No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (18 page)

“Very good, sir,” Ennis replied, turning and wheeling the dinner cart back out toward the hallway.

Not caring how much it hurt, I wrenched my arm from the man’s grasp. He relinquished his grip, a satisfied half-smile on his mouth. It didn’t matter now whether my wrist was free or not—I’d lost my chance to appeal to the butler for help.

“It wouldn’t do you any good,” the Phantom said. “Ennis was already told about your coming here. Not the particulars, of course—I told him you were Jerome’s niece, who was coming to stay with us for a while.” He picked up his fork, an elaborate piece of baroque sterling, then added, “And Jerome informed him that you had a tendency to delusional behavior, although you’d been managing fairly well lately as long as you kept on your medication.”

Son of a bitch. “I guess you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I asked bitterly.

“As much as I could. I don’t,” he said softly, “much like surprises.”

Yes, I could see that. As little as I knew of him, it was quite obvious he was the master here, and that he very much controlled what happened in his ordered little universe. He had about him an air of command that could only come from a lifetime of having his own way. That he thought he control me in the same way, I had no doubt. Like it or not, he was going to be in for a surprise there.

I picked up my own fork, determined that he should see nothing of my inner turmoil on my face. “What is this?” I asked, gesturing to the food on my plate.

“
Coq au vin
,” he replied. “My cook definitely has a way with it. You’ll find it complements the Bordeaux nicely.”

And so it did, I discovered, after I took my first mouthful and let the rich, wine-laden taste roll over my tongue. It was delicious, as were the tiny new potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and the fresh-baked rolls, which were so new they let out a soft wisp of steam when opened.

He allowed me to eat for a bit, watching as he took his own measured bites of food and sips of wine. Then he said, “Tomorrow we should begin working on your music.”

I stopped mid-bite, staring at him. Then I remembered myself enough to finish chewing and swallow the morsel of bread. “Excuse me?”

“Surely you didn’t think that simply because you were here I would allow you to neglect your studies? You have a great gift, Christine. It would not do to let it lie fallow.”

“Are you a voice coach?” I asked.
 

A slight pause, and then he said, “Perhaps not in the formal sense. But I have had many years of training myself.”

I’ll bet you have
, I thought, but remained silent. How delusional was he? Did he really think he was
the
Phantom of the Opera?
 

Over the years I had been teased now and then about my name and my resemblance to the heroine of the musical, but in all my imaginings I had never considered that the similarities would attract an apparently insane recluse who believed himself to be his Erik to my Christine. And what was he really hiding behind that mask?

His secret identity
, a malicious little voice in my head supplied, and despite the situation I had to keep myself from smiling. “And who is to accompany me? Or had you planned on kidnapping Randall Cagney as well?”

He froze at that, the knuckles showing white on his fist as he clenched the butter knife he had been holding. Suddenly I got the impression that if Randall had been standing there, that knife would have been plunged between his ribs. When my captor spoke, however, his voice was calm and cold. “I would appreciate it, my dear, if you would not mention that name in my presence again.”

Dangerous, then, beneath the veneer of sophistication and old-fashioned charm. I should have realized that—a man who could so coldly execute a kidnapping might well not scruple at killing someone he so obviously considered his rival. No matter what reassurances he gave me as to my own safety, I knew I would have to tread cautiously.
 

“At any rate,” he continued, “I will accompany you. I think you will find my skills more than adequate to the task.”

“I look forward to hearing you,” I said, the words empty politeness. What I really would have looked forward to was his falling off a cliff or being struck by lightning, but somehow I had the feeling that neither of those particular events was going to happen any time soon.

Another smile. “Perhaps.”
 

An awkward moment passed, and then another, as I picked at my food and drank more of my wine than I had really intended to, but it was a way to keep myself occupied. Without comment he refilled my glass, then his own.

