Visions of Destiny (Complete Series) Read online

  With a shock, she recognized the face. It was her own. Caught in how beautiful the figure looked, how it stood out in front of a background of colorful paintings, she hadn’t realized that the dress was familiar, hadn’t noticed the discreet jewelry at her neck and ears. Now, though, it was all she could see. Was this how Owen saw her, she wondered, her heart beating so furiously that she pressed a hand to her chest to calm it down.

  “That was the first time I saw you. Do you remember?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the painting, but she nodded. “At the spring varnishing. Three years ago.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him raise the glass to his lips before he answered. “Yes.”

  The lines and colors of the painting were exquisite, as his work always was. He instilled such life into his paintings that Lydia always found them truer to life than his subjects. It was disconcerting to find herself thinking so when she was looking at an image of herself. She forced herself to look away and turned her eyes to Owen instead.

  “Why were you there?” she asked. “At the varnishing, I mean. You hate those things.”

  “I do, yes.” He moved his wrist in an absentminded manner, and the champagne swirled in his glass, more bubbles rising to the surface. “One of the artists showing was a friend. I had promised her I’d make an appearance.”

  Lydia waited for a pang of jealousy to resonate through her. She knew he didn’t have many friends, and she had strong suspicions that his female friends were also his lovers. Nothing but curiosity emerged, and not even about that woman.

  “Just an appearance?” she said, amused despite herself. “I recall you being there until closing time.”

  He raised his glass to her, as though conceding her point. “Just an appearance was the goal. And then I saw you.” He smiled a self-deprecating grin. “It’s going to sound cheesy, but I swear it’s the truth. As many people as there were at the gallery that night, I could see no one but you.”

  He paused and held her gaze for an instant, as though waiting for her to confirm it was cheesy. She said nothing. It was cheesy, of course, but it was also a declaration of love if she had ever heard one. She didn’t doubt his words for a second.

  “It was like a spotlight had turned on you,” he continued, his eyes returning to the painting and taking on a faraway look. “I stared at you as long as I dared, and then I decided to approach you, but you were with…someone. So I stayed away.”

  She remembered seeing him, too. She hadn’t known who he was at the time, and yet as soon as her eyes had met his across the room, she had felt something like recognition. It had been like seeing an old friend after a long time, and needing a moment to figure out who it was, except she never had figured it out. She had only learned his name a few days later when she had formally met him.

  She also remembered how she had needed to force herself to look away so she wouldn’t be caught staring at him—so Jack wouldn’t catch her staring at another man. He had been jealous, sometimes, and she had done her best to avoid giving him any reason to be, especially when he showed up at one of the gallery’s parties for her. He hated those things just as much as Owen did; it was one of very few common points they shared. With or without a reason, though, Lydia and Jack had argued before the end of that night. She couldn’t remember about what—their relationship had been going through ups and downs for a while already at that point, and they were both equally guilty for it. She did remember, though, with vivid clarity, that as she argued with Jack, her thoughts had drifted toward the man who had seemed so familiar. Maybe, in a way, her relationship with Jack had been over at the moment she had laid eyes on Owen.

  “Next painting,” he murmured and stepped to the easel on the right of the first one. The canvas was taller, though less wide than the first. His fingers closed on the fabric that covered the painting and, with a quick tug, he uncovered it.

  This time, Lydia recognized herself right away, maybe because she had expected to see herself again. She was standing beneath the arch of a heavily carved door—Owen’s front door. Light poured in from outside and framed her so that she almost seemed to glow. She held her briefcase in her right hand, and a smile lit up her face. She knew at once what moment this depicted: her first visit to Owen.

  His hand settled at the small of her back, and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t speak to you the night of the show, but I found out your name from Renee.”

  She glanced at him and he chuckled ruefully.

  “I have to confess I promised her a couple of paintings if she sent you to get them.”

  She couldn’t help letting out a quiet little snort. That explained why Renee had insisted that Lydia go and meet this new artist. Usually, her boss was adamant about meeting prospective clients herself, at least until their relationship with the gallery was well-established. Lydia’s two coworkers, both of whom had worked for Renee longer than she had, had resented this perceived favor, though they had had time to get over it since.

  “And then you came,” he continued. “When I opened the door, you were just…” He seemed to struggle for words. “Like…a silhouette. Or a shadow. It was so bright behind you, I almost couldn’t recognize you. But you stepped in, and the light was all around you, like at the gallery. Your smile was just like I recalled, like sunlight, warm and bright.”

  Blinking very fast, she turned away from the painting to look at him again. His expression was intense.

  “It’s been a long time since I saw sunlight,” he murmured, his head tilted to one side as he watched her. “A long time since I felt the touch of the sun on my skin without being burned, but I remember.” His voice dropped even lower as he leaned down toward her mouth, and his last words were a caress of silk against her lips. “You made me remember.”

  The kiss remained brief and chaste, but her lips tingled when he drew back, and she could taste the champagne he was sipping.

