one.”
Finally, the artist turned slowly around. His amber eyes met hers. “You weren’t all that mistaken.”
She couldn’t believe it was really him. With his hair cut and his suit he looked . . . he looked like a man who could take on the world and win.
“I’ve missed you, Candy.”
“Justin, I—I . . .” She tried to put together a coherent sentence while her emotions swirled.
“I’m sorry!” they said together.
“I should have given you a chance to explain,” she blurted out.
“No! I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid party to begin with,” he said. “I want you to know that I wasn’t going there to be with another woman.”
“I know that,” she said.
He took a couple of steps toward her. “Did I really break your heart?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Is there any way you could let me fix it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered again. Then she closed the space between them and stepped into his arms. He bent to kiss her, but her words stopped him. “You’re the artist!”
He smiled. “I am.”
“So you found your inspiration in my poetry?”
“No. I found my inspiration in the woman whose heart finally became soft enough to be broken, and when I did I understood that separately we are just a gigolo wolf and a burned-out teacher, but together . . .” His lips gently brushed against hers.
“Together we make magic,” she finished for him.
Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
The art gallery, Dark Shadows II, was located in trendy downtown Denver, nestled between a Starbucks and a posh designer jewelry shop. It was a popular place, known for its unique exhibits and for discovering talented new artists. But even for a popular gallery, tonight’s opening was busy. No, not busy—mobbed. The gallery owner, Quentin Vlad (whom everyone in Denver believed to be eccentric and odd, which was partially true . . . the other part was that he was a vampire—something that no one needed to know) was all atwitter. Dollar signs were blazing in his eyes, and he didn’t even mind that he’d had to hire extra security to control the crowd. Sold! Every available piece in the exhibit had been sold within the first hour of the opening.
He could hardly believe his brother’s amazing find! Who would have imagined it? A nonmagical poet and an untrained artist werewolf—put them together and they create art that evokes feelings in the people who view it
Now that was magic.
“Fifty thousand! I’ll up my offer to fifty thousand dollars!”
Quentin looked into the flushed face of the sweaty man who was staring, mesmerized, at the spectacular painting and poem that hung side by side in the central room of the gallery. “Sir, I’m sorry. I told you the first twelve times you inquired as to its price. That particular piece is part of the artist and poet’s personal collection. It is not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale,” the man quipped. “Everything has a price.”
“Not that piece.”
The deep voice came from behind them. Quentin and the desperate man looked back to see a tall, handsome young man dressed in dark jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He had his arm around a woman who wore funky, artsy clothes. Her thick blonde hair was loose, framing the arresting green in her eyes perfectly. She leaned into his side intimately.
“No.” She smiled. “Not that piece.”
He bent to kiss her and, arm in arm, they strolled into one of the other crowded rooms of the gallery.
The sweaty-faced man’s gaze stayed with them a moment, but soon his eyes were drawn back to the painting and the poem—as was everyone’s attention. The painting was wondrous, a blending eroticism and beauty so breathtaking that it, alone, would have been an attention-getter in any gallery. But mix it with the poem that was displayed in intricate calligraphy and framed beside it, and wondrous evolved into spectacular . . . magical. As couples read the poem they gravitated together. Lone readers sighed wistfully. Some rushed out of the gallery, already on their cell phones to their lovers. Some just stood and stared, weeping silently at what was missing in their own lives. Some, like the sweaty-faced man, decided that if they just owned the piece then somehow, miraculously, love would find its way into their lives.
“It’s what I want; what I have to have,” the sweaty man said to no one in particular. “It has to be my story.” He looked at Quentin one last time. “I really can’t buy this?”
“No, you really can’t.”
The man’s eyes moved back to the artwork. “But maybe I can get her to forgive me—ask her for a second chance.” His eyes brightened and some of the desperate flush went out of his face. Quentin decided that he must be much more attractive when he wasn’t so, well, sweaty and florid. “That’s it! I’m going to ask her for a second chance!” He gripped Quentin’s thin hand. “Thank you, Mr. Vlad! And thank the artist and the poet, too!” Then he rushed from the gallery.
Quentin grimaced and discreetly wiped his palm on his handtailored Italian suit. But like everyone in the room, his eyes were pulled unerringly back to the wall where the art was exhibited. The painting was almost life- sized. The medium was textured oil, so the nudes looked rich, their skin almost alive. Their bodies were twined together in an intimate embrace—erotic yet loving—sexual and sensual. Their faces were indistinct, and Quentin thought then, as he had the first time he’d seen the piece, about the brilliance of the artist. He’d created a painting that allowed each viewer to imagine his or her own face within the scene. But the woman’s hair was distinctive— thick and long and blonde. The man in the painting fisted it in his desire as it cascaded around her shoulders. Quentin shivered. Even he was not immune to the passion in the piece. His eyes shifted to the poem and, again, he was captured in the poet’s web as he read:
