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  Copyright ©2006 by Lynda Hilburn

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Vampire Of My Dreams

  by

  Hera St. Aubyn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Vampire Of My Dreams

  COPYRIGHT ©

  2006 by Lynda Hilburn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by R.J.Morris

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  Black Rose Edition, November 2006

  Published in the United States of America

  "Are you sure you don't want me to walk home with you? I'm happy to do it. I know how you feel about New Year's Eve, Alana. There's no reason for you to force yourself to be such a tough cookie all the time."

  Alana eyed her friend, grateful for her understanding. She watched as Vivian stood in the soft circle of illumination cast by the streetlight and fussed with the temperamental lock on the door of the metaphysical bookstore and gift shop the two women co-owned. The shop had hosted its annual psychic faire and costume party, and both owners were pleasantly exhausted.

  "That's sweet, Viv, but it's only a few blocks. I'll be fine. It's time for me to face my fears and to let go of the past. And, besides, I am a tough cookie!"

  Vivian laughed and wrapped her chubby arms around Alana, giving her a motherly hug. She took a step back, rested her hands gently on the younger woman's shoulders, and looked into her eyes.

  "Well, promise me you won't stay home on your days off. Get out and meet some men. Have some fun. Hell, have some sex! You're young and beautiful. You used to be quite a wild woman, if I recall. Any man would be lucky to have you. A heart can only grieve for so long."

  Alana smiled. “What would I do without you, my friend? If it hadn't been for you, I'd have fallen apart when Stephen was killed. You were my lifeline. And you're right. It's time. I promise I won't hide in my apartment."

  "Well, if you do hide in your apartment, I expect you to be working on another one of those sizzling vampire romance books you used to write. I've missed those libido-boosting tales."

  They both laughed.

  "Yeah,” Alana grinned, “like your libido needs a boost. Go on, now. That delicious man of yours is waiting to pounce on your voluptuous body when you get home. Give Andrew a kiss for me. I'll call you tomorrow."

  Talking about her husband always made Vivian smile wide. Right on cue the corners of her mouth curved up. “Yes, all right, I'm going. Bye!” She waved over her shoulder.

  Alana listened to the staccato click-clack of Vivian's heels on the sidewalk as her friend hurried up the street toward her house. As the sound diminished, she stood for a moment, relishing the silence, before turning in the other direction. The recent Solstice—the ancient celebration of the longest night—had tiptoed in, turning the wheel of the year without any of its usual blustery fanfare. Shop customers had complained about the lack of snow for the holidays, but Alana hadn't noticed. Just getting through the last few weeks had taken all her energy. The smell of winter was in the air—the earthy fragrance of decaying leaves and wood smoke from someone's fireplace. The full moon imbued everything with a surreal shine.

  The sound of her solitary footsteps echoing down the empty street made Alana feel sad. Vivian was right. There had to be an end to grieving. Didn't there? Was four years long enough? Was any time ever long enough?

  It was hard for her to imagine writing another romance story. It used to be so easy, because she knew exactly what it felt like to be that much in love. She smiled as she remembered writing steamy sex scenes, and trying them out on Stephen. He was always an eager participant. But those days were gone. She didn't know what to do about her loneliness. It was a constant companion. She was almost afraid to write those sex scenes she used to enjoy so much. What would she do with all the desire she aroused in herself? It wasn't the physical release—she could take care of that. It was the emotional need. She pulled her long, black velvet cloak tighter around herself. It was a cold, clear night. She could see her breath.

  The shop and her apartment building were in two different parts of Old Towne. She'd chosen the location of the building purposefully because it was surrounded by historical, gothic-inspired homes and a wickedly-intriguing, scary-movie-type graveyard. She'd always loved anything paranormal or metaphysical.

  Stephen had shared her love of all things spooky. She smiled, thinking about their first kiss as teenagers and how he'd bribed her best friend to send Alana alone to the cemetery. She wondered if every community used its graveyard as a popular make-out spot? They'd been so happy together. A frown overpowered the smile as she thought about the horrible men who attacked and killed him. On New Year's Eve, four years ago.

  It was then that she'd stopped living, too.

  Alana was startled to notice that her mindless brisk walk had taken her to the very spot she avoided at all costs. When she recognized the hated wrought iron gate, she stopped moving—her knees threatening to give way. Heart pounding, she studied the huge monstrosity of a mansion rotting behind the gate and felt a wave of grief so powerful she instinctively reached out to steady herself by grabbing one of the cold bars. As if the touch burned, she pulled away, taking a deep breath. She stood frozen while the events of that terrible night replayed in her mind.

  It was here, at the entrance to this nightmare of a house, where her beautiful Stephen had been stabbed to death. Apparently, for the few dollars he had in his pocket. Immediately thrust into Memory Hell, she recalled every detail, as if it were yesterday. She watched his life blood spread in a crimson pool as he slipped away. His long, golden hair fanned out around his face, making him look like a sleeping angel.

