Shannon opened her eyes to see Damien standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her. His black eyes blazed. His jaw was tight, his stance rigid. He said nothing, just watched her.

She sat up, let the covers fall away from her body, and realized she was naked beneath them. She drew a gasp and jerked the covers up to her neck again. Then lifted her gaze to his. It hadn't wavered. She knew he'd seen her breasts for just an instant. She felt heat moving up through her face, a rush of embarrassment, and she couldn't keep looking at him. Her chin lowered until she saw only her fist, clutching the blankets to her throat.

She felt a tug. Then another. She glanced up fast. Damien held the bedclothes in his hands, just below her feet. He pulled them toward him. Slowly but steadily, the covers slipped away. She wanted to jerk them back... or at least part of her did, but she couldn't seem to move. Her arms were numb, heavy, useless.

Her breasts were visible now, and the blankets and sheets still kept slinking lower. Satin whispered over her hips, her thighs, her knees. She shivered, but it wasn't cold. Her ankles were exposed now. Her feet. Damien held the rumpled bundle of covers to one side and let it fall to the floor.

She couldn't roll away from those probing eyes, or lift her arms to cover herself. She sat still, immobilized by some force she didn't understand, as Damien's hot gaze explored every inch of her body. She saw the bulge at the juncture of his thighs beneath those tight black jeans he wore. She knew what was going to happen. She wasn't afraid. No. It was time. She wanted this. He took a single step toward the bed.

"Damien," she whispered.

"Let me love you. Shannon."

She couldn't catch her breath to answer, so she only nodded. He reached out to touch her--

Her eyes fluttered open, and she was alone in the room. Alone in the bed, under the soft weight of blankets and a comforter. She lifted the covers and peeked underneath. She'd slept in the buff for lack of a nightgown or any clothing at all except the loose-fitting robe, which tended to tangle around her legs. No wonder she'd had erotic dreams. The feel of satin sheets against her skin had been the inspiration, not the strange man of illusions. That was all it was. Just because he'd been invading her waking thoughts lately didn't mean he'd been the cause of her dream.

But she knew better than that, didn't she?

She grated her teeth and punched the pillow. She'd had a hell of a time getting to sleep. In some ridiculous part of her mind she'd been waiting for, even expecting, him to come to her. But he hadn't. Of course he hadn't.

She looked around for her robe, belatedly realizing it was dim in the room. Night already? She glanced at the little windup clock on the nightstand--7:15. Dusk. God, she never slept this long at once. Then again, she'd never had dreams like the one she'd just had, either. She sat up in bed, ran one hand across her forehead, and found it damp with sweat.

The knock came at her door and she jumped. Her gaze flew to the wood as his deep voice floated through.

"Shannon? Are you awake?"

She bit her lip. Her dreams had been accurate, if farfetched. They'd reproduced that satin touch of his voice on her senses. And the warmth of his breath, dampness of his lips as he'd whispered against her skin.

Not him, she reminded herself. My dream.

"Shannon?"

"Just a minute." She hopped out of bed, hugging most of the covers around her, still frantically looking for her robe or the clothes she'd taken off the night before. Nothing was to be seen. She made it to the door, opened it a crack and peeked through at him.

He stood close to the door, as dark and mysterious as ever. Spotless white shirt, tight black pants with tapered legs. God, he was sexy.

"I brought you something to eat." He held a plate in one hand, but his gaze was fastened to her shoulders and her neck, and the fist with which she held sheets and blankets to her breastbone trembled. "Can I come in?"

She blinked. "I'm not exactly dressed--"

He shrugged and shouldered the door open, strolling in as though it were an everyday thing. "Shannon, I'm around half-dressed, beautiful women all the time. I can handle it, I promise." He sent her a smile as she clumsily adjusted her coverings under her arms. He set the plate on a nightstand.

"Yeah, maybe you can, but I can't." She crossed to the bathroom, blankets and sheets trailing behind her like Lady Di's bridal train. Tugging her tails in behind her, she closed the door. "Where are my clothes?"

