Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “I did not kidnap you. You fainted in my arms. I could hardly leave you alone in the hallway.”

  “Then I can leave whenever I wish?”

  “That is always within your power, if you truly want it.”

  “Like Dorothy, I only have to click my heels and wish to be home?” She snickered. “That’s hardly a realistic answer.”

  He shrugged, the liquid in the carafe sloshing. “What is real?”

  She flexed her fingers on the poker. It felt solid. The fire warmed her skin. But her dreams had felt this vivid, too. “I don’t think I know anymore,” she replied, finally.

  His lips curved. “I receive little company, so I would love for you to stay and continue to talk with me for a while.”

  “Oh, is that what we’re doing?”

  “Yes. A clever woman like you should recognize a conversation when she’s in one.” He turned away and set the tray on a low table of glossy wood with frivolous legs that ended in dainty carved hooves.

  She lifted the poker. With his back turned, she could strike him over the head. Quick and clean.

  “Don’t.” He said it softly, with stern command, never looking at her. He poured the blood-red liquid from the carafe into a glass and brought it to her. “If you try to attack me, I will tie your hands. I’d prefer you to accept my ropes under other circumstances.”

  The words sent a pulse of heat between her thighs and her once-clear thoughts whirled. She didn’t know what to think or do.

  “Come sit,” he said, in a much gentler tone, warm and coaxing. “Have some wine. Eat something. We’ll talk.” He eased the poker out of her hand, set it back in the stand, and wrapped her fingers around the wineglass. Clearly unconcerned that she might disobey, he turned his back and moved to an antique French chair, unfastening his cloak and setting it aside. He settled himself on the chair and stretched out one leg, as if it pained him, his muscular thigh twitching. Christy clutched the wineglass. Her self-defense instructor had never said what to do in this kind of situation. Or maybe she had. Make him see you as a person. Trust your instincts.

  “Won’t you sit, Christine?” He sounded a little weary.

  Forcing herself to move, she took the chair opposite him, at the other end of the long table. In her jeans and Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt, she felt grubby and graceless. She tucked her sneakered feet under the chair, holding her knees pressed tightly together. After an awkward moment, she set the full wineglass on the table and, for lack of something to do with her hands, folded her arms.

  “No wine for you?” He always sounded so amused by her.

  “I can’t help but notice you aren’t drinking any. I’m really not interested in being drugged into submission.”

  He stilled, intensity burning through him. “I’m not interested in using drugs to entice your submission, Christine.”

  She had to look away. Jesus, why did those things he said eat through her like that? Shifting a little in her chair to ease the ache between her thighs, she caught him watching the movement with avid interest.

  With deliberate care, he poured himself a glass of wine and lifted it to her in a graceful toast. “To new beginnings.” To the most beautiful girl in the room. A shiver ran through her.

  He drank from the glass, like a flesh-and-blood man, to all appearances, then cocked his head at her. “You won’t seal the toast either?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I want to earn your trust, Christine.”

  “Why?”

  “So I may pay my court to you.”

  That stopped her. A frisson of shock, fear—and, curiously, pleasure—ran over her skin. It all felt like stepping into some old story. A fairy tale.

  “I don’t understand.” It came out as a whisper.

  He set his wineglass on the table, a bookend to hers, leaned his elbows on his knees, and laced his fingers together. “Surely in even such a modern world, a young woman understands what it means to be courted. I want to woo you, Christine. I want to seduce you, to unfold your petals and open you like the sensuous flower of womanhood you are. I want to peel away every layer of resistance until I hold you trembling and naked in my arms, until I know you more intimately than any other being on this earth.”

  Her nails were digging into the wooden arms of the chair. Somewhere in that speech she’d unfolded her arms and leaned toward him, helplessly entranced by the images he created in her mind.

  It was all so strange, as in the dreams. The urge to go to him overwhelmed her. He held out his gloved hands, opening his arms. “Come to me, Christine. Give me a kiss.”

