Angel Hands (18 page)

And yet, perhaps, there was shading to the blackness of the truth. Perhaps, it was not so much that she wanted him to care for her, to love her, but rather, that she wanted someone—anyone—to love her.

Her father's love had been a lifeline after Philippe's abandonment. It had not filled the gaping wound in her heart, but was enough of an opiate to sustain her.

Raymond...how foolish she had been to push him away. As if proving herself a worthy manager and strong enough to live without love meant anything in the end. No, the only thing that mattered in the end was love.

Raymond had loved her, and she believed that had she let herself, she could have loved him, too. Yet, had he truly loved her? Or, had he been enamored of his role of protector and gallant chevalier? Then again, if true love could grow for her, it could have grown for him as well.

She should have insisted they run off to the
mairie
of the
quartier
and procured a license that day and been married by a priest that night.

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered his sweet kiss and the way he had gazed at her with clear, truthful blue eyes.

No!

She pushed back from the desk, the legs of the chair scraping harshly across the freshly varnished floor. Had she run away with Raymond, the phantom still would have found her and taken her away. Who knows what kind of danger Raymond would have been in if he had stood in the way or tried to protect her. No matter what befell her, she could not bear the thought of a good, innocent man paying the price for her mad husband’s schemes.

Pacing over to the window, she began to berate herself for wandering into maudlin marshes full of regret. There was no going back. She was married. This was the life before her now. She would simply have to make the best-

Bon Dieu
!

Was she a magician? Had she conjured him from her thoughts?

Raymond Lefebre stood in the street before her opera house, gazing up at the facade and frowning.

She was flying. Racing through the corridor, pounding down the stairs, running along another narrow passage without any thought except to reach him.

The grabbing happened too fast for her to feel more than a jerk, a whoosh, and a slam as she hit a wall.

One, two, three
, she counted the ebbing throb in her shoulder as she realized where she was. There was daylight. This was not a secret passage. It was an empty office flooded with mid-afternoon light.

How odd. Perhaps she had grown too used to being yanked into the dark for every confrontation. She stifled a hysterical giggle and blinked back tears, scrambling for rage to shield her.

"Planning a touching reunion?" His velvet voice rubbed against the nap of anger. "Scheming to follow fashion and take a lover?"

She remained silent, refusing to look at him as she battled her warring emotions. She wanted to scream 'Yes!' but the truth was that she didn't know herself what she had been planning.

He closed the distance between them, casting his long shadow upon her as he towered over her. She closed her eyes, desperate and unready for this showdown. Her emotions were too raw, too close to the surface. She would not win. No, she would not even be able to hold the little ground she stood upon. He'd see her broken heart, and then he'd take possession of it, her final defense, and use it against her.

Ah, there was the flicker of anger she needed. He would never care for her heart. No one ever would, except her, and she would fight like a lioness to protect it now.

Straightening and raising her eyes to his, she glared at him defiantly.

"If I did take a lover," she said crisply. "What would it matter to you?"

He blinked, and confusion flashed through his eyes before menace took its place.

"You belong to me," he said in a matter-of-fact tone that chilled her far more than any shout could do.

"So does your pocket watch, and we both serve a purpose for you. But, when you sleep, what do you care what your pocket watch does?"

His eyes narrowed, and his breathing came heavier. "So that is what this is about. Can you truly say you wish to go to a monster's bed every night?"

She was too shocked to silence at the fact that both 'yes' and 'no' were on the tip of her tongue. He pushed her back against the wall, using the full length of his body to pin her. He lifted one hand to her neck and toyed with the top button of her bodice.

"I could take you here," he said, his voice promising the dark. "It is my right as a husband to take you for hours, if I wished it."

When had her body turned to flame? His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath upon her lips. His eyes burned, and his nostrils flared. Even his cold, fierce mask was seducing her.

Her mouth was too dry for words.
Bon Dieu
, how had he undone so many buttons? His fingers against the skin of her throat set her afire, and her body unabashedly ached for him.

