Читать книгу A Rose At Midnight - Sylvie Kurtz - Страница 11

Feelings were for fools and Daniel Moreau hadn’t played the fool for anyone in years.

But he felt her presence before he turned around. Felt her in a way that grated against the ruthless control he’d cultivated since that night nine years ago when his world had turned upside down. Felt her and knew with certainty that her presence here was no accident of fate.

Did she know she was being used? Probably not. Christiane Lawrence was too trusting for her own good. That more than anything made her a threat to him.

He watched with predatory curiosity as the white-gloved butler took her snow-colored coat. Watched as red-jacketed waiters offered her tantalizing tidbits and generous goblets of wine from silver platters. Watched as Armand Langelier took her elbow and guided her to their hostess, Madame Bernier. And found an unexpected possessiveness grounding itself somewhere between his boots and his brain.

With a shake of his head, Daniel dismissed the errant feeling. She wasn’t his anymore.

Her dangling blue and silver icicle earrings were an anomaly in a sea of diamonds and sapphires. He guessed she’d worn them as a conversation starter. For all the quiet sophistication of her clothes and careful style of her short blond hair, he remembered her as shy. She moved with confidence, the soft silk and the flattering cut of her dove-gray cocktail dress shifting pleasantly with each of her steps. Subdued class—one of the many things he’d liked about Christiane.

Armand leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed in response. Though he could not hear the sound, it rippled through him. Her laughter. Her voice. They’d once cracked open a lock he’d thought rusted shut. Daniel’s fists tightened by his side. Not this time.

The older man’s gaze shifted to the crowd. Looking for him, no doubt. What was the point of making such a bold move if Armand couldn’t witness the expected reaction?

Daniel had worked hard to hide his secrets, to bury his past, to make amends. And now it could all change. Just like that. All because of this woman.

Funny how the world kept going as if nothing was wrong. People still laughed. The quartet still played. Sequined dresses still sparkled in the light on this cold February night. He’d expected the crack of thunder, the flare of lightning, the crash of a storm, some sort of force of nature to herald his doom.

But it came quietly—just when he’d started to think everything in his life had at last fallen into place.

“There you are.” Jean-Paul Dubuc, his manager, clasped an overeager hand around Daniel’s shoulder. He reminded Daniel of a bulldog—short, squat, bald and ugly, but fiercely loyal. A good man to have on your side. Except tonight. He’d ask too many questions, and Daniel would have too few answers.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Jean-Paul tried to shepherd him toward the ballroom where the piano stood waiting. “Time to get the show on the road.”

“Not now.” Daniel shrugged off Jean-Paul’s hold and searched the crowd for Christiane. The silver of her earrings winked in the distance.

“Daniel,” Jean-Paul insisted. “Madame Bernier is waiting.”

“Not now.”

“It’s you they came to hear, not some nameless quartet.”

“Then they’ll wait.” Daniel had to warn her. It was the least he could do.

“What’s wrong with you?” His manager frowned and looked him over for signs of disease or disaster—the latter probably being the more worrisome of the two for a scrapper like Jean-Paul.

“See that woman over there?” Daniel thrust his chin in Christiane’s direction. Armand gave her a little bow and headed for the bar.

“The one in the gray dress?”

Daniel nodded. “She’ll destroy me.”

He’d said it for shock value, and Jean-Paul didn’t disappoint him. “Who is she?” The creases above Jean-Paul’s eyes deepened. His jowls quivered. “What did you do? What’s she holding over you?”

A humorless grin tugged at the corners of Daniel’s mouth. He was sick of the whole business, of being handled, of never-ending expectations. He was sick of it all. “Worried about damage control?”

“Do I need to be?”

Daniel’s gaze raked the crowd until he found Christiane again, introducing herself to two women with overteased hair. “Not if I play the game right.”

“Non, mais t’as finalement perdu la boule! You’ve gone completely mad.” Jean-Paul stomped in a half-moon around Daniel as if his leash was too short. “It’s not exactly the time to go over the edge, Daniel.”