"I asked Netty to get them cleaned for you. They're in the closet."

He sounded as if he stood right outside the bathroom door. She didn't hear him move away. "Well, would you kindly hand me something to put on?"

He chuckled, but a second later he knocked. She cracked the door and his hand poked through, clutching a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and fresh new underwear. "Those aren't mine."

"Netty did a little more shopping today. Can't have you wearing the same thing everyday, can we? Take them. Shannon. They won't bite."

She took the clothes and closed the door again, then quickly dressed.

"I don't know why you're bothering. You won't be in them long."

Shocked, she stared at the bathroom door. Finally, it seemed, he was ready to make a move. It wasn't at all what she'd envisioned. "That's the crudest proposition I've ever had." She opened the door and stood, hands on hips, facing him. Butterflies battled inside her stomach. She'd been right in reading the signs last night. He did want her. The moment of truth was here. "Can't you do any better?"

He touched her face, trailing warm fingertips over her cheek, until she fought the urge to close her eyes and lean against him. "I can do better. Don't doubt it. But that wasn't a proposition. Shannon. Just a statement of fact."

Her eyes popped open and she scowled. "You're taking this just a bit for granted, aren't you?" She hadn't even decided to say yes yet.

"You said you wanted to be my assistant until we caught the killer, didn't you?" She nodded mutely. "Well, you certainly can't do it dressed like that."

Embarrassment brought heat to her face, but she turned her head to hide it from his sharp gaze, and tried to convert the discomfort to something more constructive. "If you think I'm parading around on stage in one of those skimpy sarong skirts with a bikini top, the way your other assistants do, you're in for a surprise, Damien."

"You won't be parading. You'll be graceful, floating, dancing. And we only have about an hour to rehearse, so will you kindly eat this feast Netty cooked for you so we can get on with it?"

* * * * *

This was not right. He'd fed, just to be sure the hunger was assuaged, just to prevent himself from feeling this powerful lust for her. And he'd been sure he was perfectly in control when he'd come to the room. He'd marched in, with Shannon wearing nothing but a tangle of blankets, just to prove it to himself.

But all it had taken to convince him otherwise was a single glimpse of her smooth skin, bare shoulders and delicate neck, the outline of her collarbone under her skin, the shape of her jaw. The lust hit him again the second he'd set eyes on her, hit him as powerfully as it had before he'd fed. Something was wrong. This damned thirst must be getting stronger. He'd never felt the need again so soon. Never!

And it wasn't a temporary thing. The feelings grew more intense with every second he spent near her, until he was thinking of little else. He wanted to feel her warm flesh pressed to his own, to hear the sounds she made as he worked her body, drove her to madness, made her want the things he did.

But he couldn't make love to her. For all he knew he might kill her if he did. And even if he wasn't the one responsible for the deaths of those other women, he still had reason to keep a distance from Shannon. He didn't want to let his feelings for her get any stronger. It would kill him to care that much again. When she left--as she must--it would kill him.

What was wrong with him? There were so many things he ought to be focused on right now. The killer who stalked the streets of Arista, the person who might make Shannon his next target, for one. If he hadn't killed those two women himself, then he had to know who had, or the murders might go on and on. And this new power his nature seemed to be gaining. He needed to explore it, to find answers to the questions tormenting him. He should contact this Marquand. The man might have some answers.

And then there was Shannon and this mysterious illness he'd worried about since he'd first seen its effects. He had, he thought, the answers to that in his possession, in the supposed CIA man's files on her. But he hadn't had time to go over them yet, with her always so close. Or maybe it was the guilt he felt at blatantly invading her privacy that way. But he needed to do that, to find out what was wrong with her before it became worse. She'd admitted that attacks like that had happened before--

She whirled across his room, into his arms, and nipped backward in an apparent faint. He nearly dropped her, he'd been paying so little attention. Her body's jerking movements were proof she was fighting laughter, and her eyes popped open a second later.

"I don't know how I'm going to get through this without giggling, Damien. It's so dramatic. I'm not a dramatic person."

