I hurled a Chanel eyeshadow quad into the drawer, but luckily the container was too well-designed to break. The silly impotence of the gesture was actually what calmed me down. I could sit in here and rant and rage all I wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that I was being held captive by a man who apparently had limitless resources and the cunning to use them as he saw fit. And although he had told me I had nothing to fear from him, I saw no real reason to believe those words. There was nothing to keep him from raping and murdering me and burying my violated body somewhere on his property. I didn’t even know where I was—I could be only a few miles from home, or hidden in some secluded spot in the hills of Malibu.
No, even though he had reassured me that I would be all right, and even though he had apparently shopped for me—or at least hired someone to do so—with the same care most women would accord their own wardrobes, I could not feel safe. No woman could, in a situation where she had so little control.
It was at that inopportune time that I heard a knock coming from the door to my suite. I set down the makeup brush I had been turning over and over in my hands, and went to the door.
“Ah,” I said, once I saw that it was Jerome who stood there. “The lackey.”
A brief tightening of the lines at the corner of his eyes was his only response to the insult. I didn’t know anything about Jerome, what his background was or how he’d come to work for Erik, but I guessed that fetching and carrying was something new to his job description.
When he spoke, however, his tone was carefully neutral. “Would you like anything in particular for breakfast?”
“I’d kill for some Tylenol.”
“Anything more substantial?” he asked, refusing to rise to the bait.
Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, I abandoned the game. “Some fruit would be heavenly. And some more of that sourdough toast I had yesterday—it was wonderful.” I thought for a moment, then decided, what the heck? “And some cappuccino.”
“Anything else?”
Was it just me, or was there a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth? Was he laughing at me, at my presumption? “The key to the front door would be nice,” I said.
“I’ll have to take that up with the management,” he replied. His tone was serious, his face expressionless, but I could tell he was giving me some of my own back.
“Well, let’s just start with the cappuccino, then.”
He gave me a slight nod, then went out, with the inevitable snick of the lock following in his wake. It was probably less than fifteen minutes before he returned with another laden tray, the cappuccino sending a drift of heavenly-smelling steam into the air.
“What time is it?” I asked, taking a slow sip of the cappuccino. The heat of it hit my stomach at about the same time the caffeine started to work itself into my depleted bloodstream. Ah, vice.
“Around ten. He wants to see you at one.”
“So late?” For some strange reason, I felt oddly disappointed.
That time Jerome did smile, a little. “That’s early for him. Most of the time he doesn’t sleep until dawn.”
“So I was right—he is a vampire.”
“It might be easier if he were.”
I set my cappuccino down on the marble-topped table that held the rest of my breakfast. Jerome seemed unusually friendly, for him. Maybe this was the time to ask a few questions. “So...what’s with the mask, anyway? Is that just part of his Phantom obsession?”
Whatever warmth might have been in his eyes died then. “Don’t ever mention the mask.”
“But why—”
“Ever,” he repeated.
Still persisting, I went on, “You don’t expect me to believe that he’s really deformed under that thing? It’s a stage prop!”
With one swift gesture he grasped my arm just as I was reaching out to retrieve my mug. I think I gave a little gasp of shock, but he appeared not to notice. “This is not a game, Christine. A piece of advice—leave the mask alone if you want to survive this.”
He was deadly serious, I could tell. It was only until I reluctantly said “if you say so” that he released me. I rubbed my arm a little. With my luck, I’d have a set of bruises on my bicep to match the ones Erik had left on my wrist the night before.
Jerome appeared to be wrestling something over in his head. Finally he said, the words rushed, as if he wanted to get them out before he changed his mind, “I’ve worked for him for seven years. Seven years. And I’ve never seen him without the mask. It is never discussed. Servants that gossiped disappeared.”
“What, are you saying that he had them whacked or something?” I could only hope that my sarcasm covered up the fear that lay beneath it.
He made a dismissive gesture. “Of course not. They were dismissed.” Then he watched me carefully, the blue eyes vivid against his tanned skin. “But he can’t very well do the same with you, can he?”
And with that he turned and walked out, leaving me with a breakfast that suddenly seemed far less appetizing than it had a few minutes ago. Thank God he’d at least left me the Tylenol; I needed the capsules now more than ever.
Much sooner than I wanted to, given what Jerome had told me only a few hours earlier, I stood outside the music room. Jerome had left me here after admonishing me to wait until Erik invited me in. Almost as an aside, he informed me that it was no use to go wandering about the house, since all the exits were guarded by closed-circuit cameras and secured by keypad locks. It made me wonder why they bothered locking the door to my suite at all, as it was quite obvious I couldn’t get out of the house anyway. I had the sudden idea that perhaps they thought it would make me feel more safe.
The door to the music room stood slightly ajar, and suddenly any nervousness or fear I’d been feeling melted away to be replaced by wonder, for Erik had begun to play.
It was some fiendishly difficult Chopin polonaise; I recognized the opening notes of the piece even as I tried to recall in vain its actual opus number. But the difficulty of the work was surpassed only by the technical brilliance with which it was being played. As a music major I’d had the privilege of attending many concerts on campus and hearing all sorts of visiting virtuosos, but I hadn’t heard anything to rival this.
