Masquerade

  MASQUERADE

  Amanda Ashley

  MASQUERADE

  Presented by Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery

  Copyright © 2013 Amanda Ashley

  Cover Art Copyright © 2013 Laura Shinn

  Notes

  Masquerade is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

  [Masquerade was previously released in the anthology After Twilight from Leisure Love Spell in 2001. All rights have reverted to the authors.]

  Accolades for Masquerade and Amanda Ashley

  NY Times and USA Today Bestseller ~ 2001 PEARL AWARD winner for ParaNormal Excellence Award in Romantic Literature ~ ...also voted Best Paranormal Romance by the readers at Loves Romances, and placed 2nd in the Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence

  "Jason's tortured love for Leanne, the yearning for a love that can never be, is perfectly captured in this tale that brings more than one tear to the eye and at least one smile." ~ Amanda K. Reviewer TRCC

  "...Ms. Ashley's original vampire story gives one a hint of the brilliant stories to come in the future. Her characters come alive, in spite of the novella length of the story. One will feel the agony of Jason's lonely life, along with him, as well as the bittersweet joy he finds in Leanne; and will be cheering them on to a happy ever after." ~ Kelley Hartsell

  "Amanda Ashley's vampire heroes are out of this world wonderful. Wow, do they ever give you some sensual chills and thrills. Ms. Ashley is a master storyteller who never disappoints for a second. Ms. Ashley always delivers the stories her fans are clamoring for in grand style." ~ Terrie Figueroa, Romance Reviews Today e-zine

  5 Stars ~ "Exciting, but dark paranormal romance... For three lonely centuries, Jason has felt he has had nothing to live for as he cares for no one. However his dark feelings change quite dramatically when he sees Leanne perform on stage. She feels the same way, but what will happen when she learns the truth about his nocturnal secret?" ~ Harriet Klausner, Amazon Top Reviewer

  MASQUERADE

  See me

  the man I was

  before the darkness

  fell upon my soul

  Know me

  the monster

  who hides his ugliness

  in the shadows

  of the night

  Release me

  from my lonely prison

  let your light drive the bitterness

  from my tortured heart

  Love me

  free me

  from this endless

  masquerade. ~ A. Ashley

  Chapter 1

  Los Angeles, 1993

  He was a very old vampire, weary of living, weary of coming alive only in the darkness of the night.

  For three hundred years he had wandered the unending road of his life alone, his existence maintained at the expense of unwary mortals, until the advent of blood banks made it possible to satisfy his unholy hunger without preying on the lives of the innocent and unsuspecting.

  And yet there were times, as now, when the need to savor blood taken from a living, breathing soul was overwhelming. To feel his fangs sink into human flesh, to feel the warm rush of fresh blood flowing over his tongue. It was a high like no other; a craving he fought against, but didn't always win.

  Tonight, he stood in the dim shadows outside the Ahmanson, watching groups of happy, well-dressed people exit the theater. He listened to snatches of their conversation as they discussed the play. He had seen the show numerous times; perhaps, he thought wryly, because he could so easily sympathize with the plight of the Phantom of the Opera. Like Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's tragic hero, he, too, was forced to live in the shadows, cursed to shun the light and warmth of the sun, unable to reveal his true identity.

  And so he lurked on the outskirts of mortality, breathing in the fragrance of the warm-blooded creatures who passed him by. They hurried along, laughing and talking, blissfully unaware that a monster was watching. It took no effort at all to drink in the myriad smells of their humanity – a blend of perfume and sweat, shampoo and toothpaste, face powder and deodorant. He sensed their happiness, their sorrows, their deepest fears.

  He waited until the crowds had thinned, and then he began to follow one of the numerous street beggars who had been hustling the theater patrons for money and cigarettes. There were hundreds of homeless men roaming the dark streets of the City of Angels. On any given night, you could find a dozen or more panhandlers lingering outside the Ahmanson, hoping to score a few dollars that would enable them to buy a bottle of cheap booze and a few hours of forgetfulness. If only he could drown his own past in a pint of whiskey.

  Silent as a shadow, he ghosted up behind his prey.

  After tonight, there would be one less beggar haunting Hope Street.

  Chapter 2

  He was there again, standing on the corner of Temple and Grand, his long angular face bathed in the hazy amber glow of the street light.

  Leanne felt his hooded gaze move over her as she left the side entrance of the theater and made her way toward the parking lot across the street. Behind her, she could hear the excitement of the waiting crowd build as Davis Gaines, who many considered to be L. A.'s best Phantom, appeared at the stage door. She agreed with his fans. Davis had the most incredibly beautiful, powerful voice she had ever heard. It was easy to see why the people loved him. The role of the Phantom was physically demanding, yet he was always generous with his time, signing programs, answering questions, posing for pictures. It was Leanne's dream to one day be cast in a leading role, to hopefully make her mark upon the world. To have people shouting her name, clamoring for her autograph, a photo.

  She was about to unlock her car door when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she whirled around.

