Jonas's gaze flicked to his friend. For the first time in his memory, he observed that Jackson looked uncomfortable.
"Hannah and I talked about it. We want a houseful. She's a homebody, Jackson. We have the money for her to be able to stay home and raise our kids. The house is enormous and the town is the perfect place to raise children."
"The thought of having kids doesn't scare you?"
"I grew up around the Drakes. For me, a big family seems natural and right. It's what my mother always wanted and it's what Hannah had. I can't imagine her without her sisters, or me without them either." He knew his eyes went a little steely. "Does the thought of children bother you?"
Jackson frowned. " 'Bother' isn't the right word. I've never been around children. I can't imagine being a father. I know I'll never be anyone's idea of an average dad."
"You've been around the Drakes long enough to know what a family is--what it should be. It's your choice whether or not you want it. Me? I'm grabbing it with both hands and hanging on tight."
Jonas walked with Jackson and the other groomsmen, down the long outdoor aisle between rows of chairs on the rolling lawn, surrounded by his family and friends. He looked around him and realized what he had. These people made up his life. And it was a good life. He had everything he needed right here, in this place, to be happy.
The music started and he turned to watch her come toward him. She was so beautiful she robbed him of breath as she stepped out of the authentic 1920s car and looked at him. Her smile lit her face as her gaze met his.
Hannah. I love you. Always. Always I'll love you. He meant it. Knew it, in his heart and soul.
I love you, Jonas. I want this more than anything, to be your wife and have your children. I always have.
Her sisters came up the aisle dressed in vintage wear from the era, the dresses clingy with dropped waists. They looked beautiful, happy for him and Hannah. Pride swelled. This was his family and he mattered to them every bit as much as they did to him. Jackson had called it right on the yacht. The moment he'd returned, walking through the door, they had swarmed around him, hands brushing to make certain he was uninjured, lightening his heavy heart for the kill shots he'd taken, and removing the bruise on his jaw.
His throat closed as the music changed and everyone rose. Hannah Drake flowed up the aisle with her famous walk. Her blue eyes were vivid and bright, sparkling like the jewels on her wedding gown. The scars on her face and throat had faded to faint white lines, barely discernable, but it wouldn't have mattered if they hadn't. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her father put her hand in his and Jonas closed his fingers tightly around hers, drawing her close to him. Emotional or not, he was damned if he was going to cry--Jackson would never let him hear the end of it--but he knew that moment would be forever in his mind. Hannah joining her life to his. So fine, his eyes burned and filled up, but really, who gave a damn? Hannah was finally his.
All of his life, Jonas had tried to be careful to keep her from feeling the emotions that often dominated his existence. Not today. Today he wanted to share every feeling--the rich fullness--the overflowing happiness. She had been there through his mother's illness and death and when he'd been shot. Through some of the darkest moments in his life. Now he wanted to share the best moment with her. He could never express in words what she meant to him, but Hannah was an empath and she could feel it.
She looked up at him and her eyes were swimming with tears. I love you, too.
Jonas listened to the ceremony, every sacred word, but all he could see was Hannah. The sun shone on her, colors danced around her, even her aura was present, a prism that glowed around her in rainbow colors.
Baby, did you know that you can taste happiness?
She blinked up at him, a slow smile curving her mouth. Can you? What does it taste like?
You. All hot and sweet and exciting. Mysterious. A combination of flavors.
She glanced at the minister and murmured an appropriate response, even as color swept up her neck and into her face. You're trying to make me hot and bothered.
He grinned at her. I wasn't, but now that you mention it, just what are you wearing under that dress ? I don't see a panty line.
She nearly choked, covered it with a cough.
And then he was sliding his ring on her finger. Saying the words to make her his wife. Meaning them. The ring on his finger, a never-ending circle, felt solid and right. His heart jumped in his chest when the minister pronounced them man and wife.
