“I can protect you. I can give you security. I can give you the world.”

“But not your love.” She no longer seemed to feel anything—not the room’s cold air, not the fire in her stomach, not the feelings that should be ripping through her like a tornado.

“There are more solid things between a man and a woman than useless feelings.”

“Like what?” Could Daniel have forgotten the passion they’d once shared?

“Like the things you say you want, Christiane. Family, roots, security.”

Her voice could not climb up her throat. A tiny sound echoed inside her like a wounded cry. She checked her cheeks with a quick flick of her hand to make sure no moisture stained them, betraying the ease with which he could tear open old wounds.

“Trust me.” He said the words so softly, she had to strain to catch them. Their gazes met and held. His weighty sadness mixed with hers and wove a bond of regret for all that might have been, all that could never be.

“The last time I trusted you,” she blurted out, “I ended up pregnant.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

As we ring in a new year, we have another great month of mystery and suspense coupled with steamy passion.

Here are some juicy highlights from our six-book lineup:

• Julie Miller launches a new series, THE PRECINCT, beginning with Partner-Protector. These books revolve around the rugged Fourth Precinct lawmen of Kansas City whom you first fell in love with in the TAYLOR CLAN series!

• Rocky Mountain Mystery marks the beginning of Cassie Miles’s riveting new trilogy, COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS, about a network of private citizens who volunteer their expertise in solving criminal investigations.

• Those popular TOP SECRET BABIES return to our lineup for the next four months!

• Gothic-inspired tales continue in our spine-tingling ECLIPSE promotion.

And don’t forget to look for Debra Webb’s special Signature Spotlight title this month: Dying To Play.

Hopefully we’ve whetted your appetite for January’s thrilling lineup. And be sure to check back every month to satisfy your craving for outstanding suspense reading.

Enjoy!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

A Rose at Midnight
Sylvie Kurtz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Pour Maman et Papa—avec amour.

and

For Linda Kruger and Denise O’Sullivan—with appreciation.

Author’s Note

Some of the dates, location and order of events of the Carnaval were altered to suit story purposes. The tale of Rose Latulippe is one I remember from my childhood—the most vivid version being the one from a children’s program called Franfreluche.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Flying an eight-hour solo cross-country in a Piper Arrow with only the airplane’s crackling radio and a large bag of M&M’s for company, Sylvie Kurtz realized a pilot’s life wasn’t for her. The stories zooming in and out of her mind proved more entertaining than the flight itself. Not a quitter, she finished her pilot’s course and earned her commercial license and instrument rating.

Since then, she has traded in her wings for a keyboard where she lets her imagination soar to create fictional adventures that explore the power of love and the thrill of suspense. When not writing, she enjoys the outdoors with her husband and two children, quilt-making, photography and reading whatever catches her interest.

You can write to Sylvie at

P.O. Box 702, Milford, NH 03055.

And visit her Web site at www.sylviekurtz.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Christiane Lawrence—She’s seeking roots in her history. She’s finding a whole lot more.

Daniel Moreau—He can speak with his music—words come much harder.

Rosane Lawrence—She’s the daughter Daniel tried to protect.

Armand Langelier—His obsession brought them all together.

Marguerite Langelier—The years have etched resentment on her face.

Caroline Lawrence—She’s the one mistake Armand has allowed himself.

Francine Beaulieu—She’s the curious next-door neighbor.

Jean-Paul Dubuc—He’s Daniel’s bulldog manager. He shaped Daniel’s career, and he won’t let Daniel lose his star status over a woman.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Feelings were for fools and Daniel Moreau hadn’t played the fool for anyone in years.

But he felt her presence before he turned around. Felt her in a way that grated against the ruthless control he’d cultivated since that night nine years ago when his world had turned upside down. Felt her and knew with certainty that her presence here was no accident of fate.

Did she know she was being used? Probably not. Christiane Lawrence was too trusting for her own good. That more than anything made her a threat to him.

He watched with predatory curiosity as the white-gloved butler took her snow-colored coat. Watched as red-jacketed waiters offered her tantalizing tidbits and generous goblets of wine from silver platters. Watched as Armand Langelier took her elbow and guided her to their hostess, Madame Bernier. And found an unexpected possessiveness grounding itself somewhere between his boots and his brain.

With a shake of his head, Daniel dismissed the errant feeling. She wasn’t his anymore.