  It was the tall dark man she had seen on the corner. Up close, he was taller and more handsome than she had realized. And more forbidding. His face was made up of sharp planes and angles, totally masculine, totally mesmerizing. His hair was black as pitch. Straight as a string, it fell well past his broad shoulders. His eyes were an intense shade of blue, deep and dark.

  She stared into those fathomless eyes and had the ridiculous yet inescapable feeling that she had been waiting her whole lifetime for this moment.

  This man.

  "I did not mean to frighten you," he said in a deep resonant voice. He held out a theater program. "I was hoping you might sign this for me."

  "Why on earth would you want my autograph?" she exclaimed. "I'm only in the chorus."

  "Ah, but you have such a lovely voice."

  She laughed softly. "You must have excellent hearing, to be able to pick mine out of all the others."

  His smile was devastating. "My hearing is quite good for a man my age."

  Leanne's gaze moved over him curiously. She didn't know how old he was, of course, but he didn't look to be much more than twenty-five or twenty-six, thirty at the most.

  He offered her a Sharpie, one brow raised in question.

  "Who should I make it out to?"

  "Jason Blackthorne."

  "Blackthorne." She gazed up at him intently. "Why does that name sound so familiar to me?"

  "Does it?"

  She nodded, then took the pen from his hand. "This is my first autograph, you know."

  "The first of many, I'm sure." Looking over her shoulder, he read the words aloud as she wrote them. "To Jason, may you always have someone to love, and someone to love you. Leanne"

&
nbsp; He felt a catch at his heart. Someone to love...ah, Jolene, forever lost to him. Leanne's resemblance to his first and only love was uncanny. It was that resemblance which sent him to the theater night after night.

  He smiled his thanks as she returned the program, his gaze moving over her face, lingering on her lush lower lip before moving to the pulse beating in her throat. She was small, petite, with skin that looked as though it rarely saw the sun. Her hair was the color of sun-kissed earth; her eyes a deep, luminous green fringed with thick dark lashes. She wore a black tee shirt emblazoned with the Phantom logo, a pair of black tights that clung to her shapely legs like a second skin, and sneakers.

  Jason clenched his hands at his sides as he fought the urge to draw her into his arms, to touch her lips with his own, to sip the warm, sweet crimson nectar that flowed through her veins.

  She frowned up at him as she capped the pen and handed it to him. "Is something wrong?"

  "No. I was just wondering if we might go somewhere for a drink."

  She knew she should say no. There were a lot of crazy people running around these days, obsessive fans, stalkers and serial killers, and yet there was something in Jason Blackthorne's eyes that made her trust him implicitly.

  "I know a little place not far from here," she suggested with a tentative smile.

  "I'll follow you in my car," Jason said, somewhat surprised by her ready acceptance of his invitation. Didn't she read the papers? Muggings and rapes and murders were rampant in the city.

  A faint grin tugged at his lips as he crossed the parking lot to his own car. Indeed, he mused as he slid behind the steering wheel, she would undoubtedly be far safer with one of the city's low life's than she was with him.

  The bar she had suggested was located on a narrow side street. He knew a moment's hesitation as he followed her inside, and then sighed with relief. There were no mirrors in sight.

  He led her to a booth in the rear, then slid in beside her. When the waitress came, Leanne ordered a glass of red wine, as did he.

  "So," Jason said, leaning back in his seat. "Tell me about yourself."

  "What would you like to know?"

  His gaze moved over her face in a caress as soft as candlelight. "Everything."

  "I'm twenty-three," Leanne said, mesmerized by the look in his eyes. "I'm an only child. My parents live in Burbank, but I have a small apartment not far from the theater." She smiled at him, a shy, intimate smile. "Someday I hope to make it to Broadway."

  "Have you a boyfriend?"

  "No."

  You have now.

  Did he speak the words aloud, or was her mind playing tricks on her, supplying the words she wished to hear?

  He draped one arm along the back of the booth, his hand dangling near her shoulder. "How long have you been with the play?"

  "A little over two years."

  "I hear it will be closing soon. What will you do then?"

  "I'm not sure. I keep hoping it will be extended."

  "How long have you been acting?"

  "Actually, this is my first role. I've always wanted to be on the stage and I decided, what the heck, why not go for it? So, I tried out for the chorus and they hired me." She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her folded hands. "What do you do?"

  "I'm a cop." The lie rolled easily off his lips.

  "You're kidding!" He didn't look like any police officer she had ever seen. Dressed in a white shirt, thigh-length black coat, black jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked more like a movie star or a model than a police officer.

  One black brow lifted slightly. "I take it you don't care for the police."

  "No, no, it's just that..." She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "It's just that you don't look like a policeman."

  "How's that?"

  "No moustache." Leaning forward, she ran the tip of one finger along his upper lip. "Every cop I know has a moustache."

  Jason grunted softly. "And do you know a lot of cops?"

  "Not really," she said, grinning. "Where do you work?"

  "Hollenbeck."

  "That's a rough area."

  Jason shrugged. "I like it." Their drinks had arrived during their conversation, but neither paid much attention. Now, Jason picked up his glass. "What shall we drink to?"

