Twilight Illusions (Wings in the Night #3)

Twilight Illusions (Wings in the Night #3) Page 10

By the time Damien's Jaguar sped into the driveway, she was barely conscious, shaking violently, burning with fever. He hit the brakes in front of the mansion, skidding on the gravel. He threw the door open, jumped out and ran to her side. His heart was in his throat as he bent to pick her up. It was bad. Whatever the hell this thing was, he knew it was bad. And it scared him. Maybe he shouldn't have brought her here, though she'd insisted. He ought to have called the paramedics, someone.

He started for the front door at a run... then froze when he saw the man who stood there, waiting. Enough like Damien to be his brother. Apparently, this Eric Marquand was powerful enough to travel faster than Damien could with the car.

The man nodded, grim faced, and opened the door.

Damien strode through, straight into the circular room Shannon liked so well, and lowered her to the sofa. The bold bastard came right in behind him, and Damien whirled. "Get the hell out!"

"Do you want to help her or not?"

His voice was very smooth, very calm. His accent barely noticeable. Damien tried to scan the man's thoughts with his unpracticed mind. He sensed no malice there. "Can you help her?"

"I'm not certain."

"If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

One dark eyebrow arched higher than the other. "For one so ancient you're very uninformed about our kind, aren't you, Damien? I could no more harm one of the Chosen than you. None of us can. None that I know of, at least." He glanced once more to the sofa where she lay trembling violently. "Blankets. Heavy ones. Stoke the fire, as well."

Damien scowled at the man. He was torn between wan ting to set himself between Shannon and anyone who might be a threat to her, and his desperate need to help her. She moaned helplessly, and the sound slashed a path right across his heart, laying it open, making it bleed. He hurried to her side, sat on the sofa beside her. For all he knew this stranger could be the murderer. He wasn't about to leave Marquand alone with her. Not for a second.

"You'll find blankets in the closet at the top of the stairs." Marquand nodded, started to move away. Damien focused the power of his mind on the hearth, and the flames blew higher, roaring and snapping like a torch. The other man stiffened and sent an awed glance Damien's way before he continued up the stairs.

It was an hour this time before she calmed, and then she slept as if comatose. The young vampire had been of some help after all, feeding her some brew he'd concocted to ease her pain, lower the fever, and help her rest. Now he paced before the roaring fire, looking grim and sober.

"Why did you come here?" Damien finally asked, when he could drag his gaze away from Shannon's pale face. She'd be all right now. She had to be.

"If you've read my letters, then you know. I'm something of a scientist among our kind." He looked at Shannon and shook his head slowly. "I'd been warned against approaching you, but I have so many questions. I'm hoping you can answer them."

"Nothing more than that?"

Eric glanced at Damien, frowning. "I only came to see your performance, Damien. I've been hearing incredible things about you. My curiosity won out over my caution. Then, naturally, when I sensed this one's distress, I had no choice but to try to be of help." He tilted his head as he studied Shannon. "Never have I come across one so fair. Golden haired. Most are dark, like us." His head whipped around then, and that one irritating brow shot up again. "No need for that rush of jealousy, friend. I have a mate of my own. I've no desire to seduce yours."

"She is not my... mate, as you so quaintly put it."

Marquand's lips thinned. "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do?" Damien's stomach twisted into a knot. "You can see for yourself how sick she is. But she refuses to let me take her to a hospital. Hell, I don't even know what's wrong."

Eric searched his face in apparent disbelief. "Have you never known one of the Chosen before, Damien?"

"Of course not!" Damien spun away from Shannon, shoving a hand roughly through his hair and pacing the room's length. "Dammit, Marquand, you think I welcome this attachment? This fierce need to protect and watch over her? What does it come to, except pain and loss? I hate feeling anything remotely like this." With his audiences, he could accept the love and still remain distant. Somehow, it wasn't enough anymore.

Eric only stood, unbearably calm, and stared into the flames. "You have much to learn, my friend."

"Don't call me that. I have no friends. I don't want to have any."

Eric shrugged. "As you say. Still, there is much you need to know. About her, for example. How old are you, anyway?"

"Almost six thousand years." He heard the man gasp. "You can see you're just a child in comparison."

Eric came forward, gripped Damien's arm. "Were you the first?"

The light in the man's eyes was nearly blinding when he asked the question. "Why are you so curious?"

