And even as her image rose in his mind, he sensed her presence, heard her knock at the door.
He swore under his breath, wondering what madness had brought her there.
"Navarre? Navarre! Open the door. I know you're in there."
Angry that she had dared to seek him out, he stalked to the door and flung it open.
Adrianna took a step back, alarmed by the rage that glittered in his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I..." She took another step backward, then straightened her shoulders and stood firm. "I had to see you."
"Go home, Adrianna. You're not safe here. You're not safe with me."
"Why?" She gazed up at him, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. "Tell me what's wrong. What have I done?"
"Done?" He groaned deep in his throat. "You've done nothing. Please, Annie, please go home where you belong."
Her concern for her own safety dissolved when she heard the anguish in his voice, saw the pain in his eyes.
"Please tell me what's wrong," she urged. "Let me help you."
"You can't help me. No one can." He stared past her, judging the time, knowing he would have to seek his rest soon.
"I'm not leaving, Navarre. Whether you want to admit it or not, there's something special between us, something I don't want to lose." She laid her hand on his forearm, felt his muscle flex and tighten at her touch. "I'm falling in love with you."
"No!"
It wasn't the reaction she had hoped for. She had expected him to be surprised, perhaps disbelieving, since they had known each other such a short time. A part of her had hoped he would be happy, that he would sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her, too.
But there was no joy in his expression, only a soul-deep misery. She felt suddenly foolish and a little embarrassed. She'd never thrown herself at a man before, never realized how devastating unrequited love could be.
She stared up at him, wanting to run away, to crawl into a hole and hide, but she seemed rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to think of anything but the way she'd felt in his arms the night before, the way he'd held her and kissed her.
"What happened last night?" she asked. "Just tell me that, and I'll go away and never bother you again."
"Come in," he said, and turned away without waiting to see if she followed him or not.
A shiver crept up her spine as she entered the house. As usual, all the drapes were drawn and the interior of the house was dark and cool.
She followed Navarre into the front parlor and sat down on the edge of an Early American sofa, her hands folded in her lap.
Navarre stood at the hearth with his back to her. "I'm going to tell you something you probably won't believe," he said, still not facing her. "And then I want you to leave. No questions asked."
Hardly daring to breathe, she waited for him to go on.
He could feel her watching him, and he stared into the fireplace, wondering how to tell her what he was. Should he just blurt it out? Or should he let her see him as he really was?
"Navarre?"
"Do you believe in the supernatural, Adrianna?"
"The supernatural? You mean like ESP and psychic phenomena, stuff like that?"
Slowly, he shook his head, and then he turned around to face her. "I'm not like you," he said flatly. "I'm not mortal."
She started to laugh at the absurdity of what he was saying, but then she looked into his eyes, and in their fathomless depths, she saw that he was telling the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth.
"I was born almost two thousand years ago, on a small island off the coast of Greece." He lifted his hand in a broad gesture that encompassed the house and its contents. "All this furniture, the bed you bought, is mine, collected over hundreds of lifetimes."
"No." She shook her head. "That's impossible."
"Sometimes I wish it was."
"So you're trying to tell me you're immortal?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true nonetheless."
"You want me to believe you've lived for almost two thousand years?''
"I'm not alive, Adrianna. I've been dead for close to two thousand years."
One of them was insane, she thought, not certain which of them it was. Him for speaking such nonsense, or her for listening, and almost believing.
"Why are you doing this?" She fisted the tears from her eyes.