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LENGTH: Mid Novel
SENSUALITY: Sensual

Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2003
ISBN 1-58608-138-1
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Trade Paperback ISBN 1-58608-676-6
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He was a creature of the night, destined to live only in darkness and never know the love of a mortal woman. She was goodness and light, everything he'd ever wanted. But she could never be his....

Chance brought Galan and Stephanie together. Evil would keep them apart. And only by defeating the demon, Moloch, can they find happiness together....

RATING: Some violence and explicit sex.

"Five Angels! This book was well written and had some action as well as a villain that made you want to pull the covers over your head. The plot was very well thought out with some really great insight into each character’s feelings. Ms. Martin has written an enchanting book with the charm of a fairy tale and an ending of pure gold." Fallen Angel Reviews

"...the plot moved swiftly, making it impossible to put down. I read it in one sitting, only stopping when I reached the very satisfying end. Ms. Martin weaves a wonderful romance and I would surely read her again." Romance Junkies

"S.A. Martin’s vampire romance, ONE MORE TOMORROW is an emotional and insightful look into the life of a vampire. The grief and the loneliness that Galan expresses make this a poignant tale of a man’s heart and the lengths he would go to for his true love. Atale that is full of evil, deception, powerful love and an author’s imagination and vision, make ONE MORE TOMORROW a tale not to be missed. S.A. Martin is a new addition to my long list of paranormal authors that are a MUST buy." Tracey West, The Road to Romance

"If you like a love story that gives you the warm fuzzies then by all means read ONE MORE TOMORROW. This is a sweet story about love that spans through time, and shows there is one true love for each of us." Sensual Romance Reviews

"Five Roses! S.A. Martin's imagination brightens in this love romance. The characters are in tuned with each other and the story line never falters from being a great paranormal. With her sense of writing and imagination you will never fail of enjoying one of her books and feel satisfied that you enjoyed a vampire romance." LoveRomances.com

"This one will make you stop and think ... do all vampires have such a tragic life? Do they all eventually find happiness after thousands of years? The mystery in this tale is how do you know who has what special powers." Paranormal Romance Reviews

ONE MORE TOMORROW

By

S. A. Martin

(c) copyright February 2003, Shirley Martin

Cover art by Eliza Black, (c) 2003

New Concepts Publishing

www.newconceptspublishing.com

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

Chapter One

Present day

Galan lurked in the shadows, a solitary figure intent on finding his prey. Hunger raged inside him, a fiery, agonizing torment. In silence, he bided his time, certain his perseverance would find its reward.

He cursed the darkness, hating what he'd become.

Wishing he were mortal again.

* * *

After a long and busy day, Stephanie Novak locked the door of The Bookworm's Delight in downtown Miami and headed for the bus stop. A cool November breeze blew across the deserted streets, making her shiver. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and dark clouds hid the moon. She should have left earlier, but she'd stayed late to stock new inventory and lock up.

As she hurried along, her gaze covered both sides of the street, where the lights of cheap electronic and sporting goods stores glowed behind their barred windows. She didn't like being downtown so late, walking the empty streets, never knowing who or what might be prowling these same avenues, but--

A man sprang out from behind a dumpster. "Hold it there, lady." He held a gun, leveled at her heart. Young and sloppy with clumps of stringy hair hanging past his shoulders, he reeked of alcohol.

Chills raced across her arms and legs. Her mouth went as dry as the Sahara at high noon, but she would not reveal her fright.

The mugger pointed to her wrist. "I like your Rolex. Hand it over."

She took a deep breath. "It's a Seiko, but you can have it," she said as she undid the clasp.

"Whatever. Gimme your purse, too."

A quick movement out of the corner of her eye jerked Stephanie's attention from the mugger. A flash of white and black dashed in her direction.

In a split second, the gun flew out of the man's hand and slid across the sidewalk, clattering onto the street. The thief stared at his hand, then at the pistol lying on the street, like a discarded toy. "Wh--what?"

