 
The night clerk was handsome and young, with olive skin and bedroom eyes. And he was, as fate would have it, an artist.
A sketchbook lay open before him; a pencil graced his elegant, long-fingered hand. He greeted her with a smile. Before she quite knew what she was doing, a tendril of muse magic escaped. The pulse caused him to go still, then swallow thickly. Leanna had no doubt that behind the desk something else was thickening as well.
Gods. How long had it been since she'd bedded an artist? Almost two years. And the ugly truth was, Leanna missed her muse magic. The heady exchange of inspiration and life, delivered at the precise moment of orgasm, was a mind-blowing high, one she'd reveled in for two centuries, while her conscience slept.
Right here, right now, she wanted this boy, fiercely. She could lose herself in him, at least for one night. It wouldn't be a one-sided exchange. There was much she could offer him. She could give him his fondest dream. Under the influence of her magic, he would create a brilliant work of art. His fame would be instant. The world would throw itself at his feet. Worship him like a god.
And then he would die.
Leanna yanked her magic back. What was she thinking? She couldn't chance taking this young man to bed. The boy could very well be so hungry for fame and fortune that he would destroy himself to get it. That was the problem with artists. One could never tell how desperate they were, until it was too late.
That was why, during her recent stay in Annwyn, she'd renounced her muse magic. While it wasn’t death magic, strictly speaking, it was a path to darkness. She'd renounced death magic as well, in all its forms. She wouldn’t--couldn't--give herself to darkness again.
She nodded briefly at the clerk and passed by without speaking. Perhaps he would never be a great artist, but at least he would have a chance for a long and happy life.
The elevator doors swished closed, leaving her alone in the cab. When would she ever grow accustomed to keeping her own company? Never, she suspected. She hated being alone in the night. But every night since she'd escaped Hell, she'd been just that.
Her hotel room was quiet, shrouded in darkness. She didn't bother to turn on the light as she shed her dress, shoes, stockings and bra. Wearing just her thong, she slid between the sheets. Her head sank onto a stack of downy pillows, but her eyes remained open. Despite what she’d told Mac, she wasn’t tired at all.
The lace curtains at the window fluttered; the hazy light from the street danced across the coverlet.
A sudden shadow fell across the bed. She blinked. She didn’t at first understand what was happening.
A man’s voice broke the velvet darkness.
"Bonsoir, Leanna. Or at this hour, perhaps I should say bon matin?"
She sucked in a breath.
She wasn't alone, after all.
 Elflight lifted from Leanna's palm to hover over her head. The intruder was tall, with a broad chest and long, powerful legs. Death magic radiated from his body. Leanna suspected the potency she sensed was only a drop in the vast reservoir of his power. He wore a dark suit jacket over a black shirt, open at the neck. His hair, a glossy nut-brown touched by moonlight, shone. She should have been afraid, but oddly, she wasn't.
He looked familiar.
"Do I know you?" she ventured.
He smiled, a quick glint of white teeth that was anything but mirthful.
"Is your memory fading, Leanna? And here you promised never to forget me. But then, when you've known so many men, I suppose it's hard to keep us all straight in your mind."
He took a single step forward. Leanna stared. Her hand crept toward her throat, her palm flattening on the pounding of her heart. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
He snorted. "Speechless? I can hardly believe it. As I recall, you were never at a loss for words."
She swallowed. The reflex was painful. When her voice finally emerged from her throat, it was as a scratchy whisper.
"Jackson? Jackson Cabot?"
He bowed, a swift, graceful angling of the waist. So elegant. So much like the man she remembered.
But Jackson was...dead.
"You're..." She cleared her throat and began again. "You're not a ghost."
"No," he agreed.
He stepped closer, almost to the foot of the bed. Elflight shone full in his face, illuminating his beauty. His angled cheekbones, patrician nose, and high forehead hadn't changed at all. But his hazel eyes glinted with a cynical light that was wholly foreign to the man she'd once loved. And his complexion...it wasn't right. The Jackson she’d known spent every free moment in the sun. This man before her...he had none of Jackson's tanned, healthy glow.
Horror oozed through her veins. "You're...vampire."
Jackson planted both hands on the high mattress and leaned toward her. "And you, Leanna, are still a very beautiful woman."
His gaze left her face and traveled...lower.
She inched the blanket higher.
"Modest?" His tone was hard, completely lacking the teasing lilt Leanna associated with her memories of Jackson. "I confess, I'm surprised. What are you about, returning to your hotel unaccompanied? The last thing I expected was to find you climbing into this bed alone." He straightened. "What happened to your latest conquest?"
She stared up at him, his mocking tone flowing over her as she struggled to wrap her mind around the fact that this was Jackson, her Jackson. Here. In her bedroom. Speaking to her. It wasn't a dream. Or a nightmare.
Then his words registered. “Conquest? What are you talking about?"
His jaw tightened. "Manannán mac Lir, the musician. I saw you with him on the television."
"You saw Mac and me on the telly?" Inane reply. Her brain refused to operate properly.
"I did. Tell me, where did you screw him? In his limo? Or in his hotel room? Was he good?"
Shock caused the air to puff from her lungs. "What? You think...Mac and I--"
"Manannán's fame has exploded in the past year. And now I find that he's traveling with you. You're a love muse. You can't tell me your magic hasn't played a part in his--"
"Mac's success had nothing to do with my magic. For the love of all the gods in Annwyn, Jackson, Mac is my brother!"
He snorted. "Oh, really? I don't recall you ever mentioning a divine brother."
"Mac's my half-brother. We have the same mother. I never told you about him because Mac and I weren’t speaking when you and I...when we were..." She lost her words. Her throat closed. Her lashes were wet.
"Were in love?" Jackson prompted with more than a little sarcasm.
She met his gaze evenly. "Yes. When we were in love."
"Love." He spat the word. "I thought it was love, Leanna, but I soon learned how deadly your particular brand of that emotion is, didn't I? I wanted you for my wife. I knew there was every chance you would refuse. What I didn’t expect, Leanna, was that you would kill me.”
The hoarse emotion in his voice sent a tremor through Leanna’s body. How many times had she lain in Jackson's arms, ear pressed to the low rumble of his chest as he told her of his life, his love, his dreams?
"But...you weren't dead when I left you! I didn’t want to kill you--I just didn’t want you to follow me. I made sure you have enough life essence left to recover. I thought...I assumed you'd awakened the next morning. And returned to your family in Boston..."
"A fine rationalization, even for you. You knew far better than I what sort of scum roamed the alleys in Paris in those days."
Gods help her, she did.
Another ruthless glint of teeth. "Really, Leanna, you left me too soon. You should have made sure I was completely dead. Loose ends come back to strangle, sooner or later."
END OF EXCERPT. LIKE
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