Her dangling blue and silver icicle earrings were an anomaly in a sea of diamonds and sapphires. He guessed she’d worn them as a conversation starter. For all the quiet sophistication of her clothes and careful style of her short blond hair, he remembered her as shy. She moved with confidence, the soft silk and the flattering cut of her dove-gray cocktail dress shifting pleasantly with each of her steps. Subdued class—one of the many things he’d liked about Christiane.

Armand leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed in response. Though he could not hear the sound, it rippled through him. Her laughter. Her voice. They’d once cracked open a lock he’d thought rusted shut. Daniel’s fists tightened by his side. Not this time.

The older man’s gaze shifted to the crowd. Looking for him, no doubt. What was the point of making such a bold move if Armand couldn’t witness the expected reaction?

Daniel had worked hard to hide his secrets, to bury his past, to make amends. And now it could all change. Just like that. All because of this woman.

Funny how the world kept going as if nothing was wrong. People still laughed. The quartet still played. Sequined dresses still sparkled in the light on this cold February night. He’d expected the crack of thunder, the flare of lightning, the crash of a storm, some sort of force of nature to herald his doom.

But it came quietly—just when he’d started to think everything in his life had at last fallen into place.

“There you are.” Jean-Paul Dubuc, his manager, clasped an overeager hand around Daniel’s shoulder. He reminded Daniel of a bulldog—short, squat, bald and ugly, but fiercely loyal. A good man to have on your side. Except tonight. He’d ask too many questions, and Daniel would have too few answers.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Jean-Paul tried to shepherd him toward the ballroom where the piano stood waiting. “Time to get the show on the road.”

“Not now.” Daniel shrugged off Jean-Paul’s hold and searched the crowd for Christiane. The silver of her earrings winked in the distance.

“Daniel,” Jean-Paul insisted. “Madame Bernier is waiting.”

“Not now.”

“It’s you they came to hear, not some nameless quartet.”

“Then they’ll wait.” Daniel had to warn her. It was the least he could do.

“What’s wrong with you?” His manager frowned and looked him over for signs of disease or disaster—the latter probably being the more worrisome of the two for a scrapper like Jean-Paul.

“See that woman over there?” Daniel thrust his chin in Christiane’s direction. Armand gave her a little bow and headed for the bar.

“The one in the gray dress?”

Daniel nodded. “She’ll destroy me.”

He’d said it for shock value, and Jean-Paul didn’t disappoint him. “Who is she?” The creases above Jean-Paul’s eyes deepened. His jowls quivered. “What did you do? What’s she holding over you?”

A humorless grin tugged at the corners of Daniel’s mouth. He was sick of the whole business, of being handled, of never-ending expectations. He was sick of it all. “Worried about damage control?”

“Do I need to be?”

Daniel’s gaze raked the crowd until he found Christiane again, introducing herself to two women with overteased hair. “Not if I play the game right.”

“Non, mais t’as finalement perdu la boule! You’ve gone completely mad.” Jean-Paul stomped in a half-moon around Daniel as if his leash was too short. “It’s not exactly the time to go over the edge, Daniel.”

“I’m still in control. I know the rules this time.”

“This time?” Jean-Paul stopped short and stared at his client. “What are you talking about?”

“Strategy.”

“Now listen, Daniel.” Jean-Paul shook his finger at the middle of Daniel’s chest. “I’m depending on you. Madame Bernier is depending on you. All those people who paid a small fortune for a ticket to hear you play your new piece next week are depending on you. I need to know I didn’t waste my time promoting you to stardom just to have you crash when we’ve finally made it.”

Jean-Paul stopped waving his finger and planted it on Daniel’s chest. “You owe me. Where would you be today if it weren’t for me?”

Without looking at the annoying digit, Daniel swiped away Jean-Paul’s finger. “Right here.”

“Maybe.” Jean-Paul shrugged. “More likely you’d be sitting in a jail somewhere for banging your fists on somebody’s face instead of a keyboard.”

“Have I ever let you down?”

Jean-Paul shuffled his feet. “Not yet.”

“Not ever.” Daniel loosed a short, sharp laugh and swept one arm to encompass the glaringly bright room. “Why would I want to risk giving all this up?”

Jean-Paul’s jaw moved in a slow contemplative circle. “Music is your life.”

“My soul,” Daniel said mockingly as he watched Christiane work her way around the room as if she’d done this a thousand times.

