"I shall look forward to hearing you say that to me," he said, in an easy manner that belied the intensity in his eyes. " 'Please, Erik.' Oh, yes indeed, I am quite certain you will find many ways to beg me."
"Erik, what are you going to do?" Fluttering in her belly rose up into her throat, and her cheeks burned hotter. She had a fairly good idea of the answer to that.
His smile mocked her. "We can start by having you take off your clothes, Christine. And make it quick. I have waited far too long to have you waste my time."
Her fingers were steady as she tugged the buttons and laces of her dressing gown loose. Christine whisked it off her shoulders, feeling his avid stare on her and knowing her own surge of power at the look in his eyes. She didn't have to look down to see her nipples poking through the fine lawn chemise, or the tops of her breasts rounding over the low round neckline.
"All of them," he growled, making as if to reach for her.
Christine stepped lightly to the side as his hand fell back down, and watched him as he stared at her… as if drawing in the sight of her gave him breath. And she pulled the thin shift up and over her head, and felt the gust of cooler air over her sensitive flesh.
His breathing became more shallow, more audible. Then as she watched, he drew in a deep, tremulous breath and exhaled long and slow.
"Now…" The syllable was ruptured, as though his voice broke when he tried to speak it. But his eyes… they remained steady and heavy on her, focused not on her tight, pink-tipped breasts… or even on the triangle between her legs… but drilling into her own gaze. "Now, Christine, you will see what happens when you allow another man to touch you."
Chapter Seven
At last Raoul was able to force the door open and he burst into Christine's dressing room. It was empty. "Christine!" he shouted, pulling the wardrobe doors open. It was impossible! How could she have disappeared? Christine!
She'd been talking to someone. Could it have been her tutor, that Angel of Music she spoke of? "Christine!"
There was a noise behind him and he whirled. The stern-looking woman who'd interrupted him and Christine earlier stood in the open doorway of the dressing room. Her hair was scraped back from her face, pulling taut the skin around her dark, glittering eyes.
"May I help you, monsieur le vicomte?"
"Where is Christine? She has gone! Where has that madman taken her?" Fear and apprehension stormed through his veins, and he felt a surge of some other emotion replace it. Fury. Bald, burning fury.
"I do not know of what you speak, but it is clear that Miss Daaé is not in her dressing room. And… tut, tut… the door will need to be repaired before she is to use the room again. Monsieur le vicomte, perhaps you are a bit overset… I would be most pleased to show you to the foyer de la danse, where you can perhaps have something to drink. You know, these beautiful actresses and singers… well, they are prone to fickleness. It is possible Miss Daaé has found herself a new admirer."
He looked at her, and saw a mask of innocence and calm on her face. Either she did not know, or she did not wish him to know. "I shall find my own way," he snarled, and pushed past her, his body trembling with fear and rage.
Despite what had to have been the most mortifying moment of her career, La Carlotta was holding court with a bevy of admirers in the foyer de la danse when Philippe entered the crowded room shortly after the disrupted performance of Faust.
He cast a curious look in her direction, taking in ink black hair that curled in little whorls around her face as though they'd been painted on her skin; her generous, shivering breasts, barely covered to the nipple by a wine-colored gown; and the luscious lips that looked as though they'd been drawn together in a little bud. Since he had only seen Carlotta before with those lips open wide in one aria or another, he was surprised that they looked so… pouty. Rather delicious.
And along with the rest of her lush, curvaceous body… well, it was nearly enough to put the visions of Christine Daaé from his mind. Nearly.
In fact, Philippe had found it more than difficult to dispel his own imagination's explicit and extremely erotic images of the Opera House's de facto newest star. Not only was he no longer merely amused by his brother's apparent infatuation with Miss Daaé, but he was now annoyed by it. It would take some careful manipulating to get Raoul to share.
It was not that he didn't believe he could convince his brother to do so—after all, it was only a woman at stake, and Raoul was a particularly biddable person. It was just that it was going to take so much more effort than he usually needed to expend in order to enjoy a woman. He would have to tread more carefully than he cared to, for despite the fact that he had no qualms about manipulating his younger brother, he did not wish to anger him.
Philippe was lost in mental images of rosy-tipped breasts, shiny lips parted by gasps of pain and pleading, and long dark hair wrapped around his wrist when suddenly Carlotta herself was in front of him. "Good evening, madame," he said, transferring his thoughts to the voluptuous woman in front of him.
"Monsieur le comte" she purred in imperfect French laced with Spanish, the expression in her eyes unmistakable in its invitation. "Our newest patrón. Muy bien that you have come."
"I see you have recovered from your… mishap," Philippe replied, knowing that he was impolite to mention her mishap, but curious to see how the diva would respond.
Her eyelashes barely flickered. "Está macabro," she responded with vehemence, keeping her low-lashed gaze on him even as she appeared to look down modestly. "It was horrible. But I have seen to it that it shall never happen again."
Philippe had allowed her to maneuver him toward a quiet corner of the room. Her obvious interest was very unlike the Carlotta he had observed, albeit briefly, from a distance. Normally, the woman required the men to come to her—and she did not appear to have any great dearth of male companionship. His curiosity piqued, he waited for her to sit, and then chose a ridiculously uncomfortable cushion near enough to her that they could speak without being overheard.
"And how do you expect to prevent it?" he asked, taking the opportunity to slip his fingers into the prominently offered bosom. The neckline, which plunged down nearly to her navel, was so tight that it cut across the tops of her areolas. When he pulled the boned material away from one melon-sized breast, it pulled taut against the other, flattening her breast even as the other was exposed. "Do you have some influence with this Opera Ghost of which they speak? Or do you simply plan to touch La Sorelli's lucky horseshoe before your next performance in order to stave off the misfortune brought by the Phantom?"
"Opera Ghost! Pah!" Carlotta replied, leaning forward. When his finger and thumb found her jutting nipple, Philippe gave it an experimental squeeze and was gratified to see the response in her eyes. "I do not believe in any Opera Ghost. Ridiculo! He sabotaged my voice tonic, which I leave in the wings to gargle with between songs. Ghost or no ghost, whoever he is, he wished to embarrass Carlotta, and he traded the tonic for something that made my voice do that—that horrible thing. I recognized it immediately when I tasted the tonic again. It was no ghostly effort, but a man-made one."
"You seem to be in the minority," Philippe said. Her skin was soft and warm, and Philippe tasted it at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Greasepaint and powder flavored his lips at first, but then he found sweet and salty flesh and sucked hard. Carlotta purred under his mouth, and his hand slipped fully under the band of her neckline and cupped her breast. "Why is that?"
Carlotta pulled away, and he saw the calculation in her eyes. "He is no more a ghost than you or I," she told him. "I have heard things."