Dark Melody

DARK MELODY

By

Christine Feehan

For my daughter Denise Feehan and for Cody Tucker,two people who share a great love of music
among many other things.

A LEISURE BOOK © November 2003

Published by Dorchester Publishing Co. Inc.

200 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10.016

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright © 2003 by Christine Feehan

Cover art by John Ennis. www.ennisart.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-8439-5049-8

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co. Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

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[email protected]
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Chapter
1

Need crawled through his body and pounded out a rhythm in his mind. Music seethed and roared, filling the large bar, an edgy, compelling melody as dark and driven as he was. The notes were ripped from deep within his soul, moved through his fingers to the guitar cradled in his arms as he might cradle a woman. The music was one of the few things that reminded him he was alive and not one of the undead.

He could feel the stares, although he never looked up. He could hear the breathing of the crowd, the air moving through lungs like the rush of a freight train. He heard blood ebbing, flowing in veins, beckoning, a sweet seductress, teasing his senses until his craving was an obsession as dark and relentless as the shadow across his soul.

They whispered. Hundreds of conversations. Secrets. Pickup lines. The things whispered in bars under the cover of music. He heard every word clearly as he sat on the stage with the young, enthusiastic band he was jamming with. He heard the whispers of women as they discussed him. Dayan. Lead guitarist for the Dark Troubadours. They wanted to bed him for all the wrong reasons, and he wanted them for reasons that would have terrified them.

The song ended, the crowd roared, stomping and clapping and yelling approval. Dayan glanced at the man waiting at the bar. Cullen Tucker raised a glass of water toward him, one eyebrow up.
What are we doing here?
Dayan read the expression clearly, read the man's mind. What were they doing there? What had compelled him to go into the bar, pick up his guitar and play for the crowd? His performance would only draw unwarranted attention to them. It wasn't safe. They were hunted, yet Dayan had no choice. He
needed
to be in this bar. He was waiting for something… for someone.

Dayan's fingers were already picking up another rhythm. Dark. Moody. The melody took hold of him, demanding to be released. His voice stilled the crowd, beckoned, seduced, tempted. He called to her. Commanded her. His lover. His lifemate. His other half. He called to her to complete him. To give him the emotions that had faded from his soul, leaving him an empty shell of growing darkness. A creature living in the shadows, vulnerable to the crouching beast.
Save me. Come to me.
The words took the breath from the listening crowd, brought tears to the eyes of the women.

They pushed closer to the stage, unaware that they did so. Unaware of the power of his voice, his eyes. He mesmerized them. Seduced them. Compelled them. He cast his spell, a dangerous predator among easy prey.
Save me. Please save me.
His voice washed over them, seeped into pores, soaked into brains so that they stared up at him completely enthralled. Hunger rose, a response to his heightening senses. He kept his eyes closed, blocking out the sight of the crowd, losing himself in his song to her. His lifemate. The one woman who could save him. Where was she?

The door opened, allowing the night breeze to rush into the room, dispelling the odor of too many bodies crushed together in too small a space. It was the sound of a heartbeat that made him lift his head. The heart was weak and irregular, beating too fast, laboring too hard. Dayan looked up and literally lost his ability to breathe. There she was. Just like that. His lungs burned for air and his fingers lost their age-old rhythm. His heart began to match the strange rhythm of hers.

Dayan forced a breath into his body. First one, then a second. The band was staring at him uncertainly. His fingers began a melody he had never played before, one that was always there, locked in his heart. Dimly he was aware the band had taken its cue from him, following his lead, but he paid no attention to the others. He couldn't look away from her, watching as she paused while her light-haired companion spoke with several acquaintances.

What was wrong with her heart?

His black eyes moved over her possessively, marking her, claiming her. She was small, curvy, with lush dark hair and enormous eyes. He watched the way she moved, watched the sway of her hips. To Dayan, she was incredibly beautiful. And she was human. He knew it was possible for one of his kind, a Carpathian, to have a human lifemate, but he had never imagined his other half would be one.

She paused for a moment to stare up at him in shock, her wide gaze colliding with his for the briefest instant. Her perfect mouth formed a round O as she recognized him. She swung her head toward the tall blonde who accompanied her. The other woman laughed and hugged her, led the way through the crowd to a booth in a dark corner of the club. He heard the soft murmur of her voice, and at once his world changed. Where before the club had been visible to him only in shades of gray, it was now brilliantly alive with vivid, dazzling color.

Emotions were crowding in on him fast and hard, so many he couldn't sort them out. He could only sit very still with his fingers flashing over his beloved guitar. He
felt
that. His guitar. It amazed him so much, he was aware of tears burning behind his eyes. Dayan was almost paralyzed by the different stimuli bombarding him. The music. Hunger. Colors. Lust. It was a volcano, molten hot, adding to his edgy feeling. And there was jealousy. Dark. Dangerous. He realized he didn't like to see the men crowding around her booth, leaning over to talk to her.

At once that thought triggered the rising of the beast in him and he had to crush it down. He was very dangerous in this state. The music poured out of him, through him; wild emotion almost choked him; he was blinded by a myriad of colors. He took a deep, calming breath, fought for control and won.

What was wrong with her heart?

