Philippe cared much less for what gossip the singer had heard than for the generous mounds of flesh offered beneath that cabernet gown, but in the public eye, he was a gentleman and would wait until an appropriate time. "Things?" he murmured, raising her plump white arm for the simple pleasure of seeing its corresponding breast lift.
"The daughter of the ballet mistress, she speaks of the man they call the ghost. She is a particular friend of Miss Daaé, and somehow, this girl, she knows other things that have been said about him. This ghost who is not a ghost but a man with a horrible face, who hides it under a mask."
It took a moment, but the cant of her words fell away and left Philippe with a shock at their meaning. He paused, his fingers closing over her wrist perhaps a bit too tightly. But when he looked up, she did not show pain in her eyes . . . but only pleasure. And satisfaction. "A man? In a mask?"
Was it possible? Could it be he? Here, all this time?
Philippe sat back, and released Carlotta, his mind sifting through the possibility. "What more do you know about this man? How long has this ghost been here? What does he look like?"
Carlotta's face took on an even slier, craftier expression. "There have been rumors of a… presence… here since the Opera House's inauguration ten years ago, and perhaps even longer, while it was being built. I do not know what he looks like, but he must move with the agility of youth in order to clamber about as easily and quickly as he seems to."
"Indeed. I believe we might have several things to… discuss," Philippe told her, his mind still working. It had been nearly ten years ago that all of those disagreeable events had happened, events that he'd taken great care to sweep under the carpet, so to speak. It was fortunate that it had been during the unpleasantness of the war, thus making it much simpler for him to obliterate any evidence of what had happened.
Still… Erik had disappeared during that time, and… "It took many years for this Opera House to be constructed, did it not?"
"Many years," Carlotta purred, making the words sound like a seduction instead of a mere statement of fact. "And it is my understanding that the construction stopped during the war, when this building was used as a hospital during the Siege of Paris."
"And were there rumors of the ghost during that time as well, do you know?"
"I do not know… but I can find out. Si, I shall ask one of those ouvreuses estúpidas. All they do is gossip."
Philippe thought privately that it would be gossip enough if the great Carlotta should stoop to speak to one of the lowly female ushers, but he was willing to have her do so.
Just then, he heard the rumble of a commotion across the room and saw his brother enter the salon with a wild look in his eyes. When Raoul saw Philippe, he immediately started toward him, pushing blindly through the clusters of other mingling dancers, actors, and their admirers.
"She is gone!" Raoul said when he was upon them. "Christine, Miss Daaé… she is gone. The opera ghost has taken her!"
Philippe raised one eyebrow and looked up at his brother, whose eyes had a half-mad light in them. Then he turned his attention back to Carlotta. God forbid that a woman ever lowered him to such a state. "See that you find out what you can on this Opera Ghost and I shall be most greatly… and creatively… appreciative of your efforts."
"It shall be my greatest pleasure," she replied, her lashes fluttering and her breasts quivering.
"I hope it shall be mine as well."
She looked at him, all cunning and promise. "I shall ensure it is so."
Chapter Eight
Erik gripped Christine's arm and propelled her in front of him, down a short hallway. He kept her at a distance, as if trying to avoid any accidental brush of her body against his.
If she hadn't seen the way he was looking at her, experienced the heavy, proprietary gaze, she would have thought he found her distasteful. But no. It was definitely not distaste in his eyes.
Down the hall he prodded her, to where it ended in a room… a space clearly designed for a working genius spurred by creativity. To her surprise, overhead a small glassed-in dome allowed the night sky to shine through. Apparently, he did not live in complete darkness.
As they stopped, she looked at him again and saw him try to hide the flinch from her direct gaze. Perhaps he lived in a different kind of darkness, intense and complete in its own way. Pity stirred within her—pity and desire. Raoul's touch had been nothing but a poor shadow of the one that sent her emotions reeling… and fool she had been to allow it to go so far.
The room was larger than her dressing room, and dominated by a sleek black piano, a mahogany harp, and a viola, violin, and cello. A dais built perpendicular to the instruments held a long, wide table that appeared to be nothing more than a working desk. Papers were scattered over it, and leather thongs to bind them, and pens, inkpots, and books.
She had barely taken in these aspects of the room when he moved up behind her and captured both of her wrists at the base of her spine. Then he slid an arm through her elbows, imprisoning them behind her, and crooked his other arm around her neck, pulling her back against him.
"I saw you with that boy," he said in her ear. His melodious voice didn't sound angry as much as it sounded full of promise. Hard promise. Her throat dried. "Christine, do you not understand that you belong to me?"
"Erik, I… I—"
"Quiet!" He wrenched his arm tighter around her neck—not enough to cut off her air, but enough that her head snapped back against his chest. She could feel tremors moving through him; whether they were from his bare control or from some other emotion, she did not know. "You will experience the agony I have endured."
He released her arms, keeping her throat in his strong grip, and slipped his hand around to feel her breast. He cupped it, rocked it gently in his palm, flicked a thumb over her nipple. Her body had learned well; it responded by tightening and jutting, and the nervous flutterings in her belly turned into twinges of desire.
She arched her breasts forward into his hand, her hips and rear pushing into his groin. The buttons from his shirt imprinted on the skin of her back as he continued to toy with her breast, and hold her immobile against him. When he pinched her nipple, she sighed from deep within and felt the welcome moisture gathering between her legs. She could hardly wait to feel his thick, hard cock slip inside her, and she relaxed against him.
The arm around her neck loosened so that he could brush his fingers along her jaw from his position behind, combing them into her hair and stroking her earlobe, gentle and sensual. Christine closed her eyes, reveling in his touch, allowing the pleasure to build inside her, simple and unhurried. Unlike the other times they'd been together, when he'd commanded and controlled her, she felt as though they were balanced, matched.
When he drew in his breath deeply, she felt his chest rise against her back, taking her with it, and she tipped her head, letting it fall against his shoulder. The hand that had been rubbing rhythmically over her nipple and sending jolts of desire into the pit of her stomach left its place and skimmed down over her belly to her mound, where she ached for him to touch her.
He combed his fingers through the wiry hair that grew there, teasing and lifting it, lightly tickling over her sensitive skin while he continued to play with the softer hair that grew on her head. Erik shifted behind her and she felt his mouth on her shoulder, warm and full, smoothing along the slope of her skin.
He released her neck, moving his hand to cover her other breast while he kissed her neck, and slid his fingers into the folds of her swollen labia. Christine sighed, and reached around behind her to feel the erection pushing through the front of his trousers. When she touched him through the fabric, he jerked, his breath snagging, and he pushed himself forward, into her palms, rubbing harshly against her hands.