  They'd spent the evening at that cute little British-wannabe pub on the next corner. She remembered them laughing and holding each other, dreaming of a brighter future.

  The police had asked her that night and later, if she'd been aware of anyone following them. She'd been too distraught to be helpful back then, but now she recalled with absolute clarity the sounds of voices following them out of the pub. The murderers had been in the very same room with them. Maybe they were still in the area. That realization tightened her stomach. She scanned the empty street, eyes exploring the shadows. No matter how afraid she was, she wouldn't run away. She wouldn't give in to the fear. The ritual dagger she carried in the pocket of her cloak would be put to good use if she ever ran across Stephen's killers. Even if they took her down with them. Their faces were burned into her memory.

  As she stood there, lost in her painful reverie, she had the eerie feeling that someone was watching her. Chills crawled up and down her arms. Snapping out of her tortured recollection
s, she lifted her head, searching the area for the presence she sensed. Holding her breath, she steeled herself for yet another terrible thing to happen at this spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of movement. She swiveled toward the disturbance. Nobody was there.

  She took a few tentative steps, still braced for danger. Half expecting the same murdering drug addicts to jump out and grab her, she readied herself to pull the dagger out of her pocket. Her heart thumped so forcefully in her chest that she swore she could hear it. Sweat broke out on her forehead. There it was again. That ripple of movement at the edge of her vision. And a soft sound, like breathing.

  Walking suddenly seemed difficult—as if lifting one foot, then the other, was more complicated than she could manage. She felt too tired to take another step. Her head was filled with cotton, her mind fuzzy. Stumbling over to the iron fence, she leaned back, resting her head against the bars. A wave of heat poured through her body and she opened the front of her cloak. It didn't make any sense to her that she was burning up out in the cold night air. Maybe she was having one of those hot flashes Vivian always talked about.

  She gasped. Hands roamed over her body. Hands she couldn't see, belonging to nobody. She blinked her eyes repeatedly, just to make sure they were really open. She moaned without meaning to. The hands cupped her breasts, stroking them gently and pulling on her nipples. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. That could be the only plausible reason she was having such a graphic hallucination in the very place her husband had died. How odd that she'd chosen tonight to lose her mind completely.

  She had the absurd idea that maybe it was Stephen's ghost touching her. She almost hoped it was. Then she heard a whisper in her mind, “Not a ghost."

  The hands slid down to the juncture of her thighs, and she felt a palm massage her mound through her clothing. She felt the slick heat pooling between her legs and longed to invite the imaginary finger to slide inside her wet pussy. Her clit ached to be stroked. Within seconds her invitation was accepted and she felt herself building toward a powerful orgasm. She moaned loudly. Imaginary lips pressed against hers and a soft, wet tongue pushed into her mouth as she came on a ripple of pleasure.

  "Miss? Are you all right?"

  Alana's eyes flew open. She didn't remember closing them. A fantastic-looking man was asking if she was all right. She didn't know if she was all right. The only thing she remembered was the bizarre feeling of having an orgasm for no apparent reason while standing on a public street. She was so cold her teeth chattered and her cloak flapped in the wind. She pulled the edges together and fastened the buttons.

  The man stepped closer. “Shall I call for help? Is there anything I can do?” he asked in a deep voice with the sexiest English accent.

  "No. Thank you. Don't trouble yourself. I must've been more tired than I thought. I'll be fine now."

  In the glow of the antique street lights, she studied him. He was breathtakingly gorgeous—like he'd stepped off the cover of a romance novel. A dream come to life. Very long, dark brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. Or, at least they looked blue in the soft light. His hair and eyes weren't very different from hers. But he had perfect, chiseled features with a beautiful, generous mouth. He was several inches taller than her average height. His skin was pale—as if he'd been indoors recovering from an illness, or something. He must have attended a costume party, because he wore a long cape draped over his broad shoulders, and underneath that, a white shirt with ruffles at the neck and wrists. Or, maybe he really had just posed for a romance cover. And he smelled incredible—something subtle and masculine.

  She suddenly realized he'd continued talking to her while she appreciated his sensual charms and she hadn't answered.

  He was standing very close to her now, and had taken one of her hands in his.

  "Miss, please. You seem dazed. Allow me to escort you to safety."

  She looked down at her hand in his and started, instinctively pulling it away. Was she out of her mind, letting a strange man touch her? Being out of her mind seemed to be a foregone conclusion. It was time to make a quick exit. Shifting her gaze to his face, she mumbled, “I do apologize. I don't know what's wrong with me this evening.” She pointed down the street. “I haven't been myself since leaving work a little while ago. My mind seems foggy."

