Tales of Western Romance (36 page)

“
Forgive me,” he said with a courtly
bow. “I am Erik.”

She swallowed hard. “Erik?”

A slight nod, filled with arrogance. One dark
brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as
The
Phantom of the Opera
.”

Cristie shook her head. No, it was
impossible. She must be dreaming. He couldn’t be real. Soon, her
alarm clock would go off and she would wake up in her room at the
hotel. And she would laugh…

She looked up into his eyes, dark haunted
eyes, and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if, after
sensing his pain, she would ever laugh again.

“
And your name?” he asked.

“
Cristie,” she replied, and fainted
dead away.

He caught her before she slid out of her
chair.

She was quite lovely, light as a feather in
his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his hand. What
was she doing here, in the Opera House, long after everyone else
had gone?

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he carried
her down the aisle. He didn’t really care what she was doing here.
She was here, and that was all that mattered. He turned left when
the aisle ended and disappeared through one of the building’s many
secret doors.

Down, down, down he went, until he reached
the boat moored alongside the underground lake.

He placed her gently in the stern, stepped
in, and poled across to the other side.

“
Cristie.” He spoke her name softly,
reverently, certain it was short for Christine. Wondering if, this
time, he might be blessed with a happy ending.

Chapter 2

Cristie woke to the sound of music. Sitting
up, she glanced at her surroundings. She didn’t have to wonder
where she was. She knew. She had seen it all before - the organ,
the masked man sitting behind it with his head bowed over the
keyboard, the boat rocking gently in the water beyond, the
flickering candles.

She was in the Phantom’s lair.

He continued to play, seemingly unaware of
her presence. The music was darkly sensual, invoking images of
sweat-sheened bodies writhing on silken sheets. The notes poured
over her, making her skin tingle with awareness.

She studied his profile, though she could see
little but the ghostly mask. Was he as hideous as portrayed on
stage and in the movies? If she were the real Christine, she would
rise from her bed and tiptoe toward him. She would wait for the
moment when he was so caught up in the music he was composing that
he was oblivious to everything else, and then she would snatch the
mask from his face.

But she wasn’t Christine and none of this was
real. She had to be dreaming. It was the only explanation.

The music ended abruptly and she found
herself staring into his eyes.

He inclined his head in her direction.
“Welcome to my abode, fair lady.” His voice was like warm whiskey,
smooth and intoxicating. Would he sing for her if she asked?

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at being in
his bed, she threw his cloak aside and gained her feet. “I’m
sorry,” she stammered, “I must have fainted.”

“
Would you care for
breakfast?”

“
What? Oh, no, thank you.” She forced a
smile. “I really must go.”

In a lithe motion, he rose from the bench and
glided toward her. “So soon?”

She nodded, struck by the beauty of the
unmasked portion of his face. The mesmerizing glow of his eyes.
They were very dark, and deep, like a well of dark water.

He gestured toward a small table. “You may as
well eat.” He lifted a white cloth from a large silver tray,
revealing plates of sliced ham, fried potatoes, and soft boiled
eggs. The scent of coffee wafted from a silver carafe. A crystal
pitcher held orange juice; a white basket held a variety of muffins
and croissants.

Cristie’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t
eaten since early last night, after all. “Well,” she said, her
mouth watering. “I guess it would be a shame to let it all go to
waste.”

“
Indeed.”

He held out her chair. “Please,” he said,
“help yourself.”

“
Aren’t you going to join
me?”

A faint smile played over his lips. “I’ve
eaten. Please, enjoy your meal.”

And so saying, he went back to the organ.

It was the strangest meal she had ever eaten,
her sitting at the table, him sitting at the organ, the air filled
with music that soothed her soul, and excited her at the same
time.

She studied him surreptitiously, noting the
way he swayed ever so slightly to the music, the graceful play of
his long, tapered fingers over the keys, the intense, yet faraway,
expression on his face. His white shirt emphasized his broad
shoulders. The ruffled front should have looked feminine but there
was nothing feminine about this man. His black trousers hugged
well-muscled thighs. And the mask…it drew her gaze again and again
as she imagined what lay behind it.

Glancing at her watch, she took a last sip of
coffee and pushed away from the table.

As though pulled by a string, he turned
toward her, his fingers stilling on the keys.

“
Thank you for breakfast,” she said,
looking around for her handbag. “And for putting me up for the
night.”

“
My pleasure.”

In a fluid movement, he rose and moved toward
her.

“
You don’t really live down here, do
you?” she asked. “I mean…do you?”

“
It has been my home for many
years.”

“
Do you work for the opera?”

He laughed softly, the sound moving over her
like silk warmed by a fire. “No.”

A sliver of fear trembled in the pit of her
stomach. No one knew she was here. If she disappeared, no one would
know where to look.

“
Would you like a tour?” he
asked.

“
Some other time,” she said, backing
away from him. “I really must go.”

He took a step toward her, closing the
distance between them. “Christine…”

His nearness played havoc with her senses.
“It’s Cristiana, actually.”

“
I’ll see you up,” he said.

She nodded, finding it suddenly hard to
speak.

He plucked his cloak from the bed, settling
it on his shoulders in an elegant flourish that would have made any
Phantom worth his salt proud.

“
My purse…?”

He found it on the floor and offered it to
her with a slight bow. “Shall we?”

He handed her into the boat, poled
effortlessly across the lake, escorted her up a long winding stone
staircase and out a narrow wooden door into a dark alley.

Cristie gasped, surprised to find that it was
night when she had thought it was morning.

“
Will I see you again?” he
asked.

“
I don’t think so. I’m leaving for home
in a few weeks.”

“
You don’t live here?”

“
No, I live in the States.”

“
Ah.”

