Shadow Prince

She focused her attention on Donald's earnest expression. She hadn't heard a word he'd said, but he didn't seem to have noticed her lapse.

"Angie, you're scared of something that never happened. You can't allow a coma hallucination to rule the rest of your life."

She glared at him, hating his well-meaning words. He had no idea how much that damn hallucination ruled her life. She wasn't afraid of rain because of something that had happened in a dream.

The doctors had explained it all to her. The nightmare images had come from her own brain. On some level, she'd realized that her parents had been killed in the storm-caused car accident that left her in a coma. In an effort to shield her from the truth, her subconscious dreamed up the hallucination.

No, she wasn't afraid of rain because of what she'd dreamed about it. She was afraid because it triggered episodes like the one she'd just had, sending her back into the dream.

Which was why she had to leave. Now. She had to get out of Dino's, before Donald said something that triggered a full attack. If she could just get back to her studio, she could channel her reaction into a painting. She might not be able to control the hallucinations, but at least she'd found a way to profit from them.

Donald would profit, too, if he could sell more of her work. Her fear transformed into anger.

"You know my fears inspire my paintings, but that's okay with you. As long as I don't let my fears inconvenience a gallery showing. Is that what you're saying, Donald? Are you really concerned for me, or are you just worried about losing your fifteen per cent?"

He started, obviously expecting a different reaction. His frown smoothed out, and he spoke with the slow, careful words used to calm angry dogs or irrational children.

"You got your start selling illustrations at fantasy conventions. Of course your paintings are imaginative. They sell so well because your subjects show recognizable emotions, even in fantastic settings. That doesn't mean the emotions are real." He dropped his voice and glanced away. "Or the people."

"The people ... You're frightened of Reynart!"

He laughed weakly, then ruined the effect by gulping half of his cocktail in a single swallow. "That's ridiculous. I am not frightened of an imaginary character you put in all of your paintings."

"He's not in all of them."

"Yes he is. Even if he's not visible, there's a strange shadow on the wall, or a blacker piece of darkness, and I know he's there. Hiding. Waiting."

Her heart softened, and Angelique leaned forward to cover Donald's hand with hers. Far from doubting the truth of her nightmares, her dream images tapped into his nightmares, too. Maybe that was the real secret of her success. A little white lie wouldn't hurt Donald any, and would soothe his masculine pride. "The doctor said painting the scenes from my hallucination was good therapy. And you know yourself that they sell better than the other pieces I've tried."

He slugged back the rest of his drink. "And they'd sell like hotcakes in Seattle. But I'm through arguing with you about it. Take it or leave it, but if you turn this chance down, you get yourself another agent."