  He turned his head from side to side, obviously looking for her place of business. “Where do you work that would keep you until 1 a.m.? And on such a cold, lonely night?"

  "What do you mean 1 a.m.? We closed the shop at midnight and it's only a ten-minute walk to where we are now. Your watch must be fast.” Her tone was less than friendly. Something about this man felt dangerous.

  He frowned, cocked his head and gave her a concerned look. “Ah, I see. So, you believe it's shortly after midnight now? Have you lost time before?"

  "I don't believe anything. It is just after midnight. I've never lost time. Ever."

  He looked into her eyes and she felt immediately dizzy. “I ... I guess I don't really feel very well. I'd better sit down.” She started to slide down the fence toward the sidewalk, and the handsome man scooped her up into his arms as effortlessly as lifting a small child.

  "Sit, you shall, but on a proper surface. You have two choices. You can tell me where you live so I can deliver you there, or you will come home with me. Which do you choose?"

  She tried to form words, but only produced something that sounded like “dohwa.” Why wasn't her voice working? Was she having a stroke? Why did this gorgeous man make her so nervous?

  When she didn't offer anything intelligible, he seemed to make the decision for her. “Fine. My home, then."

  Still carrying her, he turned, kicked the gate open with his foot and walked them up the cracked sidewalk leading to the porch of the abandoned mansion.

  As soon as she saw where he was taking her, she tried to force her muscles to obey her commands to move, but they weren't listening. Fear filled her and she made whatever sounds she could while being propelled through the doorway into the huge house's entryway. She was more afraid of the strange way her body was reacting than of the cover model's intentions. After all, her dagger was in her pocket.

  "There is no need to be afraid, beautiful lady. I am simply taking you to a more comfortable place where you may collect yourself. You may use the telephone to call for assistance, if you wish. The house is old, but I do have all the modern amenities."

  He nudged open a set of ornate, etched-glass doors which led into a magnificently decorated area. He flicked the light switch on the wall, sending a soft, golden color flooding through the room. A lovely fire crackled in the fireplace. She was stunned that the decrepit outer appearance hid such treasure inside. She'd originally thought the architecture of this house was the most fascinating she'd ever seen, what with its Dracula-castle towers and creepy gargoyles perched on every corner. But since Stephen's death, the place was cursed for her.

  He deposited her on a comfortable sofa, added another small pillow underneath her head, and untied his cape, letting it drop to the floor. He retrieved a foot stool to sit on. “Are you feeling better now?"

  She didn't know what to make of the entire situation. She'd apparently been standing in front of this man's house, having an imaginary sexual experience that lasted long enough to chill her to the bone and cause her teeth to chatter. The gorgeous man was taking care of her, and she didn't know which one of her instincts to listen to: run or stare at his amazing lips. At least the fog in her head was clearing.

  "Yes, thank you. I'm so embarrassed. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. What time is it, really?"

  He pointed to a clock on the wall, which read ten past one. She couldn't believe her eyes. He'd been telling her the truth. She had lost time.

  He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it, his soft lips lingering a couple of seconds longer than necessary. “I am a poor host. I haven't even given you my name or offered you refreshment. Allow me to in
troduce myself. I am Winston Grayson, owner of this ancient pile of bricks and stones. And you are Alana Fairfax, vampire author extraordinaire.

  Her anxiety level rose along with the pitch of her voice. “How do you know who I am? I never told you my name.” She scooted as far away on the couch as she could. “What's going on here?” If he kept looking at her with those amazing blue eyes, she'd melt into a puddle of hormones and then she'd never be able to get herself out of this embarrassing mess.

  A smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth and he gave a slow blink of his dark eyelashes. “One reason I know your name is because your photo is on the back of your books, and I'm a fan. I seem to be intrigued by anything to do with vampires. Which is very odd, and quite self-centered."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm glad you enjoyed the books I wrote. I love vampires, too. What did you mean it's self-centered for you to be interested in vampires?"

  He laughed, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “I hope you meant what you said about loving vampires, because I happen to be one."

  She laughed, appreciating his sense of humor, and pointed to his ruffled shirt. “Oh? You mean your costume. You're dressed as a vampire for a masquerade party?"

  "Well, in a manner of speaking. I tend to gravitate towards the clothing I wore years ago, and since I'm a vampire, and these are my clothes, I suppose you could say I'm dressed as a vampire."

  She didn't know what to say, so she just waited for the punchline.

  He leaned in closer to her. “I have a story to tell you. Are you willing to listen?"

  Something about him was disturbing, yet so appealing. Almost magnetic. Familiar. She had to fight the urge to touch his hair. “What kind of story?"

  "A story about you and me.” He wet his lips with his tongue, which drew her attention to his mouth and sent her thoughts spinning in erotic directions.

  She laughed nervously. “You and me? Is this going to be a story with a happy ending?"