Jonas turned to her, looked down at her, his hands framing her face so he could look into her eyes. "Forever, Hannah. For always." He bent his head slowly to hers, forgetting everyone, everything around him. His entire world narrowed to one woman. Hannah Drake Harrington. His lips moved over hers, feather-light. Seduction in its most elegant form. His kiss was gentle, tender, infinitely loving.
They turned toward their family and friends, sharing their happiness. The applause rang out, music blared and the party started.
Jonas greeted a hundred people, accepting congratulations, all the while keeping Hannah close to him. She smiled and murmured softly in response, appearing gracious and relaxed, but he was very aware how difficult it was for her. Often his hand moved up to the nape of her neck, easing the tension out of her with a slow massage. He bent his head to brush a kiss across the top of her head.
"Congratulations," a male voice repeated, drawing his attention back to the waiting line.
Jonas automatically shook hands, but then gripped Ilya Prakenskii's hand before he could let go. "You have a lot of nerve showing up here. There's law enforcement everywhere. Are you looking to get arrested?"
Prakenskii's eyebrow shot up. "For what? They're welcome to take me in, but they have no proof of any wrongdoing."
Jonas glanced around and lowered his voice. "You were on that yacht. You got there before us and somehow managed to kill Karl Tarasov and take his place. You were the one who killed Boris and you did it so I wouldn't."
"Did I? I have no recollection of this event," Prakenskii said.
"I looked into your eyes, Ilya. Straight into them. I've heard of your ability to become a chameleon, to be anyone, but you can't hide your eyes. Color maybe, but not that intensity. And, you son of a bitch, you hit me." Jonas rubbed his jaw.
A hint of amusement crossed the Russian's face. "If such a thing had occurred, I'm certain the women in your family would give you adequate sympathy. Congratulations on your marriage. I must go annoy the sister of your bride by forcing her to dance with me once before I leave. I wish you long life and much happiness."
"Be careful, Prakenskii. Whatever you're into, it's very dangerous. Nikitin acts like a lamb, but I've done a little digging and the man is every bit as bloody and violent as Tarasov was, but then you already know that. I'm betting you know more about Nikitin than any other law enforcement officer in the world."
There was a small silence. Prakenskii didn't rise to the bait. Jonas sighed. "With Tarasov's territory wide open, Nikitin will be that much more powerful. You and I both know he'll take over most of Tarasov's operations."
"Since I work for the man, that just gives me job security."
Jonas shook his head. "You have to trust somebody someday. Our family is indebted to you. You need help, you call." Because he didn't believe for one moment that Ilya Prakenskii was what the world believed him to be.
Prakenskii gave him a small salute and disappeared into the crowd.
Jonas found Hannah dancing with her sisters and pulled her into his arms. "Dance with me, baby."
Hannah slid into his arms, up against his body, as if made for him. The Drakes often had magic in their lives, and for Jonas, this entire day was his magical moment. She fit so perfectly. He swept her around the dance floor, the music heating his blood and singing in his veins.
"Do you remember last Christmas when I wished on the snowglobe, Hannah? You were so upset with me, and I wouldn't tell you what I wished for."
He pressed his lips to her temple. "I wished for you." He spun her out and brought her back into him.
Her heart leapt, flying right along with her body as they moved together in perfect rhythm around the room. Everyone around them faded away until there was only Jonas. She felt his joy and knew he'd never been happier. She realized, in that perfect moment, that she was doing exactly what she wanted--what she was born to do. She was Jonas Harrington's wife. Complete. Committed. And happy beyond anything she'd ever dreamed.
She would always have the occasional panic attacks. And she would never believe she was as beautiful as so many people seemed to think she was, but she had come out of a terrible storm, emerging stronger and victorious. And happier than she'd ever dreamed she could be.
She stopped. Right there on the dance floor, her fingers linking behind the nape of his neck. All around her, her family danced and laughed, and filled the room with warmth and happiness. But this man in her arms, he filled her every empty place with strength and love. She met his gaze, saw the love shining there, and her heart jumped hard in her chest, her stomach did that funny little flip and deep down, where it mattered, she melted, just as she was supposed to.
