his existence. She knew his hideout. She knew his face and voice and touch. She was very dangerous. Kristin hadn't been dangerous to his existence like Mireille was. Mireille could destroy him and send him to the gallows. Kristin's danger had been very different, and he had experienced its consequences. Never again with that, with love. He’d never again walk into danger like that.
Yet, Mireille's danger was just as intoxicating and just as able to provoke a loss of control in him, as evidenced by his punishment of the walls and boards when he saw her in another man's arms. His desire, a man's desire for a woman, was becoming nearly uncontrollable every time he was near her. He wasn't even sure how many more times he could tease her without losing control of himself. God, how he wanted her! Damn her!
There was only one antidote to the poison in his veins, one way out of this haze of desire that clouded his judgment.
He would have to take her, make her his.
He would have to finish this little game of seduction once and for all.
10. Of Managers and Vicomtes
A knock at the door of her office made Mireille look up briefly from the sheaf of papers she was reading through.
For a moment, her temper flared, and she was tempted to tell the caller to go to hell, but she realized that it was only her bad mood and not the fault of her caller.
The events of the day before, coupled with finding a white rose next to her on her pillow that morning, had put her in a foul frame of mind. The cast, the crew, and even Raymond had been on the receiving end of her barbs and snaps without apology.
"Come in," she said as steadily as she could manage.
A moment later, she wished she had gone ahead and told the caller to go to hell.
Carcasonne walked into her office, his ego and large belly filling up the small space and making it hard to breathe.
"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head. "I have come to your rescue."
"I wasn't aware I was in trouble, monsieur."
"A lovely little lady isn't expected to understand the magnitude of legal troubles, my dear."
There was a beat of silence as Mireille counted. She made it to seven.
"You are referring to the letter from the attorneys for le vicomte ?"
"Yes, indeed. Now, if you will hand it over, I shall take care of it for you. Best to have a man of the world handle these things, you know."
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself with this matter." Mireille's voice was icy cold, and her glare would have sent most strong men packing.
"Well, well, well, you know that we let you play at running this theater, my dear," Carcasonne purred, coming around to her side of the desk. "A girl needs amusements if she doesn't have a home to mind. But, when it comes to something serious, like the law, it's best if you leave it to a man's judgment."
It was hard to count to seven even at that point. She clenched her hands in her lap and refused to look away from Carcasonne's gaze.
"You are quite right," she said icily. "I have already discussed the matter with my father, and we shall be certain to consult with the Opéra de Paris’ solicitors—who you should be relieved to know are men—as to the best course of action. However, I do not believe that the Vicomte de Chagnard has a leg to stand on. Neither he nor the vicomtesse are heritors of the estate of the 'phantom', and technically, Don Juan belongs to the phantom and not the Opéra de Paris. They have no grounds to object to the production nor to claim license."
Carcasonne sat down on her desk, his large rear squashing and crinkling the papers. For a fleeting moment, Mireille fervently hoped there was wet ink on one of the papers that would leave imprints of words such as ‘farce’ and ‘enormous’ on his immaculate—if overworked at the seams—faun trousers. He leaned in to her, forcing her back in her chair.
"You are getting a bit above yourself, my dear," he said, lifting his finger to tip her chin up to
Yet, Mireille's danger was just as intoxicating and just as able to provoke a loss of control in him, as evidenced by his punishment of the walls and boards when he saw her in another man's arms. His desire, a man's desire for a woman, was becoming nearly uncontrollable every time he was near her. He wasn't even sure how many more times he could tease her without losing control of himself. God, how he wanted her! Damn her!
There was only one antidote to the poison in his veins, one way out of this haze of desire that clouded his judgment.
He would have to take her, make her his.
He would have to finish this little game of seduction once and for all.
10. Of Managers and Vicomtes
A knock at the door of her office made Mireille look up briefly from the sheaf of papers she was reading through.
For a moment, her temper flared, and she was tempted to tell the caller to go to hell, but she realized that it was only her bad mood and not the fault of her caller.
The events of the day before, coupled with finding a white rose next to her on her pillow that morning, had put her in a foul frame of mind. The cast, the crew, and even Raymond had been on the receiving end of her barbs and snaps without apology.
"Come in," she said as steadily as she could manage.
A moment later, she wished she had gone ahead and told the caller to go to hell.
Carcasonne walked into her office, his ego and large belly filling up the small space and making it hard to breathe.
"Mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head. "I have come to your rescue."
"I wasn't aware I was in trouble, monsieur."
"A lovely little lady isn't expected to understand the magnitude of legal troubles, my dear."
There was a beat of silence as Mireille counted. She made it to seven.
"You are referring to the letter from the attorneys for le vicomte ?"
"Yes, indeed. Now, if you will hand it over, I shall take care of it for you. Best to have a man of the world handle these things, you know."
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself with this matter." Mireille's voice was icy cold, and her glare would have sent most strong men packing.
"Well, well, well, you know that we let you play at running this theater, my dear," Carcasonne purred, coming around to her side of the desk. "A girl needs amusements if she doesn't have a home to mind. But, when it comes to something serious, like the law, it's best if you leave it to a man's judgment."
It was hard to count to seven even at that point. She clenched her hands in her lap and refused to look away from Carcasonne's gaze.
"You are quite right," she said icily. "I have already discussed the matter with my father, and we shall be certain to consult with the Opéra de Paris’ solicitors—who you should be relieved to know are men—as to the best course of action. However, I do not believe that the Vicomte de Chagnard has a leg to stand on. Neither he nor the vicomtesse are heritors of the estate of the 'phantom', and technically, Don Juan belongs to the phantom and not the Opéra de Paris. They have no grounds to object to the production nor to claim license."
Carcasonne sat down on her desk, his large rear squashing and crinkling the papers. For a fleeting moment, Mireille fervently hoped there was wet ink on one of the papers that would leave imprints of words such as ‘farce’ and ‘enormous’ on his immaculate—if overworked at the seams—faun trousers. He leaned in to her, forcing her back in her chair.
"You are getting a bit above yourself, my dear," he said, lifting his finger to tip her chin up to
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