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you.”
    Deanna climbed out and slammed the car door. Burn backed out and squealed the tires as he roared down her street.
     
    ***
     
    Three hours and a hot-then-cold shower later, and Deanna still couldn’t sleep. Her body thrummed with yearning from Burn’s touch and kiss. Never, ever had she experienced such intense feelings. The sensation was damned scary and confusing. Not only the lust, but his insane declaration of being a vampire.
    Deanna’d had to get away from him or she would have knocked him to the carpet and crawled all over him. No man had ever worked up her desire so much before. Was he a man? Obviously, if the huge erection he pressed next to her had been any proof. Vampire . His explanation seemed so—stupid. There was no mistaking the fangs, his eyes, and he’d cut himself and healed right in front of her, twice no less. Why wasn’t she more terrified? Did the scent he radiated calm her in some way? Did he turn into a bat? How much of the movie myth was correct? What did he mean about being alone and lonely? She had to admit, his heartfelt confession had touched her deeply. How could such a stunning-looking man be lonely? Then again, if one lived for hundreds of years, who wouldn’t be lonesome?
    Deanna sat on her bed and hugged her knees. It was past one in the morning and sleep did not come. Her life, when you came right down to it, had been uneventful and more or less drama-free. She’d been raised in a loving home in a small town and hadn’t traveled much and hadn’t gone to college. The job she held in retail was not very glamorous. Her looks were okay, attractive enough she supposed. Why in hell was a sexy vampire-model interested in her? How could he ever fit into her life, or more importantly, how could she ever fit in his?
    Her troubled thoughts were soon interrupted by a scratching sound. Must be the Wilsons’ cat again. Or the raccoons . The scraping noise continued, sounding like someone or something clawed at the glass. Deanna jumped to her feet and opened the vertical blinds. The outside light showed there was no one on the small stone patio or in the yard. About to close the blinds, Deanna spotted a letter stuck in the handle. She flicked the lock and slid the glass door open. The unmistakable sound of a V8 engine roared away. Burn’s scent hung enticingly in the air and covered her in sensual warmth. She snatched up the letter, closed the door, and locked it.
    Burn had been at her place. How did he even know she lived in the granny house? Had he sniffed her out? Knowing he’d been just on the other side of the glass simultaneously aroused and worried her. She sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the envelope. The Cobblestone Inn logo was at the top of the pages. After bringing her home he must’ve returned to his room and written this. Like Mr. Darcy did in Pride and Prejudice. Who in hell wrote letters anymore ? Burn Sheridan, apparently.
    There were three pages of a very neat handwriting. The cursive manuscript resembled calligraphy, it was so ornate and fancy. She leaned closer to her night table lamp and began to read.
     
    If ever there was any proof of my longevity, this letter should peg me as a man of another age. I was turned in 1781 in Paris; I was twenty-seven years of age at the time. My title was Viscount Lamberley. As the oldest son and heir of the Earl of Mexborough, I certainly lived life to the fullest. Imagine my horror to find everything changed that fateful night in a French brothel. I have lived many lives, taken different names, and lived in many places in the world. I have resided in Canada, Italy, Switzerland, and a few different regions of the US. I have been a tea importer, a teacher, owner of an art gallery, and a policeman. Long-term investments have made me independently wealthy.
    However, I do not like to sit idle. Through the many decades, wars have come and gone, and as tempted as I was to fight for one cause or another during the past century,