Tales From Mysteria Falls (2 page)

He had no guarantees that Krisana would love him as Anya did. The woman she was then was not the woman she was now. She has a different heart, a different personality, and different life experiences, which meant he might or might not able to win her love. But at least there was a chance for them to find the happiness they’d lost.

And even if she didn’t come back to him, he’d face death knowing that she lived and was able to sing again. Anya’s passion had been music. Krisana’s talent and voice equaled, if not surpassed, that of Anya’s. There was no doubt in his mind that Anya’s spirit lived in Krisana and she was on her way to see him.

Almost a century of need had built inside of him, making his every cell seethe with want and his soul yearn with deep desire to have a second chance. Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the hot anticipation flooding through him. At some point, he would have to tell Krisana who he was and the past he’d shared with Anya. He’d have to tell her that Anya died because he hadn’t been there for her. He’d failed her. Given that past, would Krisana be able to fall in love with him?

Palms damp and hands trembling, he prepared himself for the performance of his life. He’d had years to regret and plan and less than a weekend to make it all happen.

W
hen Krisana came to
a halt before gargoyle-topped iron gates and an impenetrable looking guard booth made of granite, she wondered what she was walking into. Nobody knew where she was because she hadn’t wanted anyone to know what she was up to.

If she had called and told any of her friends, her manager, or her agent, about the delivery of the roses and the second part of the opera score, they would have either insisted they accompany her or begged her not to come. This was something she had to do, and she had to do it alone.

Yet, it would be incredibly stupid not to let someone know where she was. Racking her brain, she finally texted Aleese, a childhood friend with whom she always got together when in New York.

Took your advice. Have gone to Mysteria Falls, Virginia for a weekend vacation from my life. My birthday treat to me. I’m about to meet Lord Daniels, an affluent patron of classical music. I believe he’s the owner of a beautiful opera house here. Call me on Monday and I will tell you all about it.

A knock on her window nearly sent her through the car roof. The white-haired gentleman bending down to peer into her window had watery blue eyes and a warm smile. “Are you all right?” he asked through the glass.

She rolled down her window feeling silly for sending the text. “I’m Krisana Delacourt. I’m here to see Lord Daniels.”

“Yes, Miss Delacourt. His Lordship is expecting you. After I open the gate, just follow the drive up to the house.” Though unusually warm for February, the guard was still bundled against the cold with a heavy jacket and a Sherlock Holmes-looking hat.

“Thank you,” she said, and before he turned away, she asked, “How long has Lord Daniels lived here?”

The elderly man smiled. “Longer than I’ve been alive, lass. That I do know.” He went back into his guardhouse and the iron gates creaked open. She waved as she passed by, wondering just how old Lord Daniels was as the gatekeeper appeared to be at least sixty.

House? Krisana’s jaw dropped as dark stone ramparts emerged above the treetops. It would seem that Lord Daniels lived in castle. As she came to a curve, the trees gave way to a full view of the castle with a shimmering lake before it. She felt as if she’d stepped into the middle of a fairytale.

Suddenly the blare of a horn snapped her gaze to the road and she swerved back to her side, but it was too late for the oncoming motorcyclist. He’d braked hard and slid sideways in the gravel. Both man and bike disappeared from view in front of her car just as she slammed on her brakes. Heart pounding crazily in her throat, she shoved the car into park and leapt from her seat. Her boot heels sank into the small rocks as she ran.

“Oh my God! Are you all right?” she cried. She thankfully found that the man had stopped a fraction of an inch from her bumper. He sat up when she reached him and unsnapped his helmet. At least he was moving. The left side of his leather jacket was scraped gray with gravel dust and his leather pants were torn over his left thigh.

She knelt at his side, her hands automatically going to his thigh, brushing off bits of clinging gravel as she searched for an injury.

He groaned.

She pulled the large tear in his pants open to touch his leg. She found supple skin, peppered with dark hair over a kickass muscle. Her hands shook. “There’s no open wound. Do you think you broke anything?”

He lifted off his helmet and she glanced up, unexpectedly locking gazes with the devil himself, because no human man could embody such sinful temptation in his every feature, or look so hauntingly damned—as if he were intimately acquainted with Hell. Her impression lay at odds with the jeweled cross at his throat. Thick in the middle, the four ends of the cross, tapered to sword-like points. Something niggled at her mind, as if she should be able to remember something about a cross like that but couldn’t.