I wasn’t feeling exactly tipsy—I’d eaten too much for the amount of wine I’d drunk to get me to that stage yet—but the wine did give me a sense of recklessness. “So what do you want me to call you, anyway? If we’re going to be spending as much time together as you seem to think we are, ‘hey you’ isn’t going to work for long.”

“My name is Erik,” he said.

For a second I stared at him, outraged that he’d hand me the Phantom’s own name—how much of a simpleton did he think I was, anyway? Then I took another large swallow of the Bordeaux. “Is that the best you can do?”

One muscle along his jaw line twitched, but otherwise he seemed admirably in control. “I assure you, Christine, that is my real name. I was named for my paternal grandfather. Would you like me to show you the birth certificate?”

Too late I was starting to realize just how potent the wine really was. I set down my wine glass with exaggerated care, then replied, “I suppose that’s not necessary.”

He looked at me then, eyes narrowing, and said, “I think you’d better have some water.” With that he stood and went to the sideboard, where a pitcher of ice water and several glasses sat on a heavy silver tray. He poured a glass and then set it in front of me, removing at the same time my half-empty wine goblet. He set it down on the sideboard and remained standing for the moment.

Part of me wanted to protest the substitution and its obvious implications, but the part of my brain that still seemed to be working semi-coherently told me the removal of the wine glass was probably a good idea. What the hell had I been thinking, anyway? Smart, Christine, very smart—another glass and I could have passed out on the dining room table then and there, and then he could have done anything he wanted to me. Shamefaced, I lifted the water glass and drank deeply, then set it down and took another piece of bread. Anything to soak up the wine that was percolating through my bloodstream.

Surprisingly, he watched me with some measure of approval. “I suppose you’re not used to vintages that potent.”

“No, they were fresh out of ’61s the last time I was at Target,” I replied, and he laughed outright at that.
 

It was probably the first truly spontaneous sound I’d heard from him all evening. The laughter changed his countenance as well; the complicated tightness at the corner of his mouth seemed to disappear, and I could see the laugh lines around his eye deepen for a moment. Unbidden, a memory came to me of the way he’d held me as we danced, the firmness of his touch, the subtle masculine scent I’d breathed in from his impeccable evening clothes.

It was too much. This man had kidnapped me, imprisoned me in his home, and all I could think of was how he had held me on an evening that now seemed like a lifetime ago?
 

With a sudden movement I pushed the chair away from the table and stood. “I’m sorry,” I said, and put my hand up to my temple, feigning a headache, “I don’t feel very well. Could I please go back upstairs so I can lie down?”

All solicitude, he stepped forward and took my arm. As he stood next to me I was suddenly aware of the great difference in our heights—I barely scraped five foot five on a good day, and he had to be several inches past six feet.
 

“It’s my fault,” he said. “You probably shouldn’t have had anything to drink today at all, after the—after last night.”

After the drugs you gave me
, I thought, but said only, “It’s all right. I just want to be rested for tomorrow—for my first lesson.”

He smiled down at me, apparently taking my words at face value. “Let me take you upstairs.”

And I allowed him to lead me back down the main hallway and up the enormous staircase, until we were back at the carved mahogany door that opened into my suite. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, opening it into the little antechamber. It was dark immediately within, but I could see a faint glow coming from the bedroom, where I’d left one of the bedside lamps lit.

We paused there for a moment. I was again aware of how much larger he was than I, of his lean but powerful build under the dark clothes. For one frightening second I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me, but instead he stepped away from the door, then said very softly, “You have nothing to fear from me, Christine.”
 

I said nothing, but merely bowed my head in acknowledgment of his words. Then I stepped inside my suite and pushed the door shut. There was the merest pause, and then I could hear the deadbolt clicking home. I waited for a few more minutes, but there was no other sound from the hallway, and at length I moved into my bedroom, knowing that it would be a long time before I’d be able to fall asleep.

