Angel Hands (4 page)

"Oh, my dearest mademoiselle," he breathed, his lips almost touching hers as he spoke. "You should be afraid of me. Very, very afraid."

In that moment, he wondered if she would slap him. Slapping seemed to be a common enough reaction of a frustrated woman when she could not find words. He had seen it enough in the dressing rooms and wings.

If she slapped him, he would win.

Except, she did not slap him, and he lost. To himself.

His little Mademoiselle Dubienne did not slap him. Instead, coldly and deliberately, she dug her fingers into the fine black wool that covered the phantom's arms and tried to push him away. This was annoying, though he couldn’t say precisely why.

No matter. It was time he went, anyway; therefore, he released her. He paid little mind to the odd, empty feeling that now rested against his chest.

Mademoiselle Dubienne smoothed her skirts and hair back into place, then turned a steely glare at him.

He melted into the shadows right before her eyes, and he used a flash of lightning to show her the sly smile that tugged at his lips before he vanished into the darkness.

She snorted and lifted her chin, huffing angrily at the empty air. But, it was quite contrary to his policy that she should ever think she could withstand him or get the upper hand.

Therefore, it was with the pleasure of superiority that he whispered into the dark office, "I was not outside your window playing the music, Mireille. I was in your room."

He chuckled silently at her shocked expression and scuttled back into the welcoming darkness.

5. Of Rogues and Routs

"Must have been the phantom!"

The stagehands laughed rowdily at Pierre Buprès' seemingly goofy remark. One look at Mademoiselle Dubienne's grim countenance showed, though, that she thought this anything but funny.

Raymond Lefebre noted that this was the fifth time that something had gone dramatically wrong with the production of
Don Juan
—and it was only the first scene of the first act that they had begun to rehearse. Backdrops crashed down, costumes went missing, instruments were found deftly plucked of their strings. Nothing was so terrible that it couldn't be fixed, but each incident seemed to rile Mireille more and more, to the point where she seemed ready to snap and murder them all.

"I want this backdrop completely repaired and reinstalled by the time we start rehearsals tomorrow morning," she said sharply to the stagehands rolling it up. They looked up at her in a kind of bemused, submissive obedience, even though it meant they'd be helping the backdrop painters far into the night.

"Mireille," Raymond said softly, coming over to her and slowly, gently putting his hand on her arm.

"What is it, Raymond?" she muttered, glaring at the shadows.

"What is going on? I mean really going on."

Mireille stopped for a moment and turned to him. For a fraction of a second, he saw a flicker of worry in her eyes, and he felt his heart give a lurch for no good reason. She wasn't beautiful. She wasn't even all that nice. But there was something about her very strength that made him think she was actually more fragile than anyone suspected. She needed someone to care for her as much as she cared for everyone else.

"The less you know about it, the better," she replied. "You concentrate on getting this thrice-damned opera rehearsed and produced. I'll take care of our...ghost."

Raymond gave in to a measure of temptation, and he ran his hands up and down her arms, as if to chafe them to warmth, looking at her as tenderly as he dared.

"Are you in trouble, my dear?"

"We're all fuc-"

Raymond laughed. "I had no idea you knew such vile language."

Mireille gave him the shadow of a wry smile.

He sighed and leaned his face close in to hers, lowering his voice so that only she could hear it. If he happened to smell her honeysuckle perfume, it was just luck.

"Just promise me that if you are really in trouble or in danger, you'll tell me? I'll help you, no matter what."

Mireille seemed to be on the verge of saying something sarcastic, but as she looked at him, something in her own expression changed ever so slightly.

"I will."

Raymond smiled and released her—reluctantly released her. "I'd better go see about this thrice-damned opera of yours," he teased, before nodding to her and walking over to the huddled singers and dancers.

***

Mireille stared after him, trying to clear her mind from the vague, somewhat-familiar fuzziness that his touches and kind words had inspired. It almost made her think of...no. That was over. In the past. Done.

A fresh wave of irritation surged over her, and she welcomed it with relief, as it excused her from thinking too much about...that. No, now she knew exactly what she was going to do.

Slipping away from the main auditorium and back into the deserted corridors on the lower levels where some desultory reconstruction was still happening, she disappeared through one of the doors that led down to the cellars.

She gathered her skirts around her so the hem wouldn't get damp or dirty as she made her way down the slick stone steps. She didn't know exactly where she was going, as the architectural plans for the lower cellars were maddeningly—yet, not surprisingly—missing. But, with a confidence born of intense irritation, she was fairly certain she would find her way.

She stood at the top of a long, curving staircase that led down into impenetrable shadows and shuddered, no doubt from the wet chill in the air. She was only halfway down the sweeping staircase when the world gave way. In a series of chaotic impressions, the stairs disappeared from beneath her, and she fell in darkness. This was followed by the nasty shock of dropping into icy water that froze the breath in her lungs.

Panic seized Mireille. She didn't know how to swim, and her dress was quickly becoming waterlogged and heavy. Wildly, she flailed her arms in an effort to stay afloat and splashed around for anything that would hold her up. But, the blackness was complete and the gassy, stale smell of the water was making her dizzy.

The icy water numbed her mind as quickly as it numbed her body. There was only enough thought left for one last gasp of air before the weight of her dress and her inability to swim finally pulled her under.

Drowning was the strangest sensation. She held her breath as long as she could, but finally, she had to release it in despair. In a moment of oddly calm clarity, she realized her next breath would fill her lungs with water. Fear was an emotion that required a great deal of effort, and she found she could barely muster enough to care that she was dying.

Unable to resist the pounding of her heart and the burning in her lungs, she took in the water, choking and spasming. Her lungs burned, and her mind went blank. Without warning, the stillness of the water that held her suspended gave way to a great whooshing sound and a violent yanking that dragged her up to the air.

