Christmas Flame

by Isadora Montrose

  “Shall we?” he asked blandly, as if he routinely dealt with gatecrashers.

  The guard’s eyes bulged. “Dankeschön,” he managed. He spoke to his colleagues over his headset, before gamely leading the way through a maze of hallways, past an infinity of identical doors to Grant’s.

  The Angel of the Opera loomed in the doorway, broad shouldered and grinning, wearing a sumptuous, embroidered black satin robe. He looked like an Edwardian dandy, but the arms that embraced Genevieve were as strong and muscular as any good old boy’s. He kissed her European style on both cheeks, gave her another squeeze, and released her.

  “Hey,” he held out a massive palm to Dan. “Good to see you, Gilmore.”

  Dan shook. “It’s an honor to be remembered. I really enjoyed the performance. Unfortunately, I must shake and run. I can’t join you for supper. My wife expects me to produce two tricycles out of two boxes of parts by dawn.”

  Grant looked surprised. But was he pleased surprised? Or irritated by this change in plan? “That’s too bad.”

  “My wife asked me to invite you to Christmas dinner.”

  “That’s kind of her. I’d like that.”

  “Gen will tell you where and when. I have to be going.”

  Grant offered his hand to Dan again. “Shall I have someone call you a taxi?”

  “If I’m alone, it will be easier and faster to take the subway,” Dan said. He kissed Genevieve’s cheek. “Merry Christmas. We’ll expect you around four tomorrow, Gen.”

  “If you’re going by the U-Bahn, use the entrance here.” Grant indicated a heavy set of double doors. “It will take you directly onto the platform level. A little-known perk for the performers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Makes it easier to elude our pushier admirers.”

  “Huh.” Dan slipped a small gray pouch out of his pants pocket, flicked his wrist, and covered himself, cap, uniform and medals in a thin dark rain poncho. He instantly became anonymous.

  Grant nodded approval. “The rain is supposed to last all evening. Better to keep covered.”

  “You never know,” Dan murmured. “You’ll get Gen safely home, D’Angelo? Good night, Gen.”

  Bewildered, Genevieve looked between the two men. It was as if their bland conversation was in some secret male code. Grant was coming to Christmas, that was plain. But something secret was under discussion. She searched Grant’s face, but her gaze was snagged by the golden phoenixes spread across his magnificent chest. Dan was gone when she remembered her manners.

  “Come in and watch while I take off my war paint,” Grant backed into his dressing room.

  He slipped the cape from her shoulders and tossed it over a footstool. Then he poured her a glass of champagne, waved her to a small sofa and sat down at his dresser. He smoothed cream into his face and removed it with a facecloth which turned orange. He winked at her in the mirror and she hid her blush behind her glass. You’re not in Texas tonight.

  “Tell me what you’re doing in Frankfurt?” He tossed the streaked cloth onto the glass top and swiveled to face her, champagne in hand.

  “Working at the Consulate.”

  “With Gilmore?”

  Where was he going with this? “We are both military attachés.” She knew she sounded prim. But that was all she was supposed to say. “But I knew his wife from college. That’s how we came to be friends.”

  Grant nodded. “Was she in the ROTC too?”

  “She was. She’s still in the Reserves. They’re treating Dan’s posting as part of her service.” Or that was Mel’s story.

  “Hmm.” He turned back to the mirror and began to fiddle with his eyebrows and the cloth. Black streaked the fabric. “Eyebrow pencil,” he said ruefully. “And mascara.”

  “You weren’t kidding about war paint,” she told his back.

  “Stage makeup. Not as much as for opera, but enough so that the audience can see our features.” He shrugged and muscles rippled in his shoulders. Somehow that florid embroidered robe only emphasized his blatant masculinity.

  Her mouth dried. The champagne didn’t help to moisten her tongue. This was still too much Grant D’Angelo, too close. As he removed the layers of makeup, his own dark brows and lashes were scarcely less defined. His blue eyes regarded her quizzically from the mirror. He drew a comb through his disheveled curls and stood up.

  “Excuse me.” He untied the sash of his robe and shrugged it off. It fluttered to the floor as though the birds worked into the fabric were alive.

