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  Empty. The room was empty. Just him, the bedroom furniture, and a pair of jeans slung across the bedroom chair in a corner of the room. He was totally alone. He stopped and stared at the rumpled heap of worn denim, unable to force himself to walk toward it. Where before the night breeze had felt refreshing on his damp skin, he shivered now in the sudden chill, a flicker of fear skittering down his back. He stood naked, covered in gooseflesh, unable to grab his usual covering. After all, they were pants, just a pair of old jeans.

  "Fuck."

  Jeans that should have been on the end of the bed where he always put them so they would be handy if he needed them in the middle of the night. Because he always slept nude. With jeans at the end of the bed. Always.

  "Well, just ... fuck."

  Suddenly, it wasn't the least bit reassuring that he was totally, completely alone. No roommate, no friend staying the night, no lover in his bed. Of course, he'd never had a roommate, didn't collect close friends, and there hadn't been a serious lover since college. He didn't have time for them. They could never adjust to his whirlwind travel schedule or his erratic hours.

  The impact of his isolated life was never clearer than it was at this single moment in time. He'd been in war zones that hadn't made him this apprehensive. Something akin to menace seemed to linger on the air, dangerous, primal. Threatening.

  Finding the willpower to move again, Hunter strode to the bedroom door. He found it still securely locked. Unhappy, he jerked the jeans off the chair and slid into them.

  He tugged the jeans into place over his ass and moved to the open window, his cool, sweaty hands arranging his half-hard cock more comfortably to one side as he buttoned the fly. It was a tight fit. He usually liked the way the thrill of danger always made him hard, but tonight it was just inconvenient and slightly disturbing. This wasn't some foreign battle or prowling lion that he could run from by hopping a plane or boarding a safari Jeep.

  He wasn't intruding on someone else's territory. This was something stalking him. Just him. Someone had been in the room.

  It was about more than just a pair of misplaced jeans. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. He'd felt a similar but more fleeting sensation now and then over the years since his parents had died, like a lingering presence or an unexplainable force nearby. He had always consoled himself with the fairy tale that it was one or both of his sorely missed parents watching over him from beyond. The presence always had left him with a feeling of safety and comfort. This time it was the same—but different.

  The tingle between his shoulder blades made him tense, restless, and sweaty with apprehension.

  The breeze gusted up, and the blinds clattered softly against the window frame. Hunter raised the slats higher and leaned out the opening. The rush of air carried the smells of the city with it, but it still felt good on his skin, in his face, lifting the damp strands of hair and drying his scalp.

  From his parents and their experiences, Hunter learned to love wide-open spaces and physical freedom. He'd spent most of his childhood and youth traveling with his parents from untamed country to the next primitive territory. They'd made him a partner in the family business as they photographed and chronicled natural disasters, military uprisings, and amazing events around the world. Hunter loved nature, craved the rush of energy the wind carried on it.

  Except this wind carried something dangerous with it. Something or someone. He pulled back into the room.

  "Burglar?” he asked the silent walls, but glanced out the window. “Nah. Nothing here to risk the climb for.” Six floors up in a twenty-story building? Not a real person.

  "Ghosts, then?” The thought of a ghostly apparition tweaked his memory. Something. Someone ghostly. “Crap. Maybe I got his picture this time!"

  Tearing out of the room, Hunter headed across the hall and entered his spare-bedroom-turned-dark-room. Reflexively, he reached for and found comfort in the old, heavy, pebbled metal of the paper vault, part of his father's legacy to him. He used digital SRL camera for his assignments. But nothing satisfied his creativity in the same way as it did to take his personal photographs on film, to develop them on the enlarger and in chemical baths the way his father had taught him to do.

  Soft, dim amber safelights glowed at the touch of a switch. He used the guest bathroom for the actual developing, but the final product of his recent photo shoot hung clipped to wires that crisscrossed a corner of spare bedroom.

  "No, no, not that one. Where are you?” Hunter sorted his way through the drying prints, looking for the ones that had sparked his memory.

