THE COLOR OF TWILIGHT by Celeste Anwar © copyright January 2004, Celeste Anwar Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2004 New Concepts Publishing 5202 Humphreys Rd. Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com Exquisite pain dawned inside him. It fired in his belly, sizzled in his groin, pierced his very soul. He hadn't expected it, hadn't expected to feel the agony so fiercely once more. Seeing her enflamed him beyond imagining. Time couldn't diminish the effect she had on him. Had a hundred years passed, he would know her, recognize her form, the autumn red flow of her hair, the eyes of spring green and summer gold. Fay magic could not hide her from him, no mask could shield her charms. Always she haunted him, his dreams, his waking hours. And he'd finally found her. Initially, Frost Tamann's first reaction upon seeing her again was a mixture of shock and relief. As she entered the room, swaying sensually with the music, however, he could see she'd suffered no lasting harm, no imprisonment, no torture. She appeared, in fact, healthier, happier, and more beautiful than she ever had at the community. Slowly, stunned relief dissipated as anger swallowed him whole. All these years, he'd feared the worst, never believed his counsel, who'd said she'd run away. He'd thought her kidnapped, drugged, imprisoned somewhere beyond his reach, in a place dark and cold. A place where no life sustaining sunlight could touch her. Wrong ... he'd been so wrong ... and they were right. The rumors and sightings he'd trailed in his last desperate hope had led him here, to the new country. He'd never expected to find her, never expected that she would choose exile from their people rather than— Red hot rage and frustrated desire merged, honed sharp as a blade, overpowering soft emotion and fueling senses long frozen. Unfamiliar heat surged in his groin at her proximity, closer than he'd been in years. He cursed beneath his breath, clenching his jaw, tightening his fists as he fought for control over base reactions that hadn't surfaced in ten years ... and she had been the cause before. It was worse now. The raw pain had built steadily, eating him from the inside until he felt wounded entirely, a hollow man incapable of living. And here she was, enjoying a costume ball, the picture of happiness and contentment. It didn't seem right that she should be happy, not after what she'd done. He watched as she accepted a beverage from a flirting bartender, watched her smile, sip her drink, touch her collarbone in a gesture of surprise as the heat of the liquor burned its way down her throat. His fingertips prickled, closed in his fist, as though he had touched the silken smoothness of her skin, brushed the hair from her neck. He willed her to turn to him, longing to see her eyes as she looked on him. Again and again he called to her. Slowly, as though his mind's voice finally carried above the din, she faced him. He felt as though the wind had been knocked from his lungs, a blow struck to his solar plexus as he caught and held her gaze across the crowded ballroom. In an instant, Frost knew she wore no protection. Her guard was down. Even at the distance, he could sense the quickening of her pulse, knew her breath grew harsh and uneven. Her skin flushed beneath the white fox mask, blooming pink on her cheeks. Did her womanhood flush with the excitement so apparent to his immortal eyes? The thought conjured bittersweet memories, of kisses stolen, pleasure denied, her hot mouth and soft body begging and torturing him like no other could. She held still, as a hare rather than the snow fox of her costume. She didn't run. She didn't recognize him. Frost smiled. She had no idea how much danger she'd just placed herself in with her inability to flee. Deep inside, he'd known it would be this way when he found her again. He never truly believed the lies he'd told himself. Ten years he'd waited. A decade of searching, of torment, of insatiable longing for the woman who would not have him, even when he gave his heart freely. She'd crushed it until it was as cold as his namesake, barren as his homeland in winter's grip. She would know what it was to be spurned, to be destroyed. There would be no escape for her this time. * * * * The steady pulse of music, the tinkle of glasses, the roar of a hundred laughing, talking revelers—they all faded away, muted by the harsh thump of her own heart. Darcy MacNair felt like she was drowning in blackness, being swallowed by a great void that wiped away her sensation to everything else but the man standing across the room. Movement surrounded him in a vortex of energy. He stood in the center, like the eye of the storm—untouchable and dark with mystery, an unmistakable threat of some kind that her mind couldn't—wouldn't—comprehend. He was no more than a stranger in black, a