“I’m still in control. I know the rules this time.”

“This time?” Jean-Paul stopped short and stared at his client. “What are you talking about?”

“Strategy.”

“Now listen, Daniel.” Jean-Paul shook his finger at the middle of Daniel’s chest. “I’m depending on you. Madame Bernier is depending on you. All those people who paid a small fortune for a ticket to hear you play your new piece next week are depending on you. I need to know I didn’t waste my time promoting you to stardom just to have you crash when we’ve finally made it.”

Jean-Paul stopped waving his finger and planted it on Daniel’s chest. “You owe me. Where would you be today if it weren’t for me?”

Without looking at the annoying digit, Daniel swiped away Jean-Paul’s finger. “Right here.”

“Maybe.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “More likely you’d be sitting in a jail somewhere for banging your fists on somebody’s face instead of a keyboard.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

Jean-Paul shuffled his feet. “Not yet.”

“Not ever.” Daniel loosed a short, sharp laugh and swept one arm to encompass the glaringly bright room. “Why would I want to risk giving all this up?”

Jean-Paul’s jaw moved in a slow contemplative circle. “Music is your life.”

“My soul,” Daniel said mockingly as he watched Christiane work her way around the room as if she’d done this a thousand times.

Jean-Paul panted with worry. “So what are you going to do about this girl?”

As Daniel considered his options, the party kept up its bright pace around him. “Have you ever had to make a choice between two impossibles?”

“Every day when I try to plan your schedule.”

“I meant important things.”

Jean-Paul frowned. “What’s more important than molding your career?”

“Life or breath.”

“They’re the same.”

“Exactly.”

“Now I know you’re going crazy.” Jean-Paul shook his head slowly, causing the light to dance on his balding pate. “Promise me you won’t blow your image of the dashing, tall, dark and handsome hero until after you’ve fulfilled your contract’s obligations.”

“Worried about your commission?”

Jean-Paul’s jaw dropped. “That’s not fair, and you know it. About the girl…”

If Christiane was in Quebec City, it could only mean one thing. Armand was going to try to use her just as he’d tried to use her mother.

“I’ll do the only thing I can,” Daniel said, resigned. He’d once found heaven and had to put her through hell. Now she was in danger. He had to protect her. And there was only one way she’d allow him that close.

“Which is?”

“Marry her.”

HER PRESENCE here seemed fated, Christi reflected. A month ago if anyone had told her she’d be in Quebec City discovering roots she’d never known she had, she would have told them they were nuts. Yet here she was, three thousand miles from home, accompanying her mother’s cousin to a party launching two weeks of winter carnival celebrations—and feeling more at home than she’d ever dreamed.

This vacation was exactly what she’d needed after dealing with the trauma of her parents’ accidental deaths a few months ago. In Armand’s home, her mother’s presence wrapped around her like childhood comfort, and it eased the pain of her loss.

For the past few days, Armand and his sister, Marguerite, had proved gracious hosts. Marguerite had spoiled Christi and her daughter Rosane, with home-cooked meals. Armand had entertained them with stories from his youth. As he talked about her mother with love and told her of his memories of their shared childhood, Christi had relaxed. Her belligerent stomach, on fire since her parents’ accident, seemed to have taken a recess, too. She hadn’t had to unpack the half-dozen rolls of Tums at the bottom of her suitcase or use the emergency one tucked in her purse. Even her dour daughter’s demeanor had softened. Rosane had actually smiled at some of Armand’s outrageous sleight-of-hand tricks.

“It was very kind of you to include me this evening,” Christi said to Armand after their hostess fluttered away.

“Nonsense, as one of the directors of the arts committee, it is my prerogative to invite whomever I desire.” His thick French accent was unmistakable despite his flawless English. His impeccable tux, neatly groomed black mustache and slicked-back charcoal hair reminded her of the perfect gentlemen in old black-and-white movies. His slow, gracious charm put her at ease here as it had since she’d arrived in Quebec City.