The tall stranger in a white long-sleeved shirt and black pants darted behind the man and whacked him at the base of his neck.

"Ahhh." The jerk crumpled to the ground with a thud.

"Thank--" Her gaze switched to the criminal, a chill racing along her spine. "You killed him!"

"Nonsense, only put him out of commission for a while . . . for a very long while. Don't worry, he won't bother you again."

She gave her assailant a sideways glance. "Shouldn't we call the police? We can't just leave him here to rob someone else when he recovers."

"Yes, of course. Only wait whilst I fetch the gun," he said as he turned away from her.

She stared at his retreating back. Whilst?

The stranger headed for the street to retrieve the weapon, his step lithe and purposeful. He radiated raw, restless energy, as if he'd been imprisoned for a long time, then set free. An air of mystery surrounded him . . . mystery and danger, like a hungry cobra. Her fanciful imagination must be getting the best of her, she thought, her steady gaze on him. Besides, he'd just saved her from a very dangerous situation.

With a look of calm assurance, he strode toward her again, giving her a chance to study him. Thick, heavy eyebrows topped eyes that shone like onyx, eyes with a hypnotic, sensuous quality. Sharp, angular features and high cheekbones imparted a harsh cast to his face, as though it had been chiseled from the finest alabaster. His curly black hair was cropped short at the neck, a stiff breeze ruffling the locks on his forehead. He was really handsome, but even by the streetlight several yards away, she thought he could use a slight tan. Just the same, his was an intriguing face, one she'd never forget. A man she would never forget.

Pistol in hand, he joined her. "Nasty things, handguns. Can cause a lot of trouble." Lightly, he touched her arm, nodding toward the criminal. "Here, let's move away from the scoundrel, so you don't have to look at him."

"The police," she reminded him after they moved next to a newspaper dispensing machine.

"Yes." He dug in his pocket and handed her his car keys, indicating a Mercedes parked across the Boulevard. "Whilst I hold the gun on this criminal, please go unlock my car and fetch my cell phone. You must forgive me for asking you to brave the traffic, but better that than to leave you alone with this thug."

"Hey, no problem."

The rush of oncoming cars kept her on the curb for precious minutes, but after an old pickup truck rattled past, she saw a break in the traffic and hurried across the wide Boulevard. Within a couple of minutes, she retrieved the phone, then with another break in the traffic, returned and handed it to him. After he called the police, he pocketed the phone and smiled, turning the full force of his considerable charm on her.

Despite her agitation, she returned his smile. He had that effect on her.

As they waited for the cops, she searched for the right words to thank her rescuer. He'd saved her from a robbery and maybe even--she shuddered to think about it--he'd saved her life. But how had he knocked the gun from the man's hand? It had happened so quickly.

Her gaze roved over the stranger again, this man with a gentle voice but a face comprised of sharp lines and angles. Here was a man who'd just rescued her from a dangerous encounter, one whose smile could make her forget she'd ever been in danger.

Across the street, the #3 MTA bus rumbled past on Biscayne Boulevard. "There goes my bus," she groaned, "and who knows when the police will arrive!"

Lightning scorched the southern sky, one burst after another, followed by loud claps of thunder. A gust of wind whipped strands of hair across her face, and she tucked the locks behind her ears. The temperature dropped several degrees, and now, a rainstorm would catch her for sure.

He inclined his head. "You must let me drive you home,

Miss . . .?"

"Stephanie Nov--everyone calls me Stevie, which I prefer." Her teeth chattered. She didn't even know if she made sense, her narrow escape still gnawing at her nerves. "Thanks for your offer, but I can't expect you to drive me home." What was she doing with this stranger in downtown Miami--at night? "I sure want to thank you for . . . for what you did. If you hadn't come along . . . well, I--I don't know what I would've done, Mr. . . . uh?"

"Galan Kent." He grinned, revealing even white teeth. "It would be my pleasure to drive you home." Richly sensual, his voice slid over her like a Persian kitten. His eyes were dark and mysterious, his gaze quite the most compelling she'd ever seen.