Eric's hand fell away. "I don't know. I've spent my entire existence questioning, seeking answers, experimenting."

"And I've spent mine in seclusion--except for the performances. I want no closeness at all." He glanced at Shannon. "She had to come to the theater that night. I'm afraid she might be dying. God help me, what if she's dying?"

"She may well be." Damien shook his head in instant denial, but the stranger went on. "None of the Chosen live beyond their fortieth year. None I've known of, at least, and I've tracked many through their lifetimes. This medicine I've developed is specifically to ease their discomfort at the end."

Damien's gaze was drawn inexorably back to her still, pale form on the sofa. The only color in her face were twin cherry blotches on her cheeks, from the fever. "I didn't know..."

"All right, my questions can wait. Yours are obviously more important right now. As I told you, Damien, I'm a scientist. The brutal truth is that these symptoms are what all of the Chosen ones experience near the ends of their lives. She's younger than most. Then again, her coloring is unique, as well. I'm certain that unless she is transformed, she'll die."

Damien swallowed hard and battled the bitter tears that fought to the surface of his burning eyes. He wanted to scream. To rant, to curse the gods. But he'd done all that once, long ago. It hadn't done any more good then than it would now. "How long?"

"How often do the attacks come?"

"This is the second time in under a week."

Eric nodded. "She has little time left, then. Days. Perhaps less. An attack will come, and she'll sleep, as she's doing now. Only it won't be sleep. It will be coma. And she won't wake from it. There is nothing to be done. The medication will keep her relatively comfortable." He moved forward, placing a hand on Damien's shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'm sorry. Damien. She won't suffer, I promise you."

Damien shook off the hand and walked slowly toward her. He fell to his knees beside the sofa and caught her warm hand in both of his. "I can't do this again. I can't watch her die."

"Damien, there are few mortals in this world who'd be emotionally stable enough to live as we do. It's not an option to be taken lightly--"

"The alternative is to let her die."

Marquand came forward, his steps soundless, stopping just behind Damien. "Would she want this? Does she even know it is possible?"

Damien said nothing. He only let his eyes trace the exquisite bone structure of her face. The delicate line of her jaw. The cheekbones. The satiny skin that covered them. And those lips, so full and plump, and slightly parted now as she rested. He couldn't bear to see her robbed of life. Not her, not the most vital, the most utterly alive person he'd ever known.

"She won't die this time, Damien. She'll recover. You'll have time to explain this to her, give her a choice. She'll need time to accept it as a viable alternative, time to consider the implications. It has to be her decision." He shook his head slowly. "And it will have to be made soon."

Damien felt a burning dampness flood his eyes. "Tell me something, Marquand. I think I already know, but tell me anyway."

"Anything," he said gently.

"Did you kill two women in Arista?"

He was silent for a long moment. "You're right. You know the answer to that already. I don't kill, Damien."

Damien dropped her hand, stood and faced the young one. "No, I didn't think you did. I would've known, I think. So this--" he lifted his palms up "--this curse. It's not even an option I can offer her. Not really."

Eric Marquand shook his head quickly as if trying to clear it. "Why not?"

"You've got no idea, do you? No, of course not. You're so young, so innocent. Where do you get your sustenance, Marquand? Animals?"

"Blood banks, and what difference does it make" He scowled at Damien. "Where do you get yours?"

Damien paced from the sofa, deliberately keeping his back to them both. "Humans. The need..." His jaw felt tight. He lowered his head, covered his eyes with one hand. "Dammit, it gets stronger, more powerful with age. It becomes a living thing, impossible to resist. And only living blood appeases." He heard the words thickening in his throat, his voice becoming hoarse. "I can't see her die, but I can't condemn her to live like this." He lifted his head, found himself facing the tiny figure of Inanna. Her half smile seemed smug, knowing. He removed the glass, clutched her figure in his fist, raised his hand. "Damn you. Damn the world and everyone in it!" His trembling fist clenched tighter and the figure he held crumbled to bits beneath the pressure. He felt his face contort, and he bowed his head, pressing his fist to his brow as the dust and bits sifted through his fingers.

Marquand came forward. "Get hold of yourself, Damien. You have to explain this to me. Please, for her sake if nothing else. Are you saying... you kill?"

He didn't seem as much repulsed as he was fascinated. He stood beside Damien near the fire, studying him intently.

