Thanks to the fabuolous reviewers I alraedy have for this story, I love you!

Oh look, it's Erik! -grins-

I don't think you'll like him in this chapter, however. I know some of you may be confused as to why Christine is so poor right now(er, did I explain that already in the last chapter? OO But all will be explained in time.

NOTE: I have never been to Brittany. I have never seen the beach. So frankly, I have no idea what it looks like. So I'm going to make that up, k? K. Along with the names of many restaurants and things such as that. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

Christine stood awkwardly in the middle of Erik De Mare's private office, trying not to look too out of place in her cargo pants and black tank, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail at the back of her head. This was the nicest outfit she owned, at the time. She looked around anxiously, trying unsuccessfully to slow her racing heart. She had been told to wait for him in his office, and that he would be in to see her shortly, after he got back from running an errand. She had been shaking too much to give a response, and she now briefly wondered how she was supposed to handle a whole interview. Why couldn't he just accept a simple resume?

She waited a moment, idly hitting her palms against the pockets of her pants, then moved to sit in one of the leather chairs positioned around the room, feeling as if the upholstery was swallowing her whole. She shifted several times, trying to get comfortable.

Once she was decently content with her position, she resumed her study of her surroundings. The office was the most beautiful room she had ever seen, and it was rather large; she doubted if she had ever seen anything so fancy. Instead of a simple couch, he had a sleek, black leather divan sitting in one corner, accompanied by two matching leather chairs and a tall floor lamp with a simple black shade. On the floor, there was a Persian area rug covering the gleaming wooden floors, and there was even a fake fireplace in one corner. The desk was of fine, polished cherry wood, and on top of the desk stood a mess of papers and manila file folders, next to a slim, black laptop. A black Razr cell-phone sat next to a Starbucks coffee cup in the corner of his desk, and she saw an open briefcase sitting in his leather computer chair. He had obviously left in a hurry, and she hoped he would be tied up for a while, to give her time to calm her frazzled nerves.

The walls were a deep red, almost burgundy, and on them were rows and rows of pictures in simple black frames, each one more beautiful than the last. She had never seen pictures like those; some in black and white, some in color - he managed to capture the true beauty of the moment, to capture the feel and atmosphere of each scene. Most of them were of exotic-looking places she had never seen, so she stood up and walked over to them to read the captions underneath. She walked by them all, taking a minute to study each piece, her breath catching each time she looked at a new masterpiece. It amazed her the places he had been.

"Frankfurt, Germany, Chicago, Hong Kong, Singapore, Venice, Paris . . . " she continued through them all, completely entranced, until she reached one that made her stop in her tracks. No, it couldn't be. .

It was a rocky beach, with dark gray whitecaps and an equally gray sky, with a white sand beach and high, grassy dunes. It wasn't particularly beautiful, but with the familiar colors, and the atmosphere, it felt like home. She studied it closer, trying to see if it was really what she thought it was. She leaned in towards the caption, and read the black printed words with wide eyes:

"Brittany, France 1997. ."

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes blurred with tears. He had been to her childhood home! She hadn't been there since she was eleven! She had lived with her Mother Valerius in her simple cottage until her God mother had determinedly decided she wanted to see the city before she died. Christine, young butsmart enough to understand that it wasn't a good idea for an 87 year old woman to travel all the way to Paris, fought endlessly with her about it, trying to convince her that it wasn't good for her health. But she had insisted, and so they had packed up and moved to a small flat in Paris soon after.

Two years later, Raoul's parents died in a car accident in Brittany, and Raoul had used their death as an excuse for him to move to Paris, saying he was too depressed to remain so close to where he held so many memories of them. It wasn't a lie, necessarily. He did miss them dearly, but all he was focused on at the time was getting to be with Christine again. Philippe didn't figure that out until later.

Christine smiled.

"Ah. That is my particular favorite. Now stop staring and get over here so I can get this over with."

Christine yelped as she heard the deep, musical voice, with a very subtle French accent, from behind her, and she spun around fast enough to give herself whiplash. She hadn't even heard anyone come in! She closed her eyes and briefly brought her hand to her chest, feeling her rapid heartbeat beneath her fingers. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and opened her eyes, flitting them around the room in an attempt to find the voice. She found him, leaning over his black suitcase in a futile attempt at closing it.

He was tall, and rather lean, almost skeletal. He wore a very elegant, well-fitted black suit that screamed designer origins, and he had a shock of black hair that was gelled back, reaching to the nape of his neck. He was the essence of sensuality, though it wasn't his looks that gave off such an air. She nervously stepped closer to the desk as she had been ordered, and waited patiently as he continued to fight with the briefcase. Finally, he let out a string of curses and threw the whole thing to the ground, making Christine jump as it clattered to the floor.