He was magnificent.

Whatever lay behind the mask was nothing compared to the whole man before her.

"I could strip you bare and tie you up, with pretty ribbons, to our bed," he breathed, his other hand coming around her waist. "I could leave you for hours, wondering when I would come for you."

His hand snaked around her hips to grasp her bottom as he ground himself into her. At the same time, he brought his mouth to the sensitive place behind her ear, dropping a feathery kiss upon her skin.

She closed her eyes. Simply breathing took every ounce of concentration she had now.

"I could take you with fury," he whispered, his fingers digging cruelly into her bottom. "Or, as gently as I liked." He nipped softly at her earlobe.

His warmth vanished, and Mireille opened her eyes to find he had retreated to the opposite side of the room. Shaking and breathless, she stared at him, hardly knowing what she wanted now.

"But, I am a gentleman," he spat. "And I will not take unsuspecting women to the bed of a monster."

With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Mireille leaned back against the wall, stunned and confused. There was a knock at the door, and a maid entered at her shaky command.

"Madame," she said timidly. "There is a Monsieur Lefebre here to see the manager."

Mireille drew in a startled breath. She had forgotten him.

Yet...perhaps all was not lost.

"Tell Monsieur Lefebre to wait in the foyer," she said. "And, fetch my hat and coat. I shall walk out with him."

24. Of Rings and Returns

"Well?"

It unnerved him that Pierre Buprès did not seem to care that they were having a conference in the dark, dank bowels of the opera house. Nor did young Buprès seem to mind that his master was engaged in carpentry work on a trapdoor.

He grimaced inwardly, thinking that if the boy had only had half a face, Pierre might have been his son for all of his damnable inquisitiveness and sangfroid in the face of the bizarre.

"So, I followed madame like you asked," Pierre said, absently picking up a file and examining it. "Though, mind you, I had to move quick like. She was mad to be out of the opera house with Monsieur Lefebre."

"Of course she was," he hissed to himself. It was difficult to say whom he hated the most in that moment: himself, Mireille, or Raymond Lefebre. Young Buprès didn't count, as he was a permanent annoyance.

"Monsieur Lefebre certainly got the shock of his life when he saw madame coming down the stairs to meet him," Pierre chuckled. "His jaw hung open so wide, I could have counted his teeth. But madame wouldn't even let him say a word. She just bustled them out the front door and set a pretty brisk pace down the street."

If only he had died in the fire all those years ago. Then he wouldn't have to be suffering through the agony of this suspense of needing to know what happened next.

"Anyways, I followed them pretty nippily. Monsieur Lefebre was asking all kinds of questions, and he kept trying to stop them and get her to look at him. But madame just kept her mouth shut and glared at him before dragging him further down the street."

"Where did they go?" Those words cost blood to utter.

"To Brasserie St. Auban," Pierre replied. "You know, on Rue de la Follette?"

The rasp in his hand slipped and nearly sliced off a piece of his finger. They had gone to a restaurant? Not a hotel? Not the train station or to a waiting carriage?

"They took a seat inside, but don't you worry, monsieur, a little thing like that can't stop me. It was easy enough to sneak in the back and hide under the tablecloth of the table next to them. Mind you, it got a bit tricky when some people sat down at my table, but I managed."

Bon Dieu
, this brazen boy really could have been his son.

"What did they say?" He used all his skill to keep his voice cool and even.

"Well, Monsieur Lefebre leaned over and took madame's hand-"

Another inadvertent slip of the rasp ruined the plane of the trapdoor. He breathed in his anger and exhaled calm.

"And she pulled it away."

"How did you see this?"

"I peeked out when I could. So, then, Monsieur Lefebre says to her, 'Mireille, what is all this? Where have you been? I have searched everywhere for you. Why did you not send me word?'

“Madame replied, 'You must not address me so informally, monsieur. I am married now.' I dunno, monsieur, but it sounded to me like she was sad when she said that.