Stevie waved her hand dismissively. "Thanks, but I can take a taxi, Mr. Kent." She wished she could ride home with him, this fascinating man with his ebony eyes and deep voice.

"Galan," he murmured.

"Galan. I can't thank you enough for the way you saved me from this--" she looked toward the man who still lay prone on the sidewalk-- "this jerk, but I can't expect you to do any more for me."

"Why go to the trouble and expense of a taxi when I can take you home?"

"Well....”

Galan folded his arms across his chest. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Now that I've saved you from robbery and quite possibly murder, you fear a fate worse than death." He looked at her closely, a hint of a smile on his face. "Am I correct?"

In spite of her shattered nerves, Stevie smiled. "Like I said, I appreciate what you did for me, but I don't know you from Adam."

In a burst of theatrics, he placed his hand over his heart. "Madam, I assure you I have nothing but honorable intentions." He paused. "Here, permit me to show you something," he said as he dug a wallet from his back pocket and flipped through it. Stevie liked his hands, strong, masculine hands, the fingers long and expressive. Something told her those hands could be gentle, too. Where had that idea come from?

"I believe you can see well enough by the streetlight." He held his wallet in front of her, showing a laminated card that revealed he belonged to the Police Auxiliary. "I help the police catch criminals," he said in his resolute voice.

How did she know he told the truth? She really couldn't see his photo well by the streetlight. "So? I still don't know you." But she sure would like to.

He smiled, a slow, potent smile that made her want to believe anything he said, no matter how outrageous. "Ah, but--"

Lights flashing, the police car arrived. Two blue uniformed policemen--one tall and the other with a medium build--approached.

The tall cop greeted Galan. "Why, Mr. Kent, they didn't tell me it was your call."

"Indeed." Galan gestured toward the unconscious man. "Bit of trouble here."

Stevie's gaze flew from the policeman to Galan. Apparently her rescuer had told the truth about his membership in the Police Auxiliary, so maybe it was safe to ride home with him. The prospect sent her imagination skittering in a hundred different directions, each one more exciting than the last.

The tall officer focused his attention on Stevie. "You're the young woman who was assaulted?"

"Yes." Loud claps of thunder in the distance made her wince. All she wanted was to go home, forget the damn mugger.

Stepping over the unconscious man, Galan handed the gun to the shorter officer who knelt by the criminal and felt for a pulse.

"This perp's out cold," the officer said to his partner. "I'll call for an ambulance." While he radioed in the request, the other one turned to Galan and Stevie.

"We'll need statements from both of you tomorrow, but you can leave as soon as I get some initial information from you."

"I'll give a statement later tonight," Galan said.

"Fine, Mr. Kent."

Minutes later, the officers gave them permission to leave.

Another clap of thunder boomed, then raindrops poured from a leaden sky, thick, heavy drops that splattered on the sidewalk and dampened her hair and clothes.

Galan tapped her arm. "You don't want to get wet. Permit me to take you home now."

He's a nice enough guy, she thought as she wiped the raindrops from her eyes. Talked funny, though. Where'd he come from, the Dark Ages?

"Okay." Chilled from the rain and convinced she could trust him, Stevie rushed with Galan to his sleek Mercedes. He opened the passenger door for her, then hurried around to the other side and slid into the driver's seat.

"Now tell me where you live," he said as he turned onto S.E. First Street.

"Miami Shores. Just go north on the Boulevard."

"I know where Miami Shores is, in fact, it's not too far from where I live." After the light turned green, he headed north. "You live in a nice area," he said with a quick smile in her direction. "I often pass through there."

"I don't live in one of the big houses. Just rent a small apartment connected to a mansion. Guess it was the maid's quarters at one time."

"You don't live with your parents?" he asked with another glance her way.

"Uh, uh, they live up north." She paused, trying to forget tonight's scumbag as well as family worries. "What about your family?"