  "Yes! Here you are.” He tugged three pictures off the line and studied each one carefully, moving closer to the light to be sure he wasn't missing anything.

  "What the hell?” He sorted through them three times and went back to the line to see if he had grabbed the wrong ones.

  When a thorough search revealed he had the pictures he wanted, he scanned them again and still, again, found nothing in the frames but an empty chair and a glass of red wine. The very pale, intense, platinum-blond man that had been sitting in the chair across from him in the outdoor café yesterday evening wasn't visible in the photograph. But Hunter couldn't remember a time when the man had left the table when he had taken the shots.

  Hunter had covertly snapped his picture from under a rumpled cloth dinner napkin. The man had been staring at Hunter, and Hunter couldn't resist capturing the man's animal magnetism on film, even without permission. Hunter found the man's intensity and boldness attractive. His flawless skin looked like fine marble, and his eyes were the same gray of an approaching thunderstorm. He was built large and muscular, with chiseled, high-boned cheeks and a thin streak of the palest of pinks for lips. The way the man held his mouth in a firm line made Hunter imagine a kiss from those powerful lips would be demanding and just as bold as the man's unwavering stare. Hunter had felt slightly undressed by the look. And aroused.

  He examined the pictures more closely. Breath caught in his lungs and his throat tightened as he noticed the level of wine in the glass changed in each shot, decreasing slightly. But no one was there to drink it. Where was the man?

  The photographs had been meant to fuel a few harmless wet dreams, but now Hunter had the unsettling impression this man could be the source of his disturbing nights. But that was ridiculous. He was just a man. Attractive and sexy, but a man.

  "Must have been a bad roll of film. That's it. Bad film. That's gotta be it.” But instead of tossing them into the wastebasket, he carefully took them out into the living room and laid them on a nearby table.

  * * * *

  Two nights had passed since Malcolm last visited his prey, nights spent thinking, examining, and planning. Two nights of questioning himself, searching his feelings and thoughts, reliving his past lives and lovers. They had been long, cold nights filled with few revelations. Malcolm had never been a man who deluded himself. He was harsh, unforgiving, the ultimate survivor over the long centuries. But he did so alone, unhindered by any of the human qualities William had prized. He considered mercy, charity, love human weaknesses. But it had been those very qualities in William that Malcolm had secretly admired, desired to embrace, if only vicariously through the other vampire. Maybe William wasn't the only one who could provide those connections for him. Maybe it was time for a change.

  The sidewalk bench was made of concrete and wooden slats, both materials still warm to the touch in the last feeble rays of sunlight. The park behind him was still populated with restless children and chattering adults, all winding down from a Sunday spent together. It was a small park, mostly grass and swing sets, with no shadowed alcoves for unsavory types to lurk.

  Malcolm settled onto the bench and waited, long black cashmere coat casually draping his strong, hard-muscled frame, forever preserved as it was on the final night of bloody battle when he had the misfortune to stumble across a creature feeding on the dying warriors on the battlefield. In a flash of teeth and pain, his human existence had
ended.

  He had been disoriented and outraged at first, but as he learned his new abilities, he reveled in his unimaginable power and strength. Regret over his lost human existence had never entered his warrior's mind or his warrior's heart. He had no close ties, his tribesmen all dead at his feet, and had found no need for any companions since. He preferred to face millennia alone, the way vampires were meant to live.

  The chatter of tired children faded away on a sharp gust of autumn wind that brought a fresh scent to Malcolm. His nostrils flared, eager for more, and his lips twitched as he realized his mouth was watering, anticipating the first sweet taste of his prey's ruby-red blood. His teeth ached and his cock stirred, an obvious bulge in his finely tailored suit pants. He did so love the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of the coming kill. He wondered how much terror he had managed to instill in Hunter these last few nights. Fear always gave the blood a sharp tang he had grown to appreciate and savor over time. Like fine wine and the most fragrant single malt scotch.

  Shadows grew longer, darker, seemingly muffling the street noises like an old familiar cloak, wrapping the sky and surrounding trees in a blackened huddle. Only the sound of the rustling trees penetrated the cloak, the sky empty of moonlight and stars. Streetlights popped on one by one, but their yellow glare did nothing more than cast an eerie shimmer on the scene.