He couldn't help but smile at the sparkle in her eyes, the dimples in her face. "No, I'd call you more irreverent than dramatic." He lifted her upright again and took his arms from around her. Holding her like this was too much, even now.

Netty's clapping came from the doorway and she hustled forward. "'Course it seems absurd now. Shannon, wearing blue jeans and dancing in a living room. It'll all be different on stage, when you're in costume and the music is thrummin' in your ears and all that misty stuff is twirl in' around your legs. You'll see."

"You think so?"

Netty wiped her hands on her apron and sent Shannon a wink. "Oh, I know these things. Toured with the Somerset Theatre Troupe in London when I was in my prime. Played Eliza Doolittle. Knocked 'em dead, I did."

Damien frowned. "You never told me that, Netty."

"You never asked," she replied. "Truth be told--" she tilted her head, addressing Shannon "--he's always been such a cold fish, I was beginning to wonder if there beat a heart in that big chest of his. He's different now, though, since you been comin' round."

Damien opened his mouth to tell Netty she was overstepping, but she cut him off before he said a word.

"Got to get to it, if I'm going to get to the theater in time to see Shannon's debut. If there's nothing else...?"

Damien shook his head.

"Thank you for the clothes, and the meal, and everything else you've done for me," Shannon said as Netty turned to go.

"Nothin' of it, child. You remind me of an orphan in need of motherin'. I like coddling you just a mite."

Shannon's eyes widened, but Netty was already on her way out the door. She glanced at Damien as if dumbfounded.

"What is it?"

"What she said, I..." She blinked twice, then shook her head. "Just a coincidence, I guess. Never mind."

* * * * *

A short time later, she tugged at the bottom of the leopard- print bikini top and nervously adjusted the knot in the side of the matching sarong skirt. Roxy, Damien's former assistant, had not been happy about the change. In fact, she'd thrown a fit, and Damien had been tossing out one excuse after another, until, fed up and wondering who the hell had a name like "Roxy" anyway. Shannon had stepped between them. "Look, toots, I'm a PI. Repeat it and you'll wish you hadn't. I'm taking your place because Damien's assistant is liable to end up as some lunatic's target. Repeat that and I'll break your jaw. If you think I can't, try me. Any questions?"

Roxy, tall and elegant, stared down at Shannon for a long moment, gaping. Finally, she glanced at Damien again. "This had better be legit, Namtar. I have a contract."

"You'll still be paid for every performance."

She nodded once, spared a parting glare at Shannon, then turned on her heel and left.

Shannon sighed, shaking off the memory of the nasty little confrontation and focusing instead on Damien's every move out there on stage. She struggled to remember everything he'd told her. Keep her head up, back straight. Be graceful, confident.

That she was beautiful, and would be terrific. That was the second time he'd called her "beautiful." She could learn to like it.

When he nodded toward where she stood, she braced her hands against the prop table-on-wheels and pushed it out onto the stage. Damien introduced her as his "delectable assistant, Shannon." She waved to the crowd as he'd told her to, and was surprised when they applauded her loudly. The rock music swelled, and the show got easier as she went along, handing Damien the props from the table, adding little flourishes of her own now and then. When the trick was finished and Damien gallantly kissed the back of her hand, she fanned herself and winked at the audience. They loved it, applauding wildly as she sauntered offstage, pushing the little cart. It wasn't nearly as tough as she'd expected it to be. And it was kind of fun. She could flirt with him as much as she wanted, and he'd just consider it all part of the act.

* * * * *

She was incredible. So full of mischief tonight, and her sense of mayhem and devilment spilled over. It was contagious. The crowd adored her.

But when the mist swirled around his legs, and the low, driving music began for the finale, he glanced offstage where she waited and saw the twinkle had faded from those eyes. She was serious. She knew there was no comedy in this part of the act. He took a moment to be thankful she had her mirthful streak under control. He held one hand out toward her, and she swirled to him as the volume swelled. He took her hand, and she stilled, facing the audience, just as they'd rehearsed.

