Angel Hands (3 page)

Mireille opened her mouth in protest, then closed it without making a sound. As much as she wanted to yank the door open and slam it closed, she made herself to open and close it softly and normally.

In the dark, silent office, a shadow moved and smiled to itself.

"So, you are a woman after all, my dear. Excellent."

3.
Of Resolutions and Reunions

He had returned to his abode feeling rather pleased with himself. His debut with Mademoiselle Dubienne had been highly satisfactory, and he didn't know which tickled him more, the fact that he had obviously frightened her or the way she had tried so hard not to slam the door.

During the quick trip back down into the cellars, he had also become comfortable with his decision to seduce her instead of kill her. The thought of killing a woman was vaguely distasteful to him.

He turned their encounter over and over again in his mind. Occasionally, he questioned his motives for revealing himself to her. It was an irretrievable step. He hadn't been able to help it, though. The moment had been too perfect. In any case, if he was to regain control of his opera house, he would have had to reveal his presence at some point.

Besides, he had been lonely.

He ground his teeth as his thoughts staggered down this uncomfortable path. It had been easy to be alone in a quiet, tomb-like opera house, with only the whispers of the breeze through broken windows and the echoes of his solitary keening for company. But once living, breathing people had filled the place again, he felt the old, familiar yearning for something more: that damnable impulse to be part of humanity.

Mademoiselle Dubienne had been alone. She had been tired. Her guard had been down.

Perhaps his decision had been made when she took off her glasses.

He moved around his home, absently setting things in order. He paused in front of a small music box with a monkey dressed in Persian robes. It was a nothing trinket he had stolen from one of the former managers. Kristin had loved it though, watching it for hours, listening to its simplistic tinkling tune. He gently brushed the figurine with his fingertips, his breath catching in his throat.

Yes.

That was the key.

He would seduce Mademoiselle Dubienne...with his voice, with his music, with a melody that would haunt her night and day, and that only she would hear.

His lips almost curved in a smile, but there was a touch of hardness in his eyes. This was no game of love—not like with, oh God, with beautiful, sweet Kristin. No, no! God, the pain of love! No, never again. This was a pure game of power, and it was one he was determined to win.

The only pleasure he would allow himself was the thrill of fighting a worthy opponent. Mademoiselle Dubienne was no naïf, but she was a woman yet. And he was a man. Even with a monster's face, he was still a man. If, within a month, he couldn't have her twisted around his little finger in the ecstatic agony of unfulfilled desire to know and serve the Opera Ghost in return for his unseen attentions, well, he'd eat his mask.

***

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

The voice seemed so close that Mireille thought she could feel a whisper of breath against her ear. She refused to turn like some startled filly and search for something she was quite sure wouldn't be there. She wasn't wholly surprised at the voice's finding her during the opening night gala. In fact, she would have been more surprised if he hadn't taken advantage of such a melodramatic occasion to renew their acquaintance.

"Not at all, monsieur," she replied, her lips barely moving as she smoothed down the drab green silk skirts of her three-year-old ball gown. "But the fact that my Opera Ghost pays such attention to my attire is rather amusing."

"I am not your Opera Ghost, my dear. You would do well to remember that."

"This is my theater. You haunt it. Ergo, you are my ghost."

"A pleasant conceit, mademoiselle. But with great regret, I am forced to make a small correction. This theater technically does not belong to you. It belongs to your father. And his partner."

Mireille bit her lip as his barb hit home.

She leaned back, resting her bare shoulders against the cool marble of the wall. A large, strategically-placed potted plant obscuring her from the eyes of the other guests.

“The sopranos in the chorus were flat tonight,” the voice continued. “The scenery painting had very little depth to it, and the last ballet dancer on the left in the second row back is about two beats off from everyone else.”

“Have you anything else to say?”

"Hmmm. No. Other than that, it was a remarkably...remarkable evening."

"Oh good, I am so glad you are pleased." Sarcasm dripped from her voice like honey from a spoon.

The disembodied voice chuckled.

"Charming as this conversation has been, I must return to my guests," she said flatly.

"But of course, mademoiselle. We shall speak again."

"I have no doubt," she sighed as she moved past the potted plant back into the crush of bustles and cravats.

***

It was four o'clock in the morning when the Dubienne carriage pulled up to the building where Mireille and her father lived. With a sleepy smile, she accepted her father's hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

"A splendid evening, my girl," he murmured, dropping an affectionate kiss on her forehead.

"A splendid headache I'll have in the morning," she mumbled, thinking of the endless glasses of champagne she had quickly imbibed after her encounter with the Opera Ghost. She was quite tipsy and relaxed, feeling nothing more than a pleasant anticipation of slipping between the sheets of her soft, warm bed.

"Sleep in for once, will you, my dear?"

"No doubt I won't be able to help it."

"Good. Now go to bed,
ma petite
."

"
Oui, papa
," Mireille replied, mimicking the way she used to speak as a little girl.

Once inside, her maids swooped down on her, sweeping her up the stairs, stripping her of the ball gown, and wrapping her in a soft white, silk night shift.

Mireille soon found herself snuggling down among the pillows and pulling the covers up to her chin. She was conscious of a vague sensation of the world tipping and spinning, but she figured that would go away once she fell asleep. Her eyes drifted closed, and her breaths deepened as she slid into the grey space between wakefulness and sleep.

A faint melody seemed to come to her, and her groggy mind—too tired to rouse itself to full consciousness—wondered if it was something she had heard at the ball. But it went on and on, carrying her on a gentle sing-song current of a lilting melody. She dreamed of a man hidden by music.

That night, Erik dreamed of a honey-haired princess asleep in a tower.