  A foul stench struck Malcolm as a pair of twenty-something young men in too-large jeans that hung off their hips and bagged at their kneecaps strolled into sight, their sneering faces and curled lips so typical of the generation. Malcolm held their hostile stares until they could no longer face his steely glare, disappearing around a corner and out of sight. Their rough, uneducated voices carried easily to Malcolm's sensitive hearing.

  "Let's go back an’ roll that guy, Rock. Dude, he gots money. You see he got it. Let's go back."

  "No way, man. You look at his eyes? Them dead eyes, Jam. I ain't messin’ with a guy with no dead eyes."

  "You a pussy, Rock."

  "Fuck you. You do him yourself, you such a man."

  "Fuck that. Let's jack a ride instead. Gotta be a BMW in this neighborhood."

  The voices faded and so did their owners’ foul scent. Any other night, Malcolm would have gladly relieved them of the burden of their directionless lives without a care, but tonight he had a sweeter toy to play with.

  A battered Buick with a hole in its muffler rumbled past, nearly deafening with its choked wheezes, but the tapping of light footsteps under the noise made Malcolm cock his head to gather the sound more fully to him.

  The soft tap of leather soles to concrete was distinctive now, a slight skipping gait that included frequent half turns and rapid shuffles to regain momentum. Hunter Pray walked like he needed to take in everything in his surrounds, constantly looking around him in a dizzying three-sixty spin as he journeyed through life. There was something about that restless, eager quality that caused Malcolm's chest to ache ever so slightly.

  Casual and relaxed, the vampire settled back on the sidewalk bench, his gaze brazenly tracking the smaller man striding toward him, a light bouncing pace making Hunter's longish fawn bangs flop into his hazel eyes. One hand clutched a worn leather strap attached to a professional quality camera that was slung over his neck and one shoulder to keep it from swaying with each enthusiastic step. The other hand pushed the tousled hair out of the way every few seconds so he could see where he was going.

  He passed under a streetlamp and paused, his gaze targeting the waiting figure on the bench. Malcolm's breath caught in his lungs as he inhaled deeply to capture Hunter's scent, the rich aroma of male hormones and worn denim.

  The artificial light played over Hunter's face, highlighting his brow, his full lips, and emphasizing his straight, clean-shaven jaw, making the tantalizing scar under his eye appear luminous.

  Like a siren's call, the tiny scar's glistening, ragged line begged Malcolm to touch it, to taste it, to feel the slickness of its shiny surface. His cock soared to full erection. Anger rose along with it as Malcolm was forced to draw his coat over his lap to prevent Hunter from bolting at the sight.

  Hunter didn't pause under the light for long, but his carefree expression mutated to cautious interest. His eyes narrowed, but the slight smile didn't leave his face. Hunter's pace slowed, his steps no longer as jaunty as they had been, but he kept his questioning gaze focused on Malcolm's cool stare. He walked toward the bench, hands nervously fingering the camera. He began to hum a tune, his voice low and light, pleasantly on key.

  It was a clever ruse, but Malcolm heard the click of the camera shutter all the same. It didn't matter. He could take all he liked. The pictures would never be developed, and if they were, they wouldn't show anything anyway.

  Thirty feet away, the sidewalk and park now deserted, Hunter stopped humming. He pulled his dark brown corduroy field coat more tightly around him and the camera housing, leaving the uncapped lens casually exposed.

  "This is, like, the third time our paths have crossed in the last few days.” Hunter cocked his head to one side and brushed his hair out of his eyes, keen gaze studying Malcolm. “Should I know you?"

  The scar grabbed the light again, and Malcolm's gaze was draw to it, his mouth watering at the prospect of tasting the shining crease of ravaged flesh.

  "You should.” He gave Hunter a glance with just enough lustful interest to be intriguing, but not enough to make the young man run for the hills. Malcolm wasn't in the mood to chase down his prey tonight. A few more soft, coat-muffled clicks of the camera touched his hearing. A flash of amusement softened his bold smile. “Get to know me, I mean.” His stare moved down the length of Hunter's body, his intent and interest unmistakable. “We seem destined to meet."

