mean, you and I have two P.I. licenses and some pretty powerful contacts—”

  “Even if they are mostly dead,” Stormy put in with a wink.

  “But none of that adds up to a retired cop with twenty years under his belt.”

  “I think there’s other stuff under his belt that interests you more.”

  “Yeah, well, short of bashing him over the head and attacking him, I don’t think I’m going to get within a mile of his belt. Much less what’s under it.”

  Stormy tipped her head to one side. The sun caught the rhinestone in her nostril and winked. She’d given up the eyebrow ring. During her coma they removed it and the hole had closed up. But to celebrate her recovery she’d added the nose stud. Personally, Max liked it better. It was petite and daring, just like Stormy.

  “Are you telling me,” she asked Max in a tone of disbelief, “that during the whole time I was in the coma, and you two were up in Maine saving your sister from notorious vampire hunters and tracking down the bastard who shot me, that you never once—”

  “Like you don’t think I’d have told you if we had?”

  “You’d have rented a billboard,” Stormy said with a sigh. “So now you’re giving up?”

  Max pursed her lips. “If I’m living in Maine and Lou insists on staying here in White Plains, I don’t see what choice I have.”

  Stormy looked at her, a mix of pity and skepticism in her vivid sapphire eyes.

  Slowly, Maxine straightened off the van, looked down toward the road and smiled. “I’m not beaten yet, though. Here he comes.” She nodded toward the oversize rustmobile that was pulling up to the curb, since there was no room in the driveway. The small square of blacktop held the rental van on one side and Stormy’s little red Miata on the other. Max’s green VW Bug was in the garage.

  The noise level dropped to zero when Lou shut off his engine; then the heavy driver’s door swung open. Lou got out, and Max drank in the sight of him. God, he was something. Oh, he tried real hard, especially for her, she thought, to pull off the saggy, burned-out ex-cop routine. With his loose-fitting suits and always crooked ties, and slow-talking, slow-walking ways, he tried to be the living proof that forty-four was over the hill. And way too old for a twenty-six-year-old. But she saw through the act. He wasn’t too old; he was just too damn wary. The only thing burned out about Lou Malone was his heart, though she didn’t know why. She’d always intended to fix it, whether he liked it or not. Now, she thought she was about to run out of time.

  He came across the driveway to where she stood, glancing at the van, then at her. His eyes met hers, held them, and she thought she saw something sad in them before he covered it with a smile. Could he be sorry to see her go?

  He broke eye contact and nodded hello to Stormy.

  “Hey, Lou,” Stormy called. “We’d just about decided you weren’t coming to see us off.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. How are you feeling, Stormy?”

  “Fine, except for being sick of everyone asking how I’m feeling.” She softened the words with a smile. “You?”

  “Can’t complain.” He eyed the van, his glance tripping over Max’s tummy on the way. Good, she thought. It would have been a waste of good low-rise jeans and a cropped-short T-shirt if he hadn’t even noticed the bared section of skin in between.

  He cleared his throat, nodded at the
van. “Are you going to have to make a few trips with that thing, Max?”

  “Nope. Everything that’s going is packed up and ready. Except my car, anyway. I’ll have to come back for that.”

  “Everything?” He lifted his brows. “You couldn’t have fit furniture in there.”

  “You’ve been to my sister’s house, Lou. Morgan’s will left me everything, furniture included.”

  “Still, seems like you’d want some of your own.”

  “Most of the stuff in this house isn’t my own, anyway. It’s nearly all hand-me-downs from my parents.” She never qualified the word parents with the word adoptive, even though it was true. “Besides, what do I have here that would fit there? That place is…opulent.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not you.”

  She planted her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not opulent?”

  He lifted his brows. “It wasn’t an insult, Maxie, just an observation. Morgan’s house is—hell, it’s Morgan. Dramatic, dark, rich. You should be in a place that’s…I don’t know. Cute, quirky, fun.”

  “Sexy?”

  He sent her a quelling look.

  Maxie sent him back a wink. “That’s what you meant, and you know it. But don’t worry, Lou. Once I get settled in, I’m going to redecorate a suite of rooms just for me. I can’t exactly do the whole place, though. It’s not like Morgan’s really dead, after all.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He lowered his head, shaking it slowly.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We talk so matter-of-factly about it. Like it’s nothing. And then every once in a while it hits me. Everything that happened. Everything we saw. Stuff I thought was nothing but superstition, turning out to be real. The fact that one of Mad Maxie Stuart’s conspiracy theories turned out to be dead on target.”