“Besides,” he continued, “I needed an escort, and with you on my arm, I am the envy of every man here.”

She laughed. “You’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

“One of my many charms.” His white teeth shone and his dark eyes glittered with good humor. “Can I get you anything, ma chère?”

“Some sparkling water, please.” She didn’t want to chance alcohol now that her stomach was finally behaving.

“I shall return momentarily.” Armand bowed and moved in the direction of the bar at the other end of the cavernous room.

When Armand had invited her to a party at a friend’s home, she’d expected a quaint little house, not a mansion. And this mansion fell just short of a palace as far as she was concerned. Antique furniture was arranged in cozy sets for easy conversation. Large portions of the marble floor lay bare for those who preferred to mingle or dance. Fresh greenery adorned with carnival masks and opalescent streamers decorated everything from priceless paintings to the curving cherrywood staircase ascending to the second floor. Multicolored lights and flickering candles in sconces gave the whole place a festive atmosphere.

As she mingled her way around the room, she caught snatches of conversation.

“He’s simply marvelous,” an older lady said, fanning her face with a hand.

“Can you believe his show next week sold out in less than one hour?” said another. “I waited in line all day for the ticket window to open for nothing!”

“Every time I hear him play, I fall in love.”

“Speaking of love, I heard he met someone. In France. Or was it England? There’s talk of wedding bells.”

“Pity.”

“Not for her. Not with the contract he just signed.”

Christi introduced herself to several people, passed a group of gray-haired, tuxedoed men and was about to join a group of women who seemed about her age when a commotion at the archway between this room and the next caught her attention.

Madame Bernier stood on a chair and clapped her hands. In her green and gold sequined dress, she looked like an overweight hummingbird. “Attention everyone,” she said in French. “Let’s all make our way to the ballroom. The music is about to start.”

Like salmon spawning, everyone hurried in the direction of the ballroom, murmuring excitedly as they went. Christi lagged behind.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Madame Bernier waited a few minutes for the chatter to die down and the last person to squeeze into the ballroom.

Christi found a spot at the back of the room, but couldn’t see the musician everyone seemed to have gone gaga over.

“As you all know this simple gala is to welcome home our favorite pianist,” Madame Bernier said. “He’s just finished a smashing European tour. Next week, as part of the Mardi Gras Masked Ball, he will perform a piece commissioned by the arts committee especially for the event. I’m told it’s called ‘A Rose at Midnight.’” The crowd oohed their approval. “He’s graciously offered to donate all the proceeds to the young artist grant program sponsored by the arts committee.” Madame Bernier raised her hands and clapped, encouraging the crowd to do likewise. The response was almost deafening.

When the roar died down, Madame Bernier spoke again. “Tonight, as a special favor to me, he’s agreed to treat us to a sample of his best-known pieces.” With one hand, she waved grandly at the piano. “Everyone help me welcome home Daniel Moreau!”

Daniel Moreau.

The name echoed and reechoed inside the chamber of her brain.

The crowd clapped. Each meeting of palm against palm cracked like shattering glass and each shard scored her heart.

Daniel? It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Her heart beat too fast as she tried to see past the sea of heads. Her hands grew cold and clammy as she instinctively threaded her way through the people packed into the room. She needed to see. She needed to touch. She needed to know. An eerie, familiar melody buzzed inside her brain, simultaneously taking her back and begging her to go forward.

As if in answer to the echo of her past, the music started.

Unique.

Unmistakable.

Daniel.

Goose bumps skated up and down her arms. The room swirled in dizzying eddies of colors. Spirals of hope and despair had her struggling for breath. And like a dam overcome with melting snow, a flood of memories gushed, nearly taking her feet from under her.

Daniel.

Her hand sought support and found an arm. “Mademoiselle?”

Shaking her head, she snapped her hand away and gulped in air to stem the raging tide of panic surging through her. Slowly, the room stopped spinning, her breath returned to normal and her numbed brain started to function.

She parted the sea of adoring females that crowded around the piano, hanging on to every chord he cajoled from the instrument.

