Chapter 21 - That Gray-Green Storm
Erik gently pushed Christine's hand from his mask. But she was not deterred.
She reached up and laid her soft palms against his neck, feeling his pulse beneath the heat of his skin.
"Erik, I promise you," she whispered, "I promise I will not leave you again."
As her hands slipped down beneath the open collar of his shirt, he closed his eyes, wanting to believe those sweet words, to let his soul trust her.
Then her hands slowly retraced their way up his neck to his face. Her fingers wandered along the edge of his mask.
But he caught her wrist and drew her hand away again.
"No, Christine, not tonight…allow me this sanctuary…please."
Raoul stared at the hand that lay within his own. Cautiously, he let his fingers curl around hers.
"How do you know my name, Madame?"
"Oh," she said, with a careless shrug that allowed her shawl to drop from her shoulders, "I daresay all of Paris is talking about you. You must be very lonely without your pretty wife."
The hand that encircled her wrist was trembling.
He is afraid…but how could it be otherwise…what has he know of life…
Easing herself up from the pillows,Christine pulled the cufflinks from his shirt and slipped her hands beneath his sleeves.
He took a deep breath and parted his lips to speak, but she silenced him with her own lips.
Raoul watched the woman's eyes as she looked with raw admiration around the foyer of the de Chagny residence.
In the light of the hall, he could see a certain harshness to her skin, a thinness of the lips that flawed her beauty.
He saw her gaze sweeping slowly over the polished wood, the intricately carved banister as he led her up the stairs to his rooms.
Pushing the white shirt off Erik's shoulders. Christine's fingers found the scars…and she traced them lightly. First with her hands, then with her lips.
Strange how her touch on those scars awakened no memories in him, rather it seemed as if she was erasing each lash with her tender caresses.
"May I get you a drink," Raoul asked the woman, lingering over the cut-glass decanters.
"A cognac, Monsiuer."
He handed her the glass, but avoided meeting her gaze.
"You've a fine house, Monsieur."
He didn't answer her, but set his own glass down on the polished table beside the bed.
"Christine," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and laying his hands on the woman's hips, "Christine, don't leave me."
Letting Erik's shirt fall to the dusty floor, Christine leaned back against the pillow again and let her eyes meet his.
I want to loose my soul in that gray-green storm…
The woman reached up and pulled the chipped tortoise comb from her hair.
"My name," she said, shaking the deep gold locks loose, "is Mariette."
"No, not tonight…tonight, your name will be Christine."
