Prince of Twilight by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

wondered briefly why she was so exhausted.
    He had to know what she was doing. He had to know why she was involved with the Sisterhood of Athena, and what she planned to do with the ring if and when she found it. He’d overheard enough to be fully aware she intended to search for it on behalf of the Sisterhood. Did she honestly intend to hand it over to them? What could have instigated such an idiotic, not to mention disloyal, act?
    He waited until he was certain she slept—it didn’t take long. Then he slid the glass door open and moved silently into the room, up beside her bed.
    For a long moment he stood there, just experiencing her. The scent of her, familiar and arousing, filling him. The sounds of her breath, moving softly, deeply, in and out of her lungs. The sight of her. Her once purely platinum hair had new tones, honey and gold, woven through with paler highlights. It was slightly longer than before, softer. And therewere lines, tiny ones, at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to touch her, taste her, and the knowledge that the blankets and sheets were the only things covering her burned in him.
    But he wasn’t there for those things. He was there for information. And the ring.
    He lowered himself into a chair, focused on her mind and crept inside, carefully. He didn’t want her aware of his intrusion, nor did he wish to rouse Elisabeta, who still lingered. His eyes fell closed as he felt her exhaustion, and then he sank into her dreams. She was on a sailboat, lying on the deck, bathed by the light of a full moon so big it lit the entire sky and the sea beneath it. It painted her in its milky light. She wore a stretch of sheer white fabric that draped from one shoulder all the way to her feet.
    She was smiling up at someone. It was with a little rush of shock and pleasure that he realized it was him. He was in her dream. And he was moving closer to her, reaching out to her, telling her not to be afraid.
    â€œI’m not afraid,” she told him. “Not of you.” And she tilted her head. “She can’t get to me in my dreams. Did you know that?”
    The real Vlad was surprised, as he watched her dream image of him react with a knowing nod. “It’sthe one place you’re safe from her. That’s why I come to you here.”
    Was it true? Was it real? It almost seemed as if she had dreamed of him before. Could it be true?
    He had to put it to the test. Had to. He stepped out of her consciousness, so that he was looking at her lying there in the bed, rather than looking out through her eyes within her own dream.
    â€œYou will not wake. You will stay safe in the haven of your dream,” he told her. “Do you understand?”
    He felt her agreement, though she didn’t speak aloud. He also felt her longing for him, wanting him, craving his touch. It was almost too much to resist, and yet…
    â€œI have questions for you, Tempest.”
    â€œYes.”
    He was sitting on the edge of his chair now, leaning closer to her. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, just a little. He commanded her not to wake with the power of his mind as he trailed his fingertips over her cheek.
    She leaned into his touch, and she shivered a little with a rush of pure desire. So responsive to him still. Maybe even more so than she had been before.
    â€œTempest, why are you looking for the ring?”
    â€œHave to find it. Said I would.” She spoke thewords aloud, startling him. But she remained asleep, lost in the throes of her dream. When he started to move his hand away, her smaller hand closed over it to press it closer to her face. Then, slowly, she moved it downward, over her neck, her collarbone, underneath the blanket to her breast.
    He released a shuddering breath as his palm rubbed over warm, soft skin and the stiff peak pressing into its center. Softer than before, not as firm or perky, but warm and full. He told himself to take his hand away. She