  Leanne lifted her glass. "Long life and happiness?" she suggested.

  "Happiness," he repeated softly. "I'll drink to that."

  "Not long life?"

  His gaze was drawn to her throat, to where her pulse beat strong and steady. "Long life is not always a blessing," he said quietly, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "Sometimes it can be a curse."

  "A curse!" She shook her head, puzzled by his reply. Most people wanted to live forever. "Why do you say that?"

  He dragged his gaze from her neck. "I've seen too many people who have lived past their prime, people with nothing left to live for, nothing to hope for but a quick death, an end to pain."

  "No matter the circumstances, life is always precious."

  He leaned forward, his gaze burning into hers. "And do you think you would like to live forever?"

  "I know I would."

  "No matter what?"

  "No matter what. Life is a gift to be treasured, not wasted or thrown away." She sipped her wine, then said, "I don't know about you, but this conversation is getting way too morbid for me. So, tell me about yourself. What do you do when you aren't making the streets of Los Angeles safe for the rest of us?"

  "Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid. Read. Watch TV. Ride my horse."

  Her eyes lit up with interest. "You have a horse? Where do you keep it?"

  "I have a small place up in the hills, nothing elaborate."

  "Oh. I've always loved horses. Do you think…do you think I might be able to ride yours sometime?"

  "I sleep days, so I usually ride at night."

  "How romantic," she remarked, her voice suddenly low and husky. "Perhaps we could go riding together some evening."

  Jason swallowed hard. Was he imagining things, or was she suggesting more than she was saying? The thought of holding her close, of having his arms around her waist, of burying his face in the wealth of her thick dark hair, flooded him with desire. His gaze moved to the pulse throbbing in her throat once again and he glanced away lest she see the sudden heat, the hunger, he knew was burning in his eyes.

  "It's getting late," he said, tossing a handful of bills on the table. "I'd better let you go home and get some sleep."

  "We don't have to go," Leanne replied, reluctant to see him leave. "I'm a bit of a night owl myself."

  "Then we have more in common than a love of horses," Jason replied dryly. "Perhaps we could go to a late movie tomorrow night?"

  "Sounds good to me."

  "I'll pick you up at the stage door."

  Leanne felt her cheeks grow warm as their eyes met. There was no mistaking the attraction that sparked between them, the sexual awareness. But it was more than that, as if an intangible bond had formed between them. As if their souls had found each other after wandering through years of darkness.

  She had been born for this man.

  It was a fanciful thought, yet it lingered in her mind, quiet and unwavering, like the answer to a prayer.

  Chapter 3

  He fed early the next night, his eyes closing in something akin to ecstasy as he emptied half a bag of whole blood into a glass, warmed it with his gaze, and slowly drained the contents, enjoying the rich, coppery, slightly salty taste of it on his tongue.

  Only yesterday he had contemplated putting an end to his life. It would be so easy to terminate his existence, so easy to stand out on the terrace and watch the sun come up one last time.

  So easy, he mused, but oh, so painful. He had felt the sting of the sun on his skin, known the agony of its touch on preternatural flesh. Now, as he dressed, he wondered, as he had so often in the past, if he truly possessed the courage he would need to face such an excruciating death
.

  But it was a moot point now. He no longer wished for an end to his existence. Life was new again, filled with excitement and anticipation, and all because of Leanne. Lovely Leanne, with the body of a temptress and the voice of an angel.

  During the long hours of the day, as he slept the sleep of the undead in the basement of his house, her image had drifted across his mind. That, in itself, was strange, he thought. Never before had his rest been disturbed by images of anyone, living or dead. Even during the heat of the day, when he usually slept the deepest, he had seen her face in fragmented dreams, heard the sound of her voice, yearned for the touch of her hand.

  Restless, he wandered through the house, trying to see it through her eyes. She would no doubt find it strange that there was no food in the kitchen, that there were no mirrors to be found, not even in the bathrooms. He could easily explain the security bars on the doors and windows. After all, crime was prevalent in the area. The old paintings, the ancient books and scrolls, would not be so easy to account for, not on a cop's salary.

  He had collected quite a few masterpieces in the last three hundred years. Paintings thought destroyed in the wars that had ravaged France and Spain resided in the bedroom, sculptures believed to have been lost centuries ago graced his library. He had one of Shakespeare's original plays, signed by the Bard himself. His basement was crowded with ancient scrolls, with furniture and clothing from ages long past.

  Perhaps he should have told her he was a retired antique dealer. But it was far easier to tell the few people he interacted with that he was a police officer, to say that he worked the graveyard shift and slept days, that he worked weekends and holidays, and was therefore unable to attend the picnics and parties to which he was occasionally invited.

  He paced the floor for an hour and then, unable to wait a moment longer to see her, he drove to the theater. He could have willed himself there with a thought, but he enjoyed driving, enjoyed being in control of a powerful machine. And he would need the car later.

  The performance was sold out, but it was an easy task to slip past the usher, to find a place in the shadows at the back of the theater.