that mattered was getting to her, and the wood quickly splintered and gave way to his assault. He stumbled into her office.
She was gone.
Gone, vanished, as if taken by a ghost...
The pieces fell into place like a ghastly puzzle. Pierre Buprès be damned! The "Opera Ghost" was still here. Mireille knew—had known all along, damn her stubborn secretiveness—and that damned ghost-man had preyed on her!
Raymond strode out of her office, wrapped in fell meditation. He would get Mireille back and save both her and the Opéra de Paris from that madman.
And that was a promise.
***
Mireille had expected the phantom to storm into her office. She hadn't counted on being yanked through an opening in the wall and pinned against rough wooden boards in a secret corridor.
"Not one sound."
He had brought his finger to her lips, his eyes promising a threat if she disobeyed. She scanned his half-face for the real degree of his menace. An edge of true fear sliced through her for the first time as she met his blue gaze, blurred by a haze of rage that burned within his eyes.
It was fear that held her still as his gloved hand moved from her lips to the top of her collar and began undoing the buttons of her bodice, one by one with aching deliberation until the next button would have revealed the edge of her chemisette and begun a much more dangerous descent.
Dizziness enveloped her, and her breath couldn't squeeze in or out of her lungs. He leaned in and brushed his lips along the exposed skin of her chest and neck, skimming them up along her throat and jaw until his breath was hot against her ear.
"Mine," he whispered. "Mine and no one else's, for business and pleasure."
His hand came back up from that dangerous next button and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips.
"Remember that, Mireille," he murmured, letting his mouth sample her jaw again and his free hand slipped around her waist to span the small of her back.
Just as she was about to speak, he picked her up and spun her around so that the dizziness took over and the world splashed back and forth. When her head stopped throbbing a moment later, she was back in her office, alone.
At that moment, all her strength deserted her—the infallible, indefatigable, indomitable Mireille Dubienne. She sank to her knees and hugged herself, huge sobs welling up within her, choking her and tearing her weary heart into jagged, raw pieces of misery.
And, there was still that damned cease and desist letter from the Vicomte de Chagnard she would have to deal with.
***
He watched her through the spy hole, his concern growing uncomfortably. He hadn't meant to make her so distraught. Well, yes, he had, but now that he saw Mireille broken, he realized he didn't like it. Worse yet, he didn't like the fact that he had been the means of breaking her like that.
He cursed himself for not having been able to control his emotions when he saw that soft little boy, Raymond, holding Mireille...or more accurately, when he saw Mireille soften in that little boy's arms. It wasn't supposed to matter to him. She was his . His prey, his amusement, his pawn to be played.
He disdained trying to rationalize his fit of jealousy as having wanted to make sure she was completely under his spell and no one else's—that he needed absolute control over her in order to make his plans work. He was man enough to admit to himself that he wanted her to desire him, to surrender to him and no one but him, and not just as a worthy opponent in a game of strategy, but as a woman surrenders to a man when yearning can no longer be fought.
It wasn't love. No. Not love at all. It was lust. Pure, heated, liquid desire for her body to be tangled with his. He was this close to vowing that she'd cry his name in passion before she ever murmured an endearment to that little boy.
Slipping away silently, he let his knotted thoughts unravel. What had started as a game was now something deadly serious. She knew of
She was gone.
Gone, vanished, as if taken by a ghost...
The pieces fell into place like a ghastly puzzle. Pierre Buprès be damned! The "Opera Ghost" was still here. Mireille knew—had known all along, damn her stubborn secretiveness—and that damned ghost-man had preyed on her!
Raymond strode out of her office, wrapped in fell meditation. He would get Mireille back and save both her and the Opéra de Paris from that madman.
And that was a promise.
***
Mireille had expected the phantom to storm into her office. She hadn't counted on being yanked through an opening in the wall and pinned against rough wooden boards in a secret corridor.
"Not one sound."
He had brought his finger to her lips, his eyes promising a threat if she disobeyed. She scanned his half-face for the real degree of his menace. An edge of true fear sliced through her for the first time as she met his blue gaze, blurred by a haze of rage that burned within his eyes.
It was fear that held her still as his gloved hand moved from her lips to the top of her collar and began undoing the buttons of her bodice, one by one with aching deliberation until the next button would have revealed the edge of her chemisette and begun a much more dangerous descent.
Dizziness enveloped her, and her breath couldn't squeeze in or out of her lungs. He leaned in and brushed his lips along the exposed skin of her chest and neck, skimming them up along her throat and jaw until his breath was hot against her ear.
"Mine," he whispered. "Mine and no one else's, for business and pleasure."
His hand came back up from that dangerous next button and cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips.
"Remember that, Mireille," he murmured, letting his mouth sample her jaw again and his free hand slipped around her waist to span the small of her back.
Just as she was about to speak, he picked her up and spun her around so that the dizziness took over and the world splashed back and forth. When her head stopped throbbing a moment later, she was back in her office, alone.
At that moment, all her strength deserted her—the infallible, indefatigable, indomitable Mireille Dubienne. She sank to her knees and hugged herself, huge sobs welling up within her, choking her and tearing her weary heart into jagged, raw pieces of misery.
And, there was still that damned cease and desist letter from the Vicomte de Chagnard she would have to deal with.
***
He watched her through the spy hole, his concern growing uncomfortably. He hadn't meant to make her so distraught. Well, yes, he had, but now that he saw Mireille broken, he realized he didn't like it. Worse yet, he didn't like the fact that he had been the means of breaking her like that.
He cursed himself for not having been able to control his emotions when he saw that soft little boy, Raymond, holding Mireille...or more accurately, when he saw Mireille soften in that little boy's arms. It wasn't supposed to matter to him. She was his . His prey, his amusement, his pawn to be played.
He disdained trying to rationalize his fit of jealousy as having wanted to make sure she was completely under his spell and no one else's—that he needed absolute control over her in order to make his plans work. He was man enough to admit to himself that he wanted her to desire him, to surrender to him and no one but him, and not just as a worthy opponent in a game of strategy, but as a woman surrenders to a man when yearning can no longer be fought.
It wasn't love. No. Not love at all. It was lust. Pure, heated, liquid desire for her body to be tangled with his. He was this close to vowing that she'd cry his name in passion before she ever murmured an endearment to that little boy.
Slipping away silently, he let his knotted thoughts unravel. What had started as a game was now something deadly serious. She knew of
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