Oh hello Raoul? You're going to be joining us in this story?

Ok. I suppose you must. Just try not to cause too much trouble. ;)

Nico

It was as if her voice was a beacon, drawing Raoul's attention from the rather hefty tenor who was shaking his hand with such force, Raoul was certain his arm would snap.

All at once he recognized her. How she had changed! Gone were the smattering of freckles across her nose that he would tease her mercilessly about as children…she was certainly no longer a child! The skimpy costume she wore for the opening act of Hannibal proved this, hugging her lush curves with sumptuous lines that were impossible to ignore.

Although Raoul had told himself that his relationship with the Opera Populaire would be strictly business…his father had warned him against emotional attachments to his financial investments…he could not stop himself from leaving the small circle of managers and divas and approaching Christine.

"Oh God!" Christine exclaimed, shrinking behind Meg. "He's coming over here!"

Meg craned her neck to see the new Patron walking determinedly towards the group of ballerinas, who were now primping, hoping to catch the handsome young man's eye…if only for a second.

He stopped in front of the group of women, looking past their words of welcoming, trying to spot Christine.

She had just been there a moment ago.

Mary Dupont forced her way to the front of the throng, but not before quickly tightening the corset that displayed her generous bosom. "Have you a name?" She purred seductively. "Or shall we just call you Monsieur Vicomte?"

"Raoul," he replied, barely making eye contact. "Raoul De Changy. Excuse me, but wasn't Christine Daae just standing…"

"She's here!" Meg suddenly called out, moving from in front of her friend.

"Meg!" Christine hissed as the blond pulled her out into Raoul's site.

Raoul's heart missed a beat as Christine was suddenly dragged before him.

"Christine," he breathed, immediately pulling her into a tight embrace. "My God! It IS you!"

"Hello Raoul," Christine said, her voice muffled by his overzealous hug. He held her at arms' length, as if to better inspect her.

"What ever are you doing here?" He asked earnestly, pulling her slightly away from the curious stares of the ballerinas.

"I've been here since Father died," she replied quietly.

Raoul embraced her once more. "My family was saddened to hear of his passing, Christine. We made several attempts to contact you, but by the time word had reached us you had already left."

Christine rested her cheek against his chest.

How comforting it felt! How he reminded her of her carefree youth!

As his arms relaxed, Christine pulled away, keeping an appropriate distance. She swiped at a tear that threatened to spill, having been prompted by such dear memories of a much happier time.

"You look well, Raoul," she commented, changing to a lighter topic.

"Thank you," he replied, giving a slight bow of his head. "And it seems that we shall be able to enjoy each other's company much more frequently," he added.

"It seems so," Christine relented, offering him a smile.

He gazed at her for another moment before sighing. "I must return to my business, Christine." He said reluctantly. "But perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening?"

When she didn't immediately give her answer, Meg elbowed her in the ribs.

"That would be lovely," Christine answered.

"Perfect. I will pick you up at seven." He allowed a gloved fingertip to trace the outline of her now reddened cheek. "Don't be late, Little Lotte."

Christine smiled at the childhood nickname, watching as Raoul headed back over to the waiting managers.

As soon as his attention was off of her, Christine ducked back into the folds of the backstage curtains, Meg on her tail.

"Why did you tell him I was here?" Christine asked, her hot face in her hands.

"Christine! When the new Patron of the finest theater in all of Paris requests to see you, you oblige!" She placed her hands on her hips. "Besides, weren't you close to him once before?"

Christine nodded. "Very close," she admitted.

"Then whatever is the problem?" Meg pressed. Then, a flare of remembrance crossed her face. "Oh Christine! Your lover! I had completely forgotten…"

"He's not my lover," Christine interrupted.

"But you want him to be," Meg more stated than asked.

Christine bit her lip.

That mysterious man…that man whose name she did not even know yet…that man whose voice bewitched her…whose perfect hands caressed piano keys as if they were a woman's body…

Could she even entertain the possibility of being intimate with him without completely shattering?

"Poor Christine," Meg said, suddenly wrapping a supportive arm around her friend's shoulder. "You are in love with someone who does not feel the same!"

Christine jerked her head up. "Love? When did I ever say I was in love?"

Meg winked. "I can see it," she touched Christine's face gently. "In your eyes."

Christine shook her head to protest, but then stopped short.

She was in love.

She was in love with that voice…that voice that was powerful…that voice that had dragged her from the darkness that she had retreated to when her father died.

But the man who possessed that voice…that man was obviously incapable of love.

"Go to dinner with the Vicomte," Meg said. "Come, rehearsals are over. I'll help you to get ready."

"No," Christine said, but then noticing the look of hurt in Meg's eyes added, "Not yet. Come to my room in an hour."

Meg smiled. "I won't be late, Little Lotte."

As the small blond flitted away, Christine began to wonder just what she was getting herself into.

Christine sat motionless in front of her vanity mirror, almost mechanically applying lipstick to her already rouged lips. The white corset and thin layers of silk that she wore under only her finest clothing blended in with the paleness of her skin.

She looked like a ghost.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, a stiff wind swept through her room, rustling papers and lifting her hair from her shoulders. She turned instinctively towards the only other mirror in the room.

There, standing in the now swung open mirror, dressed in tight black slacks and an equally opulent black vest buttoned over a crimson shirt was that man…

And by the look of his golden eyes, it was obvious that he was very, very angry.