unique pieces that soothed the soul. Sara loved every single thing about the estate. The overgrown bushes and thick stands of trees. The jumbles of flowers that seemed to spring up everywhere. She would never tire of sitting on the swing on her porch and looking out into the surrounding forest.
It was still difficult to believe, even after all these months, that the vampire was truly out of her life. She had been firmly in Falcon’s mind when he assumed her shape. Her thoughts and emotions had guided his disguised body. Falcon buried deep, so that the vampire would fail to detect him. The plan had worked, the vampire was destroyed, but it would take a long while before she would wake without being afraid. She could only hope that the book the vampire had been searching for would remain hidden, lost to mortals and immortals alike. The fact that the undead had gone to such lengths to find the book could only mean that its power was tremendous. In the wrong hands, that book could mean disaster for both mortals and immortals.
Falcon had told Sara he’d known the vampire as a young boy growing up. Vladimir had sent him to Egypt while Falcon had gone to Italy. Somewhere along the way, Falcon had chosen honor, while his boyhood friend had wanted ultimate power. Sara rocked back and forth in the swing, allowing the peace of the evening to push the unpleasant thoughts from her mind.
She could hear the housekeepers in the kitchen talking quietly together, their voices reassuring. She could hear the children, upstairs in their bedrooms, laughing and murmuring as they began to get ready for bed. Falcon’s voice was gentle as he teased the children. A pillow fight erupted as if often did, almost on a nightly basis.
You are such a little boy yourself. The words appeared in Falcon’s mind, surrounded by a deep love that always took his breath away. Sara loved him to have fun, to enjoy all the simple things he had missed in his long life. And she was well aware Falcon loved her for that and for the way she enjoyed every moment of their existence, as if each hour were shiny and new.
They attacked me, the little rascals. Sara could see the image of him laughing, tossing pillows as fast as they were thrown at him.
Yes, well, when you are finished with your war, your lifemate has other duties for you. Sara leaned back in her swing, tapped her foot impatiently as a small smile tugged at her soft mouth. Deliberately she thought of her latest fantasy. The pool of water she had discovered by the waterfall in the secluded cliffside. Tossing her clothes aside. Standing naked on the boulder stretching her arms up in invitation to the moon. Turning her head to smile at Falcon as he came up to her. Leaning forward to chase a small bead of water across his chest, down his belly, then lower, lower.
The air shimmered for a moment and he was standing in front of her, his hand out, a grin on his face. Sara stared up at him, taking in his long silken hair and his mesmerizing dark eyes. He looked fit and handsome, yet she knew there were still faint scars on his body. They were etched in her mind more deeply than in his skin. Sara went to him, flowed to him, melted into him, lifting her face for his kiss, knowing he could move the earth for her.
“I want to check out this pool you have discovered,” he whispered wickedly against her lips. His hands moved over her body gently, possessively.
She laughed softly. “I had every confidence you would.”
About the Author
#1 New York Times bestselling author CHRISTINE FEEHAN has had over forty novels published, including four series which have hit #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. She is pleased to have made numerous other bestseller lists, including Publishers Weekly, USA Today, Washington Post, BookScan, B. Dalton, Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, Waldenbooks, Ingram, Borders, Rhapsody Book Club, and Walmart. In addition to being a nominee for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award, she has received a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times and the Borders 2008 Lifetime Achievement Award.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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