Dark Fire

by Peggy Webb

  "Let's try it without." The photographer moved in for a close-up.

  "Pouty, my dear. Seductive," Claude director said. "Look as if you've just made love."

  Rose Anne felt the heat that blushed her cheekbones and the tops of her breasts. From under her lashes she glanced back at the tree. Sid was still there, propped against the trunk, watching her.

  "That's it! That's perfect!" Claude yelled. "Just the look I wanted."

  For a moment Sid's dark eyes held her. She was breathless, trembling. Then he turned and walked away.

  Calling on her reserves of strength and courage. Rose Anne put personal feelings aside and transformed herself into the Face.

  o0o

  The sound of motorcycles cut through the stillness of the Loire Valley. Sid rode hard and fast, a good half mile In front of his friends. The rich smells of the earth and the lush green of the valley escaped his notice. His eyes were turned inward, to a woman with a face to worship and a body to die for.

  He controlled the motorcycle with the same precision and skill he used in the skies. His powerful hands guided the huge machine through the valley and his single-minded concentration kept it on course.

  He heard the roar of an engine, and out of the comer of his eye saw Lightning closing in on him. Sid slowed so that Luther could catch up.

  Luther motioned toward a copse of trees along the banks of the Loire. Sid nodded, then pulled over.

  "What's the rush. Eagle?" Luther brought his machine to a halt, slung his helmet on the handlebars, then stepped off, grinning. "This is supposed to be a sightseeing trip, not a race."

  "I feel the need to let off a little steam."

  "Don't we all?" Luther sat on the mossy side of a tree and leaned against the trunk. "I'm so keyed up about Saturday, I can hardly think. Tell me again . . . what did she say this morning?"

  "She'll go with you."

  "You already told me that. What else did she say?"

  "She wants to spend some time like ordinary people, Luther. Your job will be to protect her from the crowds, to make damned sure she's not pulled at and fawned over like a prize bone at a dogfight."

  "Being the guardian demon again?" Panther, who had just dismounted from his bike, strolled up, munching an apple. "Have one. You look like you could use it." He pulled another from his pocket and handed it to Sid. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away. The head doctor," he added, winking at Luther.

  "I don't know why I ever agreed to this crazy plan." Sid slumped against the base of the tree and gazed out over the river.

  "Hell, I do." Panther spoke around a big bite of apple. "It's a challenge. You never could resist a challenge."

  "With a little bit of blackmail thrown in . . . and friendship." Luther sat down beside Sid. "What's the next step?"

  "I'm going to ply her with love letters between now and Saturday, lay the groundwork for you."

  He felt like a heel. He really should call the whole thing off before it went too far. Hell, the way he felt about Rose Anne, it had already gone too far. He was going to end up betraying not only Rose Anne and Luther, but himself as well.

  "Luther . . ."

  "I don't know what I would do with you. Eagle." Luther clapped him on the back. "You're a true friend."

  o0o

  That evening Sid poured out his anguished soul at the piano.

  Hearing the music, Rose Anne left her place at the desk, abandoning the letters she was writing, and stole to the balcony. The music was so intense, it brought her to her knees. With her chin propped on her crossed arms, she leaned on the railing, enraptured.

  Soon she was so deeply under the musician's spell that she didn't hear her aunt approach.

  "I declare. Whoever that is at the piano is plumb obsessed. Come on in. I'm shutting this door." Bitsy reached for the knob.

  "No."

  "Honey, look what it did to you last night. It tore your insides to pieces."

  "I want to hear it. Auntie." Rose Anne looked up at her aunt, totally unaware of the tears on her cheeks. "I have to hear it."

  Bitsy started to protest, then changed her mind. Shaking her head, she left her niece on the balcony, went to her room, and flicked on the television set. An old Laurel and Hardy film was just the thing for what ailed her . . . whatever that was.