There came another chaotic set of impressions: the pain of her body being dumped on cold stone, the agonizing ache in her limbs, harsh breathing in her ears. It was all very puzzling and uncomfortable, and it made so much more sense to be still and just give into the darkness that seemed so peaceful.

A series of sharp blows to her back jerked her back into the painful here and now, forcing her to retch and splutter out the water that had filled her lungs. Breathing set her lungs on fire, and once again, she was faced with the fact of just how damnably cold she was...and how hard the stone beneath her hands and knees was...and how she was staring at a pair of polished men's boots, brushed by the hem of a great black cloak.

"
Quelle espèce d'idiote
!" The words were hissed and bounced in echoes off the walls of the small cavern that started to slowly come into focus.

A strong pair of hands seized her and jerked her to her feet. She wobbled, but the hands continued to hold her up as she struggled to regain some semblance of balance.

The face of her reluctant rescuer was now before her, with its mask and its piercing, angry eyes. She was too cold to be angry, but she hoped that at some point, she’d have a chance to tell him just what a—her shivering became fierce and uncontrollable, exhausting her body. Her mind became fixed on finding warmth. She was cold, too cold, so cold...she was so tired...the edges of her vision were growing dark...she was so cold...

Grey faded to black, and then black into nothing.

***

Mireille awakened slowly, relishing the delicious sensation of warmth. Everything was cozy and silky soft around her. She wiggled her toes comfortably as it slowly dawned on her that she was in a bed.

Bed?

Bed...water...cavern...idiot...

Merde
!

She sat bolt upright, her mind reeling as she tried to take everything in. She was in a bed of red silk sheets with a ridiculously ornate Louis XIV headboard and footboard. To her right, her clothing was hanging up and drying...every bit of her clothing, she realized to her horror. She looked down and saw she was wearing a plain white, man's shirt, with absolutely nothing underneath it.

She let out a string of obscenities.

***

The stream of oaths from the bedroom alerted him to the fact that Mireille was awake. He almost smiled at the unpleasant realizations she must have been having.

After she fainted, he had been torn between saving her and tossing her back in the water. He was about to throw her in to be done with her meddling when a gloriously devious plan occurred to him. Kristin would not have approved...but then, Kristin wasn't there, was she? She had left him. Alone. Friendless in the world. If that was not a reason to resort to trickery for survival, then he didn't know what would be.

Dragging her back to his pathetic excuse for a home, he had realized that she would freeze to death if she stayed in those wet clothes. Initially, he had curled his lips in distaste at the thought of having to undress her, but little flashes of their last encounter, when he had stood so close to her that he could feel her breathe, came back to him. Then the memories of watching her sleep in her room, looking soft yet troubled, drowning in a sea of white blankets, sealed the deal.

He tried to convince himself that if his fingers shook at all while he was unlacing her dress and unhooking the stays, it was because the wet fabric was so cold to the touch.

It was a bit of a shock to discover that she was so much smaller than he had always thought her to be, even having held her in his arms. Stripped of her somber armor of high necks, corsets and hoop skirts, she seemed small and mortal. She still wasn't pretty. Her face was angular, and her skin lacked the porcelain clarity of Kristin's. But there was something intriguing about her appearance, and it annoyed him that he could not pinpoint it precisely.

He had experienced no compunctions about looking at her as he removed every last bit of clothing and rubbed her dry with a towel. He had never fully seen a naked woman before, as he had taken pride in being both a monster and a gentleman, unlike the stagehands who tried to peek into the dressing rooms—and worse—of the chorus girls.

He found himself fascinated by her body, despite himself. It wasn't round, or lush, or too thin and sunken. It was just...average. It was maddening that he had to fight off the stirrings of his body at the sight of his enemy, bare and vulnerable, and strangely, awfully beautiful in that moment.

After Kristin had left, he had burned all the clothing that he had accumulated for her, and so the only thing he had to dress meddling Mireille in was one of his own shirts. Seeing her tucked into the bed and sleeping soundly, her damp, honey-colored hair strewn about the pillow, he went back to his desk and tried to focus on putting together the details of his plan.

"Monsieur le Fantôme! Where are you, you miserable wretch?"

He couldn't hold back a small grin as Mireille, now awake, continued to hurl abuse at him from her bed—doubtlessly trapped there because she had no dressing gown to cover her naked legs should she stand up.

Without the slightest hurry, he picked up the long, black silk robe by his side and sauntered into the bedroom where Mireille sat, blushing furiously in the middle of the bed. He leaned casually against the wall and cocked his visible eyebrow at her, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Give me that robe!" she spat.

"In a moment."

"If you are waiting for me to thank you for saving my life, it'll be a while. After all, if you hadn't booby-trapped my theater, I wouldn't have nearly drowned."

"It's my theater."

"No, it isn't!"

"We've had this conversation before."

"Give me the robe."

"No."

He watched Mireille frown and clench her hands into fists, secretly enjoying her discomfiture far too much.

"Why did you come here?" he asked softly.

"To get you to stop messing around with the production of –"

"Of my opera."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"You're a clever woman. Figure it out for yourself."

He was growing irritated with her, just as he always did when he found himself in verbal sparring matches with her. He didn't like talking as a rule, and with her, it seemed guaranteed to bring out the worst in him.

Mireille sighed. "The opera is going to be performed whether you like it or not. So what is it that you want from me in order to leave the production in peace?"

He chuckled. "Clever girl."

"Piss off and tell me what you want."

He moistened his lips slightly and held up the robe for her. "First," he said huskily, training his voice to a thick purr, "come here and put on this robe."

"No."

"No?"

"No. Give me the robe."