CHAPTER TWO

The first week passed in much the same way as they had spent their first day – standing at the piano. When, on the second day, he began to sing with her, Christine had had the bizarre feeling that there was nowhere else she'd rather be. His voice was like a balm to her soul, erasing her fears and resentments. How could she hate beauty?

Despite his earlier threat, he was never without his mask when she was in the room. Her eternity was apparently to be spent looking at a masked man rather than a deformed one. She wasn't sure which she preferred.

On the seventh day of her captivity, she asked him again to tell her of his life before the opera house.

"Ah, Christine. Is that something a friend would tell you?"

"I believe so, yes. Burdens shared are burdens lessened. That's what friends do."

He didn't reply.

"You shared so many of my burdens. My angel of music helped me keep grief and loneliness at bay. Why won't you let me do the same for you?"

"I'm not sure I know how to share," he replied.

"Where were you born?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Somewhere in Paris as far as I know."

"What about your parents?"

There was a long silence. "I never had a father. My mother took in laundry to support us. Before she sold me, that is."

Christine sucked in a breath. "Sold you?"

"To a traveling carnival. She was only too glad to be rid of her devil's child. And the circus was only too glad to have me. I was a beast in a cage, Christine. Just like all the other animals, only not so well treated."

The images in her mind all made her want to cry out. To weep. "How long were you…like that?"

He shrugged. "Until I was about ten. Then I killed my keeper and escaped. Madame Giry, just a girl then herself, helped me to hide in the opera house, and I have never left. It has been the kindest home I've known."

"I'm so sorry." She knew those words were inadequate.

"I don't want your pity. I'm not that trapped boy any longer."

"No, you're the opera ghost. Now you do the terrorizing."

"I just do what I have to do to keep myself safe – and to keep my opera house running as it should."

She smiled. "You really hate the new managers, don't you?"

"They are incompetent boobs who don't know the first thing about art. I'm lucky they had sense enough to realize your talent."

"I'm lucky you're so handy with falling scenery."

He laughed. "You don't think that the act of a monster?"

"Do you know how many people would love to drop a piano on Carlotta? I think you showed admirable restraint."

He laughed again, but then stopped abruptly. "I don't remember the last time I laughed, Christine. Thank you."

Her heart threatened to rend in two, and she kept silent.

"You are an excellent friend," he said.

That night she awoke to soft, mournful sounds from the organ. The notes touched her heart, and she knew he was thinking of the past she had made him dredge up earlier in the day.

She climbed out of bed and walked through her curtain, intending to go to his side, but the sight of him stopped her in her tracks.

He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she sucked in a breath. Dear God.

His back was criss-crossed with white scars, but they had the smooth look of injuries long faded. What took her aback was the perfection of the man underneath. She had felt the muscles of his shoulders under her hands, and now she had the picture to go with it. His whole body swayed and flowed in time to the stricken notes.

When the song ended, he spoke. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said, "but why do you stare? You must have known there'd be scars."

He turned to face her, revealing a smooth, unscarred chest. Her throat clenched and she couldn't form an answer.

He frowned. "Christine, are you alright?" He rose and took a few steps toward her.

She stepped back, bumping into her curtain door.

He stopped moving and looked at her. "Christine?"

"I…I'm sorry. I've…well, I've never seen a man before."

"What?" He dragged his gaze away from hers and looked down at himself. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said before her brain had a chance to take it back.

He cocked his head and looked at her, clearly not understanding. Then realization seemed to dawn. "You…you like looking at me?"

"I think so, yes."

She saw him take a deep breath.

"Is that what friends do?" he asked softly.

"Definitely not," she replied, finding her voice. "I think I'd better go back to my room."

"Definitely."

Erik watched Christine's curtained door for a long time after she'd backed through it. Then he turned and pulled back one of the curtains that covered his punishing full-length mirrors. He looked long and hard at his reflection. It was true; his chest looked like that of any man. And that's what Christine had reacted to, he told himself. It wasn't him in particular. It was the shock of seeing a man's half-naked form.

But she'd said she liked looking at him. He cursed the sudden hope that flared within him. She didn't want him. It could have been any man standing there before her, getting her girl's reaction.

But what if? he dared to ask himself. What if it wasn't a girl's reaction, but a woman's? Could he have some sway over her beyond his music?

His heart clenched, almost doubling him over. To know her touch on his skin – the idea burned and flared within him. He'd thought he'd banked his ever present need for her. He'd thought he could be content with their tentative friendship. He'd thought that was more than he deserved.

On that score, he was sure he was right. But he was also sure he was selfish enough to want more.

Christine woke in a fevered agony of tortured dream remnants. All night, she'd felt the burning heat of Erik's beautiful chest pressed against her. He lay warm and heavy on top of her, touching her lips with his. And then she was awake and there was nothing more. And she was panting for more.

She scolded herself, bathed, dressed, and vowed not to leave her room that day. She'd claim she was sick. That had to be the truth. She couldn't want a monster. She couldn't want him close to her…doing things to her.

"Christine?" His voice was right outside her door. "Breakfast is ready."

"Uh…I'm not hungry this morning. I didn't sleep well. I just want to rest."

She heard his retreating footsteps and breathed a sigh of relief, but then suddenly he was standing in her room. His reflection stared at her in her dressing table mirror.

He held up a tray and then put it down on the corner of her nightstand. "In case you get hungry later."

"Oh," she said. "Uhm…thank you."

"Are you sure you're not ill?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine." And she'd be fine as long as he kept his shirt on.

Then inspiration struck her. Maybe there was another way. "Why do you still wear the mask?" she asked.

He looked taken aback. "You'd rather I not wear it?"

She nodded, turning to face him.

He looked long into her eyes. "So you can see me as a monster again, Christine? Is that it?"

She felt the damning blush as it rushed to her cheeks.

Erik closed the distance between them and pulled her up by her wrists. Then one hand found the small of her back, and before she knew what had happened, her body was flush against his. And he was warm – just the way she'd dreamed.

She felt her blush grow brighter.

"What's the matter, Christine?" he asked. "Are you afraid to see me as a man?"

"We…we can't do this," she stammered. "We're friends, nothing more."

He laughed. "What's the matter, little Christine? Did you dream of me last night? Of me touching you?"

She swallowed hard and didn't reply.

"I dreamt of you," he said. "I dreamt of holding you like this." He jammed his hand into her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to look at him. "I dreamed of kissing you until you begged me for more."

He lowered his voice. "Would you do that for me, Christine? Would you beg me?"

She clenched her teeth. "Never," she ground out.

"I think you're a little liar," he said. He pulled his hand out of her hair and moved it to cup one of her breasts.

She made a noise that shamed her – something between a gasp and a moan. He began to move his hand, and she felt the world shifting around her. "Please," she gasped.

He stopped instantly, removed his hand and stepped back from her.

Her legs felt watery, and she reached back to steady herself on the dressing table, knowing he couldn't help but notice, but not having any choice if she wanted to remain upright.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "I'll never treat you with disrespect. You must know that."

"I don't call coming into my room uninvited and manhandling me respectful treatment," she pointed out.

He smiled and held up his hands. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come in uninvited. You could be right – but my intentions were pure."

She snorted, and he smiled at her again. "It's you who put impure thoughts in my head, my dear."

"I did no such thing."

"When your own impure thoughts are so visible on that pretty face, you can hardly lay the blame on me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He turned and stepped toward the door. "You can't hide in here all day, Christine."

"Watch me," she called out to his retreating back.