  Faint strains of music drifted to her. It had to be a man at the piano. The music was too powerful. Maybe he would quit soon. Or maybe they'd all get lucky and he'd leave Paris, or, at the very least, leave the House of the Angel.

  o0o

  With the last crashing chords still echoing in the air, Sid left the piano and went to the Louis XIV desk. The paper he had bought for the love letters to Rose Anne was heavy bond, cream- colored, plain and simple. He wanted nothing to detract from the words.

  Making love to her on paper was easy. Making love to her at the piano was easy.

  "Hell, Eagle, you're some kind of hotshot lover and don't even know it," he muttered.

  He ripped the paper to shreds and tossed it into the wastebasket, then sat at his desk, staring into space.

  Almost, he wished he had never come to Paris. Almost, he wished he had never laid eyes on the Face.

  "To live fully is to suffer," he said. He didn't know if he made that up or if he had read it somewhere. No matter. It was true.

  He had a vision of Luther clapping him on the back and calling him a true friend. Fixing his mouth into a grim line, Sid picked up a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

  Twenty minutes later he called a bellboy to deliver the love letter to Miss Rose Anne Jones. Then he left his apartment and hurried down the steps, two at a time. Maybe the breezes in the courtyard would clear his head.

  Sid leaned against one of the cool stone columns and looked out over the rose garden. For the first time since he'd come to Paris, it failed to soothe his soul. He waited, hoping for a sense of peace to finally steal over him. When it became obvious that he was doomed to torment, he decided to join his buddies.

  They had gone back to the nightclub on the Left Bank, Lightning to fill the time until Saturday, Hawk to tell outrageous stories and keep them all laughing, and Panther and Gunslinger to scout for women.

  Sid had been foolish to stay behind. Telling them he needed to compose love letters for Luther was merely an excuse. He had stayed behind hoping for a glimpse of Rose Anne.

  He glanced up at her lighted window. No one was there.

  "I didn't expect to see anyone here."

  Rose Anne's voice pierced his heart. He turned around to see her standing beside the bench, a vision of beauty in white. She looked like an angel visiting the garden.

  "I like to come down for the night breeze," he said, keeping staunchly at his post.

  Rose Anne sat on the bench, and her filmy skirt billowed around her. With one hand she lifted her heavy hair off her neck.

  "Ahhh, that feels good."

  "Long day?" He could hardly speak. In fact he was surprised he didn't sound like a bullfrog in heat. The sight of that long, lovely neck was almost his undoing.

  "The usual." She let her hair drift back down around her shoulders, then smiled at him once more. "It's not the day that has me hot. It's your friend's love letters."

  "He makes love well, does he?"

  "Yes. Oh, yes." She lifted her hair again, exposing her skin to the kiss of moonbeams. "Are you surprised?"

  "Luther's a handsome man."

  "How like a man to think a handsome face must necessarily belong to a fool."

  "You misunderstand me. Luther is my friend. I'm glad he courts you well."

  "It's not his face that impresses me; it's his soul. Such passion, such power."

  Sid dared not claim the words. Even if she knew they had come from his soul, she would still be taken aback by his face, his nose. He quickly squashed the foolish hopes that leapt to life. A great beauty like Rose Anne deserved a handsome man, one whose looks wouldn't embarrass her in public.

  He must continue
to play the fool.

  "What does he write? Poetry? Great intellectual treatises? Erotica?"

  "It's the strangest thing—" Rose Anne paused, as if she were considering whether to confide in him.

  “ I'm perfectly harmless, a homely father confessor." He grinned. "You can tell me anything."

  "I've always had that feeling about you . . . that I can tell you anything. I guess it's because I trust you."

  Sid wished the earth would open up and swallow him.

  "I don't know if a beautiful woman like you should trust a man with a nose like mine. Remember Pinocchio? He got that nose from telling a bunch of lies."

  Rose Anne laughed. Then she patted the bench. "Sit beside me. I need someone to talk to."

  "Aunt Bitsy?"