With one fingertip on her chin, her turned her to face him. Then, with a flick of his wrist, his fingers fanned before her eyes. The music pumped louder. She let her eyes take on an entranced, blank sort of stare. Then he slipped one arm around her waist, feeling the warmth of her flesh burn his skin. His other hand cupped the back of her head and he bent her backward. Drawing a steadying breath, he lowered his head to her throat, parted his lips, caught her skin between them.

And the lust roared to life.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He'd told himself that it would fade as soon as he began his performance. He'd repeated this same act, sometimes while the hunger was paining him, but he'd never been so tempted to make it real. He was sated. He'd fed last night just to kill the rampant desire. Why was it convulsing in his brain?

Her skin was like satin, and salty against his lips. He kissed her throat, and couldn't stop his tongue from stroking a slow path over it. He felt her shudder in response to that, and he heard her whisper his name, for his ears alone, a plea barely audible in her voice. Her scent twisted into his nostrils. The soft thrum of her pulse seemed amplified in his ears. He could feel the rush of blood passing just beneath the skin. His teeth closed just a little, and he heard the startled breath she drew.

Shaking himself, he realized that her hands clutched the back of his head. Her fingers clenched and relaxed in his hair, again and again, as if on their own. Her head tipped back a little farther and the pressure on his head increased. Ever so slightly, she pressed her throat to his sucking mouth. Imploring. Offering. Submitting. His body began to shake. The need engulfed him. Sweat dampened his face.

With a deep growl he hadn't meant to emit, he released her, tugged her arms from around him and lowered her, quickly and roughly, to the floor.

The crowd roared, coming to its feet as one entity. Damien faced them, blinking. For a few brief seconds he'd forgotten their existence. There'd been nothing but Shannon, the taste of her, the desire that suddenly exploded inside him; He'd even forgotten the capsule of stage blood he was supposed to break open and apply to her neck.

She was lying there, motionless except for the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed far faster than she ought to. His gaze was caught for a moment, mesmerized by the subtle lifting of her scantily covered breasts. They were large and round and soft. The valley between them seemed like a magnet to his lips, his face.

He looked away, sweeping the hair that had fallen to stick to his damp forehead with one hand. Without waiting for the curtain to fall and lift again, he swept the satin cloak over his face and whirled.

It was a raven that emerged from the fallen folds of his cloak tonight. It swooped out over the crowd before returning to the stage and then diving off stage right. The curtain came down to thunderous applause.

* * * * *

Ah, yes, this was going so well. Anthar watched, having only slipped into the theater in time for the finale. He was convinced Damien had been so engrossed in his pretty assistant that he hadn't even detected the presence of another ancient one. Of course, he never had. Anthar was good at veiling his presence from others. Still, he'd never been this close. Always before, he'd observed from a great distance, shadowed Damien's steps, witnessed his nights with those other two. But Damien had never sensed him there, and he didn't seem to have noticed Anthar's presence tonight, either. That was good. The fool was obviously enamored of the girl, obviously fighting with himself to keep his lust from sating itself on her. It was only a matter of time, then. Just as soon as Damien's will dissolved and he took the beauty to his bed, as soon as he ravaged her body and drank from her throat, Anthar would know. He was never far from Damien, always watching. He'd know when it happened, and then Anthar would move in.

It would be nothing to finish the job, to drain her dry. And he'd leave her in the bed where Damien had taken her, and he'd let that bastard find her there, let him believe her death belonged to him. Let him think he'd killed the one he loved.

Ah, the torment, the agony he'd feel then! It would be sheer beauty to see. And then the once-great king would take his own life. Anthar had no doubt of it at all. Gilgamesh the Great would be no more. His punishment, Anthar's vengeance, was at hand.

Anthar rubbed his hands together with glee and made his way out of the theater.

* * * * *

"You really are wonderful, Damien. They love you. Listen to them--they're still cheering."

Damien tried to take in her words without hearing the soft silken sounds of her voice. Erotic the way it stroked his ears, the way he could conjure it whimpering, sighing, crying out his name in the heights of pleasure.