“
You don’t really think you’re
The
Phantom of the Opera
, do you?”

“
No, my fair lady, I don’t think it. I
am indeed he.”

“
But that’s impossible. You’d have to
be…” She lifted one hand and let it fall. “I don’t know, over a
hundred years old.”

He nodded, as if such a thing was perfectly
natural.

“
Very funny.”
No doubt about it
,
she thought,
he is quite mad
.

A hint of anger sparked in the depths of his
eyes. “You don’t believe me?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure the phantom was
real.”

“
I’m quite real, I assure
you.”

“
And you’re over a hundred years old?
How do you explain that?”

“
Quite easily.” He smiled, revealing
very sharp, very white, fangs. “I’m a vampire.”

She stared at him, and then—for the second
time in as many days—she fainted.

Chapter 3

Cristie woke in the Phantom’s lair again. It
was becoming quite a habit, she mused. Only this time the organ sat
silent and she was alone. She glanced at her watch. The hands read
six o’clock, but she had no way of knowing if it was morning or
evening.

Rising, her heart pounding, she found her
purse and hurried toward the lake, only to find the boat gone.
Chewing on the inside of her lower lip, she glanced at the water.
How deep was it? Did she dare try to swim across? The water looked
dark, forbidding. It was said that there were alligators in the New
York sewers, and while she had never heard of any alligators in
Paris, who knew what other dangers might lurk beneath the
deceptively still surface of the lake?

Retracing her steps, she dropped her evening
bag on the table then sat down, only then noticing the dirty dishes
had been taken away. A clean cloth now covered the tray. Lifting
it, she found a thick ham and cheese sandwich on sourdough bread, a
bowl of onion soup, still warm, and a pot of tea.

Never one to let anything go to waste, she
picked up the sandwich, wondering where her host had gone. No
sooner did the thought cross her mind than she sprang to her feet.
Good Lord, he was a vampire, an undead creature of the
night!
A monster who lived on blood. How had that bit of
information slipped her mind? She had to get out of there now,
before he returned!

And then a new thought reared its ugly head.
Had he bitten her while she slept? She lifted a frantic hand to her
neck, relieved when she felt only smooth skin. No bites, thank
goodness. But she didn’t intend to stick around long enough to give
him another chance.

Grabbing her evening bag, she ran to the
water’s edge, her fear of the man who called himself
The Phantom
of the Opera
stronger than her fear of the water. She removed
her shoes with a sharp stab of regret at the thought of leaving
them behind. Manolo’s were hard to come by, especially on a
teacher’s salary, but her life was worth more than a pair of shoes.
Stuffing her purse inside her blouse, she waded into the water. It
was dark and cold. She walked only a few feet when she realized she
had made a horrible, perhaps fatal, mistake. Not only was the lake
deeper than she thought, but a swift current ran under the water’s
calm surface. She shrieked as it caught her, carrying her away from
the Phantom’s lair, sweeping her along like a cork caught in a
riptide. Helpless, she flailed her arms as the waterway grew
narrower; darker as the light from the Phantom’s lair grew faint,
and then disappeared.

Weighed down by her clothing, her arms and
legs quickly tiring, she screamed for help one last time before she
sank beneath the dark current.

* * * * *

Erik cursed as the sound of Cristie’s cries
reached his ears. Foolish woman, why hadn’t she waited for his
return? Foolish man, why had he refused to let her go? And yet, how
could he not? Her face, her voice, so like Christine’s of old, and
yet, uniquely her own. He had lived in solitude for so long. Surely
he deserved a few years of companionship? If she would but stay
with him, he would grant her every desire, fulfill her every wish.
If she would love him…
He laughed bitterly. There was little
chance of that. A woman like Cristie, so young and so beautiful,
could surely have her pick of handsome men. Men who walked in the
sun’s light without fear.

He raced toward the lake with preternatural
speed. He had no need of illumination to find her. He followed her
scent, and when he found her—floating face down—he plunged into the
lake and drew her into his arms. Relief surged through him when she
coughed up a mouthful of water. A thought took him to his lair. A
wave of his hand lit a fire in the hearth.

Cursing his selfishness, Erik placed her on
the bed and quickly removed her sodden clothing. If she died…
No!
He would not let that happen. Wrapping her in a thick
quilt, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to the rocking
chair located in front of the fire. Sitting, he held her close, his
hands massaging her back, her arms, and legs.

The throbbing of the pulse in the hollow of
her throat called to his hunger, tempting him almost beyond his
power to resist. But he would not take advantage of her, not now,
when she was helpless. Nor, he realized, could he let her go, not
when Fate had been kind enough to send her to him. Not when she
knew what he was, though if she told the tale, he doubted anyone
would believe her.

* * * * *

Awareness returned to Cristie a layer at a
time. She felt warm. It was quiet, save for the soft music that
filled the air. A gentle hand stroked her brow…

With a start, Cristie came fully awake to
find herself cradled in the Phantom’s arms, staring up into his
dark eyes.

Vampire
.

“
Please,” she murmured tremulously.
“Please, let me go.”

His knuckles caressed her cheek. “Please
stay,” he urged softly. “Be my Christine, if only for a little
while.”

Fear made her mouth go dry. What would he do
if she refused to stay? She closed her eyes for a moment,
remembering how she had always hated Christine for turning her back
on the Phantom and going away with Raoul. Cristie frowned. Hadn’t
she always said if given a choice, she would stay with the Phantom?
But this wasn’t a play, and this Phantom was a vampire.

His voice rumbled against her ear. “A month,
my Christine. Won’t you stay with me that long? The world you know
will still be there when you return.”

“
And if I refuse?”

He had meant to keep her against her will, if
necessary, but looking at her now, seeing the fear in her eyes, he
knew he would not.