  "She's wrapped up in the television set. Old movies. She lives and breathes them . . . when she's not wearing herself out being my girl Friday and my substitute mother." She patted the bench again. "I hate to keep bothering her with my troubles."

  "A beautiful woman like you should never have troubles."

  Sid slid onto the bench beside her. He wondered if she could hear his heart slamming against his ribs.

  "You asked me what he writes?" Rose Anne turned toward him. The slight movement angled her knees against his thigh.

  He clenched his jaw against the sudden passion that ripped through him. A man in his condition had no business sitting in a deserted garden with the object of his desire.

  But she needed him. What else could he do?

  "Sometimes I think it's poetry," she said. "Other times it's wisdom that shows a great understanding of the human condition." She turned her shining face toward the rose garden and quoted the first two lines of the love letter he had so recently written.

  "You've committed his words to heart?"

  "Every one of them." Her laughter was like morning dew, fresh and sparkling. "I'm afraid he's gotten to me."

  "Then he's a master of seduction."

  "He's a god of seduction." She turned back to him, and even in the moonlight he could see the flush on her cheeks. "It's more than his love letters; it's his music. Talk about erotica."

  "His music?"

  "I hear it almost every evening. It touches me in ways I've never been touched." She smiled at him. "Is that silly?"

  "No. It's romantic ... if you believe in all that stuff." Sid stood up. He had to break the physical contact with her, for he was dangerously close to telling her the truth.

  "Believe in it? Don't tell me you're one of those cynics."

  “Seduction with music and poetry. It all sounds excessive to me. Self-indulgent and overblown."

  Rose Anne laughed. "I suppose that's what most men would think. But my poet is no ordinary man."

  "Then you're in love with him already?"

  "I don't know . . . it's crazy. I think I'm in love with his soul."

  "The body won't be far behind." He forced himself to grin at her. "Congratulations, Rose Anne. Luther is quite a guy."

  "That's what I'm finding out."

  "Will you tell him how you feel Saturday?"

  "Why ... no. Until Luther says with his mouth what he says so beautifully with his pen, I won't tell him anything. If a man can rhapsodize and dream on paper, surely he can do it in person."

  "He's shy."

  "If he feels half of what he writes, he'll become bold."

  "For you, any man would be bold."

  She tilted her head and studied him. He endured her scrutiny without flinching.

  "I thought you didn't believe in all that poetic stuff," she said, laughing.

  "A slip of the tongue. Shall I cut the offending fool off?"

  "Oh, please. Not for my sake . . . You've made me laugh so much, I'm going to get a stitch in my side."

  "Sewed with black thread or white?"

  "You never stop, do you?"

  "If I did, I'd catch up to my nose, and then there'd be a terrible collision." He swept his arm out and gave her a grand and exaggerated bow. "Good night, fair lady. Sweet dreams."

  "Good night, Sid . . . and thank you."

  "For being the court jester?"

  "For being you."

  Chapter Four

  Sid tossed in his bed. The courtyard session with Rose Anne had destroyed any hope of sleep. Throwing back the covers, he walked to the window. Her apartment was dark. In fact, most of the apartments were dark.

  Barefoot, he padded back to the bedside table. The luminous hands on his watch dial pointed to two o'clock.

  Sid walked to the piano and sat down. The music was not for her tonight. It was for him.

  His hands moved slowly, lovingly, as if the keyboard were her body, trembling for his touch. Playing softly so as not to disturb his neighbors, he began to make love to Rose Anne.

  He skimmed the keys with his fingertips, touching her in secret places. He explored her with exquisite tenderness, lingering over the touch. The treble notes were her nipples, lush and ripe. He played with them until they were a tight melody pulsing under his fingertips.

  His hands shivered on the keyboard, the left moving to the bass, to her sweet, exotic curves and her rich, silken hollows. There was instant response to his skillful hands.