  “No.” She clutched the chair, as if it would anchor her there. “I won’t. I can’t.”

  “But you can. Am I such a monster?”

  That cleared some of the spell. “I don’t know—if you murdered poor Tara, you are. And perhaps I simply don’t want to.”

  His lips curved, making her wonder how he’d feel and taste. “You want to. You are as drawn to me as I am to you. You’re too intelligent to delude yourself on that point. You want to kiss me now, to taste me as I wish to taste you. All you have to do is ask.”

  Christy shook her head, both in refusal and to dispel the desire his voice created in her. “Gotta point out here that you didn’t respond to the part about Tara.”

  “I didn’t kill that girl.” Anger rippled through his voice. “It grieves me deeply that you could think it. Have I done the least thing to harm you?”

  Christy shrugged elaborately. “No. Not a thing. I suppose the rape, torture, and murder part of our program is still to come.”

  “Beneath this mask and these clothes, I may be scarred, but I do not possess the twisted soul to do such a thing. I promise you that.”

  “Okay, then how did her body get there? And so conveniently after you ambushed me in that hallway?”

  He adjusted the mask, showing a touch of uncertainty—the first she’d glimpsed in him. “I don’t know.” He said it softly, a confession.

  “How can you not know?” she demanded in a tumult of emotion. “You’re the theater ghost! You see all and know all! You come and go like the wind and no doors are locked to you!” Her voice rose perilously high and she strained forward in the chair even as she clung to the arms, as if she might launch herself at him. “Tell me how any of this is possible!”

  He regarded her somberly. “I am bound by flesh and blood. I am only a man, Christine.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she hissed.

  “No?” He stood abruptly and came around the fragile barrier of the coffee table in a single stride. She shrank back in her chair, but he only held out a black-gloved hand. “Touch me and see.”

  She knotted her hands together. “I don’t want to.”

  “Give me that much.” He sounded equally distraught. “Let me at least prove to you that I am not a ghost.”

  “And then you’ll let me go?”

  “It is always within your power to come and go, if you want to. Touch me. Trust me.”

  He stood over her, so tall, his fair hair shining in the candlelight. Hesitant, she laid her hand in his, the leather soft and supple from his body heat. He drew her to her feet with great care, so she stood close enough to smell him. Like cedar chests and pine smoke, warm leather and man.

  Taking her hands by the wrist, he laid them flat on his strong chest. Then let go and stood at her mercy. She flexed her fingertips on the brocade waistcoat, feeling the contour of muscle beneath. His breath rose and fell, his strong heart thumping. She trailed her hands down, over his flat abdomen, enticed by his masculine form. But the fabric, stiff and scratchy, got in the way. He wasn’t watching her but instead stared steadfastly over her head, concentrating on not moving, perhaps. She unfastened one of the elaborate gold frogs and his breath caught.

  Only a man.

  That small response, more than anything, emboldened her. One by one, she unhooked the closings, then spread open the waistcoat, freeing the white linen crushed beneath. It wa
s damp from the sweat of his skin, fragrant with his scent. Intoxicated, she ran her hands up his hard belly, ribs, and pecs. All man. When she reached his collar, her fingers found the button there and set about to undo it.

  His hands came up, clamping her wrists, holding them there.

  “No.”

  She stared up into his intent, icy eyes. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you to see me. Some of it is . . . not pretty.”

  “Is that why you wear a mask?”

  “Yes.” He searched her face with a kind of yearning. “Can you look past that?”

  “I want to see.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I want to touch. I’ll close my eyes.”

  He hesitated.

  “You asked me to trust you. Trust me.” Trust your gut.

  He breathed a humorless laugh. “Such a simple thing to ask, is it not? And so terribly uncomfortable to give.”

  For the first time, she felt she might understand him. A ghost pain from her own scars sparked across her belly. “You also asked me to touch you. Let me.”

  His gloved fingers flexed on her wrists. “I want to blindfold you. Will you let me?”