He shook his head, sorrow in every line of his face. "They have all been dead for a long time."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He looked so alone with such a deep sadness in his eyes, and she wished she could reach over to touch him, comfort him. She wondered what kind of job he had, or if he had any. Maybe he was a playboy with money to burn; plenty of them in Miami. "You work downtown?"

"No, I had business to attend to this evening."

"Kinda late, don't you think? It's after ten."

"Only time possible."

"Well, where do you work?"

He chuckled. "Maybe I don't work at all." He spoke quickly, sending a faint smile her way. "Mind if I ask why you were downtown so late?"

What a voice, as hypnotic as his eyes, as smooth as black velvet. With a voice like that, she could ride to Los Angeles and back with him and never tire of the trip. The smell of new leather mingled with the faint scent of sandalwood, an unbeatable combination that added to his attraction.

"Madam?"

"Oh!" She licked dry lips. "I'm a manager at a bookstore, and I still had a few things to do after the store closed. It's a temporary job," she added, wondering why she felt the need to explain. "Saving my money for college."

"I see."

They drove in silence as the rain beat against the car windows, and the wipers swished back and forth, like a metronome. Palm trees thrashed in the wind, and rainwater gushed from sidewalks and splashed onto the street, spilling into the gutters.

Stevie observed Galan's hands on the steering wheel, his long, agile fingers, and she wondered if he were a pianist. More likely a magician. How else could you explain how he'd flipped the gun from the mugger's hand?

She liked his nose, an aquiline nose, she guessed you'd call it, his lips sensual and set in a firm line, giving him the appearance of determination. Something about him appealed to her, a quality she couldn't quite put her finger on. The man was really attractive, but she liked a guy to have enough of a tan to show he exercised outdoors. This man must spend most of his days in an office, unless he really was a magician. If so, he was welcome to perform his magic on her. Sweet, wonderful, dangerous magic.

A glance out the window told her the rain had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and Galan turned off the windshield wipers.

"Turn right at the next light," she said, reaching for her purse, setting it in her lap.

They drove onto a wide street with magnificent oaks, grand houses, and planter islands brimming with impatiens on both sides of the street. As silence pervaded the car, the full force of her attack came back to hound her. The rain-slick street reflected the glow of street lights, a faint illumination that offered scant comfort. This pleasant and shady avenue now appeared treacherous, as if a thief hid behind each tree, and danger lurked on every corner.

"Here we are," Stevie said several minutes later. "Home."

There were so many things she wanted to say to him, but the words got stuck between her brain and her lips. A slew of emotions rattled her as she unbuckled her seat belt. Happy--relieved!--to arrive safely at her apartment, she knew tonight was the last she'd see of her rescuer. She gripped her purse handle as cold reality sank in. Never see him again. Why should that bother her so?

He stopped in front of a fine Georgian mansion with wide pillars, where huge ceramic planters brimful with red poinsettias added a dash of color to a white front porch, and a Volvo and a Lincoln Navigator tenanted a curving driveway. Grateful for the bright floodlights that offered a clear view of the spacious yard and the brick walkway to her apartment, she reached for the door handle.

"No, wait. Permit me to open the door for you."

"Thanks, but I'm halfway out already." Stevie stepped onto the rain-slick sidewalk and smiled at him as he came around to her, unsure of the protocol in such a situation. She'd never accepted a ride from a stranger before. "Thanks again," she said, holding her hand out to him, "both for coming to my rescue and for the ride home. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I . . . I might have been killed, if you hadn't come along."

His hand was surprisingly cool, yet she found his clasp comforting, like an ice-cold coke on a sultry hot day.

"It was nice of you to drive me home," she repeated to cover her confusion.

"My pleasure, Stevie." He withdrew a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled a number on it, then tore out the page and handed it to her. "My phone number. If you ever need help for any reason, please call me." Black, enigmatic eyes stared into hers, and she couldn't have looked away if a Brinks truck had spilled its loot onto the street.

