She stared at him, compelled to watch him slowly approach. Mesmerized by terror. This was the one. The man the vampyre-lovers had whispered about.

She almost expected him to be wearing a black cape with a scarlet lining, his face pale as death, eyes glowing, glistening fangs revealed as he drew back his lips.

But that wasn’t the case. This man was dressed partially in black, yes. But there was no cape, no flash of red satin, no glowing eyes. He was lean but appeared athletic. And sexy as hell. Wraparound mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. His hair was dark, or wet, and was long enough to brush the collar of his black leather jacket. His jeans were torn and low-slung. A faded T-shirt had once been dark. His snakeskin boots were scuffed, the heels worn. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t place his face.

Eager anticipation thrummed from the darkness surrounding the stage.

Once again she thought this was a far-out dream, a weird nightmare or hallucination that was now as sexy as it was frightening.

Oh, please…don’t let it be real….

He reached the couch and stopped, the scrape of his boots no longer echoing through her brain, only the hiss of expectation audible over her own erratic heartbeat.

With the back of the lounge separating their bodies, he slid one big, calloused hand onto her bare neck, creating a thrill that warmed her blood and melted a bit of the fear that gripped her. His fingertips pressed oh-so gently against her collarbones and her pulse jumped.

A part of her, a very small part of her, found him thrilling.

A hush swept through the unseen crowd.

“This,” he said, his voice commanding but low, as if addressing the shrouded viewers, “is your sister.”

The audience released an “ahhh” of anticipation.

“Sister Rylee.”

That was her name, yes, but…what was he talking about? She wanted to deny him, to shake her head, to tell him that what was happening was wrong, that her nipples were only stiff from the cold, not from any sense of desire, that the throb inside the deepest part of her was not physical lust.

But he knew better.

He could sense her desire. Smell her fear. And, she knew, he loved her for her raging emotions.

Don’t do this, she silently pleaded, but she knew he read the warring signals in the dilation of her pupils, the shortness of her breath, the moan that was more wanting than fear.

His strong fingers pushed a little more forcefully, harder, hot pads against her skin.

“Sister Rylee joins us tonight willingly,” he said with conviction. “She is ready to make the final, ultimate sacrifice.”

What sacrifice? That didn’t sound good. Once again Rylee tried to protest, to draw away, but she was paralyzed. The only part of her body not completely disengaged was her brain, and even that seemed bent on betraying her.