somber force against all that bright color surrounding him, and yet, she felt he was guarded, shielded somehow from her vision. There was something more to him that she couldn't understand. She felt, inherently, that she knew him, and yet there was nothing of the familiar in him. Despite that dismissal, the feeling nagged her, holding her in thrall when she would have otherwise turned away. More so than the niggling familiarity, some subtlety of his stance suggested a peril to her. Some danger; a flexing of fingers, a tightening of the jaw, tension potent and powerful as her own, apparent even at the distance. He wanted her. His look of desire was unmistakable, undisguised by the half mask he wore. It fair hummed on the air like a plucked chord. Darcy was unable to tear her gaze from him. She was trapped mentally, as if she'd sprung a snare. Something wasn't right. Her brain screamed with warning, racing to discover the stranger's identity. It eluded her, remaining just out of reach. She begged her feet to move, to carry her away. As if tiring of his game, he dropped his gaze, allowing her freedom that she couldn't take. Enraptured, she felt the caress of his eyes touch her breasts, her waist, the apex of her thighs. She felt his look over her entirety as though he physically touched her. Her body responded. She blushed with heat, broke into a fine sweat that misted her upper lip and the valley of her breasts. She felt chilled and hot all over, probed ... naked. Her nipples hardened under his deliberate stare as though plucked by rough, callused fingers. Tingling, they pressed into the opaque body stocking of her costume like rosebuds seeking the light. She was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that she wore nothing beneath the body stocking but skin. Why had she not worn something more substantial to the Mystery Ball? Why had she not anticipated this encounter? Had she been gone so long from the community that her Fay powers had deserted her? His lingering look left her skin feeling electrified, sizzling from awareness. Without conscious volition, Darcy slipped her glamour on like it was some shield that would defend her from his probing. In that moment, his eyes flashed with darkness, apparent to any who looked, though none did. The air shimmered around him, growing hazy and indistinct as his charm slipped one betraying second. Had she been dowsed in ice water, she couldn't have frozen more. By the holy mother, it was him ! The moment she knew it, the shreds of his glamour stripped away. She met the full force of his natural self like a wall of ice. She felt beaten by surprise, shocked into stillness. It pained her even to look at him, to have the memories she'd blanked out brought back full force in one blinding, heart stopping moment. Her chest ached; her belly fluttered with nervousness; threads of fear and excitement drenched her veins. His mask did nothing to obscure the fatal beauty of his face. How she remembered it, those eyes that glowed with blue fire; the sensuously cruel, taunting mouth. She cursed her stupidity, her trust that the ancients would never leave their precious communities. That carelessness would be her downfall. He saw that she'd discovered his identity, and he smiled. Darcy's heart floundered in her chest as though wounded. With deliberate intent, he stalked her across the room. Strangling a gasp, Darcy whirled around. She had to get out, get away. Escape chanted in her ears, deafening her to her surroundings. Nothing else was important now, only getting away. She saw the entrance past a thick throng of drunken revelers, knew she could make it if she tried. Darcy gathered her nerve and darted across the dance floor. From her right, blackness caught the edges of her vision. A black gloved hand closed around her forearm, tugging, turning her around until she was caught against a silk-clad chest that reeked of masculine strength. She couldn't scream, couldn't move. He controlled her, just as he'd always done. Something about his presence sucked the life force from her body, sucked away her free will. Near to him, she could only think of taking him inside herself, clinging to him as though her life depended on it, as though she couldn't breathe unless he willed it so. The familiar desperation rose to a fever pitch, terrifying her. Her body responded to him with breath-taking force. She felt if he kissed her, she would shatter. She was immersed in his scent. It engulfed her, evoking faraway images of the wild tundra. He smelled of ice and rich earth, a rough, untamed scent that shook the foundation of her core with vivid memory. Remembered sensation flashed, as real in her mind as if it happened even now. Memory of the dark returned, eyes that glowed blue in the night, a hot mouth brand...
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