Chapter 15.

Chapter 16.

Chapter 17.

Chapter 18.

Chapter 19.

Chapter 20.

Chapter 21.

Chapter 22.

Chapter 23.

Chapter 24.

Prologue.

1491, Galicia, Spain T he thought of slowly strangling the life from his wife made the flogging almost bearable for Diego Rivera.

As each lash stripped another bit of skin from his back, he imagined his hands encircling her throat. Imagined himself watching her eyes bulge as he exerted pressure and heard the crack of cartilage beneath his fingers.The pleasure of his near-delirium daydream evaporated as one particularly s.a.d.i.s.tic blow penetrated his defenses and his body jerked spasmodically.

"Madre de Dios," he gasped as fire erupted between his shoulder blades. Beside the heat of the whip as it tore into his flesh, Diego sensed a warmth that could only be blood trickling down his back.

"Confess your sins, convert. It will go easier if you tell us the truth," the Inquisitor urged from his spot a few feet away. Beside him sat a physician whose job it was to make sure the heretic wasn't too far gone to confess.

This business of saving lives wasn't supposed to kill anyone, Diego thought cynically, then laughed out loud.

The sound bounced off the stone walls of the room, shocking his torturers, who looked at him as if he was crazy. Maybe he was, Diego mused, as he heard the eerie echo of his laughter, sounding too much like that of a madman.

As the physician rose from the chair and walked toward him, Diego realized they would stop the punishment now and wait for him to be more lucid. That was the way it had been for weeks now. Maim, wait, repeat.

It was the way it would be today.

The physician jerked his head toward Diego, and two guards quickly undid the shackles that had been cutting into his wrists.

Released from his bondage, he slumped and would have fallen to the ground if not for the guards, who dragged him from the chamber toward the small cell that had held him prisoner for nearly a month now.

They tossed him inside unceremoniously. He landed roughly on the floor, his head smacking against the cobblestones, since his arms were too feeble to break his fall.

What was one more bruise? he thought as the chilly humidity of the cell quickly registered his burning flesh. He shivered violently, which brought renewed pain to his mangled back and sore arms. He tried to quell the chatter of his teeth and swore he would get vengeance on those who had betrayed him.

He didn't know how long a time pa.s.sed before the slight scuffle of footsteps on the stone floor drew his attention.

"Esperanza?" He glanced upward and smiled as the familiar face of the plain servant girl from his home crept into his vision.

Esperanza had been sneaking into the prison to care for him.

"Don Diego, I'm so sorry," she said as she dabbed at his back with a moist cloth.

At his groan, she explained, "This will keep it from getting infected."

Diego knew she meant well, but keeping him alive would only benefit the Inquisitor. He gently laid a hand on her thigh as she knelt beside him. "You are a good girl, Esperanza."

Her gasp confused him. In her vibrant brown eyes, however, he finally saw why she risked her life to help him-she was in love with him. In a way, he cared for her, as well.

Diego had barely noticed her the entire time that she labored in his home. He had been too busy whoring with many more beautiful women, including his own b.i.t.c.h of a wife. His infidelities had been the reason that his wife had lied about him and turned him over to the Inquisitor. Backing her claims that he was a relapsed convert was a lower n.o.bleman who coveted Diego's properties and wife.

G.o.d help the poor man when he discovered the real nature of the harridan Diego had married.

A woman nothing like kind and gentle Esperanza, he thought, pa.s.sing his hand over her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth and remarkably creamy in color, in sharp contrast to the deep auburn of her hair."Do not come again, little one. I am not worth your life," he said, and in truth, he meant it. Selfish and materialistic, he had not been a good man up until now. It had taken this unfortunate encounter with the Inquisitor to make him realize he needed to change.

"Don Diego-"

"Promise me you will stay away." As tears filled her eyes and spilled over, he whispered, "I will never forget you."

She kissed his cheek, then rose and rushed from his cell.