“He then said, 'How? To whom? Could you not wait for me?' And, blow me if he didn't sound pretty sad and upset, too.

“'I cannot tell you,' madame said. 'At least, I cannot tell you right now. I need to think.'

“'It's him!' he said, and I'll tell you, monsieur, he now sounded pretty riled up. 'Somehow, he got hold of you! It's that damnable-'"

"Language, Pierre," he reprimanded automatically, his heart and mind spinning.

"T'warn't me, monsieur," Pierre answered with a shrug. "I'm just quoting him. Besides, madame says worse things all the time."

"A fault I shall have to continue to correct." If she did not run away from him first.

"Anyways, at this point, madame jumps in and tells him to be quiet and not jump to ridiculous conclusions. She says that he is quite wrong and she would thank him to stop making a bloody stupid fool of himself. She says that through circumstances beyond her control, she was left with no choice but to marry a wealthy opera patron who had dreams of opening his own opera house.’

“Well, Monsieur Lefebre is all agog at this and demands to know the man's name. She tells him it's Monsieur de la Persie. He says he's never heard of the man before. At this point, madame snorts—and, I'll tell you what, monsieur, her snort can raise the hairs on the back of my neck—and says that of course he didn't know the man. His job was to be an artistic director, not to manage the patronage and finances of the Opéra de Paris. Naturally, she had shared such business affairs as were relevant, but really, did he think that she would share every little detail with him?"

Pierre paused and put the file back down, picking up a hammer to fiddle with instead.

"Now, see, this is where you might get angry," he said, fumbling and losing his grip on the hammer. "But, I think, monsieur, you really needn't. I think when you hear what-"

"Just tell me." At this point, a thousand white hot knives were lodged in his heart and his mind. Anger could come after the agony abated.

"So...Monsieur Lefebre takes her hand again, and she tries to pull it away. But, I don't think she tried very hard. She tried to look fierce, but I don't know. She just looked even sadder to me.

“Monsieur Lefebre says to her, 'Mireille, you are unhappy. You are in trouble. Let me help you.'

“Madame is silent a good bit, and I can't watch anymore because people have come to my table. But, finally, she says, 'Whatever the truth of the matter, Raymond, the remedy is beyond the power of recall by either of us. I am married now. Nothing can undo that. Nor is it in my character to break my vows.'

“So, then, Monsieur Lefebre says to her, 'I love you, Mireille. Can you honestly say that you feel nothing for me?'"

Pierre hesitated, and the pause felt like a thousand days of bleak nothingness.

He knew what the boy's next words would be. Rejection was engraved on his bones, every possible word and combination etched deep and painful.

"Madame is silent again," Pierre continued, and his voice was quiet, full of awe. "Then, she says, 'You do not love me, Raymond. You love my pain.'

“He starts to object, but then madame gets up and rushes out of the brasserie. It took a bit of trickery to get myself out from under the table with people still sitting there, but I managed it, and I followed her back here. She didn't go back to her office, though. She went to her bedroom."

It didn't escape him that Mireille had said nothing of her own feelings and whether she cared for Raymond Lefebre or not. All this talk of love between them, and her final words to Lefebre confused him. When had his Mireille ever cared for love? That was not his Mireille. She wanted power, prestige, respect.

Didn't she?

Hadn't her eyes been filled with fear and disgust when he had cornered her in her office just an hour ago? It had to have been fear and disgust. She couldn't possibly have wanted him with any real desire.

Could she?

And, of all the idiotic things, why did he care? Why did he not simply assert his rights as a husband, just as he had told her, and slake his lust in her body? Why did he want her to be willing in his bed?

"You know, seeing as it's none of my business, monsieur," Pierre said conversationally. "I wouldn't think to give you advice about madame, but to my way of thinking, it means something that she came back here today. She could easily have jumped in a carriage with Monsieur Lefebre and run away. But she came back."

Kristin had come back, too...if only for a moment to give him a ring.