Angel Hands (23 page)

His gaze fell on his ink-stained fingers. He had been sketching out stage settings for the silly little comic operetta he and Mireille had chosen to debut the season and the theater with.

Grimacing, he realized that he was dissatisfied with his drawings. They were ordinary, almost pedantic. Yet, he couldn't find the will to care, to push himself to the edge of mania that had in the past produced such perfection.

Everything was blank, bland, and sandy in his world until Mireille gave him his answer.

Which, of course, the infuriating woman had not done.

He studied his fingers. They were long without being effeminate. Calluses dotted his palms and knuckles. He supposed they were decent-looking enough. It was strange to think that there were bits and pieces of him that were relatively ordinary, like other men. He thought about his feet. Yes, those too were normal. Nothing marred his legs or his arms. His back, however, was another thing all together. His back was a map of scars and burns, a landscape of ruin and rebellion.

Would Mireille ever want to look upon that, let alone his face? Yet, had she not promised she would never remove his mask? If that was the case, then...

Images of careful lovemaking flashed through his mind, warming his ordinary man’s body. Desire finally shoved hesitation out of the way, and he jumped up from his desk, knocking his chair back.

He would get his answer, no matter what it was.

What if it was an answer he didn't like? The small rational part of his brain that was still operational reminded him that he had promised to let Mireille go and would have to honor his word. The rest of him—body and soul—demanded that he do everything in his power to persuade her to stay.

He remembered young Buprès' advice to kiss Mireille and hid the tremble in his hands as he stalked from his study.

***

She awoke with a start at the sound of the pounding at her door.

Scrambling to sit upright, Mireille realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa in her bedroom while reviewing the latest carpentry bills after lunch.

"Open this door!" he shouted.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the door and yanked it open, drawing in a deep breath to let him have it, in no uncertain terms.

She blinked, unable to fathom the expression on his face. It was a jumble of fear, determination, and desire.

In that moment, she lost the advantage, for he yanked her into his arms and kissed her, spinning them into the room and somehow slamming the door shut along the way.

Before she could even register the feel of his lips on hers, he drew back, just enough to lean his forehead against hers.

"Your answer," he gasped. "I must have your answer."

Mireille squeezed her eyes shut, her brain cartwheeling through explanations. "What? I don't understand. What answer?"

"To my offer, dammit!" he swore, then kissed her again, this time, much more soundly. She was definitively able now to say that his lips were firm and warm.

"Your freedom, woman!" he growled against her lips. "Do you want it or not? Because I cannot guarantee my sanity much longer against this torture!"

"What tort-" Her words were cut short by another, deeper kiss, his mouth now demanding that hers open to him. She added the fact that his tongue was like velvet and quite nimble to the catalog of her impressions of his kisses.

"For seven days now, you have acted as if nothing was different," he panted, tightening his hold around her waist and digging his fingers into her hair—a rather delicious sensation, she had to admit. "I wait for you to leave, and I long for you to stay. Make your choice!"

More kisses followed his words, and they did nothing to help the confusion in Mireille's mind. When had he pushed her up against the wall? It didn't matter, not when he was pressing every inch of his body against hers. How had she undone his cravat? Never mind. Now, her hands could freely touch the hot skin of his neck as he continued to plunder her mouth, demanding more and more from their kisses.

He pulled her hips into his, and moaned into their kiss. There was no possible way to respond rationally when he was doing this to her!

Then, she realized, that her answer had nothing at all to do with rationality.

It had nothing to do with reason, practicality, cynicism, pragmatism, and pessimism.

It had everything to do with her heart, which she finally understood with a pure, blinding clarity.

"You stupid man!" she cried in a half-sob, half-laugh. "There is no choice. There is only you!"

He stilled instantly.

"You are certain?" he whispered.

She poured the pain in his voice into her heart and vowed to keep it there forevermore, locked away from him, leaving him safe and loved and whole.

"I am certain," she replied firmly, then quirked her brow at him. "That is, unless all you really want me for is to be your business manager."

"Business!" he cried, suddenly darkly sure of himself again. "Madame, I will show you business!"

She smiled as he swept her up into his arms, carried her over to the bed, and unceremoniously dumped her on it.

***

She had never realized just how delightful business could be.

***

Some hours later, he realized that he had become far too accustomed to sleeping in a bed, as his back began to feel distinctly uncomfortable against the floor, even with the cushioning of the thick Persian rug underneath them.

He was a bit hazy as to when proceedings had moved from the bed to the floor, whether it was before or after she had put her mouth on his person and reduced him to begging like a ballet rat. He was certain, though, that he had returned the favor by laying her out on the low sofa in front of the roaring fire. Ah yes, it was all coming back to him now. She had returned his returning of the favor by pushing him to the ground and straddling him, giving him an excellent opportunity to study her body by firelight.

It was not the first time he had seen it. He remembered removing her clothes after she had fallen into the freezing underground lake at the opera house. He smiled wryly at the way he had been so dismissive of her, allowing her to be tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him. Not like Kristin.

The thought of Kristin no longer felt like a betrayal of either woman in his mind. He had clung to Kristin's kindness and burned for her talent, but now, he could truly say that there was little about the actual woman that he could honestly claim to know, let alone love.

He chuckled to himself as he toyed with the idea of how Kristin would have reacted to his brutal, urgent passion. No, there was only one woman who could both call that forth in him and respond to it exquisitely and perfectly.

His wife.

Mireille.

No, let Raoul have Kristin. He had forgiven Raoul everything...but, because he was only human, he allowed himself some amusement at the idea of Raoul having to face Kristin's undoubted squeaky, wide-eyed dismay at eventually learning about all things carnal.