She tucked the paper in her pants pocket. "Thanks, I'll remember," she said, fishing in her purse for her keys. "I thought chivalry was dead, but I see it's alive and well in Galan Kent."

"Anything for a lady. Now, may I walk you to your apartment?"

"You don't need to," she said, unaccountably downcast at the thought of his leaving.

"Please, I'd feel better if I saw you to your door." He placed his hand lightly under her elbow. "Now lead the way." He walked with a certain masculine grace, but the only sound she heard on the pavement was her own footsteps. . . .

From inside her apartment, she watched his long strides as he returned to his car. A real gentleman, she thought, but not quite as open as she liked a man to be, almost as if he had something to hide. Secrets. He wouldn't even tell her where he worked. Well, she'd had enough of sneaky people, and she could manage fine without knowing another, thank you very much. There was something different about his speech, too, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, sort of old-fashioned. But surely his quaint speech was part of his attraction?

Galan Kent had given her a lot to think about--his dark eyes and deep voice, his old world charm that brought to mind some of those vintage movies from the 'forties. Too bad she'd never see him again.

* * *

Behind an oak tree across the street, Moloch watched as Galan escorted the mortal woman to her door. It's a good thing I came to Miami tonight, Moloch thought, angling his head past a bougainvillea bush to obtain a better view. His original purpose had been to discuss a troublesome vampire with Galan, but now he was beginning to wonder if Galan himself might cause trouble. Look at how he was consorting with a mortal woman! What was Galan's purpose--to lure the woman, transform her into one of the undead? Yes, that was acceptable. Anything else was not.

Suppose Galan developed an attraction for her? She was pretty--for a human. Moloch folded his arms across his chest, his mind scheming. One thing he knew--he would not permit any attachment between a mortal and a vampire, especially Galan, the one he'd chosen as his successor in the Society of the Undead.

Among all the vampires in the world, Galan had always been the most responsible, the most dependable . . . until now. What had happened to change him? Or had he changed? Moloch wondered, realizing he couldn't judge Galan by his actions this one night.

But what was his purpose in taking the woman home? Moloch nodded with determination. He would keep a vigilant eye on Galan, and yes, the woman as well.

If he had to, he would destroy her, and take pleasure in doing so. She was such a lovely thing, and that would make draining her blood all the more erotic.

* * *

Galan headed back toward Miami, with only mild self- reproach for deceiving the young lady with his fake Police Auxiliary card. As for planting recognition in the policeman's mind--he'd erase the memory when he visited the police station later tonight. No harm done. What a stroke of luck to be in downtown Miami so early, when he usually stalked the city in the middle of the night.

If the young lady only knew he'd stolen the Mercedes from a Philadelphia mobster, along with $20,000--what would she think of him then? Well, it wasn't the first time he'd stolen money from a criminal, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He didn't need the money, of course--he'd amassed a fortune over the centuries--but it didn't hurt to remind these criminals of their vulnerability.

Stopped at a red light, he recalled Stevie's lovely looks. Long blonde hair framed a pretty and certainly fascinating face, one he knew would haunt his dreams for days to come. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than he. And her hair! He hadn't seen such colored locks in many years, a shade that reminded him of Linette. He sighed. Better not dwell on Linette--the recollections were too painful--but concentrate instead on the lady he'd rescued. He liked her attractive nose with a slight tilt at the tip, and he wouldn't wager on it, but he felt sure her eyes were blue. Like Linette's.

Stevie, a lovely woman. Full, lush breasts, a slim waist, and long legs aroused desire and resurrected a hundred memories that refused to stay buried.

He wanted to see her again--he would see her again--but for now, a more immediate wish demanded his attention.

He needed to feed.

* * *

On a deserted street in downtown Miami, Galan held a criminal in his superhuman grip.

"Hey, let me go! Who the hell d'you think you are?" A short, squat man with beady eyes, the malefactor twisted and struggled, helpless against Galan's solid strength.