  It seemed the room spun around her in a long, slow whirl, a carousel of exotic beasts whispering to her of dread and exhilaration. The few logical thoughts she could muster all muttered that this was a bad, bad idea.

  But something deeper and stronger overrode them. She wanted this.

  Trust yourself.

  6

  She nodded, feeling like the moment when you step off the high dive at the pool. When it’s too late to change your mind and all that’s left is the fall—and the rush of ecstatic panic that comes with it.

  Only that feeling was bright—born of sunshine, squealing children, and cool water on blue tiles. This . . . this came of night-dark pleasure, enthrallment, desire, and a mysterious man holding a black silk scarf.

  “Turn around.” He didn’t smile, and the eyes behind the mask held a challenge. It was part request but mostly command, and she turned, body simmering, heart thumping with the intensity of the moment. Trust indeed. And more.

  . . . to entice your submission.

  The black silk slithered over her eyes and she pressed her fingertips against it while he tied the scarf behind her head. Gentle but firm. It made no sense, but by giving up her sight, she felt as if she’d turned over something to him. It opened a door inside the depths of her soul, a long, shadowed hallway where she might hand over more and more. A kind of tension drained away, leaving a vibrant hum behind. She was underwater, floating in the dark.

  He sighed, brushing the nape of her neck, sending shivers through her. A whisper of sound, and hot fingers caressed her skin. She pressed her lips together against a moan.

  “Ah, Christine,” he murmured. “You undo me.”

  His lips replaced his fingers, kissing along her spine, his tongue licking into the hollow at the base of her skull. Her breasts felt full, swollen with the ache to be touched, and moisture bloomed between her thighs. Had he said he wanted to seduce her? Breathlessly, she took in every sensation, listening intently to the rustle of crisp linen, the sound of him unbuttoning the shirt.

  “All right.” Desire ran hot through his voice. “You may turn.”

  She pivoted carefully, somewhat unbalanced by her blindness, but encircled by his protective arms. He took her hands and guided her, moving in a step so hot flesh met her questing fingers. She drew in a breath, sharp, astonished, as if being unable to see made the sensation of male skin all the more otherworldly. Moving her palms over his chest, she absorbed the feel of him, and he groaned, a shudder running through him.

  “Did you mention torture?” he asked, his voice rough. “Perhaps I am the one to suffer it.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” But it was a taunt, a flexing of her power over him. She found the change of texture where his nipples were and scratched them lightly with her nails. The skin puckered under her touch and his muscles tensed.

  “Not yet.” He seemed to be restraining himself, a vicious tension running under his skin, his muscles nearly vibrating under her caress. Even blindfolded, a thrill of possessive triumph filled her, the beast tamed to her touch. She reached higher, thinking to run her hands over those broad shoulders. A ridge of twisted skin met her touch, a cicatrix of pain, and she faltered, her own internal wounds breaking open, oozing old and strange emotions.

  With a harsh curse in a language she didn’t understand, he stepped away, leaving her swaying without an anchor.

  “Wait.” She reached out, feeling through the air. “Don’t go.”

  The sharp sounds of him buttoning his shirt and waistcoat answered her.

  “What happened?” Her fingers found the knot in the blindfold and she tugged at it. So tight.

  “Don’t you dare.” His growled command froze her and then he seized her, taking her wrists again in his powerful hands, moving them inexorably away from the blindfold and down, behind her back, arching her against him. She struggled a little, but the movement pressed her aching nipples against him, nearly unbearable even through her shirt and bra. She couldn’t escape him and the thought excited her beyond reason.

  “Please.” She turned up her face, whispering the plea.

  He adjusted the grip, holding her wrists with one hand, freeing the other to stroke her cheek, feather light. Warm breath flowed over her lips. He must be close enough to kiss, and she strained against the explosive need for more. But he held her tight, so he remained beyond her reach.

  “Are you afraid, then?” The question came harsh, full of tearing emotion. “You are revolted by my scars. Admit it.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “But you felt it. You flinched as if burned yourself.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Your honest reaction tells me all I need to know. Remember, Christine, I could see your face.”