Damien lowered his fist, flung the remnants of the statue into the fire. "I didn't think so." He thought of the two women who'd ended up dead, and his fear that he'd been responsible. But he wouldn't divulge his deepest terror to this stranger.

"You needn't tell me, Damien. I hear you clearly."

Damien started, then twisted his head to stare at this stranger. "Damn you, stay out of my head!" He wasn't at all used to being around other beings capable of reading his thoughts. He'd mastered the art of keeping others' thoughts and feelings out of his mind, but never of guarding his own. There'd been no need.

"No matter," Eric said lightly, and Damien knew he was glad to have changed the subject. "It's easily learned. I'll help you. Tell me now, when did the need become so powerful? At what age did it become necessary to take from the living?"

Damien shook his head, devastation racking his body. Why didn't this child take his questions and leave him to suffer alone? Suffer? It wasn't a strong enough word. This was Enkidu all over again! The grief would kill him this time.

"I only ask because I want to help you."

"No one can help me."

"Dammit, Damien, don't be so... Enkidu? Is that the name you just--"

Damien whirled to face him. "Stay out of my thoughts, fledgling, or you'll go up in a ball of white-hot flames."

To his utter shock, the young man smiled. "Rhiannon said you could do it. I wasn't sure I believed her."

"Who the hell is Rhiannon?"

"Rhianikki, princess of Egypt. Only around three thousand years younger than you. Until now she was the oldest vampire I knew. But she's never exhibited this lust you claim. I mean, she does occasionally sip from the living, but only because she so enjoys driving Roland to the edge of frustration. That's why I asked when this powerful thirst took over."

Damien looked up slowly. Roland. He recalled the name. He'd helped a vampire by that name a couple of years ago. Poor bastard had been drugged and left for the sun. And Damien had gone to him, despite his vow of solitude. But he'd gone in disguise.

"Damien?"

He started, recalling the question. "Certainly more than thirty centuries ago." He searched Eric's face.

"You see? If it hasn't affected her, then there must be a reason. Something she's done or been exposed to that you have not. Perhaps I can find out what it is."

Damien's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What is it you want from me, Marquand?" Hell, he sounded like Shannon now, questioning Marquand's motives.

"I want you to talk to me. Tell me everything. How you were made, by whom, when. I want to know if it's true that you can alter your form, and that you've accomplished flight. I want to know how you do these things. I want--"

"And in return, you'll try to find the answer to my unquenchable thirst." Damien turned in a slow circle and finally sank into a chair. "It's getting worse since I met her, you know. All it takes is her scent to drive me insane."

Eric laughed. "Yes, well, that isn't exactly the same hunger, my--Damien. I feel that, as well, at a simple glance from Tamara. You know that the desire for sexual release and the bloodlust combine in us, each feeding from the other, until it's impossible to distinguish them."

Damien's brows lifted and he studied the man again. He really did have a lot of knowledge.

"It's true," Eric said. "And that kind of frenzied need is only at its worst when the object of it happens to be the woman you love."

"I don't love her!" Damien roared the denial, shooting to his feet. "And I'm damned well not going to." He paced in a small circle, trying to contain his rage, trying not to vent all his anguish on Marquand, who was only trying to help. "All right. I'll agree to tell you everything you want to know. But I don't believe you can find a way to solve my problem, so I want you to agree to do one other thing in return." He returned to his seat.

"Name it," Eric said quickly, settling into a chair opposite him.

Damien folded his hands to keep them from clenching into fists. "I need help to find the truth about the deaths of those two women. I need all the help you can give me. And if it turns out... if it turns out that I killed them..." He looked at Eric, at his honest, intense gaze. He was beginning to sense that he could trust this man. "Then I want you to destroy me."

He hadn't wanted to believe the things Eric Marquand, the intellectual, had told him. That she was dying. That there was nothing that could save her mortal life. But as Damien sat beside the bed where he'd moved her and scanned the files this CIA person had kept on Shannon, he found only confirmation of what Eric had said. The medical reports were inconclusive. Her red blood cells seemed to be dying, inexplicably. Transfusions hadn't helped. The new red cells died almost as soon as they were infused. And her rare blood type would have made transfusions an all-but-impossible treatment anyway.

The Belladonna antigen. Eric had explained all about it. The Chosen, as they were called by the undead, were humans with the Belladonna antigen in their blood, apparently handed down from a common ancestor. They were the only people genetically capable of being transformed. All the undead had shared the same rare blood type as mortals.