I was no keyboard expert, but even I could recognize the combined elegance and strength of his touch, the effortless grace with which he made the notes spill out into the air. The virtuosic technique was matched by a fierce passion that seemed to imbue every note with an almost erotic intensity. Fascinated, I waited in my spot outside the door, hardly daring to breathe lest I disturb his playing. It didn’t make sense. This man played like a god. Why had he hidden himself away from the world when he possessed a talent like that?
Unfortunately, the spell was broken by an ill-timed sneeze on my part. The glorious spill of notes went silent, and then he was there, still masked of course, but this time in a white shirt open at the throat.
If he was at all upset at being interrupted in such a fashion, he showed no sign of it. “Ah, Christine. Not catching a cold, I hope?”
“Just a tickle in my throat,” I replied, and then stepped into the room as he opened the door wide to let me in.
Like the rest of the house, it had been furnished in heavy carved pieces, but the mood in here was lighter because of the walls, which were painted a dreamy shell pink, the color of clouds at dawn. A bank of French doors opening onto a verandah brought more light into the room, although I could only imagine what it would be like in bright sunlight; outside the sky was lowering again, the first drops of renewed rain hitting the colored pavement outside. Beyond the verandah stretched more green lawns, though the prospect was broken up slightly by a curved gravel driveway that ended at a substantial building of gray stone with a steeply pitched roof.
The music room, though large, was dominated by a Steinway concert grand situated to make the most of the natural light. In one corner stood a harp, now muffled in some kind of heavy green cloth. Against
another wall was a large cabinet which I assumed must hold more instruments. I saw that a music stand had been set up for me in the curve of the piano, also that a pitcher and two glasses of water had been placed on a small table nearby.
“Perhaps this would help,” he said, handing me one of the filled glasses.
I took it from him gratefully and drank. I’d been feeling dehydrated all morning—not a good thing with a long practice session ahead of me. “Much better,” I said, then replaced the glass on its table.
“Well, then.” He resumed his seat on the piano bench and launched immediately into scales. After a brief hesitation I joined in, singing lightly as my voice warmed up, concentrating on my breathing while at the same time making sure that the annoying tickle truly had gone from my throat.
After a series of increasingly difficult warmup exercises, he stopped suddenly. “Ready?”
“Ready?” I echoed, not sure what he meant.
With no answer except the half-smile that was visible beneath the mask, he launched into the lively introduction to Marguerite’s “Jewel Song.”
Perhaps he thought he would catch me off-guard, but I had practiced the thing so many times I was able to hit the opening trill right on cue. This was the key, after all, to know it so well that it came to you like breathing, that the notes swelled up and out, taking on a life that was much more than just a combination of lungs and larynx and palate. One of the girls at school had called it “the only orgasm you’ll ever need,” but since I didn’t have any basis for comparison, I didn’t know whether I agreed with her or not.
When the song ended, I turned and looked at Erik. He watched me carefully, without much expression on the half of his face I could see. Brushing away a small wave of annoyance—I thought I had done very well—I asked, “Well?”
He put a hand to his chin. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
A smile then, revealing even white teeth. “About how on earth I’m supposed to improve on perfection.”
Randall had said almost the same thing to me, barely two months ago. Once again I experienced a rush of satisfaction, although this time it was followed by puzzlement. Why should I care what Erik thought of me? I knew the answer, though. Obsessive he was, definitely; dangerous, very probably; mad—quite possibly. But he was also one of the most talented musicians I had ever heard, and recognition by one’s peers is the sweetest approbation one can have.
“But at the very least we can keep that magnificent instrument of yours limber,” he went on. “If I had to venture a criticism, I would say that possibly you lose a little energy in the middle section. Shall we begin at ‘achevons le métamorphose’?”
Then we launched into it again, and then once more, until he seemed satisfied and I could feel myself flushed with exertion and tingling with blood flowing around my lungs and throat.
“You are never more lovely than when you sing, Christine,” Erik said softly, his elegant hands resting on the keyboard. I should have recognized them for what they were the first time I met him—the strong, long-fingered hands of a pianist.
I responded to compliments about my voice much better than I did to compliments about my face. Hoping my color hadn’t risen too much, I asked, “Do you sing, Erik?”
“Do I sing?” he repeated, seeming a little puzzled by the question. “I had a little training, once.” The masked face lifted to mine, and he sang softly, again from Faust,
“Oui, c’est moi, je t’aime!
Malgré l’effort même
Du démon moquer
Je t’ai retrouvée!”
I knew the words, of course, Faust’s renewed avowal of love for Marguerite as she lay condemned in prison. But I had never expected his voice, a tenor more exquisite than any I had ever heard, almost frightening in its purity. The ache in my heart was familiar; it was the same sensation I felt when confronted by beauty in its purest form, whether it was listening to Mozart’s Requiem or watching the moon rise over the desert. My mother had once said I had an artist’s soul, and at the time I hadn’t really been sure what she meant. All I knew for sure was this man had touched my heart in some way, and that frightened me. I was supposed to hate him, wasn’t I? How was I supposed to feel about someone who seemed to have the soul of a devil and the voice of an angel?