  “Then you saw surprise and nothing more.”

  “Nothing more than that?” A gloved finger pressed against her lips. “I think you lie.”

  She wanted to tear off the damn blindfold. It exposed her to him in such a terrible way. He breathed a humorless laugh at her struggles. “Tell me the truth.”

  She couldn’t. She never discussed it with anyone. It made those nightmare days far too real. They were better kept locked away behind the fibrous walls of scar tissue.

  Hot lips brushed her cheek. “I can’t bear for you to hate me. If I thought you did, I would become a monster in truth and do what monsters do—lock up the fair young maiden and keep her imprisoned to feed their dark, depraved hungers.”

  “Do you . . .” Her breath faltered. “Do you have depraved hungers?”

  “Oh, my sweetly innocent Christine, you have no idea.”

  “I’m not that innocent.”

  “No?” The hand on her cheek turned her head and the hot lips moved to her ear, catching her lobe in a sharp bite that made her gasp. The little pain rocked through her, sparking a deep craving. “Does that mean you want what I offer?”

  Maybe. “I don’t know.”

  His hand dropped to her collarbone, caressing the skin where her sweatshirt revealed it. Fingertips catching the silver chain, he drew out the pendant, the metal whispering against her neck.

  “What’s this?”

  “An old Indian woman gave it to me.”

  “Interesting.” He caressed it, then let it go, leaving it outside her shirt. “Now, tell me.”

  “I can’t.” But the confession beat at the inside of her skull. If all of this was just a dream, perhaps she could open the door here, in this place of shrouding shadows. A protected truth.

  “What else did you feel, besides surprise? You looked distressed, pained. If not revulsion, then what? Give me this piece of you.”

  She hesitated, trying to frame the answer. To explain to him, her dark reflection in the mirror.

  “It did pain me. Reminded me of
something from long ago. I have . . .” She faltered. Took the simple way out. No explanations, just the plain and final fact of it. “I have scars, too.”

  He softened, his arms enfolding her in a bearlike embrace, drawing her against his body while his hand cupped her head, like something infinitely precious.

  “I know.” His voice rumbled under her ear.

  “How could you possibly?”

  “We know each other, don’t we? I see myself in your eyes.”

  “This is all a dream,” she whispered.

  The hand cupping her head shifted. “Is it a good dream?”

  “I’m waiting to find out.”

  And his mouth captured hers suddenly, soft on the edges but steel hard in the center. He kissed her as if he were a man in the desert finding water. In answer, the heat simmering low in her belly flared up, lighting her blood, a spark to gasoline. She kissed him back, ferocious, starving in turn for something she couldn’t name.

  * * *

  The phantom insisted she keep the blindfold on for the first part of the journey up and out.

  “This is my way in and out—not yours,” he informed her, with no room for debate. She’d tried anyway.

  Somehow he’d gotten her out of the seamless chamber, but he’d led her around it a dizzying number of times so she couldn’t know where in the room she’d been. When he stopped to take off her blindfold, he’d turned away quickly, so she couldn’t study his expression. Now they moved along yet another dimly lit and narrow hallway; with him leading the way. His light threw crazy flickering shadows against the walls, making him a deeper silhouette. She was more familiar with him now, and she could see the slight hitch in his stride, the catch in his hip as he walked. He continued on, holding her hand in his as he drew her along behind him, his thoughts far away, and she missed the intensity of his regard.

  She had, perhaps, already become a little addicted to it.

  He stopped so abruptly she nearly crashed into him.

  “Listen.”

  She thought he meant to listen to him, but he said nothing. The shadows stilled and seemed to fold their wings, settling around them with the quiet. Not entirely silent, however; in the singing distance of the acoustics, sounds traveled to her. Not the golden voice, serenading her, but the harsh vocals of police speakers, the whoop of a siren. The tromp of footsteps.