Their other traits were not so easily explained. The way they exuded something that alerted vampires of their presence. The way the undead felt compelled to watch over them, protect them. It was, Marquand theorized, a chemical reaction of some kind.

But as Damien stared at Shannon's pale face, her golden tresses spread over the pillows, he knew that what he felt for her was more than chemically induced. He had to find a way to save her.

The files were thorough, and he read them front to back. They told of her mother's abandonment. Her childhood of being pushed and shoved from one agency to another.

At sixteen, she'd arrived at the last of the foster homes, where she'd met Tawny. And a few months afterward, both girls had disappeared. There was a notation that the man who'd been her foster parent was later convicted of child molestation, diagnosed as a pedophile and institutionalized. He'd committed suicide a few months later.

The bastard. If he wasn't dead already, Damien would have hunted him down and done the job himself.

"What are you reading?"

He looked up quickly, then set the papers aside and leaned over the bed. It was no wonder she wore the crusty exterior all the time. She'd had to develop a shell to protect her from life. He held her hand in both of his, and his initial urge on seeing her eyes open and looking at him was to press his lips to her fingers, her knuckles. Instead he lowered her hand to the bed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Fine, actually."

But she wasn't fine. She was lying to him about that. She was dying, and she knew it. She'd known it for some time. He felt incredible relief at seeing the color slowly returning to her skin, the sparkle to her eyes, but he didn't let that relief show. She wasn't comfortable with his relief. Or his concern. And it occurred to him that she didn't want him to care about her. She never had. Now he understood why.

He got up, fighting against an insistent lump in his throat that wanted to choke him. He couldn't let her know that he was aware of her condition. She'd probably never forgive him for prying. Besides, talking to her about it meant dealing with it himself, and he wasn't sure he could do that. Not yet.

He'd let himself care about her. He was going to lose her. It was going to hurt. At least now he knew. Maybe he could keep his feelings from growing any stronger than they already had. Maybe he could minimize the damage, keep his head. Find a way to help her.

He flung back her covers and held out a hand. "Come on, get up. You have any idea how long you've been lying around? All last night, all day today while Netty fussed over you. It's night again, and she refuses to go home until she sees you're feeling better. Come on downstairs or we'll never get rid of her."

She looked uncertain. And then she smiled and slipped her hand into his. He tightened his grip, just a little. "You strong enough. Shannon? Do you want me to carry you?"

Before she could answer, the bedroom door flung wide. Netty stood in the doorway, glanced at Shannon and screamed like a banshee. She ran across the room with staccato steps and folded Shannon in a powerful hug.

She released Shannon only long enough to turn to Damien. "Out with you. She's wan tin' a bath and a change of clothes, and then some tea. " She put an arm around Shannon and urged her toward the bathroom. "You're goin' to be just fine, my girl. Netty will see to that." But Shannon's eyes met Damien's and he felt the warmth in their message.

"Go on now. Your friend, Mr. Marquand, is waitin' downstairs. I'll bring her along when she's ready."

Damien gathered up the papers he'd been reading and left the room.

All the while she bathed and dressed, and sat quietly while sweet Netty pulled a brush through her hair, the knowledge was eating away at her guts. Damien ought to know the truth. He'd been so good to her, and he deserved to know the truth. If he let himself care about her, even a little bit, it would only lead to pain. And he did care, a little. Much as she'd hoped he never would, and much as he tried not to let it show, he couldn't hide the look in his eyes when she'd woken up just now.

He'd gone through the agony of losing a friend. So had she. So had the mighty Gilgamesh myriad years ago, and it had brought him to a grief that had devoured his soul. She knew now, since their conversation about the epic by the fire, that Damien's grief was a lot like Gilgamesh's. He'd survived a loss that should have crippled him. What would happen if history repeated itself? He couldn't get through it again--she was sure of that. So the only answer was to tell him now, before he let himself care too much.

Is that the way it is with friends?

Enkidu's dying words echoed in her ears. For a second she heard them, as if she'd been there when they were spoken, in a voice gone weak and gravelly with physical pain, instead of having heard them read with that same emotion by Damien, identical agony racking his voice.

Netty helped her down the stairs and left, wishing her goodnight before grabbing her coat and leaving for the evening. Seemed every time she saw the woman, Netty was leaving. Of course, that was because she'd been keeping such odd hours since she'd come here. Up all night, sleeping all day while Netty bustled around the place.