  Again, her own memories completed his, made brighter by the painting in front of her. She remembered how startled she had been to see the man who had caught her attention in front of her. He had taken her hand once she had pulled herself out of her torpor and introduced herself. That had been the first time she had realized what large, strong hands he had. He had shaken her hand lightly, but he hadn’t let go afterwards and had held on just a little too long. She had been a little disconcerted, but then he had taken her to his studio and she had forgotten everything. There had been paintings everywhere, arranged for her and her alone, and she hadn’t known which to look at first.

  “Next?” she asked, impatient to know what other moment he had captured with his paints and brushes.

  Without a word, he unveiled a wide but short painting. All it showed was a pair of brown eyes, raised eyebrows, the barest hint of a nose and a curled strand of hair in the upper right corner. She would have known they were her eyes even if she hadn’t noticed the tiny black mole at the corner of the right one. She noticed something in the pupils, dilated in surprise or fear. Taking a couple of steps closer, she peered at the painting and guessed a silhouette reflecting in her irises more than she could see it.

  She looked at Owen questioningly. Standing by the easel, he had watched her take in the painting while he sipped from his glass.

  “That’s when I told you what I was,” he explained. His lips took a self-deprecating turn. “I thought you’d run off. You were so scared, it was like I had told you I’d have your blood for dinner.”

  “I thought I would run, too,” she admitted, feeling a little silly in hindsight. “I had never talked to a vampire before, let alone been alone with one.”

  She didn’t elaborate, but familiar warnings against vampires had echoed loud and clear in her mind at the time. Jack did not hate vampires—that wasn’t why he had become a Special Enforcer—but he didn’t trust them either, not even the ones who, by keeping away from all killings, kept themsel
ves safe from S.E.s. More than once, over the years she had known him, she had heard him speak of those so-called ‘safe’ vampires—he always sneered at the word—who had yielded to what instinct demanded and finally killed a human.

  “So why didn’t you run?” Owen asked gently. “I know you were terrified. Your scent held such fear…” He touched his lips to the champagne and grimaced. “Not all smells are pleasant, but fear is one of the worst.”

  It was far too late to apologize, and her fear had been completely beyond her control anyway. She took his free hand and squeezed it gently, reminding him that the fear was long gone.

  “Renee would have killed me if I had run.”

  The joke fell flat, and she realized why at once. Death, tonight, was no laughing matter. She reached for his glass and, when he let go of it, took a sip of champagne to chase away her returning nervousness.

  “Your paintings were just too good,” she added as she gave him back his glass. “I had never seen anything like them before. And as scared as I was, I wanted to see more. I wanted to be the one to bring them to the gallery and share them with other people.”

  “You sound like Renee.” His tone was teasing, but to Lydia the words were a compliment. “She saw one of my paintings in a friend’s house, and she pestered me for years about letting her see what else I had done.”

  “Why decide to sell your work, suddenly?”

  She had wondered for a long time.

  “Honestly? So I’d see you again.” He seemed completely unrepentant. “That’s why I demanded that Renee continue to send you. I told her I didn’t like dealing with new people, and it is true to an extent, but really I just thought I could get to know you that way.”

  And he had done exactly that, Lydia thought to herself. Every time she had visited to pick up a new painting and spend time with him writing a short blurb for the catalogue, they had ended up talking about all sorts of things. Art, of course, and the artists each of them admired, but also music, movies, books—and, she had later realized, they had talked a lot about her. As months had passed and they became friends, more than once they had lost track of time, but one time in particular they had talked all afternoon, and when Lydia had looked at her watch, it had been almost seven at night.

  He had offered to cook dinner, surprising her enough that for a moment she had been tempted to accept. She hadn’t, though. By then, she and Jack had already been separated, but she had felt it was too soon. Owen had made her promise she’d stay another time, and hadn’t needed to press her much to get her to agree. A couple of months later, it had been strange not only to discover he was a pretty good cook, but also to see him sit down and eat with her. She hadn’t known until then that vampires could eat regular food. She had never even thought about it before. That had been when she had started asking questions about what it was like to be a vampire.

  Raising an eyebrow at her, Owen pointed at the next painting. She nodded, and he uncovered it. She gasped as she took in the central figure, suddenly chilled to the bone. It was Jack. His body, draped in the long jacket he wore for his job, was poised as though on the edge of an attack. She knew what the barely visible piece of wood stuck through a loop of his belt was: a stake. Anger radiated from him, but even so he was beautiful, and she recalled that it was his looks that had attracted her in the very beginning. At the same time, though, his eyes seemed dull and dead as he glared straight at her.

  Gulping, she looked at Owen, but she didn’t know what to say.

  “He showed up here one day.” Owen came to stand by her. Tilting his head to one side, he peered at the painting as though he had never seen it before. “Right after you had left. I think he followed you.”

  That was very likely, she thought, the old bitterness resurfacing. Jack had always been the jealous kind, even though he truly had no reason to be. Toward the end of their relationship, she had started to suspect he was following her to work and checking on her during the day. It was only one of the reasons why she had broken up with him.

