Unmasqued

Erik stood, hands on his hips as if braced, and glared down at her.

She realized now why his face had seemed to be half-shadowed all the time… why, when she had reached back behind her that first time he came to her… and when he'd hung her from her wrists on the opera stage… why his face had felt… strange. Unyielding and leathery.

The mask obscured what surely was… or had been… or, at least, had been promised to be… a perfect face. Smooth, sculptured, sensual. Eyes that sat deeply in their places; one-half of a sharp jaw that curved like the bend in a harp; the deep slash of shadow like dark paint defining his proud cheekbone.

His mouth was uncovered; the mask curved along the bridge of his nose, bisecting the swarthy skin with matte black covering and then following the upper line of his lips, like one-half of a mustache. It extended from the center of his face to just in front of the ear, and up and along the hairline more than halfway across his forehead. She saw the slim black cord stretching from the mask up, over, and into the dark hair at his temple.

But what was under the mask?

She stood, almost without willing it, and reached toward him, but he snatched her wrist in the air.

"Don't touch it." He threw her arm down. She felt his deep-seated fury still radiating from him.

"Erik, please…"

"Please, you say? Please?" His voice changed… took on that low, simmering tone that had coaxed her against the mirror… and drawn so much from her. Christine stepped back at the sudden burning in his eyes. Nestled in their deep hoods, they looked at her with the hunger of a lion.

Her chest rose and fell as if she'd been running. Something hot and heavy moved through her, steaming her face and burning inside her body, making her stomach writhe. Her nipples jutted against the light chemise she wore, the only covering under her dressing gown. She trembled, and she saw that his bare fingers trembled too.

"I shall look forward to hearing you say that to me," he said, in an easy manner that belied the intensity in his eyes. " 'Please, Erik.' Oh, yes indeed, I am quite certain you will find many ways to beg me."

"Erik, what are you going to do?" Fluttering in her belly rose up into her throat, and her cheeks burned hotter. She had a fairly good idea of the answer to that.

His smile mocked her. "We can start by having you take off your clothes, Christine. And make it quick. I have waited far too long to have you waste my time."

Her fingers were steady as she tugged the buttons and laces of her dressing gown loose. Christine whisked it off her shoulders, feeling his avid stare on her and knowing her own surge of power at the look in his eyes. She didn't have to look down to see her nipples poking through the fine lawn chemise, or the tops of her breasts rounding over the low round neckline.

"All of them," he growled, making as if to reach for her.

Christine stepped lightly to the side as his hand fell back down, and watched him as he stared at her… as if drawing in the sight of her gave him breath. And she pulled the thin shift up and over her head, and felt the gust of cooler air over her sensitive flesh.

His breathing became more shallow, more audible. Then as she watched, he drew in a deep, tremulous breath and exhaled long and slow.

"Now…" The syllable was ruptured, as though his voice broke when he tried to speak it. But his eyes… they remained steady and heavy on her, focused not on her tight, pink-tipped breasts… or even on the triangle between her legs… but drilling into her own gaze. "Now, Christine, you will see what happens when you allow another man to touch you."

Chapter Seven

At last Raoul was able to force the door open and he burst into Christine's dressing room. It was empty. "Christine!" he shouted, pulling the wardrobe doors open. It was impossible! How could she have disappeared? Christine!

She'd been talking to someone. Could it have been her tutor, that Angel of Music she spoke of? "Christine!"

There was a noise behind him and he whirled. The stern-looking woman who'd interrupted him and Christine earlier stood in the open doorway of the dressing room. Her hair was scraped back from her face, pulling taut the skin around her dark, glittering eyes.

"May I help you, monsieur le vicomte?"

"Where is Christine? She has gone! Where has that madman taken her?" Fear and apprehension stormed through his veins, and he felt a surge of some other emotion replace it. Fury. Bald, burning fury.

"I do not know of what you speak, but it is clear that Miss Daae is not in her dressing room. And… tut, tut… the door will need to be repaired before she is to use the room again. Monsieur le vicomte, perhaps you are a bit overset… I would be most pleased to show you to the foyer de la danse, where you can perhaps have something to drink. You know, these beautiful actresses and singers… well, they are prone to fickleness. It is possible Miss Daae has found herself a new admirer."