Shannon moved toward the library, with her heart breaking. God, how much she would like to have one night with Damien, one night to explore this electric pull he seemed to emanate for her, to discover the secrets of passion. To let him teach her all of them. It wouldn't be fair to him, though. She couldn't allow herself to get close to him, not physically, not emotionally. She had to warn him of the grim future, and then let him go. Let him distance himself from the pain, avoid it.

She stopped near the library door, startled to see two dark heads leaning over the desk. Damien looked up, saw her and shot to his feet. In less than a second he'd crossed the room, and for an instant she was sure he would sweep her into his arms. He'd hold her tight to his chest, his trembling hands clenched in her hair, and she'd hear his ragged sigh, feel his muscles slowly relax.

He'd never held her that way before. Except by accident, when she'd fallen from the chair. Her response would be automatic and irresistible. Her arms would wind around his waist. Her face would press into the white shirt, and her eyes would fall closed. When she inhaled, his scent would fill her, and when she exhaled she'd feel the warmth of her breath spread through the material beneath her face.

The fantasy died when he reached her and stopped. He stood away from her, his hands on her shoulders as if she might fall without support. He was touching her, but it was impersonal. A matter of courtesy rather than passion. And since she was determined to keep her distance from him, she ought to be grateful for it.

"You all right?"

She swallowed hard, nodded. But she wasn't. And she had to tell him she wasn't. "Fine, now."

"You shouldn't be up. Shannon. You need to rest--"

"There'll be plenty of time to rest when I'm ... later. I feel fine now, really." She glanced past Damien, noticing the man she'd met just before she'd collapsed sitting at the desk, watching the two of them. "Hello again. I'm afraid I don't remember--"

"Marquand. Eric to you. You look a good deal better than when I last saw you." He rose and came forward as he spoke in that odd, old-fashioned way of his. His trousers were knife pleated, his jacket cut short, and both were spotlessly black against his crisp white shirt. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you." She glanced toward the desk, the papers that littered it, and frowning, hurried forward. "What's all this?" She fingered the sheets, reading the bold print. "DPI?" She looked quickly toward Damien, then back to Eric Marquand. "Then this government agency is for real?"

Eric nodded grimly. "The Division of Paranormal Investigations," he explained. "A subdivision of the CIA and, I believe, the employer of your acquaintance, Mr. Bachman."

She turned slowly, staring first at Eric and then Damien in blatant disbelief. "Paranormal investigations? As in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night? Is this where my tax money is going? But I thought the guy was just burned out and--"

"It's a bunch of hogwash, Shannon." Damien came forward, scooping the outspread papers together into a neat stack and dropping them into a desk drawer.

"But why are they investigating you? And why me, for God's sake? There's nothing the least bit paranormal about me." Neither man spoke, though Shannon waited expectantly. Then she recalled the questions Bachman had asked. He'd been interested in Tawny's murder. He'd taken possession of her body. He'd...

"You're saying that what was in Bachman's files was true, not just a lunatic's ramblings. This agency really does believe in vampires. Not only that, but they think there's one on the loose in Arista."

Damien opened his mouth, but Eric beat him to the punch line. "Yes, they do."

She felt her jaw drop and her eyes widen. She turned to Damien. "They think it's you, don't they?"

"They use government funding to investigate seemingly paranormal events," Damien explained calmly, sending Eric Marquand a look that could have wilted fresh roses. The look Eric shot back was almost as bad. They obviously disagreed over how much to tell her. "I imagine their main goal is in uncovering hoaxes. Shannon. Maybe they'll be able to find out how Tawny's death was staged to appear so much like some vampire's handiwork."

She frowned, shaking her head. "Are you sure that's all it is?" Her gaze sought Eric's, but he averted his eyes, saying nothing at all. She shot Damien another, probing, stare. "Because, Damien, if this Bachman's opinion is representative of the whole agency, then these people are serious. Your image could be digging you into a bottomless pit. On the other hand, it ought to be fairly easy to humor them. I'm telling you, fanatics can be dangerous, and this crew would have to be pretty fanatical to believe..."

She turned from him, pacing the floor. "You could fix it, though. Stage a press conference in broad daylight. Offer to undergo a series of tests, blood work, whatever. Get a photo op on the arm of a priest, that type of--" She stopped midtirade, stood in one spot and gazed from one man to the other. "What? What's wrong with you two, why are you watching me like that?"