  “What…” Her lips felt dry. She licked them before she finished. “What did he say?”

  Owen shrugged and emptied his glass before answering. “Mostly, he laid claim to you, said you were his fiancée, and warned me to stay away from you.”

  Lydia gulped again. “Did he…did he threaten to hurt you?”

  She didn’t really want to hear that he had. Despite everything, she still had affection for Jack and fond memories of the years they had spent as a couple. She needed to know, though.

  Peering at her for a moment, Owen finally shook his head. “Not in so many words, but he made sure I knew he was a S.E., and I know he knew what I am.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lydia murmured, laying a hand on his chest. “I never thought he’d threaten—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he cut in with a soothing smile. “He’s an honorable man and an honorable Special Enforcer. He was very much in love with you. He wanted to protect you. I can understand that.”

  The quiet light in his gaze added that he didn’t only understand—he also loved her and wanted to protect her.

  “And it’s not like he worried me that much,” he added after a moment. “Seducing a woman is not a punishable offense for vampires, not even if she’s a S.E.’s fiancée.”

  She smiled at the joke, but a chill stopped her from truly appreciating it. She returned her eyes to the painting and forced herself to meet Jack’s flat eyes.

  “I wasn’t,” she said absently. “His fiancée, I mean.”

  He had never asked. If she was honest with herself, that had been another reason why she had ended things, no longer certain he was serious about their relationship.

  “I think I’ll have champagne now,” she said, looking up at Owen.

  He was frowning but nodded once and walked over to the coffee table. Lydia followed him, telling herself that no, she wasn’t fleeing Jack’s gaze, not at all.

  “Why would he call you that, then?” Owen asked as he filled both glasses and handed her one.

  She took a small sip, and only realized then how parched her throat felt. “I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to…lay claim to me, like you said.”

  “Maybe,” Owen agreed, “but I liked you too much to give up on your friendship.” Taking her free hand, he led her back to the circle, and together they faced the next painting. “And then a few weeks after that you started being more withdrawn.”

  The dark edge in his voice warned her even before he pulled the cloth off the next painting. She flinched anyway.

  On the large, square canvas, she was sitting on the floor, her arms around her knees and her head raised up. Tears trickled down her cheeks, glittering under the harsh lights of Owen’s studio. Everything around her was muted, as though she were sitting, lost and alone, in a mist-covered clearing in the middle of the woods.

  She didn’t need to ask; she knew what moment this represented. A flood of emotions rushed through her, and she swallowed hard.

  “I wish,” she started, but her voice was a dry whisper. She wet her throat with a swallow of champagne and started again. “I wish I hadn’t sold that painting. It was my favorite.”

  “I’m glad you sold it,” he replied. When she looked at him, his expression was inscrutable. Under her slight frown, he explained, “It made you cry. I like when my paintings touch people, but I don’t ever want to cause your tears.”

  His voice vibrated with the sheer protectiveness he placed in his words. She had to swallow the lump in her throat to explain, “No, it’s not like that.”

  She glanced at the painting again, but it wasn’t her image she saw anymore. Instead, it was the portrait of a couple, their faces lined with age and experience, but the same love radiating from their locked eyes, the same affection coming from their gentle embrace.

  “There was so much emotion in that painting, so much lo
ve.” She heaved a quiet sigh. “It reminded me of Jack and me when we first fell in love. I had thought we’d grow old together.” Her words dropped to a whisper. “The day you found me crying…we’d had another argument. I had decided to move out. I hadn’t told him yet, and I was scared I was making a mistake, scared I wouldn’t ever find the love I could see in your painting.”

  A little awkwardly because of the glasses they both held, he drew her into his arms and hugged her. She took comfort in the embrace, resting her cheek against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

  “Are you still scared?” he asked after a little while.

  She turned her face up to his and smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if I was.”

  The worry that lined his face disappeared, and he returned her smile. “Let me show you the next one.”

  She reluctantly pulled away from his arms and took a small sip from her glass while he uncovered the next painting. This one showed her face, tilted up as she drank from a glass very much like the one she now held. Her eyes were closed, her throat long and graceful as it arched back. The frame stopped just beneath her shoulders, and because they were bare, she appeared to be naked. Tiny bubbles were flowing in the glass, and in front of them she could guess the reflection of a silhouette. Owen, she supposed.

  She glanced at him, her gaze questioning. This could have represented a couple of occasions, and she wasn’t sure which in particular, if any, it was depicting. As soon as he explained, though, the answer was obvious, and she could only berate herself for not guessing at once.

  “My show,” he said simply.

  Her eyes returned to the painting. She could see it now.

  “Your show. Yes.”

  Memories started drifting to the front of her mind. That had been a few months after she had broken up with Jack.

  “The show you wanted me so much to do,” Owen said.

  She finished his thought. “The show you did in exchange for a date with me.”