Jean-Paul panted with worry. “So what are you going to do about this girl?”

As Daniel considered his options, the party kept up its bright pace around him. “Have you ever had to make a choice between two impossibles?”

“Every day when I try to plan your schedule.”

“I meant important things.”

Jean-Paul frowned. “What’s more important than molding your career?”

“Life or breath.”

“They’re the same.”

“Exactly.”

“Now I know you’re going crazy.” Jean-Paul shook his head slowly, causing the light to dance on his balding pate. “Promise me you won’t blow your image of the dashing, tall, dark and handsome hero until after you’ve fulfilled your contract’s obligations.”

“Worried about your commission?”

Jean-Paul’s jaw dropped. “That’s not fair, and you know it. About the girl…”

If Christiane was in Quebec City, it could only mean one thing. Armand was going to try to use her just as he’d tried to use her mother.

“I’ll do the only thing I can,” Daniel said, resigned. He’d once found heaven and had to put her through hell. Now she was in danger. He had to protect her. And there was only one way she’d allow him that close.

“Which is?”

“Marry her.”

HER PRESENCE here seemed fated, Christi reflected. A month ago if anyone had told her she’d be in Quebec City discovering roots she’d never known she had, she would have told them they were nuts. Yet here she was, three thousand miles from home, accompanying her mother’s cousin to a party launching two weeks of winter carnival celebrations—and feeling more at home than she’d ever dreamed.

This vacation was exactly what she’d needed after dealing with the trauma of her parents’ accidental deaths a few months ago. In Armand’s home, her mother’s presence wrapped around her like childhood comfort, and it eased the pain of her loss.

For the past few days, Armand and his sister, Marguerite, had proved gracious hosts. Marguerite had spoiled Christi and her daughter Rosane, with home-cooked meals. Armand had entertained them with stories from his youth. As he talked about her mother with love and told her of his memories of their shared childhood, Christi had relaxed. Her belligerent stomach, on fire since her parents’ accident, seemed to have taken a recess, too. She hadn’t had to unpack the half-dozen rolls of Tums at the bottom of her suitcase or use the emergency one tucked in her purse. Even her dour daughter’s demeanor had softened. Rosane had actually smiled at some of Armand’s outrageous sleight-of-hand tricks.

“It was very kind of you to include me this evening,” Christi said to Armand after their hostess fluttered away.

“Nonsense, as one of the directors of the arts committee, it is my prerogative to invite whomever I desire.” His thick French accent was unmistakable despite his flawless English. His impeccable tux, neatly groomed black mustache and slicked-back charcoal hair reminded her of the perfect gentlemen in old black-and-white movies. His slow, gracious charm put her at ease here as it had since she’d arrived in Quebec City.

“Besides,” he continued, “I needed an escort, and with you on my arm, I am the envy of every man here.”

She laughed. “You’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

“One of my many charms.” His white teeth shone and his dark eyes glittered with good humor. “Can I get you anything, ma chère?”

“Some sparkling water, please.” She didn’t want to chance alcohol now that her stomach was finally behaving.

“I shall return momentarily.” Armand bowed and moved in the direction of the bar at the other end of the cavernous room.

When Armand had invited her to a party at a friend’s home, she’d expected a quaint little house, not a mansion. And this mansion fell just short of a palace as far as she was concerned. Antique furniture was arranged in cozy sets for easy conversation. Large portions of the marble floor lay bare for those who preferred to mingle or dance. Fresh greenery adorned with carnival masks and opalescent streamers decorated everything from priceless paintings to the curving cherrywood staircase ascending to the second floor. Multicolored lights and flickering candles in sconces gave the whole place a festive atmosphere.

As she mingled her way around the room, she caught snatches of conversation.

“He’s simply marvelous,” an older lady said, fanning her face with a hand.

“Can you believe his show next week sold out in less than one hour?” said another. “I waited in line all day for the ticket window to open for nothing!”

“Every time I hear him play, I fall in love.”

“Speaking of love, I heard he met someone. In France. Or was it England? There’s talk of wedding bells.”

“Pity.”

“Not for her. Not with the contract he just signed.”

Christi introduced herself to several people, passed a group of gray-haired, tuxedoed men and was about to join a group of women who seemed about her age when a commotion at the archway between this room and the next caught her attention.