He shifted and found himself gazing at the gentle rolls and dips of Mireille's back as she slumbered on her stomach. The firelight threw shadows on her pale golden skin, and he couldn't resist running his fingers along the contour of her spine.

Her back was perfect and unblemished, unlike his. Yet, she had shown no shock or dismay at the sight of the twisted flesh of his own back and chest. She hadn't tried to kiss every scar—a maudlin gesture that would have stifled his arousal, drowning it in pain. She had paid no attention to any of it and focused instead on placing biting, sucking little kisses on his neck and shoulders.

Yes, he decided he much preferred lovemaking to pity.

Even his mask had managed to stay in place, though there was a moment when it had come perilously close to coming loose when she yanked his shirt off over his head. He had grabbed instinctively at his mask, going completely still, tensed for a fight or a blow. Instead, Mireille had stared at him for a moment, confused. Then, when she realized what was happening, she had turned her back to him and invited him to unlace her corset when he was ready.

He chuckled quietly at the thought of all the impossible layers of clothing she wore, and how it had both stoked his ardor and stumped him with buttons and laces. In the back of his mind, he began to design underpinnings for her dresses that involved much less work and created much easier access. He foresaw that he would need quick access quite often in the near future.

Mireille squirmed in her sleep, wriggling up to him and wrapping herself around his body. Well, that was certainly an attention-getter, at least for a distinctive part of his anatomy.

Carefully, he pulled her closer, holding her and listening to her deep breathing. Such moments of happiness were almost painful. He kissed the top of her head and wondered how Comte Philippe de Chagnard could be such a fool as to let her go.

He frowned, remembering the moment when Mireille had stopped him from pulling off her chemise, the last barrier for them both.

"Wait," she gasped, her eyes filling with tears. "You should know that I am not...This is not my first...Philippe...he suggested we anticipate our vows…and then left me…"

"Philippe de Chagnard is a bastard and a fool," he stated plainly. "His loss is my eternal gain. Now, hush, woman!"

And that had been that—for both the subject and any further speech for quite some time.

A log broke off in the fireplace. Mireille snuggled against him, and certain things could be put off no longer.

He rolled her onto her back and kissed her awake.

***

Mireille loved the way he gently brushed away the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. It occurred to her that his poor face behind that mask must be hot and uncomfortable, but she would never bring it up.

Her husband wanted more than anything to be normal. Obliviousness, therefore, was the greatest gift she could give him.

"You are quite talented, you know," she said, reaching up to stroke his visible cheek.

He laughed as he sat up in the bed. She was not sure how they had ended up back in bed after waking up, if one could call it that, on the floor. He grabbed the covers and pulled them up over them both.

"Of all the times to praise my music," he said.

She grabbed a rather exhausted part of his anatomy and grinned wickedly. "That was not the talent of which I was speaking."

He groaned as she squeezed experimentally. "No more, madame! I swear, you were designed by the gods expressly to torment me."

"How did you learn this particular trade?" she prodded, relinquishing her possession of him.

"One sees all sorts of things backstage," he said with a slight shrug. "It is not difficult to observe and discern effective techniques from ineffective tricks."

She laughed. "You, monsieur, are a dirty little voyeur!"

"Hmm, yes, no doubt I am," he purred, using his fingers to practice his excellent technique. "I plan to make good use of my inclination with you."

"You mean to watch me?"

"Yes." He twisted his fingers, and her mind went blank.

"W-watching me do what?" she panted, attempting to rally her wits. "Wash my hair?"

"I would not be averse to looking at you naked and wet," he said, employing more fingers and more techniques. "Among other things I can imagine."

"I could tie you to our bed," he whispered. "I would watch you for hours as I teased you. Did you know I cultivate a deep interest in science?"

"S-science?" Words were difficult when all she wanted to do was babble about his fingers.

"Yes, and I enjoy studying the scientific method, which involves deliberate experimentation."

"Gnghhhh!"

"For instance, I should like to ascertain whether feathers or ice pleased you more."

Her breath was hot and harsh-sounding in her ears.

"I believe scientific method would find value in my inquiry as to whether you responded more ardently to being blindfolded or spanked...or perhaps both."

Following his scientific method in her thoughts was like drowning in chocolate.

"It is also important to gage the peak time of day for optimal results, which would involve bending you over my desk in the morning, taking you on the table at lunch, tickling you under the tea tray, and having you naked on my lap as I fed you dinner, bite by bite."

Was that really her making that whining sound? Oh, it definitely was, especially since he had paused in his speech and put his lips to better use on her person.

"We must not underestimate the effect of public exposure in our pursuit of scientific truth," he whispered around his mouthful of her. "I believe it will be imperative for me to fuck you in our private box on opening night-"

"L-language, monsieur!" she gasped, so close to that ultimate moment.

So close...so...

At first, she didn't hear the knock at the door. All she knew was that she was unfulfilled and spitting mad when he suddenly stopped his ministrations.

"Erm, begging your pardon, monsieur and madame," Pierre Buprès' voice came through the door. "But, we seem to have a bit of a problem on our hands."

Mireille ground her teeth as her husband cleared his throat and called out, "What is it?"

"Well, erm, it would seem that Monsieur Lefebre is at the door," Pierre said.

There was a strained pause before he added, "Along with the
gendarmerie
of Paris and Versailles."

31. Of Opera Ghosts and Obfuscation

It was the work of a moment to be up and throwing on clothing.

As soon as Mireille had ducked behind the dressing screen and he had pants on, her husband had opened the door and ushered Pierre in.

"Have you let them in?" he asked.

"No, monsieur," Pierre answered. "However, I doubt they'll wait much longer outside."