  Music soared, fiercely erotic and deeply satisfying. He rammed his foot on the soft pedal to muffle the increasing intensity of music. He leaned closer, pouring out his hopeless love.

  o0o

  Across the way the faint strains of music drifted into Rose Anne's consciousness. She came awake slowly, unaware at first of what had disturbed her sleep. Ever so softly, the passionate music crept over her, stealing her breath, bending her will.

  Sighing, she cupped her breasts and lay back against the pillow. The music brushed her parted lips in a rush of wings unseen. Transported, she gave herself up, a willing slave to the unknown master, a waiting vessel to his dark fire.

  o0o

  Bitsy sat at the glass-top table, still wearing her pink nightcap. Berries heaped with cream sat in the cereal bowl and the morning paper waited, folded, beside her coffee.

  She studied her niece critically when she came through the door. No dark circles, thank goodness.

  "Did you sleep well, honey?"

  "Hmmm." Rose Anne sat down and poured skim milk over her berries. She had a dreamy, faraway look on her face.

  "Another note came for you this morning."

  "Another one?"

  "Lord knows, I reckon all that man has time to do is write notes." Bitsy handed it to her.

  Color flushed Rose Anne's cheeks as she read. Watching, Bitsy worried at her nightcap and fiddled with the silver.

  Rose Anne looked up from the note. "Is something wrong. Auntie?"

  "That's what I'd like to know."

  "Everything's fine." Rose Anne smiled as she folded the note and tucked It Into her bosom. "Just fine."

  "I don't know that I like what I'm seeing."

  "And what's that?"

  "A few notes and a little bit of night music, and you're looking like a woman in love."

  "Oh, pooh. Auntie." Rose Anne waved her hand. "I'm not in love." Color flooded her cheeks once more. "At least, I don't think I'm in love. It's just that Luther is such a nice man, and his notes and music are—" Rose Anne left her untouched berries and began to pace the floor. "I don't know how to explain it. When I hear him sing or read his poetry, it's almost as If I'm looking straight into his heart. He's so very wise and beautiful."

  "You don't know him."

  "Because of what he writes, I know him better than I've ever known a man."

  "How come he has to keep sending notes? How come he can't say all that in person?"

  "He's shy. When he gets accustomed to me, he’ll speak up."

  “It all sounds fishy to me, like he's got something to hide."

  "You sound like Sid. He calls all this excessive, self-indulgent, and overblown."

  "Now, there's a sensible man. A bit on the homely side, but then, I never
did trust a handsome face. Look what a snake Riker Garvin turned out to be."

  Rose Anne sank into her chair, her knees suddenly weak. She hadn't thought of him in months.

  "I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn't found out about him before he got you to the altar."

  Rose Anne had found out about him the hard way. Two weeks before the wedding she'd caught him in bed with another woman. The really awful part was that it had been her bed. When he'd been caught, Riker had coolly explained that he'd wanted Sylvie to know just what kind of luxuries he'd be able to afford her once he married the Face and her fortune.

  "And then, of course, there was the wealthy Mr. Gordon, whose oil wells turned out to be dry holes." Bitsy banged her spoon against the glass table. "Snakes, all of them."

  Rose Anne hadn't gotten close to the altar with Mike Gordon, but she had almost lost her heart . . . until she'd discovered that he wanted her to finance his exploratory drilling.

  "Luther's not like that. I know he isn't."

  The anguish in Rose Anne's voice stopped Bitsy's tirade. She left the table and put her arm around her niece.

  "Forgive me for being an old fool. It's just that I worry about you."

  "You worry too much."

  "I know. First I worry that you're going to go on modeling the rest of your life and end up a dried-up old spinster like me, and then I worry that you're going to fall for the wrong man and end up brokenhearted. I'm just a natural worrywart."

  "Let's do something to take your mind off my troubles. What's your favorite thing to do in Paris?"

  "Well . . ."

  "Come on, Auntie. Don't be shy." Rose Anne grabbed her hands, laughing. "Your favorite thing to do in Paris is . . . ?"

  "To buy some of that perfume made in Grasse that makes me smell like an expensive madame." Bitsy grinned at her confession.