Madame Bernier stood on a chair and clapped her hands. In her green and gold sequined dress, she looked like an overweight hummingbird. “Attention everyone,” she said in French. “Let’s all make our way to the ballroom. The music is about to start.”

Like salmon spawning, everyone hurried in the direction of the ballroom, murmuring excitedly as they went. Christi lagged behind.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Madame Bernier waited a few minutes for the chatter to die down and the last person to squeeze into the ballroom.

Christi found a spot at the back of the room, but couldn’t see the musician everyone seemed to have gone gaga over.

“As you all know this simple gala is to welcome home our favorite pianist,” Madame Bernier said. “He’s just finished a smashing European tour. Next week, as part of the Mardi Gras Masked Ball, he will perform a piece commissioned by the arts committee especially for the event. I’m told it’s called ‘A Rose at Midnight.’” The crowd oohed their approval. “He’s graciously offered to donate all the proceeds to the young artist grant program sponsored by the arts committee.” Madame Bernier raised her hands and clapped, encouraging the crowd to do likewise. The response was almost deafening.

When the roar died down, Madame Bernier spoke again. “Tonight, as a special favor to me, he’s agreed to treat us to a sample of his best-known pieces.” With one hand, she waved grandly at the piano. “Everyone help me welcome home Daniel Moreau!”

Daniel Moreau.

The name echoed and reechoed inside the chamber of her brain.

The crowd clapped. Each meeting of palm against palm cracked like shattering glass and each shard scored her heart.

Daniel? It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Her heart beat too fast as she tried to see past the sea of heads. Her hands grew cold and clammy as she instinctively threaded her way through the people packed into the room. She needed to see. She needed to touch. She needed to know. An eerie, familiar melody buzzed inside her brain, simultaneously taking her back and begging her to go forward.

As if in answer to the echo of her past, the music started.

Unique.

Unmistakable.

Daniel.

Goose bumps skated up and down her arms. The room swirled in dizzying eddies of colors. Spirals of hope and despair had her struggling for breath. And like a dam overcome with melting snow, a flood of memories gushed, nearly taking her feet from under her.

Daniel.

Her hand sought support and found an arm. “Mademoiselle?”

Shaking her head, she snapped her hand away and gulped in air to stem the raging tide of panic surging through her. Slowly, the room stopped spinning, her breath returned to normal and her numbed brain started to function.

She parted the sea of adoring females that crowded around the piano, hanging on to every chord he cajoled from the instrument.

His hands came into view. Hands that had the long fingers of an artist. The well-toned muscles between the knuckles bore witness to the hours of practice. Her skin heated at their remembered touch. She readjusted her position. To get a better view. Nothing else.

When she caught sight of his profile, her stomach rebelled, washing waves of acid against its sides. Hand fisted against the pain, she fought to clear the flash from the past superimposing a younger man over this musician’s features.

Her Daniel had been positively skinny, whereas this man had a supple leanness about him. Her Daniel had sported long, unkempt, sun-bleached hair, instead of this man’s rich brown neatly cut style. Her Daniel’s angular, intense face had pleased her. She searched the uncompromising lines of this man’s face and found it hard to believe they were the same person.

There was no softness left in him. Instead, there was a primal quality about the way he played—as if he were darkness condensed and controlled, his emotions caged and doled out precisely for a choreographed response, his motions smooth and graceful, yet ordered and precise. There was no doubt he mastered the instrument.

She shivered.

Yet something was missing. Something that had once stirred her so deeply she’d broken all of her self-imposed rules.

Her Daniel had played with unbridled passion, the wildness a joy to watch. This Daniel played with soul, but without heart.

When he lifted his gaze, he found hers as if he’d known all along she would be there. She saw no apology in his eyes, no awkwardness, only clear, deep amber. For an instant the color smoldered intimately to intoxicating brandy, then it hardened, giving him an aloof expression that struck her as sadness disguised.

When the music stopped, people crowded around him like theater curtains, obscuring him from her view. She didn’t fight the sweep. She let it separate her from him because she’d long ago put aside all her silly notions of a happy reunion. Instead, she’d spent her energy on forging a future for herself and her daughter. She was content with her choices. Daniel was her past.

It was time to leave. Time to get back to Rosane.

“CHRISTIANE!”

Fingers curled around her nearly bare shoulder, stopping her. Daniel had a strong grasp that managed to be as gentle as a caress, yet left her no room to dismiss him. His touch shivered all the way up to her scalp, all the way down to her toes. No wonder he could play so well if a simple touch could shake her so.