He just sat there staring at her as if stunned.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to the road,” she said. “Are you hurt?” Her gaze searched his rich blue eyes. They were framed by thick, sinfully long, black lashes. His clean-shaven jaw was heavily shadowed, accentuating his full lips and determined nose. His hair, long enough to brush the collar of his jacket, gleamed darkly in the morning sun. She drank in his features, thirsty for more.

His gaze dropped to where her hand pressed his thigh, forcing her gaze downward. The sight of her pale hand against his black leather clad muscle, precariously near his groin, was so blatantly erotic that she gasped. She would have jerked her hand away had he not set his gloved hand on hers, pressing her palm deeper into his thigh. She swore she felt his muscle flex in response. Heat scorched its way up her arm and down from her cheeks, meeting somewhere in her midsection where it flared into a fire of sensual awareness and chagrin.

“I’ve a few aches and pains you could easily make go away, but otherwise I’ll live,” he said. His deep voice, filled with teasing humor, was perfectly pitched for pleasure—a tone adeptly suited for bedrooms and seduction. Before she could take offense, he released her hand and flexed his shoulders, giving a slight grimace as he stretched his neck. “Maybe.”

She pulled her hand back, though the need to touch and soothe him more nearly overwhelmed her. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah.” The look he gave her, took up where his seductive voice left off. With eyes that blue, a woman didn’t even need a bedroom. “First, tell me your name, beautiful,” he said, brushing aside a tendril of hair back from her face. She liked the feel of his leather-covered finger sliding down her cheek and sucked in air as a vision of his gloved hands exploring her bare flesh flashed through her mind. Her heart pounded. Had the image been a vision or a memory?

“Krisana,” she managed to whisper. “And yours?”

“Just call me, JD. Here.” He handed her his helmet. “Why don’t you stand back a sec, and I’ll get the Phantom off the ground?”

“Phantom?”

He slid his hand caressingly over the motorcycle. “Best ride you’ll ever have,” he said.

Holding his helmet, she stood. JD rose, bringing the heavy bike up with him. Though the black and steel machine had a long slender look to it, she couldn’t see anything that differentiated it from other motorcycles. Rather than lowering the kickstand, he seated himself on the bike and reached for his helmet, letting her know their conversation was about to end.

She handed him the helmet. “So what makes it the best?”

He grinned, his full lips curving mischievously. “Me.”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I walked right into that one.”

He laughed. The deep sound did things inside her that had never been done before. “I am referring to the motorcycle, you know,” he said. “I built the machine myself. There isn’t a smoother, more powerful ride on the market. Now, if you had something else in mind, we could—”

“No! Um, that’s great. That you, uh, built it. Very talented.” She seemed to be digging herself deeper with every word. She was sure she just saved a bundle in cosmetics. Her cheeks were so hot that they had to be permanently scorched.

“You here to see Old Man Daniels?”

“If you mean Lord Daniels, then yes.”

“Good luck with that. He’s in a mood today. Right of age, I guess. Any chance you’ll still be here when I get back? I’ll take you for a ride on the Phantom.” He slid his gaze down her body, leaving a tingling path of awareness.

Her mouth went dry. “I’m not sure about that. I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

“A virgin. Good, I’ll be your first.”

She gaped, speechless before his confident grin. She wondered why she hadn’t found his suggestive remarks off putting. Maybe it was the irresistible humor in his eyes, as if he knew he was being bad, but that she’d forgive his teasing anyway.

He slid on his helmet and started the motorcycle with a roar. After adeptly maneuvering the bike away from her car, he zoomed around the curve in the road and out of sight.

She didn’t know if she was irritated, amused, outraged, or relieved. Getting into her car, she drove the rest of the way, hardly aware of the castle unfolding before her as she reached the end of the drive. There, a curved double stairway led to a marbled pathway with snowy, gold-leafed doors and imperial looking crests emblazoned on them.