He didn't expect the loneliness that followed her departure. It was a greater torture than any the Inquisitor could visit on him.

Loneliness had been with him for most of his life, he had realized in the weeks of numbing pain and solitary confinement within this small cell.

He vowed that if he survived, he would strive to change that. Strive to do good.

G.o.d had to have visited this torture on him for a reason, and he wasn't about to question why he had been called.

He just intended to answer when the time was right.

Chapter 1.

2007, New York City P a.s.sion.

It didn't exist in every person who graced the earth, Diego suspected. Only a handful truly knew what it meant to live their lives with such intensity. In the five hundred years since a vampire's kiss had turned him into an immortal, Diego had surrounded himself with artists and others who lived life to the fullest. Who lived life with pa.s.sion.

Ramona Escobar was such a person, Diego decided as he looked over the latest work she had done.

As he strolled back and forth in front of the six paintings, the vibrant colors called to him, as did the amazing movement and life splashed across the canvases. Beneath it all shimmered the sensuality of the scenes Ramona had depicted in her works-a study of men and women in various stages of making love.

He considered how to best display these paintings in his gallery. He had no doubt he would do so, since they were as wonderful as the others Ramona had done over the years, except...

A yearning existed in these works he hadn't seen before. A need that connected to something deep within him. He had to take a shaky breath to quell the desire that rose in him as he perused one piece. He was sure other people would feel the same and that the paintings would fetch a good price. Possibly an immense price. Thanks to the many centuries he had mingled with the artsy set, he knew how to recognize talent.

"These are wonderful," he said.

Pet.i.te and slender, Ramona stood beside him, wiping paint off her hands with a rag.

"Do you think so?" she asked, clearly uncertain. He wondered, as he had more than once during the half-dozen years he'd known her, about the kind of woman she was. One with pa.s.sion mixed with equal parts humility and doubt. She had matured since the day he had met her, during her final year of art school. He had been intrigued back then by the young, tough ragam.u.f.fin with so much talent, but little ego.

But then again, had she been a braggadocio like some other artists he had encountered, he doubted their professional relationship would have lasted this long. Diego did not suffer fools or braggarts. They reminded him too much of how he had been before beginning his eternal life.

Driving that thought from his mind, he said, "Truly unique. They will sell well."

"Que bueno. When do you think you can show them?" She continued wiping her hands with the cloth, the gesture telling.

Diego laid his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold, which worried him. "Is something wrong, amiga? If it's money-"

"I know you would give it to me. It's nothing, really," Ramona said, and looked up at Diego's remarkable face.

He was so handsome and so honorable. When she had first met him, she had been struck by his elegance and beauty. In the many years they had known each another, he had always done right by her, showing her that his beauty went far beyond his physical attributes. He would do right by her this time, as well.

"I'm fine. Let me know when you want to do the show." She hoped to finish raising the money she needed to care for her mother.

He stroked her hand once again in a gentle gesture, and, unnerved by his touch, because it made her think of things that weren't possible, she walked away from him. At the table holding her paints and brushes, she set down the cloth.

Diego glanced at the paintings once more before striding toward her. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The blue silk brought out the color of his intense ice-blue eyes.

When he stood before her, he tossed his head, sending the longish strands of his artfully highlighted, nutmeg-brown hair back, which emphasized the strong lines of his pale face.

Ramona had always been intrigued by his looks, a product of the Celtic roots in his part of Spain. A Gallego to the core, he would often tease her when she mentioned her own mixed heritage-part cubana, part Newyorican and part Irish. The only thing they had in common was a bit of the Celt.

Not to mention that no one had to tell her Diego had known wealth all his life. He had the easy confidence of a man who had never experienced true want.

She on the other hand had known nothing but want since the death of her father, and her mother's illness. And of course, her own illness now.

Ramona was a hard-luck gal, with the hardest luck of all to face-the possibility that she might soon die.

She hadn't said anything to anyone. Not that she had anyone to say it to, she thought sadly as Diego bent and hugged her.