Galan shook him. "You damned son of a bitch, I saw you, not ten minutes ago, when you ravished a defenseless woman." If only he'd arrived a few minutes sooner, he could have saved her, a regret that deepened his fury.

After he hypnotized the victim a few minutes ago so she'd forget her horrible experience, Galan had sought her assailant and found him two blocks from the crime scene, here in this dark alley.

The criminal squirmed in Galan's grasp. "I never hurt nobody."

Galan slapped him across the face. "Don't lie to me, you bastard!"

He tightened his grip, his nails digging into the man's shoulder. "You'll pay for your sin, oh, yes, you'll pay. Consider yourself fortunate I won't kill you . . . this time." He shook him harder. "Don't ever commit such a ghastly crime again, or I promise you, next time you won't escape with your life."

The man trembled, and frightened eyes stared into Galan's. "Wh--what are you going to do to me?"

"This." Galan sank his teeth into the man's neck.

* * *

Before the first faint lavender glow lit the east, Galan returned to his home, an old two-story stucco set on one-half acre, tucked among a spreading oak, assorted palm trees, and bushy foliage which hid it from view.

With only a thought, he opened his front door, then stepped into a silent, dark living room. Living room. He chuckled, finding bizarre humor in the oxymoron. Like the rest of the house, this room held elegant, comfortable furniture, plentiful adornment to ensure his part-time housekeeper wouldn't become suspicious.

Galan snickered. Moloch didn't know he only fed on criminals but didn't kill them. What would the fiend think of him then? He laughed, not caring what Moloch thought.

As daylight began to creep into the corners, Galan rushed upstairs to his wide bedroom closet and drew the deadbolt. Satisfied with all the events this night but especially with images of the mortal woman haunting him, he climbed into his silk-lined coffin and pulled the lid shut.

* * *

The early morning sky remained dark and cloudy as Stevie exited the bus and made her way to the bookstore, a couple blocks to the south. As she walked the empty streets, she thought of her attack last week, which brought to mind her rescuer, Galan Kent. What an unusual first name, an unusual man besides, a guy who'd been in her mind a lot since that night. She sighed, wishing she would see him again.

A cold wind blasted her face, making her shiver. She quickened her steps and pushed her jacket collar up around her neck. She had a lot of books to enter into the computer before the place opened, but first, she had to check on Joe, one of the many homeless who slept on the streets and in the doorways of downtown Miami, one of many unfortunates she tried to help.

"Why do you spend so much time with the homeless?" a close friend had once asked.

Stevie had hesitated. "My father is a property attorney up north, and--this isn't something I like to admit--but he accepted a big bribe from a wealthy developer--"

"A bribe?"

"To persuade the zoning board to let the developer build a high rise. The land was supposed to be used for low income housing."

Her friend gave her a puzzled look. "So what's that got to do with you?"

"I know it's just a drop in the bucket, but it's my way of making up for what my father did." She choked on her words. "It's one of the reasons why I decided to study social work in college, instead of going into law like the rest of the family. I wish I could feel the same way toward my dad as I did when I was younger, but it's too late now.....”

Too late now, she repeated as she hustled along the street, sidestepping an empty beer can. A glance at her watch told her the police would soon come to rouse Joe from his sleep and chase him on his way--wherever his way might be.

She arrived at Joe's "home"--and stopped. Sprawled on the sidewalk, he lay with his arms flung out at his side, his skin absolutely white. No pool of blood on the sidewalk, no blood anywhere! A look of terror darkened his face. Cold, nameless dread sent chills along her arms and down her legs, a wave of nausea making her swallow convulsively.

"Joe!" she whispered. No answer. "Joe, wake up!"

Gingerly, she felt his wrist but found no pulse. God, how had he died? Why was his skin so pale? Her knees buckled and threatened to give out. Her heart pounded. She leaned her head against the side of the building, her hands clenched so hard the nails dug into her palms.

Seconds passed before she jerked away from the building and kicked a stray bottle, heading for the bookstore to call the police.