AFTER TWILIGHT.

By Amanda Ashley, Christine Feehan & Ronda Thompson.

To Chris and Ronda for being there when I need them, and to all the sweet people on my eGroup list for their continued love and support.

For Sara... I love how you love your children.

Madeline... you know the meaning of friendship.

Ronda... you said yes when we asked.

A special thank you to Linda Kruger, my agent, for being so supportive of me and my work, and to Mandy and Christine for being wonderful authors, nice people and great friends.

MASQUERADE.

Amanda Ashley MASQUERADE.

See me the man I was before the darkness fell upon my soul

Know me the monster who hides his ugliness in the shadows of the night

Release me from my lonely prison let your light drive the bitterness from my tortured heart

Love me free me from this endless masquerade

-A. Ashley

Chapter One.

Los Angeles, 1993 He was a very old vampire, weary of living, weary of coming alive only in the darkness of the night.

For three hundred years he had wandered the unending road of his life alone, his existence maintained at the expense of others, until the advent of blood banks made it possible to satisfy his hunger without preying on the innocent and unsuspecting.

And yet, there were times, as now, when the need to draw warm blood from a living, breathing soul was overpowering.

He stood in the shadows outside the Ahmanson, watching groups of happy, well-dressed people exit the theater. He listened to s.n.a.t.c.hes of their conversation as they discussed the play. He'd seen the show numerous times; perhaps, he thought wryly, because he could so easily sympathize with the Phantom of the Opera. Like Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's tragic hero, he, too, was forced to live in the shadows, never to walk in the warmth of the summer sun, never able to disclose his true ident.i.ty.

And so he stood on the outskirts of mortality, breathing in the fragrance of the warm-blooded creatures who pa.s.sed him by. They hurried along, blissfully unaware that a monster was watching, drinking in the myriad smells of their humanity, sensing their happiness, their sorrows, their deepest fears.

He waited until the crowds had thinned, and then he began to follow one of the numerous street beggars who had been hustling the theater patrons. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of homeless men roaming the streets of Los Angeles. On any given night you could find a dozen or so lingering outside the Ahmanson, hoping for a handout that would buy them a bottle and a few hours of forgetfulness.

A faint grimace played over his lips as he drew near his prey.

After tonight there would be one less beggar haunting Hope Street.

Chapter Two.

He was there again, standing on the corner, his long angular face bathed in the hazy glow of the streetlight.

Leanne felt his hooded gaze move over her as she left the side entrance and made her way toward the parking lot across the street. Behind her, she could hear the excitement build as Davis Gaines, who many considered to be L.A.'s best Phantom, appeared at the stage door to sign autographs and pose for pictures.

She was unlocking the car door when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she whirled around.

It was him. Up close, he was even more handsome than she had thought. His face was made up of sharp planes and angles, totally masculine, totally mesmerizing. His hair was black and straight and fell well past his shoulders. His eyes were an intense shade of blue, and as her gaze met his, she knew she had been waiting a lifetime for this moment, this man.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said in a deep, resonant voice. He held out a theater program. "I was hoping you'd sign this for me."

Leanne smiled. "Why would you want my autograph? I'm only in the chorus."

"But you have such a lovely voice."

She laughed softly. "You must have excellent hearing, to pick my voice out of dozens of others."

His smile was devastating. "My hearing is quite good for a man of my age."

Leanne's gaze moved over him curiously. She didn't know how old he was, of course, but he didn't look to be much more than thirty at most.

He offered her a pen, one brow raised in question.

"Who should I make it out to?" Leanne asked.

"Jason Blackthorne."

"Blackthorne." She gazed up at him intently. "Why does that name sound so familiar to me?"

"Does it?"

She nodded, then took the pen from his hand. He read the inscription over her shoulder: "To Jason, May you always have someone to love, and someone to love you. Leanne"

He felt a catch at his heart. Someone to love... Jolene. Leanne's resemblance to his first and only love was uncanny.

He smiled his thanks as she handed him the program, his gaze moving over her face, lingering on her mouth before moving to the pulse that beat in her throat. She was small, pet.i.te, with skin that looked as though it rarely saw the sun, hair the color of sun-kissed earth, and luminous green eyes fringed with dark lashes. She wore a Phantom sweatshirt, a pair of black tights that clung to her shapely legs like a second skin, and sneakers.

Jason clenched his hands at his sides as he fought the urge to take her into his arms, to touch those lips with his own, to sip the sweet crimson nectar from her veins.

Leanne frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I was just wondering if we might go somewhere for a drink."

She should say no. There were a lot of sick people running around these days, obsessive fans, psychotics,,and yet there was something in Jason Blackthorne's eyes that made her trust him implicitly.

"I know a little place not far from here," she suggested with a tentative smile.

"I'll follow you in my car," Jason said, somewhat surprised by her ready acceptance of his invitation. Didn't she read the papers? Muggings and rapes and murders were rampant in the city.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he crossed the parking lot to his own car. Indeed, he mused as he slid behind the steering wheel, she would be far safer with one of the city's lowlifes than she was with him.

The bar was located on a narrow side street. He knew a moment's hesitation as he followed her inside, and then sighed with relief. There were no mirrors in sight.

They took a booth in the rear. She ordered a gla.s.s of red wine, as did he.

"So," Jason said, "tell me about yourself."

"What would you like to know?"

She felt his gaze move over her face, soft as candlelight. "Everything."

"I'm twenty-three," Leanne said, mesmerized by his gaze. "I'm an only child. My parents live in Burbank, but I have a small apartment not far from the theater." She smiled at him, a shy intimate smile. "Someday I hope to make it to Broadway."

"Have you a boyfriend?"

"No."

You have now.

Did he speak the words aloud, or was her mind playing tricks on her, echoing words she wished to hear?

"How long have you been with the play?"

"Two years."

"I hear it'll be closing soon. What will you do then?"

"I'm not sure."

"How long have you been acting?"

"This is my first role." Leanne smiled. "I always wanted to be on stage, and I decided, what the heck, why not go for it? So, I tried out and they hired me." She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. "What do you do?"

"I'm a cop." The lie rolled easily off his lips.

"You're kidding!" He didn't look like any police officer she'd ever seen. Dressed in a loose fitting white sweater, a pair of black jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked more like a movie star than a cop.

One black brow lifted slightly-"I take it you don't care for the police."

"No, no, it's just that..." She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "You don't look like a cop."

"How's that?"

"No mustache," Leanne said, running a fingertip over his upper lip. "All the cops I know have a mustache." Jason grunted softly. "And do you know a lot of cops?"

"Not really. Where do you work?"

"Hollenbeck."

"That's a rough area."

Jason shrugged. "I like it." Their drinks had arrived during their conversation,

but neither had paid much attention. Now, Jason picked up his gla.s.s. "What shall we drink to?"

Leanne lifted her gla.s.s. "Long life and happiness?" she suggested.

"Happiness," he repeated softly. "I'll drink to that."

"And long life?"

His gaze was drawn to her throat, to where her pulse beat strong and steady. "Long life can be a curse," he muttered.

"A curse! What do you mean?"

He dragged his gaze from her neck. "Just what I said. I've seen too many people who've lived past their prime, people with nothing left to live for, with nothing to hope for but a quick death, an end to pain."