"I love you, Jonas Harrington. With my heart and soul, I love you."
"I love you, Hannah Drake Harrington. With everything I am."
And that would always--always--be enough for both of them.
Turn the page for a special preview of
DARK POSSESSION
by
Christine Feehan
Available in September 2007
from Berkley Books!
MANOLITO De La Cruz woke beneath the dark earth with his heart pounding, bloodred tears streaking his face and grief overwhelming him. A woman's despairing cry echoed in his soul, tearing at him, reprimanding him, drawing him back from the edge of a great precipice. And he was starving.
Every cell in his body craved blood. The hunger raked at him with merciless claws until a red haze covered his sight and his pulse hammered with the need for immediate sustenance. Desperate, he scanned the area above his resting place for the presence of enemies and, finding none, burst through the rich layers of soil into the air, his heart thundering in his ears, his mind screaming.
He landed in a crouch in the midst of dense shrubbery and thick vegetation, and took a slow, careful look around him. For a moment everything was wrong. Monkeys shrieking, birds calling out a warning, the cough of a larger predator, even the brash of lizards through vegetation. He wasn't supposed to be here. The rain forest. Home.
He shook his head, trying to clear his fragmented mind. The last thing he remembered clearly was stepping in front of a pregnant Carpathian woman, shielding both mother and unborn child from a killer. Shea Dubrinsky, lifemate to Jacques, who was brother to the prince of the Carpathian people. Manolito had been in the Carpathian Mountains, not in South America, which he now called home.
He replayed the images in his head. Shea had gone into labor at a party. Ridiculous that. How could they keep the women and children safe in the midst of such madness? Manolito had sensed danger, the enemy moving within the crowd, stalking Shea. He'd been distracted, dazzled with color and sound and emotion pouring in from every direction. How could that be? Ancient Carpathian hunters didn't feel emotion and saw in shades of gray, white and black--yet he distinctly recalled that Shea's hair had been red. Bright, bright red.
Memories whirled away as pain exploded through him, doubling him over, waves of weakness rocking him. He found himself on his hands and knees, his belly in hard knots and his insides heaving. Fire burned through his system like a molten poison. Disease didn't plague the Carpathian race. He couldn't have become ill with a human disease. This was manufactured by an enemy.
Who had done this to him? His white teeth snapped together in a show of aggression, his incisors and canines sharp and lethal as he glared fiercely around him. How had he gotten here? Kneeling in the fertile soil, he tried to sort through what he did know.
Another jolt of blinding pain lashed at his temples, blackening the edges of his vision. He covered his eyes to try to block out the shooting stars coming at him like missiles, but closing his eyes worsened the effect. "I am Manuel De La Cruz," he murmured aloud, trying to force his brain to work... to remember... pushing the words through teeth clenched tightly together in a grimace. "I have one older and three younger brothers. They call me Manolito to tease me because my shoulders are broader and I carry more muscle so they reduce me to a boy. They would not leave me if they knew I had need of them."
They would never have left him. Never. Not his brothers.
They were loyal to one another--they had been through the long centuries and would always remain so.
He pushed past the pain to try to uncover the truth. Why was he in the rain forest when he should have been in the Carpathian Mountains? Why had he been abandoned by his people? His brothers? He shook his head in denial, although it cost him dearly as the pain increased and spikes seemed to stab through his skull.
He shivered as the shadows crept closer, ringing him, taking shapes. Leaves rustled and the bushes shifted, as if touched by unseen hands. Lizards darted out from under the rotting vegetation and raced away as if frightened.
Manolito pulled back and once again looked warily around himself, this time scanning above and below ground, quartering the region thoroughly. There were shadows only, nothing flesh and blood to indicate an enemy was close. He had to get ahold of himself and figure out what was happening before the trap was sprung--and he was certain there was a trap and he was truly caught.
Throughout his time hunting the vampire, Manolito had been wounded and poisoned on many occasions, but still he'd survived because he'd always used his brain. He was cunning and shrewd and very intelligent. No vampire or mage would best him, sick or not. If he was hallucinating, he had to find a way out of the spell to protect himself.
Shadows moved in his mind, dark and evil. He looked around him at the growth of the jungle and instead of seeing a welcoming home, he saw the same shadows moving--reaching--trying to grasp him with greedy claws. Things moved, banshees wailed, unfamiliar creatures gathered in the bushes and along the ground.
It made no sense, not for one of his kind. The night should have welcomed him--soothed him. Enfolded him in its rich blanket of peace. The night had always belonged to him--to his people. Information should have flooded him with each breath he took into his body, but instead his mind played tricks, saw things that couldn't be there. He could hear a dark symphony of voices calling to him, the sounds swelling in volume until his head pounded with moans and pitiful cries. Bony fingers brushed at his skin; spider legs crawled over him so that he twisted left and right, flailing his arms, slapping at his chest and back and brushing vigorously in an effort to dislodge the invisible webs that seemed to be sticking to his skin.
He shuddered again and forced air through his lungs. He had to be hallucinating, caught in the trap of a master vampire. If that was the case, he couldn't call on his brothers for aid until he knew if he was bait to draw them into the web as well.
He gripped his head hard and forced his mind to calm. He would remember. He was an ancient Carpathian sent out by the former Prince Vlad to hunt the vampire. Vlad's son, Mikhail, had centuries since taken over guiding their people. Manolito felt one of the pieces snap together as a bit of his memory fell into place. He had been far from his home in South America, summoned by the prince to a reunion in the Carpathian Mountains, a celebration of life as Jacques's lifemate gave birth to a child. He now appeared to be in the rain forest, a part familiar to him. Could he be dreaming? He had never dreamed before, not that he remembered. When a Carpathian male went to ground, he shut down his heart and lungs and slept as if dead. How could he dream?
Once again he risked a look at his surroundings. His stomach lurched as the brilliant colors dazzled him, hurting his head and making him sick. After centuries of seeing in black and white with shades of gra
y, the surrounding jungle now held violent color, hues of vivid greens, a riot of colored flowers spilling down tree trunks along with creeper vines. His head pounded and his eyes burned. Drops of blood leaked like tears, trailing down his face as he squinted to try to control the sensation of pitching and rolling as he viewed the rain forest.
Emotions poured in. He tasted fear, something he hadn't known since he'd been a boy. What was going on? Manolito fought to get on top of the strange tumbling of jumbled thoughts in his mind. He pushed hard to clear away the debris and focus on what he knew of his past. He had stepped in front of an elderly human woman possessed by a mage just as she thrust a poisoned weapon at Jacques and Shea's unborn child. He felt the shock of the entry into his flesh, the twist and rip of the serrated blade cutting through his organs and ripping open his belly. Fire burned through his insides, spreading rapidly as the poison worked its way through his system.
Blood ran in rivers and light faded quickly. He heard voices calling, chanting, and felt his brothers reaching for him to try to hold him to earth. He remembered that very clearly, the sound of his brothers voice imploring him--no--commanding him to stay with them. He'd found himself in a shadowy realm, banshees wailing, shadows flickering and reaching. Skeletons. Dark spiked teeth. Talons. Spiders and cockroaches. Snakes hissing. The skeletons drawing closer and closer until...
He closed his mind to his surroundings, to all shared pathways, so there was no chance anyone could be feeding his own fears. It had to be a hallucination brought on by the poison coating the blade of the knife. No matter that he had stopped anything from entering his brain--something malicious was already present.
Fire ringed him, crackling flames reaching greedily toward the sky and stretching toward him like obscene tongues. Out of the conflagration, women emerged, women he'd used for feeding throughout the centuries, long dead to the world now. They began to crowd around him, arms reaching, mouths open wide as they bent toward him, showing their wares through tight, clinging dresses. They smiled and beckoned, eyes wide, blood running down the sides of their necks--tempting. Tempting. Hunger burned. Raged. Grew into a monster.