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At home, she put on her favorite soft-rock station, changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of comfy blue jeans and a sweater. She ate a quick dinner, then went into the living room and plopped down onto the sofa.
As always, her gaze was drawn to the man in the painting. Tonight he was riding the horse, or at least sitting on it.
She was about to get up and turn off the radio and turn on the TV when he dismounted and walked toward the glass.
Toward her.
Kari let out a startled gasp. She knew he changed locations but never before had she actually seen him move.
Mesmerized, she watched him stride toward her, his movements lithe, almost catlike. He wore the cloak tonight; it billowed out behind him, almost as if it had a life of its own. She was tempted to run out of the room, but she couldn't move, couldn't stop watching him as he drew ever closer.
He was stopped by the glass, of course. For a moment, he simply looked at her, and then he smiled that smile that was somehow warm and wistful at the same time.
Hardly aware that she was speaking aloud, she murmured, "You're so handsome. I wish I knew your name. But then, you probably don't have one, do you?"
With a shake of her head, she went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She stood at the sink a moment, staring out the window into the darkness beyond. She hated winter, the long nights, the storms with their ominous rumblings of thunder and dagger-like streaks of lightning.
After putting the glass in the sink, she went back into the living room. It was almost ten. Maybe she would just watch the news and go to bed.
But all thought of world events evaporated when she glanced at the painting. There was another white square stuck to the glass.
This one said, Rourke.
Kari repeated his name in her mind, wondering if it was his first name or his last, and then murmured it out loud. "Rourke."
It was a strong name, a very masculine name, and it suited him perfectly. She said it again and then again, liking the sound of it.
"Rourke." She gazed into his eyes, eyes that no longer looked painted. Eyes that followed every movement she made. "I'm Karinna."
He smiled, as if in acknowledgment.
His smile moved through her, warming her blood, filling her with a slow sensual heat. His gaze rested lightly on her face, lingered on her lips. Almost, it seemed she could feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. For a moment, she closed her eyes remembering her dreams, the hard length of his body aligned with hers, the touch of his lips, the taste of his kisses.
She hadn't had a date since she broke up with Ben almost five months ago. She hadn't missed him at all. In fact, she had been quite content with her own company, until now. Now, she wanted to feel a man's arms around her, to feel his body pressed intimately against her own, to taste his kisses. Only it wasn't Ben she wanted. It was Rourke, the man in the painting.
"Merciful heavens, Karinna Abigail Adams, you're pathetic!" she exclaimed. And after turning off the lights, she ran up the stairs to her room, and went to bed.
Once again, Rourke found himself staring after the woman. Karinna. He liked the sound of her name, the curve of her hips, the way her eyes caressed him. He wanted to hold her, touch her, taste her.... He wanted to drag her into his arms, bury his fangs in her throat, and ease the relentless pain that engulfed him with every waking moment. It was a good thing she was beyond his reach. If he ever escaped his canvas prison, the first mortal he encountered probably wouldn't survive.
He slammed his palm against the glass that imprisoned him. He wanted out! And only Karinna, with hair like ebony silk and eyes as blue as a summer sky, could say the words that would set him free.
Hands clenched at his sides, he took a deep, calming breath. Soon, he thought, soon she would call to him, and when she did, the wizard's spell would be broken.
And he would have her.
All of her.
Chapter 5
For Kari, the next four days passed in a kind of haze. Feeling like a character out of Charlotte's Web, or maybe The Twilight Zone, she woke each day to find a new message waiting for her. These messages, longer than the first, were written directly on the glass.
The one for Wednesday read, Your hair is as black as a raven's wing. As if in answer to her earlier question, one she had not voiced aloud, he had signed his name. Jason Rourke.
"Jason," she murmured, smiling. "I like it."
Thursday's message read, You are more beautiful than Venus and Aphrodite. JR
Friday's missive made her blush. It said, I wish I was the cup you drink from that I might feel your lips on mine. JR
She marveled that he was able to write the messages so that she could read them from her side of the painting.
Saturday's declaration was the most appealing of all. It said, simply, You are my life. Rourke.
He was waiting for her near the glass that night, a strikingly handsome man clad in a white shirt and buff-colored breeches, his fair hair framing a face that was the epitome of masculine beauty. She read his message a second time--you are my life--then murmured, "As you've become mine."
She was losing it, she thought with a sigh. She had dismissed all thought of selling the Vilnius. Like it or not, she was obsessed with the painting and with its mysterious occupant, Jason Rourke.
"I wish..." She shook her head. "I wish..."
What did she wish? That she had never gone into the Underwood Art Gallery? That she wasn't losing her mind? That he was real instead of just paint and canvas?
"Just my luck," Kari muttered. "There's never a genie around when you need one."
He placed one hand on the glass, his gaze intent upon her face. "Tell me, Karinna, what would you wish for?" His voice, speaking in her mind.
"I would wish that you were real, that you were standing here, beside me." She nodded. "Yes, that's what I would wish for."
The words had no sooner escaped Kari's lips than the earth seemed to shift beneath her feet. The air around her took on a kind of thickness and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Her pulse raced, there was a dull roaring in her ears. When the world righted itself again, she saw that the Vilnius had fallen off the wall and shattered on the hearth. Shards of glass littered the carpet, glinting brightly. And a tall man with long, dark blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes stood in front of the fireplace. A man clad in an old-fashioned, loose-fitting white shirt, buff-colored breeches, and boots. A black cloak fell from a pair of broad shoulders.
It was him. The man in the painting.
She shook her head. No, it couldn't be, it was impossible.
"Rourke." She whispered his name and then the world spun out of control. The floor rushed up to meet her, and then everything went black.