He kept his head bent over his guitar, but his empty black eyes were fixed on his prey, the only woman who mattered to him. He played to her, poured his heart out to her, allowed the beauty of his music to speak to her. He wanted her to see the poet in him, not the predator. Not the darkness. All the while he played, he listened to the conversation she was having, listened for the sound of her voice.

"I can't believe it's really him, Lisa. That's Dayan, of the Dark Troubadours. He's practically a god among musicians. I've never heard anyone play like him. What in the world is he doing with this band?" That was her voice, soft and feminine. She spoke in a reverent tone.

Her fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the table, following his guitar riff.

Lisa leaned across the booth to be heard over the noise in the bar. "I heard he was vacationing nearby. I guess he's just jamming here tonight, Corinne. I know how much you love music, and I wanted to give you a surprise."

That was her name.
Corinne.
Even her name fit the music in Dayan's mind. He unashamedly eavesdropped to learn what he could. She was listening to his music, her body responding naturally, but she wasn't staring at him in rapt adoration the way the other women in the bar were staring. The way he would have liked.

"But how did you know? He's not just anyone, Lisa. He's a genius when he's playing. How did you know he'd be here tonight?"

"Bruce – you remember Bruce, Corinne – he works for my photographer. Bruce knows you're a huge music fan. He stopped in for a drink and called to tell me a member of the Dark Troubadours was jamming here tonight. Bruce said that man at the bar is supposedly a friend of the lead guitarist's and that he travels with the Dark Troubadours." Lisa indicated Cullen. "Everyone's hoping it means the Troubadours are looking for new places to play."

"Well, they do prefer the smaller, more intimate clubs, but who would have ever thought they would play here?" Corinne said. Her gaze strayed to Dayan, their eyes met, and she hastily looked away.

The impact shook him. His fingers nearly lost their rhythm; his stomach gave a funny lurch and his very breath slammed out of his lungs.

"Is he really that famous?" Lisa asked, grinning at Corinne.

"He's absolutely famous, you heathen." Corinne's laughter was affectionate, teasing. "His band doesn't have a contract with any label. Some people try to tape their music when they go to concerts. The tapes are worth a fortune."

"You have an old record and several tapes, don't you?" Lisa asked.

Color swept up Corinne's face. "Ssh! For heaven's sake, Lisa, those tapes are black-market. What if someone hears you?" Guilt was in her voice. "The band travels and plays mostly in small places, like old-fashioned troubadours. That's probably how they came up with the name."

Lisa leaned her chin on her hand. "He's looking this way. I swear, Rina, I really think he's noticed us."

"He's gorgeous. I had no idea." Corinne had never been one to fall for men in the spotlight, whether actor, musician or athlete. It wasn't her style; she was too down-to-earth. But Dayan resembled a sculpture of a Greek god. He was tall and sinewy, giving the impression of great strength and power without bulky muscles. His hair was very long, but well kept, shining like a raven's wing, pulled back at the nape of his neck and secured with a leather thong. But it was his face that caught and held Corinne's attention. It could have been chiseled from marble. His was the face of a man capable of great sensuality, or great cruelty. She couldn't get the impression of danger out of her mind when she looked at him.

His mouth was beautiful, as was the shape of his jaw with its faint blue-black beard shadow – she had always liked that on a man – but it was his eyes that ensnared her. She made the mistake of looking directly at him. His eyes were beautiful, shaped like a cat's eyes, dark and mysterious, empty, yet filled with a thousand secrets. She felt almost pulled into his gaze, captured for all time. She couldn't look away from him. Mesmerized.

The word came to her out of nowhere. She was definitely mesmerized by him. His head was bent toward his guitar, but his gaze seemed fixed on her face. Lisa, with her striking looks, garnished attention easily and was comfortable with it. Corinne could barely breathe with his gaze locked on her.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist, her long nails digging deeply into her palms. Her heart was doing a crazy somersault, and her breath seemed stolen right from her lungs. "I've never heard anyone play so beautifully." Her mouth was so dry she could barely get the words out.

"He can sit in my bedroom and play me to sleep every night," Lisa said.

Color crept up Corinne's neck to sweep into her face at the idea of this man in her bedroom. Playing his guitar was not what she had in mind. The image that did come to her was shocking. She had never thought of anyone like that. Not even John. Not only did it seem disloyal, but it was totally out of character for her. Suddenly she was very afraid. She wanted to run like a child and find a place to hide from his mesmerizing eyes and the strange effect he seemed to have on her. He frightened her, truly frightened her. Perhaps it was his music, so intense, so
hungry,
like his eyes.

"Corinne!" Lisa said her name sharply, breaking the spell. "Are you all right? Do you need your medication? You brought it, didn't you?" She had already grabbed Corinne's purse and was rummaging through it hastily. There was an edge of fear in her voice.

"I'm fine, Lisa," Corinne said. "I think my hero took my breath away for a minute there. He's potent. I wish he'd sing again." She forced herself to laugh.

"Oh, yeah," Lisa said dreamily, "he has a sexy voice."

"Be still, my heart," Corinne teased, clutching at her heart dramatically. It made Lisa laugh, wiping out the sudden fear in her eyes, just as Corinne knew it would.