  He was wearing formal black pants with a satin stripe, but his torso was completely bare. Golden skin stretched smoothly over bulging muscles. His barrel-chest was thick, his shoulders wide. The muscles of his back had the serious definition of a regular weightlifter and tapered to a narrow, hard waist. A silky line of black hair dove between his pecs past his ridged belly toward his waistband. Genevieve swallowed hard.

  He turned to face her, flashing that bare, golden chest, as he buttoned studs into his white shirt front and tucked it into his pants. She took refuge in her glass again. Did he not feel the intimacy of this moment? She felt overwhelmed this near to his half-naked body. Her palms itched to touch him. Jeez, she was staring at him. Inappropriately.

  “Are you enjoying Frankfurt?” He slipped his suspenders over his shoulders and picked up a pleated satin cummerbund from the back of his chair.

  “Very much.” Which was true. Her job was the world’s most boring, but she loved the city.

  “Long way from Texas.”

  It was difficult to make small talk when her throat felt dry. “Hmm. But it’s only two years.”

  He put on the tuxedo jacket and immediately looked less broad, less potent. But he wasn’t. His dinner suit was elegant camouflage. Who was he hiding from? Her? If he had been any other man, she would have taken his invitation to watch him dress as another kind of invitation altogether.

  But what did she know of his life in the theater? Would he really come on to her? His kid sisters’ friend? He had always treated her like a kid. She pressed her thighs together and tried to smile with her usual friendly casualness, while she dripped with longing.

  He sat beside her on the narrow settee. Her skirt frothed over his pant leg. She flipped it out of his way and he moved his leg. Closer. His thigh grazed hers. He touched his glass to hers. “To old friends,” he purred.

  “To old friends,” she echoed huskily. She sipped. This was more like it.

  He reached for the bottle and refilled her glass. “That’s quite a dress you have on.” His voice was deeper, and surely that was sexual interest in those bright blue eyes?

  Then his words registered and doubt froze her. What did he mean? Was the dress too much for pudgy Genevieve Carson? “Thank you. I think.”

  He chuckled, set the bottle down and turned sideways to look at her better. “You look spectacular,” he assured her. “Ripe, feminine, breathtaking.”

  He was going to kiss her. She leaned forward to meet his lips. A knock at the door had him springing up.

  “Damn.” He yanked the door open. The assistant stage manager.

  “Herr Doktor Doktor,” Johann all but stammered. “You wanted to know when Frau Del Court’s party was leaving.”

  “So I did. Thank you, Johann.” He turned back to Genevieve. “We’d better go. Our reservations are for 2200 hours. On Christmas Eve, they won’t hold them – not even for me.”

  The sidewalks were wet, but the drizzle had stopped for the moment. Grant offered her his arm as if she were some fragile blossom instead of a sturdy athlete as tall as he. She took it anyway. It might be her only chance to touch him.

  A laughing, shrieking crowd had gathered before the side door of the Alte Oper. She recognized Helena Del Court at the center of the noisy group. At least it would not be a threesome.

  A long black limousine pulled up to the curb. In the blink of an eye Helena and her entire entourage embarked. The limo slid smoothly away leaving her and Grant alone.

/>   CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Grant~

  It took no time at all for their protective camouflage to pile into Helena’s limo and leave them exposed. Where the hell was Linc’s team? Protecting Maj. Fricking Gilmore, as like as not. Apparently, his Genevieve was expendable. Shift. Where the hell was Heinz?

  He smelled the boar shifters before he saw them. They were lurking on either side of the doorway, hidden by enormous Christmas trees. He set his mate behind him in the relative safety of the niche created by a concrete pillar and the brick wall. Out of the shadows came a crouching figure intent on attack.

  The boar’s outstretched hands were huge and bulgy. Brass knuckles spread lethally across his fingers. At least they had decided not to shoot. Grant ducked as his assailant lashed out with what he clearly believed would be two decisive blows. Not when you telegraphed your intentions. By the time Brass Knuckles’ fists arrived, Grant simply wasn’t there.

  Behind him, he registered that the other boar was attacking Genevieve. His mate was strong and tough. Focus D’Angelo. He would be no use to Genevieve if he wound up injured or dead. He had to trust that she could cope until he dealt with his own assailant. The boar recovered his balance and charged.

