Brooke Michaels parked the Land Rover she had rented at Inverness Airport near the shore of a small Highland loch and stepped out. This should be the place according to the directions that had been in the envelope.

It certainly was quiet. Swirling vapors rose from the still water, muting the cry of seabirds, even as tendrils of fog reached upward from the glen, obscuring the steep, craggy hills that surrounded her. The sun was dipping low, soon it would be gloaming, and she was in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing here. Certainly not a castle.

Well, what was she expecting? Brigadoon to drop down suddenly? Or maybe the appearance of the shadow man with eyes as black as obsidian that had haunted her dreams the past year?

With a sigh, she swept back her long, wheat-colored hair and glanced down at the gold-embossed lettering on the invitation. The woman who had handed it to her in Harrods was probably bloody well enjoying a gin-and-tonic in some London pub and laughing at her.

“You look like you need to go on holiday,” a cultured female voice said.

Brooke spun around, her arms heaped with clothing that customers had left in the dressing rooms and blew wisps of hair that had escaped her braid from her face. It was past closing time and she was exhausted. Holiday? Ha. She hadn’t been able to afford to go on hols since the fire three years ago had destroyed her home and killed her fiancé, William. The thought that life was too short burst into her mind and she firmly pushed it back. Customers didn’t want to see depressed clerks. Certainly not this slender, elegantly dressed woman who looked disgustingly refreshed. Probably just come from some luxury spa.

“We’re closed,” she said with as much politeness as she could muster after ten hours on her feet, “Would you like me to walk you to the door?”

“That won’t be necessary. I was asked to give you this.” She held out an envelope.

“What is it?” Brooke asked as she laid the clothes on a nearby chair.

“Consider it an opportunity to get away for a few days. My benefactor felt you deserved this.”

“Your benefactor? What’s his name?”

The woman smiled. “That’s not important. Please accept the invitation. You’ll find that everything has been paid for.”

Brooke opened the envelope and her eyes widened. “Welcome,” it said, “to the Castle Falconer”.

When she looked up, the woman was gone.

Now she read the invitation again. Castle Falconer—sometimes called the Castle of Dreams since no one had ever been able to find it—was reputed to be a place where fantasies came true. It was a myth, of course, but the invitation had read, “Need to escape? Want something different?” and it had come complete with airline tickets and a cheque made out to her. She hadn’t had any trouble cashing the voucher and that was what decided her. Three years was long enough for grieving. She was nearly thirty years old. She wanted adventure.

Well, it wasn’t here. The sky was dimming to soft lavender and pink and the fog was thickening. The hostel she had passed on her way up here was a good thirty kilometers back and she didn’t like driving on narrow, winding roads in strange country. She turned to open the car door and then froze at the sound of a light Scottish burr.

“Could I take your bags, lass?”

She turned slowly, fingering her car keys to use as a weapon if necessary, and then she gasped. Where moments before there had been only glen and hills, now a medieval castle stood, shrouded in mist.

A drawbridge lowered over a moat that hadn’t existed seconds ago. The sandy-haired Scot bowed slightly and extended an arm.

“Welcome to the Castle of Dreams.”

Brooke sank down on the huge bed and fingered the watered-silk bedspread that matched the crimson silk drapes hanging from the canopy. Everything in the room bespoke of luxury, from the perfumed soaps in the Jacuzzi tub to the thick, thirsty towels embroidered with the castle’s crest. The outside of the castle was strictly medieval, but once inside, everything was definitely twenty-first century.

She had met the host, Ian Falconer, briefly at the elaborate, six-course dinner that was served in what was a refurbished Great Hall. Tall, lithe rather than bulky, with his raven-black hair and lavender eyes, he was striking, but he seemed not to be aware of it. In fact, Brooke had the distinct impression that he was a very melancholy man with deep secrets. When she had tried to thank him, he had merely smiled and answered that having her enjoy her fantasy was all the thanks he needed.

It was Jamie, the young Scot who had taken her bags, that explained how that would happen.

“You filled out your fantasy request earlier,” he said as he’d shown her to her room. “When you’re ready, lie down on the bed. The dream will come.” He handed her a silver necklace with a round pendant that had a single prong on it, but no numerals. “Wear this. The wand will start ticking when your fantasy begins. When it has made a complete revolution, you will awake.”