Somehow without my noticing, he had stood and come to me. He reached out to my cheek, then pulled his hand away and looked at the glistening drop on his forefinger in wonder. “You’re crying,” he said finally.
I reached up with my own hand and wiped the tears away with a brusque gesture. “It’s nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Christine.” How was it that he always made my name into a caress? Even his speaking voice was beautiful.
“I just don’t understand,” I said at length, knowing that he was waiting for me to say something.
“Understand what?”
Letting out a shaky little laugh, I replied, “You, most of all. How you hide the kind of talent you have. You have everything, and yet you hide here. Why?”
For a long moment he was silent. I saw for the first time that his eyes were an elusive gray-green, but dark, like a semiprecious stone I’d seen once as a child. Moss agate, that was what my father had called it.
“One can have everything and nothing, Christine.”
Again I found myself fighting to understand. There were so many shadows in his soul, that much I knew even from our brief acquaintance. How long would it take before he felt comfortable telling me anything truly important? And then I wondered why it should matter so much to me. This man had stolen me from my home, taken me away from everything that was important. Why should I care whether he confided in me or not? All I should care about was getting out of here.
But somehow I knew that he had broken down a barrier between us the moment he opened his mouth and sang those words to me. Something in my soul responded to his—I had sensed that connection on the night we first met, even though I had known nothing about him at the time. It had frightened me then; it frightened me even more now.
I don’t know what he saw in my face. But he lifted his hand, reaching out to touch my cheek, and suddenly the terror surged up through me, drowning me like a riptide. Not yet, a voice in my mind screamed. Not yet.
And then I was pushing myself away from him, upsetting the music stand as I fled the room, tearing down the hallway, not knowing where I was going or what I was going to do once I got there.
All I knew was that I couldn’t bear one more moment in his presence. If I had stayed, I feared that I would have lost a part of my soul forever.
Chapter 15
“She won’t come down, sir.”
Erik tried to think of the last time he’d seen Jerome look nervous and failed. After Christine had fled from the music room, he’d let her go—followed discreetly by Jerome, to make sure she didn’t wander into chambers Erik didn’t want her to see...yet.
However, Jerome reported that she’d gone straight to her rooms, and that’s where he had found her only a few moments later, sitting on the ground outside the locked door to her suite, knees drawn up to her chest, face pale. All she’d said, though, was, “I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” before getting to her feet as Jerome had unlocked the door. She had disappeared into the suite and was now apparently refusing to come back out again.
Considering, Erik settled back in his chair. Although it was certainly in his power to have her forcibly removed from her chamber and brought down to dinner, somehow he doubted that was the correct approach. Better to let her stay alone with her anger and hope that it would burn itself out eventually. He knew he hadn’t been dreaming when he saw the growing attraction in her eyes, saw the way she had responded to his music and his voice. She might fight it now—for days to come, if he knew her at all—but it was a fight he knew she would lose in the end. It wasn’t all just dreams and madness; the very first time he had held her in his arms he’d felt her rouse
to him, felt the rightness between them.
Apparently unnerved by Erik’s continuing silence, Jerome added, “She said—and I quote, ‘He’s going to have to drag me down there by my hair before I’ll sit down to dinner with him again.’ Sir.”
Did she really think he was such a barbarian as that? Well, he’d enjoy proving her wrong. Instead, he gave a brittle laugh and said, “Such an abuse of a glorious head of hair. I’d never allow that, of course...have a tray prepared and sent up to her rooms. And send Ennis in to clear her place setting away.”
Jerome inclined his head. “Very good, sir. I’ll see to that directly.”
As Jerome went off to carry out his orders, Erik tried to resign himself to another lonely evening. It would, after all, only be another in a very long series of lonely evenings. More frustrating than most of the others, since now he at last had the woman he had dreamed of for so long living under his own roof, but now was not the time to endanger the delicate balance that existed between the two of them by giving rein to his temper. He pushed away a sudden image of himself throwing open the door to her room and finding her in the rose-canopied bed he’d had prepared for her. What would it be like, to take her by the shoulders, bring her lips to his, force the soft sweetness of her body down into the sheets, feel her move under him?
That way did lie madness. He made himself stand and go to the sideboard, where a fine unoaked chardonnay was cooling in a vintage silver bucket. Only after pouring himself a glass and taking several sips did he feel the pulse in his chest and groin begin to subside.
At that point Ennis entered the room and began to clear away Christine’s unwanted place setting. He looked over to Erik where he stood by the sideboard, then asked, “I hope the young lady is feeling well?”
Erik watched the old man carefully, but he could see nothing except genuine concern in Ennis’s eyes. The butler had always been the element that worried Erik the most in his whole scheme of kidnapping Christine—the man was getting on, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. And strangely, what worried Erik the most was what Ennis might think of him, should he discover the truth. Jerome he trusted implicitly, and frankly, Erik didn’t much care what Jerome thought. The man had seen the darker side of humanity for a good many years; Erik somehow doubted that he could do anything that would shock Jerome. But Ennis—
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 15