  Wild boars were dangerous predators. But they lacked the stealth of true carnivores. Like wolves and lions, they hunted in packs. Unlike those patient stalkers, they relied on brute strength and sheer numbers to bring down their prey. Phoenixes were raptors – deadly birds of prey. Finesse and intelligence in one fierce, powerful package.

  Grant sidestepped his opponent, spun on his heel, and drove his doubled fists into the boar’s undefended back. The blow knocked Brass Knuckles sprawling. But it was like hitting concrete. Both his arms went numb. The boar found his feet and a sledgehammer crashed into Grant’s shoulder.

  Grant danced backward avoiding a second blow. Sensation returned. Agonizing sensation. He pushed it aside. Time for a little brainwork. He danced around the hulking boar and wrapped him up from behind. The boar squirmed, certain he could break free. Grant yanked his neck to indicate how perilous moving was. The Bulgarian swore.

  “Keep it up,” Grant offered amiably. “But you’ll break your own spine. Lose your weapons,” he hissed into his captive’s ear, as huge hands attempted to dislodge his grip.

  Perhaps Brass Knuckles was a realist. Perhaps it was that Grant addressed him in Bulgarian. At any rate he carefully removed his heavy spiked weapons and dropped them. Grant kicked them away, let his prisoner go, and hit him with two kidney punches before he could recover.

  Brass Knuckles bent over moaning. Grant punched both temples simultaneously and left Brass Knuckles still and silent on the wet sidewalk. His shoulder throbbed. Beneath his raincoat his sweating skin chilled as the wind found the split in his shirt and jacket.

  But his Genevieve was dealing with the other boar herself. Her assailant was armed with a length of pipe which she was fending off with her swirling cloak. The brute looked baffled when she came out of her defensive niche on the attack. The cape flew through the air and landed on Pipe Dude’s head.

  His weapon tangled in the heavy folds. The boar yelped in outrage. He ought to save his breath for fighting. Grant lashed out with one foot and connected with the thug’s midsection. But the heavy material softened his kick. The boar righted himself, tossed the cape aside and emerged swinging his pipe.

  Genevieve kicked it out of his hand. The pipe rolled away and Grant picked it up. Lead. That bastard had swung a lead pipe at his woman. He was a dead man standing. Grant rammed it into the boar’s midsection. The brute doubled over gasping for air. At last the fricking cavalry arrived.

  A beat-up panel van pulled up. Four black-clad men with grimy faces swarmed out. Brass Knuckles had a revolver in his armpit. Pipe Dude had a couple of throwing knives up his sleeves. The commandos relieved the boars of their weapons and sealed them in plastic bags. The two Bulgarians were handcuffed, gagged, and tossed in the back of the van. Gen’s sodden cape was bundled into a black sack and handed to her.

  The leader addressed Grant. “Are we done here, Capt. Carson?”

  Grant waved a hand at Genevieve who looked as immaculate as if she had not just been fighting for her life. “This is Capt. Carson,” he said proudly. “I’m just a civilian.”

  “Yeah?” The commando fixed Genevieve with a look. “Report for debriefing at 0800 hours, Capt. December 27. Room 317. And in the meantime, this never happened. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.” Genevieve’s voice was crisp. She repeated her instructions word for word.

  Grant noted she didn’t ask where Room 317 was located. Shift. Instead of flying nice safe combat planes, his mate was part of military intelligence.

  The commando jumped into the van. Grant watched it trundle sedately into the night. He took the heavy garbage bag full of wet cape from Genevieve. For the first time he noticed that she was cold and trembling and one of her boot heels was broken. He put an arm around her and steadied her against his side. She relaxed. Paradise.

  Of course, Heinz chose this moment to appear. Was he never to have a romantic moment with this woman? Grant helped Genevieve into the limousine, tossed her cape across to the other side, and climbed in to sit facing her. Heinz shut the door and returned to his seat. The limousine pulled away into the night.

  Grant lowered the window between the passenger compartment and the driver. “What kept you, Heinz?”