He turned to her then, and Christine gasped in surprise. She tried to avoid his gaze, to avoid her curiosity, but as always, her curiosity got the best of her. Her eyes flashed up to his, and she felt herself shudder.

His eyes were dark, almost black, but they glinted with a strange, cold light that make Christine subconsciously step back. He had high cheekbones and pale skin, and his nose was long and powerful. His full lips were set in a grim line, and she noticed they were redder than they should be. None of this was what frightened her, however - it was the simple, white, porcelain mask that sat on the right side of his face, covering every inch of skin from his hairline to right above him lip. It was the most noticeable thing on his entire body, simply because it was such a stark contrast to all the iblack/b in his wardrobe.

She knew it had to be due to some deformity, though she wondered at the fact that he didn't simply get plastic surgery. She had seen burn victims with faces mutilated beyond distinction look absolutely normal in little more than two months, thanks to the magic of billions of dollars worth of surgery. Maybe he was simply eccentric. He was rich, and that was just as good an excuse as any. But still, the mask seemed to be a part of his face, like it belonged there. It was rather eerie.

He was beautiful, yet hideous. He was as exotic as his pictures. He exuded grace, exuded power, and his gaze was so hypnotic Christine felt herself stepping closer to his desk until her abdomen was pressed against the wood. . He had long, pale, elegant hands that were now splayed out on the desk before him, and she could see the spidery veins covering the pale flesh. She noticed a simple gold band with a gleaming onyx stone sitting in the middle of his ring finger on his left hand. So he was married, then. Of course someone of his class would be, whether he had a freaky mask covering one half of his face or not. Her eyes traveled up his arms, over his broad shoulders and his pale neck, up to his striking face, where two black eyes were glaring coldly at her. She blushed, then looked down. She quickly sat in the chair behind her.

She had never seen anyone like him, and it had taken all her will power to tear her eyes away. She presumed it was like this with everyone who met him, and she wondered at how he managed to deal with the number of stares he must get when he went out in public. And he obviously went out a lot, seeing the amount of different places he went to.

"Great, now you've gone and insulted him," she said to herself, mentally slapping her forehead.

"What were you staring at, I wonder?" he asked, hissing the words sarcastically. Christine looked up at him, seeing his blazing eyes, and began fumbling in her brain for an answer. Why had she chosen this job, again? He began tapping his fingers on his desk impatiently.

"You have a lot of. .of black, sir. In your wardrobe. I was simply. .surprised," she whispered to her hands, then blushed deeper as she realized how idiotic she sounded.

He was quiet for a minute, and she worried she had insulted him again.

"I like it," he said defensively, and she was relieved to hear that his voice had lost some of its coldness. Now she could look at him.

She bravely held her head up and locked gazes with him, giving him her full attention. He studied her for a moment, and she blushed as she felt his gaze go over her eyes, her nose, her lips, her neck. .

The scrutinizing went on for a bit longer, until Christine turned her head away and let some of her brown bangs fall in her eyes, obscuring her face from view. He sighed, turning his own head away, then began to fumble for something on his desk. Christine wrung her hands in her lap as she waited, and felt the perspiration beginning to collect on her forehead. She wiped it away as casually as she could. Why was she so nervous? Was it because he wasn't saying anything? She rather liked to hear his voice. It was the one thing that wasn't as menacing as the rest of him. It might even be soothing, if he were capable of feigning such emotion. Looking at him now, grimacing and brow furrowed, she doubted he could.

Finally he found what he was looking for among the clutter, and brought out a list of handwritten questions clipped to a clipboard that was - of course - black. She sighed.

He found a pen in a drawer, then began to scratch something out at the top of the paper.

"What's your name?" he finally asked, still studying the clipboard. Christine furrowed her brow in confusion.

That morning, she had called the number listed in the ad she had copied down yesterday, and had reached a woman by the name of Sonya Baker. She had told her to give her name and to come at 3 that afternoon for an interview. Wouldn't Sonya have told him. .?

"What's your name?" he asked again, a little more forcefully now, and Christine realized he must think she was mentally incompetent. She quickly answered.

"Christine, sir. Daae." He jotted it down, then moved on to the next question.

"French. I could tell. Have you ever had any experience as an assistant?"

Christine hesitated. She had never been a secretary or an assistant, but she hoped that wouldn't matter.

"No. .but I believe I would be good for your company. I'm very organized, and I have a decent memory, and my handwriting is very neat and I'm a fast typist, and I can work whatever hours you want, because I'm not-. ."

"That's fascinating. Your last three places of employment?"

Christine blinked, stunned.

She frowned at him, not bothering to hide her irritation. Why was he being so mean? She hadn't done anything to him!

Except insult his wardrobe..

She sighed, knowing she would have to cooperate if she was going to get this position. She quickly thought back to her last three jobs.

