Chapter Twenty-five

As Erik pushed the parcel into Christine's hands, he was careful not to touch her.

But she held his gaze and, for the briefest moment, she thought she saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes...a fugitive ghost of the passion and tenderness that she remembered...that she longed to see again.

In another second, it was gone and she wondered if it had been nothing but her memory, a wish, a trick of the late morning light.

"Erik, you didn't have to buy the shawl. If you meant it as a peace offering, there was no need."

"Madame, it is very rude to question a present. I wanted you to have it. It suits you well. And that is reason enough."

She hated the chill cadence of his voice, so in contrast to the generosity he had shown.

"Why must you be so cold and formal with me," she asked as they left the merchant's stand, "why must you call me Madame?"

She saw the uncovered side of his facing tighten into a frown to match to scowl of his mask. He seemed ready to reproach her...to insult her, even.

Something across the market square seemed to catch his eye. He turned sharply, watching anxiously as the concealed what had attracted his attention.

He grabbed her arm. His hold was rough, but not cruel this time.

"Christine, were you followed here?"

Followed...not by Raoul...surely he was otherwise occupied with his business at the Fantasie. And he had always trusted her...she had never given him reason not to.

Or did someone know the reason for their hasty flight to Morocco?

"Followed, Erik? What did you see?"

He wathed the throng of shoppers for another second, then drew her with him into a tiny alley.

"You'd better come with me to Belle Reve," he said, not letting go of her as he quickly led her through a labyrinth of grimy and narrow back streets.

He stopped in a cramped cul-de-sac that ran behid his nightclub. A set of exterior steps led up to his own rooms.

It was not until they reached his apartment did he let you her arm, dropping it abruptly.

Winded from the hard pace he had set, Christine dropped the shawl onto the sofa and sank down beside it.

"Erik, what did you see back there in the bazaar? Why did we run?"

Erik slid the bolt into place and check to make certain that the door leading in from the office was secured before he answered her.

"A German officer was watching us...watching you. At first, I thought he was simply attracted to you. I think there was another reason. He seemed to know you."

She heard the hate cracking his voice like lightning as he said the word German.

He caught he shoulders and pulled her up to face him.

"Christine, tell me now...do you or does this husband of yours have any dealings with the Nazis...here or in Paris?"

She felt her knees buckling with fatigue and fear and Erik eased her back down onto the sofa.

"Tell me the truth, Christine," he said in a low voice, "are you in danger?"

She looked up at him helplessly. There was nothing to gain in silence or denial.

"Erik, there is a price on my husband's head."