“Daniel.” Christi pasted a wide smile on her mouth as she turned to face him. Could a face crack from trying too hard to look relaxed? “How nice to see you again.”

What did you say to an ex-lover after nine years? Hi, and by the way, you left a little more of yourself than you thought when you took off. Yep, that’s right, you’re a daddy. I’d have told you much sooner, but you didn’t leave a forwarding address.

There was no good way to deliver this news. She toyed with the idea of keeping the secret to herself. Why should she upset three ordered lives?

Because she, of all people, understood he had the right to know. She would tell him. But not now, not tonight. Not with the shock of seeing him still ebbing from her body.

The quartet struck up again, playing a generic waltz that faded into the background along with the happy chatter and clink of glasses.

“Dance with me.” There was a touch of vulnerability beneath the cutting steel of his voice, and she was tempted to let him lead her to the floor, to see if the electric passion that had burned them both still flickered. But that was a dangerous game, and she had Rosane to think of now.

“I was just leaving.” Her gaze cut over his shoulder in search of Armand.

“So early? Dance with me, Christiane.”

His voice was deeper, more resonant than she remembered, his presence more domineering, and his penetrating gaze caused bubbles of acid to pop in her stomach. “Another time, maybe. I have…obligations. I really have to go.”

He grasped her elbow in one hand and turned her toward the cleared floor where a dozen couples waltzed. Talons would have been easier to dislodge.

“You don’t want to cause a scene,” he whispered in her ear. To anyone the gesture would have looked as if he were whispering sweet nothings.

His thumb caressed her elbow, gentling his insistence, short-circuiting the logical part of her brain. One dance, what could it hurt?

“Dance with me.” His harsh gaze softened for an instant, and she saw the awkward boy once more—the one who’d stumbled over his words when he’d asked if he could walk her home after her shift at the ice-cream parlor.

She wasn’t a teenager anymore; she could resist those eyes, that smile. Throat too dry to speak, she nodded and let him lead her onto the dance floor. One dance. She’d prove she was over him to them both.

The warmth of his hand on the small of her back penetrated the thin material of her dress and made her feel exposed. As he drew her closer, more potent heat radiated from him, making her trip over her own shadow. He’d once made a cold February night sizzle. As he steadied her, she closed her eyes, willing her body to forget the sensations her mind too easily remembered. Memories rippled up from their safe hiding place, and she braced against their assault.

“Relax,” Daniel whispered. The ruffle of his breath made her quiver. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

“You played well tonight.”

“Do you know my work?” Daniel skillfully skirted around another couple.

“No, other than Céline Dion, I don’t know of any French Canadian stars who’ve made the news in Fort Worth.” I had no idea if you were dead or alive. “I’m glad you realized your dream.” God, she’d attended too many business affairs if she could talk to him that casually without falling apart.

“And you? Have your dreams come true?”

“Some.” She shrugged, keeping her gaze averted from the liquid amber that had drawn too much out of her already. She didn’t want to tell him about Rosane until she’d found firm footing again.

“Which ones?” His gaze measured her as they danced, making her wonder at the thoughts behind the rigid panes of his eyes.

To make matters worse, someone’s stare pierced her spine. When she turned to look, it wasn’t the envious ogling of another woman that caught her attention, but Armand’s dark gaze. It lifted to meet Daniel’s, then a satisfied smile curved his lips.

Daniel’s arm tightened around her in a protective gesture. With an unexpected twirl, he guided her deeper into the fray of dancers.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Armand Langelier. I know him.” His mouth thinned into a grimace as if the name tasted bitter.

“How do you know Armand?” Speaking with Daniel had always been an art, a matter of asking the questions, then reading the body as well as listening to the nuances between the words. Discussing his emotions had appeared an impossible task. This trait hadn’t improved with age.

Without warning, Daniel stood still though the music hadn’t stopped. Dancing couples brushed against them. An unfathomable darkness crossed his face. His jaw tightened. He stared at Armand through the crowd. For an instant his expression was filled with a mixture of regret and pain so deep it weighed on her heart.

“He used to be a well-respected lawyer. It’s said he helped form many happy families.” Bitterness underlined his words. Abruptly, Daniel’s arms fell away from her body and his hand gripped hers. “Come, let me take you home.”