Focus on something else, you idiot. Anything. The crowd, focus on the crowd.

He opened his mind, hoping the sensations of others would drown out his own. He'd feel their adoration, their love. It would be enough. It had always been enough. The only connection in his life, the only emotion he allowed himself. The love of the crowds. He deliberately ignored the voice of Shannon's thoughts, concentrating on those still cheering in the theater. And then his head came up sharply, and he grated his teeth.

Another, like him, was here tonight. Another vampire. God, he'd thought of this explanation for the murders, even tried to convince himself of it. But he hadn't really believed. Not fully. There'd been a big part of him that still believed he was the killer, and there wasn't another one like him for hundreds of miles. But one was here, tonight.

And the bastard was getting closer.

Damien leapt to his feet just as the door to his dressing room swung open. He gripped Shannon's arm, ignoring her questions, pulling her to stand behind him.

The man stood motionless in the doorway, staring at Damien. His eyes were black, his hair as raven as Damien's was. He smiled just a little and nodded, his gaze slipping past Damien to where Shannon stood behind him.

"I enjoyed the performance," he said slowly, carefully, and there was a slight accent to his words, maybe French. "You're talented, Miss Mallory."

"Thank--"

"Don't talk to her. Don't even look at her, or I'll tear you apart, right here." Damien was breathing too rapidly, and the rage that infused him was surprising.

One of the man's dark brows arched upward, as if he were puzzled. "There's no reason to be so hostile, Damien. I only came to talk to you."

"Then we'll talk alone."

"I assure you, I can be discreet, if that's what concerns you." He gave his head a small shake. "Perhaps this was a bad idea. Since you refused to answer my letters, I thought to see a performance, try to get a word with you in person. I ought to have respected your privacy." He took a step backward.

"What letters? What are you talking about?" Damien demanded.

Shannon wrenched herself free of his restraining hand, thanks to his momentary distraction, and stepped around him. "Don't go." She slanted Damien a sideways glance. "Honest to God, I've never seen you so rude. What's the matter?" As she spoke she extended a hand, and the stranger took it, brought it to his lips. But when he lifted his head he was frowning.

Damien gripped Shannon's other arm and pulled her away from the stranger. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

But the other man's eyes remained on Shannon, and they were darker than before. "You'd best lie down, Miss Mallory. You aren't well."

Damien glanced at her, noting for the first time the paleness in her face, the coolness of her skin where he held her wrist. He closed his fingers, and felt the rapid patter of her pulse. And she was beginning to tremble, just a bit.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

The stranger's eyes sought Damien's, and the man shook his head so slightly it was barely a movement at all, as if to say, "She is not fine. Not at all."

Shannon drew a deep breath, and Damien saw her stiffen her spine. "I would like to go home, though. This theater is cold as a meat locker. Maybe you and Damien could talk there, Mr...."

"Marquand," he said smoothly, his accent utterly charming and seeming to fit perfectly with his Old World way of speaking. "Eric Marquand, and I think that's a wonderful idea."

"Marquand," Damien repeated. He closed his eyes, realizing his mistake, then wondering about it. How long had this Marquand been in town? Long enough to have committed two murders?

Stop being a fool, Damien, and get this woman someplace she can rest. She's on the verge of collapse. Can't you sense it?

The voice, coming into his mind so clearly it was as if the other man had spoken, took Damien by surprise. He'd never used the telepathy, always kept his mind closed and rarely spoke to others, except to command his victims to remember his visits as a dream.

He shook off the surprise and looked at Shannon again, this time attuning his mind to hers, as well. He felt the queasiness swirling in her stomach, the unbalanced feeling in her head, the cold creeping into her bones. Inanna forbid, not another attack!

"Shannon?"

"Fine... I'm fine."

But her speech was slurred, and her cold skin began to warm under his hand. He scooped her up and shouldered past the stranger. His questions could be answered later. Now all that mattered was caring for her, seeing her through this episode. Damn, why hadn't he found the time to read those files? Why?