A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
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of Christiane’s kiss ratcheted through him. One kiss had cartwheeled him back to sharing sundaes, moonlit car rides and a pile of blankets under a star-studded sky. One kiss had him wishing for a house in the woods filled with music and laughter and family.
He snapped on the light just inside the sitting room’s French door and pushed the door with enough force to close it just shy of a slam. He’d had no more time to prepare this time than the last. But now, his power and influence were equal to Armand’s. He would not cave.
He dropped his coat, jacket and tie onto the plum-upholstered, spindly-legged chair by the door. Having Christiane here was more complicated than he’d expected. He could have dealt with hate. Indifference—even better.
But she’d asked him for the moon.
He choked out a rough bark. The one thing she wanted from him was the only thing he couldn’t give her. For both their sakes. His control over the darkness was precarious at best. If he let her into his heart, they were both doomed.
He poured himself generous fingers of scotch from Armand’s finest stock, then slumped into the chair next to the gaping maw of the hearth. Leaning his head back, he propped his feet on the kidney-shaped coffee table.
“To you, old man.” He raised his glass to the glacial chill of the empty room. “And to your defeat.”
But there was no satisfaction in the promise, only the sure knowledge of inevitable death. The liquor he swallowed didn’t warm him. Nothing would. Not until he discovered Armand’s plans and knew how to keep Christiane safe.
An insistent cacophony jangled in the back of his mind, proving that chaos was only a step away. He closed his eyes and let the notes flow through his brain. They arranged and rearranged themselves into a familiar pattern. He sighed as he recognized the melody. Music had dragged him from the black edge of hell twice. Could it manage the feat a third time?
Unable to resist, he went to the piano and let his fingers dance over the keys.
“Maybe tonight…”
For years the melancholic notes had tormented him. Taunting him when he was tired and his defenses were down. Letting the piece run its course was the only way to get rid of it. Tonight he added a few notes, but still the end wouldn’t come.
Like this melody that wouldn’t finish itself, Christiane was unfinished business.
He’d tried letting her go. Now he would try hanging on to her.
Tumbling the piano bench backwards, he stood. With a stiff motion, he reached for his glass and drained the rest of the scotch, taking pleasure in the liquor’s caustic burn down his throat. Again he raised this glass to the cold room. “One more time—without feeling.”
Chapter Three
Christi needed a few moments to orient herself when she woke up the next morning. As the room focused around her, she remembered where she was and sighed. Daniel’s apparition last night had ruined her joy at finding her mother’s family.
Strong light filtered through the open moiré draperies, but the house was deathly silent and a slow dread snaked its way from her stomach to her throat. The last thing she wanted to do today was face Daniel again or confess a truth she’d hidden for much too long to her daughter. Both would cost her what little balance she had left in her life.
She reached for her watch on the night table. “Eight-fifteen! Ugh.”
She let herself flop back onto the bed. After last night, she could use a couple more hours of sleep. Given her scrambled state of mind, she was surprised she’d slept at all.
Her gaze wandered over the room. But it wasn’t the carved walnut furniture, the Aubusson rug or the cream lace coverlet that caught her eye. It was her grandmother’s portrait near the rocking chair in the corner. Catherine Langelier. Armand had told Christi that the silver brush set on the dresser was Catherine’s. And if she closed her eyes, Christi swore she could smell the trace of her grandmother’s rose-scented perfume lingering on the lace runner on the vanity.
She let her imagination roam until a weathered woman formed out of the mists of her musings. She sat at the vanity, wearing an old-fashioned white satin robe that was rich, yet demure. A delicate gold chain draped the creases of her neck, the pendant hidden beneath the neckline of her gown. A blue jar of cold cream stood next to a gold-cased lipstick and a fancy bottle of perfume. Light refracted into a rainbow as it passed through the bottle’s long, prism-shaped top. The woman sat stroking her long white hair with the silver brush. And in a trick of reverie, it seemed to Christi as if the woman looked straight at her through the mirror and smiled.
Christi shook her head. The image faded away. “I must be more tired than I thought. Damn you Daniel for showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time and screwing up my life again.” But the last part wasn’t fair. If she didn’t have feelings for him, she could have gone on as if nothing had happened between them.
Masks. She’d kept too many of them in her makeup bag over the years. It was time to strip them off and find out who she really was and what she was really made of. That would mean taking risks. Would Rosane hate her when she found out the truth about her father? Was there any chance they could all breach those nine years and become a real family? Was marriage to Daniel, even on his terms, such a bad thing?
Her job as the public relations manager of a small cable television station in Fort Worth had trained her to make decisions on the spot and stick by them. But there she wore her public mask; she could keep an objective distance. Now her decision would alter her life permanently. And the last thing she wanted was to lose more than she already had.
As soon as Christi flipped back the blankets, the room’s frigid air assaulted her. She’d seen signs of central heat, but for some reason, the warm air didn’t seem to reach this part of the stone house. She rubbed her arms and reached into the suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed for a sweater.
Rosane should be up by now.
Christi peeked through the door across the hall.
“Rosie?”
There was no answer. The bed was neatly made. There were no signs of her daughter anywhere.
“No!” The “what ifs” galloped through her mind like a car without brakes. What if Daniel was still here? What if he’d taken Rosane? What if he’d told her who he was before Christi had a chance to prepare her?
“Calm down. She’s perfectly all right. Daniel promised you a week.” But the image of Daniel’s determined face came flashing back into her mind. His demand wasn’t a whim, but a wish he fully intended to fulfill.
Feet bare and with only her blue flannel nightgown and red sweater on, she rushed down the stairs. “Rosane! Rosie, where are you?”
Christi jerked to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. A childish giggle warbled from the kitchen. Like a hound on a scent, she followed the sound. And when she reached the kitchen, she didn’t know what to make of what she saw.
Rosane, already dressed in a purple sweatshirt and jeans, heaped spoonfuls of Cap’n Crunch into her mouth and giggled. Her daughter who rarely smiled was giggling with glee. One of Christi’s hands instinctively reached for her stomach; the other covered her mouth.
The gray eyes behind those long lashes were like her own. The rich golden brown hair spilling over her shoulders was like her mother’s. The long artistic fingers curled around the spoon were Daniel’s legacy. Christi saw the past in her daughter. A past that wound down for generations. Generations she knew nothing about. Daniel was wrong, staying here was right.
Armand entertained Rosane by making a dollar coin appear and disappear from midair. Marguerite, roly-poly like the plastic people Rosane used to play with as a toddler, puttered at the counter. From all indications, the woman seemed to live in the kitchen. Christi hadn’t seen her anywhere else. Daniel, she noted with relief, was nowhere in sight.
The kitchen’s