With long-legged strides, he started for the door. Her hand firmly trapped in his, she had no choice but to follow. What was Daniel’s connection to Armand? A total stranger didn’t warrant such a strong reaction.

“Slow down.” Christi tried to slip her hand from his. “I came with someone else.”

“We have to talk.”

“You had your chance while we were dancing.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Christiane. Your life is at stake.”

“My life?” She scoffed at his exaggeration. “Aren’t you being overdramatic?”

“We need to talk.”

She skidded to a halt, forcing Daniel to do the same. Her free hand tightened into a fist, her stomach clenched into a squirming knot and the rising heat of anger had sweat breaking out along her hairline. A glass from a passing waiter’s tray swayed, then fell, taking its neighbors with it like bowling pins. Champagne splashed down the side of her dress.

She stood tree still, staring first at the broken pieces of glass at her feet, then at the dark stain running down the side of her dress. As a glimmer of something forgotten sparked, then faded, the blood drained from her limbs, leaving her skin ice-cold and prickling.

With effluent apologies, the waiter dabbed at her dress with a linen napkin, picked up the broken pieces scattered around her satin pumps and retreated.

Christi looked at Daniel and surprised herself with her calmness. “I can’t leave without telling my escort and thanking our hostess.”

“I’ll get our coats while you make our goodbyes.”

“You’re the guest of honor. You have to stay.”

A sardonic twist crooked his smile. “Musicians are eccentric, don’t you know? Madame Bernier is a good friend. She’ll understand. I will thank her profusely tomorrow.”

His eyes held a warning, one that spoke of danger in refusal, surging question after question, the chief one being—what was going on?

Chapter Two

“Marry you?”

The hard drum of Christi’s heart slapped against her ears, making her wonder for a moment if she’d hallucinated the words she’d heard. An hour ago she hadn’t known Daniel was alive, and now, here in her mother’s childhood home, he was asking her to spend the rest of her life with him? “Just like that?”

Only the fluorescent fixture over the sink lit the room. Its stark light stretched the shadows of the pine table and chairs to horror film proportions. The black window skewed its reflection of the kitchen out of shape. Only hours ago, she’d found comfort here, and Daniel was taking it all away.

He slung his midnight-colored coat, tuxedo jacket and bow tie onto the back of the nearest kitchen chair. “Yes. Just like that.”

Feeling every one of Quebec City’s twenty degrees below zero as if the room had no insulation, no walls, Christi buried her hands deep into her coat pockets to keep them warm.

Part of her had waited so long to hear those words. Yet a sense of disappointment, of confusion, rather than joy filled her. She’d wanted to hear the words, but not in this dispassionate way. That wasn’t the Daniel she knew and loved.

Had loved. She swallowed hard. Still loved. The truth hit hard. Her fist automatically sought the hard lump in her stomach, trying to soothe it with massaging pressure. As much as she’d like to hate him, as much as she’d like to pretend the love had melted along with the anger, she couldn’t. In spite of all that had happened, in spite of the fact they were hardly more than strangers, she still cared for him in a way that defied all logic.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” Daniel asked with the ease of someone who was at home. Ease he shouldn’t have felt in the house that belonged to her mother’s cousin.

“No.” She breathed the word out on a long exhale and took her time to fill her lungs once more. “I don’t want tea. I don’t want coffee. What I do want is answers.”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

“Like goodbye?”

A muscle flinched in his jaw, but otherwise, he gave no indication her deliberate barb had found its mark.

He opened a set of cupboard doors and rummaged through the contents on the shelves. “And if you don’t like the answers, Christiane, what will you do?”

“I’ll survive. I’ve done it often enough.” Raised as an air force brat, she’d left enough friends behind to learn how to cope with constant changes.

He banged the cupboard doors closed and moved to the next set. “The answer is that you’ve walked into a long-standing battle between me and Armand. If you stay here, you’ll only get hurt.”

“I’ve already been hurt.” And the way he’d left cut the deepest wound. If she’d survived that, she could survive anything.

Holding on to the glass handles, Daniel pressed his forehead against the crack between the crisp white cupboard doors. The signs were all there. She recognized the thin edge of control he held on his temper, the explosive emotions caged somewhere beneath the surface, and imagined the jumble of words hurtling chaotically in his head never to be spoken.

“If you hate Armand so much, how come you have a key to his house?”

“My father was his business partner. He was once a friend of the family. He was my godfather.”