“How long will that be?” Brooke asked.

Jamie shrugged. “It depends on your fantasy. What you want.”

She knew what she wanted. She wanted immortality with an eternal lover who would never leave her. Or die, like William had done.

Vampire.

Brooke gave herself a little shake. Vampires didn’t exist except in romance novels and she’d been reading way too many of them. But…this was her fantasy, wasn’t it? So, if she wanted a vampire—a sexy one, not Count Dracul—she could have one. She smiled, imagining a bite, while in the throes of wild, frenzied love-making, that would make her orgasm even more intense with light-headedness as his mouth sucked her life’s blood. Afterwards, she would be his for all Time.

Her smile widened to a grin. Even though this “dream” was probably going to be some hi-tech, multi-dimensional, surround-type system that would mesh with her alpha dream state and she would just be Brooke when it was over, a mind-blowing sexual fantasy wasn’t a bad thing.

She burrowed deeper into the soft pillow and closed her eyes.

*

The noise alone was enough to make her clamp her hands over her ears. Bellowing male voices, drunkenly boasting, rose above the din of pipers to her left and several dogs snarling over a bone to her right. The smoky haze that filled the vast room made it difficult to see, but it seemed there must be a hundred plaid-covered men seated, banging wooden tankards on trestle tables.

“Ye there! Wench! More ale!”

Brooke felt a none-too-gentle nudge and turned around to see a harried-looking serving girl, dressed in a medieval costume, carrying a large platter of succulent roasted meat. It smelled delicious and she reached for a piece only to have the girl glare at her.

“Look to yer own duties,” she hissed.

“What?”

The girl looked at her as though she were dim-witted. “The warriors be wantin’ more ale. See to it.”

“But I…” She clamped her mouth closed, for the girl was gone. Her nose twitched as a fetid odor arose from the floor. She looked down. Dirty straw covered her feet. Then she became aware of what she was wearing: an itchy smock of russet, belted at the waist with thin rope, the neckline a mere hole to slip her head through. Strips of leather passed for sandals.

A large pitcher was thrust into her hands. She looked up to see a scrawny, red-haired boy giving her a worried look.

“Ye’d best go. The Bruce’s men doona like to kept waitin’.”

Brooke stared at him. He wore loose pants to his knees, his feet were bare and his dirty shirt was of the same course material as her own dress. Whoever was in charge of this fantasy was nothing if not realistic. The costumes all looked authentic. And Bruce? As in Robert the Bruce? Good touch. The plaids looked real enough, too. But what did this have to do with her vampire?

Somehow she’d gotten into the wrong fantasy. If she could have a moment’s privacy to pull out the pendant, maybe she could manipulate the hand to wake her.

A man shouted angrily, “Lass! Are ye deaf as weel as dim?”

“Go!” the boy said.

Brooke moved forward, almost falling as she slid on a piece of greasy tallow someone had tossed to the floor. She stopped at the first table.

“Are ye daft?” It was the harried-looking serving girl again who now rolled her eyes. “Ye serve the king’s table first.”

The king. Of course. She’d play along. She saw the raised table at the far end and started toward it, just as someone pinched her backside. She turned around to glare at a big, burly man with a beard who winked lewdly.

“Hurry back, lass. I have a wee itch that needs scratchin’.” He belched loudly amid raucous laughter and Brooke moved quickly on. The sooner she could get out of this fantasy, the better.

The actor who was playing the king had a mild look of consternation on his face as she filled his goblet, but before he could speak, a dark-haired man slipped into the empty seat beside him.

“I’m sorry to be late, my lord. There was a matter—“

“No need to explain, Aidan. Have a drink.”

The man turned to Brooke and held out his cup. She stared at him. Eyes black as obsidian. The man who had haunted her dreams, always just out of her reach. How had Central-casting known? Broad-shouldered and muscular enough to look like a real warrior, his hair was a dark brown, curling slightly at the collar of his linen shirt. Now if the casting director had put sharp little fangs on his teeth, she’d be happy. Just imagining his full, sensual lips slanted across hers, claiming her mouth, then nuzzling her neck until he found that pulsating spot where her pulse pounded in her neck… She began to tremble.