His hands came into view. Hands that had the long fingers of an artist. The well-toned muscles between the knuckles bore witness to the hours of practice. Her skin heated at their remembered touch. She readjusted her position. To get a better view. Nothing else.

When she caught sight of his profile, her stomach rebelled, washing waves of acid against its sides. Hand fisted against the pain, she fought to clear the flash from the past superimposing a younger man over this musician’s features.

Her Daniel had been positively skinny, whereas this man had a supple leanness about him. Her Daniel had sported long, unkempt, sun-bleached hair, instead of this man’s rich brown neatly cut style. Her Daniel’s angular, intense face had pleased her. She searched the uncompromising lines of this man’s face and found it hard to believe they were the same person.

There was no softness left in him. Instead, there was a primal quality about the way he played—as if he were darkness condensed and controlled, his emotions caged and doled out precisely for a choreographed response, his motions smooth and graceful, yet ordered and precise. There was no doubt he mastered the instrument.

She shivered.

Yet something was missing. Something that had once stirred her so deeply she’d broken all of her self-imposed rules.

Her Daniel had played with unbridled passion, the wildness a joy to watch. This Daniel played with soul, but without heart.

When he lifted his gaze, he found hers as if he’d known all along she would be there. She saw no apology in his eyes, no awkwardness, only clear, deep amber. For an instant the color smoldered intimately to intoxicating brandy, then it hardened, giving him an aloof expression that struck her as sadness disguised.

When the music stopped, people crowded around him like theater curtains, obscuring him from her view. She didn’t fight the sweep. She let it separate her from him because she’d long ago put aside all her silly notions of a happy reunion. Instead, she’d spent her energy on forging a future for herself and her daughter. She was content with her choices. Daniel was her past.

It was time to leave. Time to get back to Rosane.

“CHRISTIANE!”

Fingers curled around her nearly bare shoulder, stopping her. Daniel had a strong grasp that managed to be as gentle as a caress, yet left her no room to dismiss him. His touch shivered all the way up to her scalp, all the way down to her toes. No wonder he could play so well if a simple touch could shake her so.

“Daniel.” Christi pasted a wide smile on her mouth as she turned to face him. Could a face crack from trying too hard to look relaxed? “How nice to see you again.”

What did you say to an ex-lover after nine years? Hi, and by the way, you left a little more of yourself than you thought when you took off. Yep, that’s right, you’re a daddy. I’d have told you much sooner, but you didn’t leave a forwarding address.

There was no good way to deliver this news. She toyed with the idea of keeping the secret to herself. Why should she upset three ordered lives?

Because she, of all people, understood he had the right to know. She would tell him. But not now, not tonight. Not with the shock of seeing him still ebbing from her body.

The quartet struck up again, playing a generic waltz that faded into the background along with the happy chatter and clink of glasses.

“Dance with me.” There was a touch of vulnerability beneath the cutting steel of his voice, and she was tempted to let him lead her to the floor, to see if the electric passion that had burned them both still flickered. But that was a dangerous game, and she had Rosane to think of now.

“I was just leaving.” Her gaze cut over his shoulder in search of Armand.

“So early? Dance with me, Christiane.”

His voice was deeper, more resonant than she remembered, his presence more domineering, and his penetrating gaze caused bubbles of acid to pop in her stomach. “Another time, maybe. I have…obligations. I really have to go.”

He grasped her elbow in one hand and turned her toward the cleared floor where a dozen couples waltzed. Talons would have been easier to dislodge.

“You don’t want to cause a scene,” he whispered in her ear. To anyone the gesture would have looked as if he were whispering sweet nothings.

His thumb caressed her elbow, gentling his insistence, short-circuiting the logical part of her brain. One dance, what could it hurt?

“Dance with me.” His harsh gaze softened for an instant, and she saw the awkward boy once more—the one who’d stumbled over his words when he’d asked if he could walk her home after her shift at the ice-cream parlor.

