Chapter Forty-one
"And what price are you prepared to pay for your husband's safety?"
"Whatever you ask, Erik," Christine said, trying to forget the hate she heard in his voice as he took a step towards her.
She slid the amethyst ring off her finger and, taking his hand, laid it on his palm.
"I haven't any money of my own, you know, but I know this ring is valuable."
"A gift from your husband, perhaps," he said, glancing at the purple gem only briefly, "Christine, I don't want your trinkets."
"Then what do you want, Erik? I will pay your price. Any price."
He let the ring fall to the floor and reached out to touch Christine's face, his cool fingers slowly tracing the soft curves of her chin and throat. He then tipped her face up until her eyes met his.
"Any price, Christine?"
She found she could hardly breath, let alone answer him. She only nodded, her eyes never breaking from his. His meaning was very clear…as clear as the contempt she saw on his face.
"What a little whore you've become, my dear."
He reached up and, with a single violent tug, removed the mask from his face. He winced as the theatrical adhesive pulled as his skin and threw the mask down.
Then he drew off the dark wig. Christine saw that that his hairline was ragged, the scars that distorted his face reached well beyond his right temple. And his thick hair was heavy streaked with early gray.
She laid her hands on his shoulders and, standing on her toes, pressed her mouth against his.
His lips were so cold and unyielding and she could not help recalling their first, sweet kiss on that rainy afternoon in Paris.
She whispered his name against his lips and she felt his hands circle around her waist. She let her own hands wander down from his shoulders to his wrists.
Taking his hands, she tried to lead him towards the open bedroom door.
But he pulled her away from that door, wrenching her body against his.
"No, Christine," he said, his breath burning against her neck, "not there…on the floor or against the wall like the whore you are!"
With that, he spun her around to face him and pushed her back against the wall until she felt the carved molding dig into the small of her back.
Even as he pinned her body between the wall and his own, he seemed to hear his own voice…
She only asked for one letter…one for her husband…what of her…does she mean to let him go without her…
It didn't matter now. The only thing that mattered now was that Christine was his at last.
Her eyes were closed, her head tilted to one side. For a moment, he though she'd fainted…until she wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn't supposed to be like this…
Not a day had passed since Paris that she hadn't wondered what it would have been like to be his lover, his wife…and now…now this.
She felt him crumpled her silk skirt up around her waist as he kissed her, knowing that her lips would be bruised with his roughness.
"Christine, my Christine," she heard his voice, muffled against her shoulder as he used his knee to part her thighs and drew one of her legs around his waist.