"Well, my latest was as a cashier at Starbucks on 49th, and before that I was a waitress at that Italian restaurant that I could never pronounce the name of without sounding like a New Yorker . . ."

She stopped as she saw the corner of his lips twitch from behind his desk, almost a smile. She let out a sigh of relief. So he icould/i do something other than scowl!

"La Notte Annaffia?" he questioned, humor evident in his eyes. Christine nodded, deciding she liked his Italian. It sounded very rich and natural on his tongue, and she would've guessed it was his native language, if she didn't already know that "De Mare" was French. He pulled off the English so flawlessly, however, that she could hardly tell if he was either.

"Continue," he said, breaking her from her musings.

"Sir?" she asked, confused. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Your. .. third job?"

"Oh! Of course. I was a club singer, at Katie's Lounge, downtown. .I quit because of the cigarette smoke. I was afraid I'd get cancer, or something."

That wasn't the real reason, though it was what she had told Meg and Raoul when they had called to check up on her. The real reason was that no one liked her singing there - they said she was too dull and lifeless. They wanted a whore, and Christine wouldn't be that for any of them.

Erik studied her a moment, and Christine noticed he looked surprised about something. She waited a minute, thinking he was going to say something.

Finally, he did.

"You sing?" his voice sounded disbelieving, and Christine raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, sir, I do. Well, not much, any more, but it was all I lived for until I moved here, about 3 and a half years ago. Then I just kind of. .stopped."

"Ah, I see. You never did anything with your talent?"

Christine blushed at this, and began wringing her hands again.

"Oh, I assure you, sir, it was never anything to do anything with. ."

She could've sworn she saw Erik's face fall when she said this, before he looked away and went back to his papers. They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds, before Erik asked his next question.

"Very well. Do you know anything about filing?" Christine nodded. "Photo editing?" Christine hesitated, then nodded. "Do you know what an A-D Converter is?"

Christine tilted her head in confusion, then shook her head no, disappointment obvious by the way she bit her lip and her eyes dimmed. This time Erik did give a twisted smile, and he held his hand out to her. She took it nervously, not sure what this meant. Erik shook it strongly, his grip like iron.

"You start tomorrow. Wear casual, nothing fancy." Christine brought her finger up, wanting to point out that Erik's attire was anything but casual, but he held out a finger to stop her. "I'm the boss. Leave it alone." Christine dropped her finger in defeat. "Be here at 8 am," he continued, walking around the room, closing the blinds.

"You'll be in the desk outside my office, and you'll be responsible for taking messages, filing, writing down photograph requests, making copies of orders, the works. Anything you have questions about, ask Sonya. Not me."

And then he was out the door, his cell phone in his pocket and his coffee in his hand. She watched him in amazement as he disappeared down the stairs of the two floor building, and out the glass doors onto the busy streets. He quickly disappeared in the large crowd, headed off to somewhere Christine probably would never step foot in her life. Christine collapsed onto the leather chair, held her head in her hands, and released the breath she had been holding since he had said the words: "You start tomorrow."

Wait a minute. .

She gave a squeal of triumph as she finally realized she was now the assistant of Erik De Mare, and would be in college in no time.

This would be a cinch. How hard could it be to please an exotic masked-man withdesigner threads and a nifty office?

Christine thought it best not to try to answer that question, and quickly stood and made her way out of the office, skipping all the way.

Her cell phone rang as she reached the glass doors, but she was too excited to bother answering it, and simply silenced it and continued skipping, and no one stopped to stare at her strange behavior. It was New York City, after all!

----

Raoul replaced the phone in its cradle, then put his head in his hands. Where was Chrissie? He needed to tell her about Christmas. He had been begging and begging Philippe to give him a couple thousand to get him to America to spend Christmas with his fiancee, but Philippe had rejected it every time. And Raoul had no access to any of the money without his brother's approval. It was the bad part about being the younger child in a family like Raoul's, where his brother owned the inheritance.

In his parent's will, Philippe had got the fortune, and Raoul had gotten the house. That technically meant he could kick Philippe out whenever the thought compelled him, but he didn't think he would accomplish much. He sighed. He had been trying to call Christine for the past two hours, but had received no answer. What if she was in trouble, and Raoul would never find out simply because Philippe didn't like her? Philippe was so spoiled, sometimes, it made him sick. Not letting her move in with them when she had no where else to go was slightly mroe understandable, since it wasn't exactly considered "proper", but not letting him visit her at all for three and a half years was another matter entirely.

Raoul growled under his breath in irritation, and quickly stood and walked determinedly towards the door, deciding to pay his brother another visit at work. He iwould/i see Christine, and he might even marry her there in Central Park, if he had too. Philippe would just have to deal with it.

—

Longer than most of my others..but definitely not my best. This chapter's..choppy-like. Sorry about that.

Anywho, leave me a review and I'll get another update out to you soon! I promise!