  "Does kind of seem that way, doesn't it?” Now twenty feet away, Hunter kept right on walking, slower, more cautiously, but drawn.

  Gazes still locked together, Malcolm eased off the bench, letting the full impact of his height and broad frame dwarf his surroundings, the nearby bushes, and Hunter. His level of interest and wonder rose when Hunter didn't blink or slow down. Even the moderate degree of fear Malcolm could smell in the air around the man didn't increase. He was surprised to discover that he was grudgingly impressed. He'd had the pleasure of watching seasoned, monstrous warriors tremble at the full sight of him, yet this small slip of a shutterbug did not. Malcolm found himself vexed, yet undeniably pleased.

  From behind him came a screech of tires. Looking over his shoulder, Malcolm watched as the car's headlights suddenly veered and the car shot directly at him. The faces of the two street thugs that had passed earlier registered on him just before a solid mass struck him squarely in the chest.

  With a muffled grunt, Malcolm flew off his feet and over the bench and landed hard on the ground. Instinct took over, his arms locking around his attacker, and both bodies rolled down the small sloping lawn to land at the base of a sturdy tree. Malcolm made sure he was the victor on top. Bits and pieces of the shattered bench flew through the air, then rained down and lay scattered in the grass around them.

  The car tires screeched again, roaring off into the night, a litany of foul curses and shouted threats in its wake.

  Underneath his two hundred and fifty pounds of solid weight, a pair of wide hazel eyes stared up at him, panic evident in them. It took a second before he realized the air had been knocked out of the man under him, his weight preventing Hunter from taking in a much needed breath.

  He toyed with the idea of letting the man struggle, but Hunter's distinctive, alluring scent, now laced with relief as well as a larger fear, overwhelmed him. It made Malcolm weak in the knees, slightly disoriented, and hard as steel. Even now he could felt his swollen erection digging into Hunter's thigh, hot, hard, and eager. He knew Hunter could feel it, too.

  Instead of rolling off and standing up, Malcolm tumbled onto his back, dragging Hunter along with him, until the human was lying stretched out over his chest, the man's legs splaye
d on either side of Malcolm's hips. Hunter's startled face hovered inches above his own. For an instant, he almost gave in to the compulsion to flick out his tongue and lick the silvery thread of scar tissue so close to his lips. One hand grasped the swell of Hunter's ass cheek and the other pressed between Hunter's shoulder blades, pinning the man to him.

  Several rapid, startled breaths jiggled Hunter up and down, increasing the friction between their two bodies. Malcolm was inordinately pleased to detect a bulge of heat pressed into his lower abdomen as Hunter's erection grew to a mild firmness with each deep, anxious breath and resulting body rub. Then the gasps eased and Hunter tried to slide off Malcolm, but the vampire wordlessly tightened his restraining hold. Hunter got the hint and ceased to resist.

  "You okay?” He cautiously eyed Malcolm, then hesitantly added, “Is this where we finally introduce ourselves?"

  Warm, minty breath laced with the smell of adrenaline and worry wafted off the human in layers that teased Malcolm's senses and tantalized his already straining arousal.

  The fear and worry weren't direct at him—instead they were apparently for him. His eyes narrowed. He increased his grip to the point that Hunter grimaced, creating tiny lines of pain at the corners of his eyes that Malcolm ignored, inexplicably angered by the man's concern.

  Voice harsh and low, he still couldn't keep a current of disbelief out of it. “You attempted to protect me."

  Blinking hard over a wide-eyed stare, Hunter adopted a Valley Girl duh! tone and answered, “Ah, yea-ah. Impending vehicular homicide makes me do silly things."

  Malcolm stared back in a neutral, cold gaze for several long, tense seconds. He could smell the fear in Hunter shift to be more personal now, but the man's concerned gaze, fixed so very close to his own, didn't show it. It remained steady and open despite Hunter's instinctive awareness of the danger he was in.