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"It was rumored that Vilnius was a witch or a warlock or something." Tricia waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Of course, that was a lot of nonsense. Whoever started the rumor probably thought it would jack up the price, you know?" She shook her head. "Girlfriend, you are so lucky."
Kari forced a smile. She didn't feel lucky. She felt like she was slowly going insane, but then, maybe she wasn't. After all, crazy people never thought they were crazy. But maybe that was only after they lost their minds.
"Listen, I'd love to stay and chat," Tricia said, "but I've got to go pick Brent up from work. His Hummer's in the shop." She gave Kari a hug. "Let's do lunch one day next week. My treat."
Later, after Tricia had gone home, Kari busied herself with housework. She washed the lunch dishes, mopped the floors in the bathroom and the kitchen, vacuumed the rugs and dusted the furniture in every room but the living room. Time and again she was tempted to go in and look at the painting to see if the man was still in the woods, but for her peace of mind, she refused to do so.
She told herself that the pretty white horse was grazing in the field, the shaggy black and white dog was asleep in the shade, the cute little gray kitten was curled up in the flower bed, and the man was in the woods, where he belonged. She had seen him there earlier and that's where he was now, because painted figures didn't move and certainly didn't speak. She wouldn't look at the Vilnius again. Monday morning she would take the accursed thing back to the Underwood Gallery and put it, and the man, out of her mind once and for all.
When she finished cleaning the house, Kari changed her clothes, grabbed her handbag and her keys, and left by the back door.
Getting into her car, she drove to the grocery store to pick up a quart of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and some fresh fruit and vegetables. On the way home, she stopped at Mama Wong's for some Chinese takeout, then stopped at Polly's and picked up a lemon meringue pie because, well, just because.
At home again, she put the groceries away, poured herself a glass of milk, then sat down at the kitchen table and ate dinner, even though she usually ate in the living room in front of the TV.
With dinner over, she rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then looked out the kitchen window, her fingers drumming on the countertop. What was she going to do now? It was too early to go to bed.
Keeping her head turned away from the painting, she went through the living room and up the stairs, grabbed the book on her bedside table, then went into the bathroom to take a bath. She added a generous amount of lavender bubble bath to the running water, lit a candle, and stepped into the tub. She sat there a moment, thinking there was nothing more relaxing than sitting in a nice warm bubble bath. She read until the water was cool and her skin was pruney, and then, reluctantly, she got out of the tub.
Drying off, she blew out the candle, then slipped on her nightgown and robe. Now what, she thought? She was tired of reading. It was still too early for bed. Her computer and the big-screen TV were both in the living room....
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Kari, you can't stay out of the living room for the rest of the weekend!" she muttered, even though it seemed like a good idea.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked briskly down the stairs and into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, she picked up the remote. Keeping her gaze fixed squarely on the screen, she turned on the TV.
It took all her concentration to keep from glancing up at the Vilnius. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the man gazing down at her, willing her to look up?
"Not real," she murmured. "He's not real." Perspiration beaded on her brow. She looked at the fireplace, her gaze slowly moving up, up, until she was staring at the painting from hell.
And he was there, looking at her through the glass, his gaze intent upon her face. His eyes...what was there about his eyes that made her want to go to him, to take him in her arms and soothe the ache she saw in his gaze?
She leaned forward, felt her heart plummet to her toes when, with a smile, his lips formed her name.
Karinna.
It was too much. With a cry, she leaped from the sofa and ran out of the room.
Chapter 4
Rourke swore softly as the woman fled the room. Of course, he couldn't blame her for being startled. After all, how often did a figure in a painting move, much less speak? He supposed he should be grateful she hadn't fainted dead away. But, dammit, how was he going to establish contact with her without scaring her half to death? One way or another, he had to communicate with her. She owned him now. His fate, his future, the end to his relentless hunger all rested in her hands.
When she was in the room, he could hear the steady beat of her heart, smell the warm red river of life flowing through her veins.
Three hundred years since last he had fed, and with every passing year, the ache had grown stronger, until what had at first been mere discomfort turned to pain; the pain into never-ending agony. These days, the need clawed at him relentlessly, the pain unceasing. Excruciating. Sometimes, when it became more than he could bear, he fed off the horse. The animal's blood took the edge off his thirst but did nothing to satisfy either his hunger or his endless craving.
He slammed his fist against the glass. Relief was so near. So near. He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he had fed, the rich salty taste, the warmth that had flooded his being as the elixir of life flowed down his throat. It had been but a momentary pleasure, though, as, unexpectedly, the sweetness of her life's blood had turned sour and scorched his tongue. Only then had he realized the seductive young woman in his arms wasn't an ordinary mortal.
He pounded his fist against the glass again, but yet again, to no avail. His preternatural powers had been neutralized by his imprisonment, leaving him with little strength, supernatural or otherwise.
Frustrated and angry, he paced the length of his prison until the worst of his anger dissipated. Someday, he vowed, someday he would reclaim not only his freedom but the sword that Vilnius had stolen from him. Rourke clenched his hands into tight fists. The sword had belonged to his father, Thomas, who had fought with Prince Edward in the Eighth Crusade in 1272. Since becoming a vampire, his father's sword had been the only tangible thing Rourke had owned that held any meaning for him, the only memento he had left of the life he had once known. Thanks to the wizard's twisted sense of humor, a picture of that sword hung over the mantel inside the castle, a constant reminder of all Rourke had lost.
With a sigh, he dropped to the ground, his gaze moving toward the box with the moving pictures. It was a wondrous creation called television. He marveled at the witchcraft that had conjured such a miracle. Much of what he knew of the modern world he had learned from watching the people trapped inside the mysterious machine. It had taken him quite some time to realize that some of what he saw took place in the present and some in the past, that some elements were fact and some were fiction, though he couldn't always tell which was which. But whether fact or fiction, he found it entertaining most of the time.