Some time after midnight rain began to fall, but at first he didn’t notice it, as the soft hiss of the rain blended with the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Christine had retired hours earlier, but he had been a nocturnal creature for too many years to try to keep to her schedule. Soon she would adjust to his.

She had surprised him. What he’d been expecting, he wasn’t quite sure—tears, pleading, perhaps, but certainly not righteous anger. Possibly this was because it had been years since anyone had been angry with him—or at least shown it—but he’d never thought that a woman in such a helpless position would berate him over exactly which portions of the penal code he was violating, or would mock him over his name. Although he’d been angry at the time, angrier than she had probably guessed, as he thought over it now, he could see her side of the argument. It was obvious she thought he was mad, or at the very least obsessive to the point of delusion.
     

He would concede her a point on his own obsessiveness. As for the rest, it would simply be a matter of time before he won her over, made her see that he really was the only man for her. And he and Jerome had made sure that Erik would have all the time in the world to make Christine fall in love with her Phantom.

The final loose end had been tied up earlier this evening, as Christine’s shabby little car disappeared from its parking place at the curb in front of her home. All it had taken was for Jerome to let certain individuals at a disreputable mechanic’s in El Monte know that the car had been abandoned and was ripe for the taking. The car vanished, taken to another shop, where the VIN plate was removed and the serial numbers sanded off the engine block. Then the whole thing was sold to a wrecking yard. Now it would be only another piece of flattened metal, indistinguishable from the other hulks around it.

The car’s disappearance, as well as other details he’d had the kidnappers attend to, would all point to a voluntary flight by Miss Daly. Young women disappeared all the time, after all, driven to flee because of bad relationships, job pressures, financial extremity. Christine would only be another statistic.

He was relieved that the car was gone, relieved that everything had gone smoothly thus far. Now that she was here with him, he didn’t want to have to think about the outside world, worry whether anyone could possibly connect her to Erik Deitrich, heir to the Deitrich fortune. He thought not. He’d only been seen with her in public once, and that was at a crowded restaurant where he blended in with all of the other masked partygoers. He’d never used his name, and paid his bill with cash. There was no way to connect him to
L’Opera
, or the beautiful dark-haired student who had once worked there.

No, now he was free to sit here in the semidarkness and remember how her sea-colored eyes had picked up the green of her sweater, recall the gorgeous profusion of curls that spilled down her back and how the candlelight picked errant gleams of cinnabar and topaz from among their depths, savor the memory of how the Bordeaux had stained her full lips an even darker crimson. She intoxicated him by her very presence.

He doubted she would be gratified to learn that even her anger pleased him, that her sharp words were a source of amusement instead of outrage. It was all of her that he wanted, not just her beautiful form but her quick mind, her strength, her amazing talent. He’d had bodies before; now he wanted the whole woman.

He wanted to love her, but more than that—he wanted her to love him. All that was left to him now was to prove himself worthy of her love.
       

Chapter 14

With a slight groan I rolled over, lifting a hand to my throbbing temple. Not good. Last night I might have been embellishing just a bit when I’d told Erik I had a headache and needed to lie down, but there was no need for prevarication this morning. My head felt as if someone had slipped about thirty rubber bands around its circumference and then slowly tightened them.

Still, I knew that lying in bed and feeling like hell wasn’t going to help any. Moving with care, I climbed out of bed and staggered toward the bathroom in search of analgesics. It was only after I opened the pretty Venetian glass medicine cabinet and stood staring at it blankly for a moment that I remembered I hadn’t seen anything remotely resembling a headache remedy in there. It figured.

The next best thing was a hot shower. I discarded the filmy nightgown I was wearing—apparently the Phantom didn’t like his Christine to sleep in sweats and T-shirts—got in, and let the pulsating spray knock some of the pain away as it kneaded at my head and neck in waves of rippling heat. It did help, especially since it seemed I could stand there forever luxuriating in the massaging warmth, long past the time when the puny hot water heater at my own bungalow would have given up.