When she reached the doors, she saw the crests were comprised of two winged beasts locked in mortal combat, each wearing kingly robes and crowns. She knocked, but the doors were so thick her fist barely made a noise. It took her several minutes to realize the silk cord that hung from a ceiling of cherubs in heaven was the doorbell. Pulling it, she heard the haunting first notes of the opera,
Come Back to Me

Her heart started to pound. She couldn’t do this. The world kept going from seemingly normal to something frighteningly…strange. This Lord Daniels was just going to have to come see her. She swung around, heading to her car when a black blur swooped down from the shadows. Crying out, she flung her purse at the creature then realized it was a tiny bat that flew away in a flash.

Fisting her hands, she grappled for calm. The door opened behind her.

“My dear, are you all right? I heard you cry out.”

Krisana turned around. A woman in her sixties, dressed in a maid’s uniform, walked toward her.

“I’m fine. A bat…”

The maid sighed, shaking her head. “That poor thing. I’ll have to have someone come capture it. The other evening it flew hard into the second story widow and lay addled on the steps for so long, its little wings barely fluttering that I was sure it would die. I put it in a box with a warm towel. It recovered, but now won’t leave.”

Krisana picked up her purse, feeling silly for her reaction again. If the raven hadn’t spooked her earlier, she wouldn’t be jumping at shadows now. “It’s a tiny thing. Maybe it’s still injured and that’s why it’s staying close. Bats usually fly so fast you can hardly see them.”

The elderly woman smiled. “You may be right. I’m Martha, and you must be Miss Delacourt. I am a longtime fan of your music and so honored to meet you.”

They shook hands. “Thank you. And please call me Kris,” she said, once again feeling silly for her panic.

“Well, then please come inside, Miss Kris. I’ve tea ready.” She led the way into the castle.

Awestruck, Krisana followed the maid past a number of rooms—foyer, library, parlor, and more she couldn’t name. The interior of the castle was astounding. She might as well have been walking into Versailles when it came to the décor of the walls and artistry of the gilded molding. Even the marble floors and massive, antique rugs might have been found in an authentic castle. The difference came in the eclectic collection of art and the mix of somewhat modern furniture amid priceless antiques.

“Lord Daniels usually has morning tea in his study. I’m afraid he’s had a bit of a rough morning, but should be able to join you shortly.”

“Oh, no. I am sorry to hear he is unwell. I can come back later.” Krisana stopped, suddenly aware of how rude her response to Lord Daniels’ gift to her was. Her cheeks burned.

“He wouldn’t hear of it. He is so anxious to meet you that it’s what likely set him off kilter.” Martha led the way into a darkened study. “Please make yourself at home. Do you wish for me to pour tea?”

An elaborate silver tea service and a three-tiered tray full of delicate pastries sat on a polished table. The scents of bergamot rind and strawberry preserves teased her senses and her mouth watered. She hadn’t realized that she was hungry. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for fixing this for me.”

“You’re welcome. It is a delight to have you here.” Martha left and Krisana took a minute to explore the room before sitting down. She decided she liked the odd mingling of antique and modern. The art seemed to be from all over the world—jade figurines, African masks, porcelain vases, and masterful paintings from Degas and Manet, among others. This kind of wealth was as daunting as it was intriguing.

She could spend the day in just this one room, but the tea and the baked goodies kept luring her their way. Fifteen minutes and three heavenly treats later, including a scone with jam and clotted cream, she looked up to see an elderly man on a motorized wheelchair enter the room. He wore a misting oxygen mask and his breathing appeared slightly labored.

Her heart squeezed and guilt smacked her. She really had been incredibly rude in her reaction to his generous gift to her, demanding to see him immediately without any consideration as to what might be happening in his life. Gray hair stuck out in tuffs from beneath the black hooded jacket he wore. He had a scarf wrapped around his throat and gloves on his hands. His pale face and blue eyes were blurred by the misty oxygen. His clothes hung loosely on his slumped frame, telling her that time had stolen more than years from this once big man.

“Anya,” he rasped, rolling across the room to her.

Krisana’s teacup clattered to the saucer as she set both on the table before she dropped them. “My name is Krisana, Lord Daniels. I am the singer you have generously given part of an opera house to.”

He shook his head as if confused. “Yes, of course. You just surprised me. In person you look so much like Anya, that I forgot myself for a moment.” He coughed harshly then seemed to have difficulty getting enough air into his lungs to speak. “Anya was the woman I loved many years ago and lost.”