She nodded once, sensing the ties made the battle between them that much more potent, but not quite understanding them, or why she was caught in the middle.

“Why?” She was aware of him on a physical level. Aware of the space he occupied, of the tension in his shoulders, of the uncomprehending way she wanted to go to him and hold him. She tried to look past all the layers of armor he’d suited himself with, reaching out for the missing something behind the words. The past and present mingled until she wasn’t quite sure where she was. So she focused on the curiously vulnerable bend of his neck. “Why do you want to marry me?”

Slowly, he turned to face her. He leaned the heels of his hands on the gray-flecked counter. His gaze met hers with control ruling. “Since you refuse to leave, it’s the only way I can think to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.” I need you.

“I can give you now what I couldn’t offer you then.”

“That’s it?” She shook her head. A cold sadness squeezed her heart. She’d wanted something from him, but not that.

“What more do you want?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the cupboard, and with quick movements, returned to his hunt.

“What about love?” Her voice sounded thin and stretched with desperation. As if her index finger belonged to someone else, she watched it trace a smooth knot on the table’s pine board.

“What of it?”

“You’re offering marriage.” She twitched her finger off the table when she realized the knot on the pine board was shaped like a lopsided heart. “Does it include love?”

“Love is a useless emotion.” He found a jar of instant coffee and banged it on the counter. He whisked a mug from a display shelf on the side of the sink window and set it beside the coffee jar with a thump. “We’re adults now, not children. We’re old enough to know that feelings have no place in this world.”

“What’s the point of marriage, then?”

“You said you wanted roots.”

Her heart hitched inside her chest. He’d remembered that from their six-month courtship? Her gaze sought him and she willed him to turn around.

He twisted the sink’s spigot too harshly and water splashed onto his white tuxedo shirt. Without acknowledging the wetness, he stuffed the kettle under the water’s stream and filled it. “I can protect you. I can give you security. I can give you the world.”

“But not your love.” She no longer seemed to feel anything—not the room’s cold air, not the fire in her stomach, not the feelings that should be ripping through her like a tornado.

“There are more solid things between a man and a woman than useless feelings.”

“Like what?” Could he have forgotten the passion they’d once shared?

He jammed the kettle onto a burner and wrenched the knob. The click-click-click of spark kindling gas sounded like cockroaches scurrying for cover. “Like the things you say you want, Christiane. Family, roots, security.”

Her voice could not climb up her throat. A tiny sound echoed inside her like a wounded cry. She checked her cheeks with a quick flick of her hand to make sure no moisture stained them, betraying the ease with which he could tear open old wounds.

“Trust me.” He said the words so softly, she had to strain to catch them. Their gazes met and held. His weighty sadness mixed with hers and wove a bond of regret for all that might have been, all that could never be.

“The last time I trusted you,” she blurted out, “I ended up alone and pregnant.”

She hadn’t meant to tell him. Not now. Not like this. As she waited for his reaction, no air could crawl through the constricted passages of her lungs. Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of her stomach, trying to stem the flickers of fire burning through her gut. Nothing moved across his face. No shadow, no emotion, no surprise. He was taking the news of his fatherhood as if she’d casually mentioned the weather—calmly, much too calmly. Could he really feel so little?

“Then think of our child.” If he’d said anything else. If he hadn’t said the words so blankly. If he hadn’t looked at her with such remote coldness, she could have kept her cool. But his utter lack of emotion detonated a small explosion deep inside her, one that concentrated all he should have felt with all she couldn’t contain and spewed it out in a high, thin voice. “Our child? Our child!” She thumped her fist against her chest. “My child, Daniel. My daughter.”

“Mine also. An obligation it’s past time I take on.”

Anger snaked into rampant fear as his unspoken threat unleashed a forewarning so terrifying she was at a loss for words.

“It’s my right to know my daughter.” He snagged a spoon from a jelly jar on the table, catching the lip of the glass.

Her hands gnarled into fists. Her muscles shook with such intensity she had to clamp her arms at her sides to keep herself from leaping out of her chair. She barely registered when the spoon jar rattled against the table, when it toppled over, scattering spoons onto the tabletop, spilling them onto the floor, when the falling spoons clacked like skeleton teeth against the linoleum tiles. “You. Can’t. Have. Her.” She’s all I have.