"I'm going to leave now," Eric said softly, and the look he sent Damien was filled with unspoken messages.

"Eric, why are you involved in this, anyway?"

He smiled at her. "I've had a few run-ins with DPI before. I thought I might be of some help." He turned, nodded to Damien and left.

She watched him go, frowning in bewilderment. What was going on between the two of them? They obviously knew something they hadn't let her in on. She turned back to Damien, puzzled, then saw the nervous way his eyes moved over her face, the anxiety there, and she sighed. He was still worried about her.

She licked her lips. "We, um... we need to talk."

He nodded, but didn't seem to be looking forward to a heart-to-heart.

Telling him the truth about her health could wait. There were secrets being kept and she didn't like it one bit.

Coward. You're jumping at any excuse to put it off, and you know it.

"I'd like to know what was going on down here."

He shrugged, turning his back long enough to stroll around the desk. "We were talking about the murder, just tossing ideas back and forth. Eric wants to help us get to the bottom of this thing."

She waited. He stood there and stuffed his hands into his deep pockets, as if he didn't know what else to do with them, as if he were nervous.

"And you were talking about Bachman and this DPI. How are you going to deal with him, Damien?"

"I haven't decided yet. But not by blowing an image I've worked years to perfect."

She threw her hands in the air, palms up. "Damien, if the man thinks you're a vampire, you have to do something."

"No, I don't."

She narrowed her eyes, moving forward until she could lean over the desk and look him in the eye. "You're keeping something from me. Don't deny it. I can see it in those black eyes of yours. What is it, Damien?"

"Nothing that needs to concern you. Shannon."

She squinted, as if that would clarify whatever was hiding beneath his words. "If it concerns Tawny's murder, then it concerns me." She shook her head in anger, and paced away from him. "Don't you get it yet, Damien? I'm living to get this guy. There's nothing more important to me. Nothing."

When she turned to face him again, saw the intensity in his black eyes, she almost amended that. There was something as important, rapidly approaching more important to her. Him.

"And we will."

"How?"

"We've already put the wheels in motion by having you appear with me last night. Be patient. Give it some time."

"I can't be patient. And I don't have time." He closed his eyes when she said that, as though she'd poked him with a hot needle. She rushed on. "I mean, you only have one more show, Damien, and then it'll be over. If he doesn't make a move, we might never know who he is."

"We will," he insisted.

She rolled her eyes, nipped her head back and turned in a slow circle, sick to death of his vague assurances.

He caught her shoulders in his hands, stopping her. "I have a surprise for you. Why don't you forget about all of this for just little while. You've been sick. You deserve to relax."

She lowered her chin, searched his eyes. "A surprise?"

He nodded, gripped her hand and drew her out of the library, through the hall to the circular living room and then along the arched corridor to the front door. He opened it wide and waved one arm with a flourish. "Voila."

The Stingray glistened beneath its freshly applied coat of candy-apple red paint. Even its tires gleamed like new. "Is that... my car?"

He was pulling her down the front steps, into the biting October wind. It tossed his dark hair in a way that made her want to push her fingers through it. He stopped by the car, opened the driver's door, then ran around to the passenger side and slid in. She was still standing by the open door, shaking her head.

"Come on, get in. It's freezing out there."

She couldn't speak. A brick or something equally huge and rough-edged was lodged in the back of her throat. She sat down in the driver's seat, reached for the key and paused, her eyes widening. "What is that?"

She glanced sideways at Damien. He reached forward and pushed a button. The Spin Doctors' latest hit blasted from the newly installed CD player, rattling the windows. She reached up and turned it down. When she looked at Damien again, she found herself battling tears. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You wanted it red. I had the money. Why not?"

It was so thoughtful, so sweet, that he'd remembered her story about the Matchbox car. Even down to the color. "And the CD player?"

"You seemed to like mine."

No one had done anything so nice for her, not since Tawny had given her that stupid little Matchbox car on her birthday. She didn't want him to care about her, dammit...

But, God, it felt good to know that he did. Good and sad and terrible all at once.

She reached a hand up, touched his face. His eyes darkened. She could barely see them through the veil of tears in her own. His lips trembled slightly.

And then he turned away. "It's no big deal, Shannon. Come on, start her up and get some heat in here. Let's take it for a drive." He reached up to turn the volume higher.

Shannon bit her lip. Then she started the car.