  “Frau Hoskins texted me, Herr Doktor Doktor, to pick you up at 2200 hours.” Heinz was genuinely puzzled and affronted.

  “Sorry, Heinz. I guess we got our wires crossed. You had better take us to the hotel.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Genevieve~

  Genevieve’s mind was racing. What was going on? Whoever those two muggers had been, they had been expected. Not just by Grant, but by the black ops team that had taken them into custody. And by Dan, who had repelled them at the stage door.

  She might be the lowliest of decoders, but she knew better than to ask questions about what had just occurred. Not in the back of a limo. Not at Christmas dinner. Maybe not ever. She had no illusions about that upcoming debriefing. She would be providing information, not receiving any. No one would give a damn if Capt. Carson was frustrated by her lack of knowledge. Suck it up, Buttercup.

  She tried for casual. “What about Helena Del Court? Won’t she be expecting us?”

  What had she said? Grant looked furious. “I have no idea what Helena’s plans are for this evening, but they do not include me or you.” His voice was stiff.

  “Oh.”

  “But we will have to eat at the hotel, I’m afraid. Our reservations have expired. If you will excuse me.” He turned on his cell and spoke to whoever answered his call. “No, no, Herr Mann, there is no problem. I was making sure my reservation had been canceled. I know how busy you are tonight. My manager? Herself? Her assistant? Perfectly proper, Herr Mann. And the same to you and your staff.”

  Grant put his phone away. “Someone has been busy,” he remarked.

  “Your manager’s assistant?”

  “Linda has no assistant,” Grant said grimly.

  “Ah.” She had better change the subject. Presumably Heinz’s ears were flapping.

  “You had better make sure Gilmore got home safely.”

  Obediently she opened her black bag, half-astonished that she still retained her grip on it. “He won’t be home yet. It’s only 2215.”

  “Try him anyway.” It was a command.

  She hit speed dial. Dan answered on the first ring. “Gilmore.”

  “It’s Genevieve, Dan. Is everything okay? Are you home?”

  “Yes, and yes. How about you? Enjoying your supper party?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Good night.”

  The limousine pulled into the hotel’s U-shaped drive. Heinz helped her out. Grant’s hand at her elbow balanced her broken heel.

  “Happy Christmas, Heinz.” He dismissed the d
river. “We’ll speak to the concierge and get your cape and boot taken care of.” He hefted the garbage bag.

  Genevieve limped into the lobby and changed into her evening shoes while Grant spoke to the concierge. The cape was lamented over. Likewise her boot. Grant returned to the silvery gray velvet couch where he had left her.

  “They will do their best. But it is Christmas Eve. The concierge wasn’t hopeful that we could get them back until the twenty-sixth.” He smiled and drew her to her feet. “Let’s go upstairs. I need to at least change my shirt.” His clasp was warm and firm, but his voice was anything but loverlike.

  Despite the grandeur of the hotel, her elegant evening seemed to be fizzling before her eyes. Grant’s flirtatiousness had vanished. He herded her toward the bank of elevators in a thoroughly businesslike manner.

  “I could just go home,” she managed.

  “Not tonight,” he said. Her heart sped up.

  “Not after what just happened,” he continued, shattering her hopes. “You’ll be safer here than where they expect you to be.”

  His suite was as opulent as the consulate’s finest reception rooms. The spacious living room held gilded furniture and plush sofas set across from one another. Grant took off his raincoat and tossed it onto a velvet armchair. Genevieve gasped. His jacket and shirt had split to reveal his skin.

  “As bad as that?” he asked absently. He massaged his right shoulder with his left hand.

  “You’re hurt?”

  “Some.”

  She trailed after him into his bedroom. It held a king-sized bed and more highly polished and gilded furniture. He took her hand and dragged her into the bathroom. White marble, gray and white porcelain tiles, and gold fittings were quietly opulent. Grant turned the water on full blast. It roared into the sink.

  He removed his jacket. “Mind telling me who those guys are?” He spoke over the faucet.

  “I thought you knew! You seemed to be expecting them. You and Dan.”

  He pulled the studs out of his cuffs. “I know they came to the Alte Oper looking for you. And they followed you from the hall to the stage door.”