4. Of Treats and Tricks

"Are you truly sure you wish to do this?" Raymond Lefebre asked earnestly, a lock of blond hair falling adorably into his handsome face.

"Quite sure," came Mireille's calm, uncompromising reply.

Raymond thought about her words, trying to see things from her point of view—the cool, calculating business view. Undoubtedly, what she was suggesting would be good for business, but it felt awkward and almost impolite, dredging up a thing of the past like that.

He sighed and shrugged. "As you like, mademoiselle."

"Trust me, monsieur."

"I would, except that you are so..."

"Cunning?"

"Diabolical," Raymond finished with a grin, winning an amused chuckle from her. He noticed that her mouth was nice when she smiled, and he filed that away to ponder over later.

***

Mireille watched Raymond leave her office and shut the door behind him. She bent her head to study the accounting books, though her eyes barely skimmed the columns of figures. It had been a month since opening night. The house had been full for every performance, and revenue was starting to finally cover some of the initial costs of re-opening the opera house.

She smiled to herself as she thought of one of the most successful reasons why the place had kept selling out. Pierre Buprès, a rascally ten year-old stage hand, had become her accomplice in what he had thought of as a grand gag on the high and mighty of Paris. On Mireille's orders, he caused lights to flicker, curtains to stir, open vents to cause sudden draughts, and other minor bits of mischief.

Rumor had begun to circulate that the Opera Ghost was back, and Parisians uncomfortably laughed it off, both hoping and dreading that it was true. If it was true, it was an awful thing, but it was also quite thrilling—and every Parisian worth his salt never turned down a chance to be thrilled.

So, they had continued to buy the tickets and come to the performances.

Mireille absently noticed that the early winter sunlight had faded, and a terrific bank of thunderclouds had darkened the sky, filling the room with shadows. She stood up and groped around her desk for a box of matches in order to light the oil lamp on her table.

She gasped and dropped the box as a terrific crash of thunder cracked the silence. Shaking her head, she smiled slightly at her own startled reaction and bent over to retrieve the matchbox from the floor.

She straightened up and turned back to the desk, only to have the matchbox fly out of her hand again as she choked on another gasp and jerked in surprise.

A towering dark figure stood before her in the gloom. A white half-mask glowed eerily in the dimness, and two hard eyes stared her down.

Instinctively, Mireille grabbed at the desk and moved to try and put it between her and the figure. Her mind ricocheted between panic and the need to stay calm and fight back. Reason clawed its way ahead of fear, forcing it to the back of her thoughts.

She realized she was now trapped between her desk and the window. No matter what else happened, she needed to get closer to the door. As subtly as she could, she edged around the far side of the desk.

It was imperative that she not look in the direction of the door. She knew that. The mysterious man’s icy eyes would let nothing escape his notice.

Naturally, as a result, she glanced toward the door.

There was a blur of darkness, a whiff of exotic incense, and the sudden sensation of being grabbed and held in a powerful, painful grasp

"Monsieur le Fantôme?" Mireille asked coldly, glaring at her assailant. "To what do I owe this—“

"You have no right!" the Phantom hissed. "That opera is MINE! It was not meant for—"

"That is too bad, but irrelevant," Mireille countered. "
Don Juan
will be our next production, and unless you care to burn the opera house down again, there is nothing you can do to stop it."

***

Her very coolness inflamed his anger. Why did she not tremble? Why did her eyes not grow wide with fear? Why did she answer him back with the same menace as his own voice held? This was no girl, this was a...a...monster!

No, this is a woman
, the little voice in his head whispered.
Not an ingénue. Not an angel. Not anything except a woman. Remember that...and remember how you said you would conquer this woman...

He knew he had done the right thing when she gasped when he slid his grip from her wrists to her waist, pulling her against him. Her hands flew to his arms, vainly trying to push at them to give her breathing space. He felt her tremble, and then he felt her stiffen with surprise as he used his gloved hand to trace a feathery line along her cheek and her jawline before drifting down to the hollow of her throat.

Her reactions filled him with an almost animalistic pleasure. The only complication that kept him from tasting total victory was the traitorous response of his own body. The liquid shivers that ran through his form as he pressed her more tightly to him were like nothing he had ever felt before—not even with...

This was pure desire, base lust, and he was disgusted by it, by the weakness of need his solitude created. Why, Mademoiselle Dubienne wasn't even pretty—she was passable at best, and if he hadn't needed her for his plans, she would have been the last woman to occupy his thoughts. The irony of his pickiness did not escape him, and he let his thoughts wander in this treacherous field for a moment as the rain began to pound against the window and the thunder rumbled dangerously in the background.

"It is you, isn't it?" she whispered, breaking the lengthening silence between them.

"What do you mean?" Erik growled, the sound of his voice enveloped them in a hot cloud of confused emotions.

"The music I hear at night...in my dreams."

"I cannot help it if you are delusional, mademoiselle."

She studied him, and he studied her back, getting a good, close look at her face, noting the spectacles, the hazel eyes, the exact shape of her lips. He had been correct earlier. Passable, but not pretty. No, not like...

"You think to haunt me, playing music outside my window at night until I go mad or give in and become your pawn like the weak-kneed managers from before. They were men and easily scared. I, however, am not afraid of you."

He stared at her. Oh, this one was more intelligent than he had even guessed, too intelligent to succumb to his ghostly games. It was a pity he would have to abandon the easiest tactics in his arsenal. The tricks of the Opera Ghost were almost routine now. No, now he would have to rely solely on the strategy of seduction. 

He smirked at her as he bent his face close to hers—close enough that their lips almost brushed, close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin and see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a sight that he found unexpectedly and disturbingly arousing.