She wasn’t a teenager anymore; she could resist those eyes, that smile. Throat too dry to speak, she nodded and let him lead her onto the dance floor. One dance. She’d prove she was over him to them both.

The warmth of his hand on the small of her back penetrated the thin material of her dress and made her feel exposed. As he drew her closer, more potent heat radiated from him, making her trip over her own shadow. He’d once made a cold February night sizzle. As he steadied her, she closed her eyes, willing her body to forget the sensations her mind too easily remembered. Memories rippled up from their safe hiding place, and she braced against their assault.

“Relax,” Daniel whispered. The ruffle of his breath made her quiver. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

“You played well tonight.”

“Do you know my work?” Daniel skillfully skirted around another couple.

“No, other than Céline Dion, I don’t know of any French Canadian stars who’ve made the news in Fort Worth.” I had no idea if you were dead or alive. “I’m glad you realized your dream.” God, she’d attended too many business affairs if she could talk to him that casually without falling apart.

“And you? Have your dreams come true?”

“Some.” She shrugged, keeping her gaze averted from the liquid amber that had drawn too much out of her already. She didn’t want to tell him about Rosane until she’d found firm footing again.

“Which ones?” His gaze measured her as they danced, making her wonder at the thoughts behind the rigid panes of his eyes.

To make matters worse, someone’s stare pierced her spine. When she turned to look, it wasn’t the envious ogling of another woman that caught her attention, but Armand’s dark gaze. It lifted to meet Daniel’s, then a satisfied smile curved his lips.

Daniel’s arm tightened around her in a protective gesture. With an unexpected twirl, he guided her deeper into the fray of dancers.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Armand Langelier. I know him.” His mouth thinned into a grimace as if the name tasted bitter.

“How do you know Armand?” Speaking with Daniel had always been an art, a matter of asking the questions, then reading the body as well as listening to the nuances between the words. Discussing his emotions had appeared an impossible task. This trait hadn’t improved with age.

Without warning, Daniel stood still though the music hadn’t stopped. Dancing couples brushed against them. An unfathomable darkness crossed his face. His jaw tightened. He stared at Armand through the crowd. For an instant his expression was filled with a mixture of regret and pain so deep it weighed on her heart.

“He used to be a well-respected lawyer. It’s said he helped form many happy families.” Bitterness underlined his words. Abruptly, Daniel’s arms fell away from her body and his hand gripped hers. “Come, let me take you home.”

With long-legged strides, he started for the door. Her hand firmly trapped in his, she had no choice but to follow. What was Daniel’s connection to Armand? A total stranger didn’t warrant such a strong reaction.

“Slow down.” Christi tried to slip her hand from his. “I came with someone else.”

“We have to talk.”

“You had your chance while we were dancing.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Christiane. Your life is at stake.”

“My life?” She scoffed at his exaggeration. “Aren’t you being overdramatic?”

“We need to talk.”

She skidded to a halt, forcing Daniel to do the same. Her free hand tightened into a fist, her stomach clenched into a squirming knot and the rising heat of anger had sweat breaking out along her hairline. A glass from a passing waiter’s tray swayed, then fell, taking its neighbors with it like bowling pins. Champagne splashed down the side of her dress.

She stood tree still, staring first at the broken pieces of glass at her feet, then at the dark stain running down the side of her dress. As a glimmer of something forgotten sparked, then faded, the blood drained from her limbs, leaving her skin ice-cold and prickling.

With effluent apologies, the waiter dabbed at her dress with a linen napkin, picked up the broken pieces scattered around her satin pumps and retreated.

Christi looked at Daniel and surprised herself with her calmness. “I can’t leave without telling my escort and thanking our hostess.”

“I’ll get our coats while you make our goodbyes.”

“You’re the guest of honor. You have to stay.”

A sardonic twist crooked his smile. “Musicians are eccentric, don’t you know? Madame Bernier is a good friend. She’ll understand. I will thank her profusely tomorrow.”

His eyes held a warning, one that spoke of danger in refusal, surging question after question, the chief one being—what was going on?