Carefully, he dropped a heaping spoonful of instant coffee into a mug and laid the spoon on the counter. Precisely, he screwed the plastic cap back onto the glass jar. Rigidly, he replaced the jar into the cupboard, giving a half twist so the red and gold label would face out like the rest of the bottles and jars on the shelf. “If you want to stay here, you’ll have to do it on my terms.”

“You have no hold on me.” Barely aware she was moving, she rose. “I won’t let you play with me, hurt me again.” With slow, purposeful steps, she moved toward him. “I won’t let you use my daughter to control me.”

He started forward with cool, measured strides, meeting her halfway. They stood facing each other squarely, a foot of space between them—two hungry dogs, one precious bone. “You’re not giving me any choice. I need—”

“You need what, Daniel? Tell me.”

He crowded in on her, invading her personal space with the intensity of his will, his heat, his body. She backed away reflexively. Playing with fire was dangerous. He followed, matching her step for step. She was going to get burned. He backed her against the solid surface of the refrigerator. And there was no way out.

“There’s too much between us.” His voice, low and husky, rumbled through her. “Bonds. Obligations. History.” He planted the back of one hand next to her head on the refrigerator’s enamel and fanned the tips of his fingers through the ends of her hair. “By insisting on staying, you’re bringing the past into the present. You’re asking for loose ends to be tied.”

Loose ends. The edge of madness dissipated. Loose ends. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was. Her history was a loose end. Daniel was a loose end. She herself was a loose end. And he was right. Loose ends needed trimming.

He reached for her then, his free hand molding to the back of her neck, fingertips burrowing between strands of her hair to cradle the sensitive scalp beneath. She trembled at his touch, felt the echo of it shimmer through him. He pressed his lips against hers, savoring, caressing, demanding a response. He tasted hot and exciting, and she couldn’t help the throaty sound of desire as she opened up to him. His hand skimmed her shoulder, followed the curve of her back to her waist and pressed her closer to him, letting her feel him come alive against her. Her skin warmed. Her blood heated. Her pulse flared. Against her will, she softened against him, melting with a sigh into his embrace, responding to his unexpected male hunger with a feminine fierceness that surprised her.

He knew her. Knew how to play her with even more ease than his keyboard. Knew she could not resist him anymore than she could resist his music. And he would take away the only point of stability in her life. All to get what he wanted.

“Please…stop.” Struggling, she pushed away from the blaze of his kiss with a trembling hand.

He allowed her a small retreat, but held her hips prisoner in his palms. “You wanted me then. You want me still. It’s a solid enough base for a marriage.”

“I let you into my bed because I loved you, not to satisfy hormones. Sex isn’t solid. It’s a moment.”

“A moment you’ve lived with for nine years.” His thumb glided gently over her still-moist bottom lip. Her skin pulsated in the trail of his touch. The shadow of memories played on his face, softening the harsh lines around his mouth, deepening the amber of his eyes to that mellow brandy that made her forget logic. “Can you honestly say that you don’t want me?”

Still and always. “You hurt me once. I won’t let you hurt me again.”

But physical love wasn’t enough. She wanted more—she wanted permanence. She needed an emotional connection, too—soil that would allow roots to grow deep and strong. And he wasn’t prepared to give her that. She needed to release the lingering something between them. Only then would she be free to go on with the rest of her life without the tug of nostalgia.

The kettle’s water, spilling over the red-hot burner, hissed, diverting his attention. As he released her, a mixture of regret and relief scrambled through her, drawing a long exhale of breath. No other man could run up her temperature so high and so fast. He’d once made her feel safe and loved. He’d once made her believe in forever. And it had all turned out to be illusion. Hands pressed against the refrigerator’s humming surface, she became aware of the returning acid storm in her stomach.

Daniel made a near ritual of filling his mug with water and stirring his coffee more vigorously than necessary before he turned to face her. “There’s something between us that even nine years hasn’t erased. Armand’s counting on that. He’ll use it, Christiane, and destroy us both.”

“I don’t understand.” She rubbed at the chill permeating the thick layer of her coat.

“And I don’t know how to explain it.”

She leaned forward, drawing her arms tight under her chest, pleading. Talk to me. “Try.”

“Armand wants something from you.”

“What? What could an old man possibly want from me?”

Daniel took a hasty sip from his mug, then grimaced as the hot liquid burned his tongue. “I’m not sure.” He slammed the mug down. Coffee spilled over the side, steamed in a ghostlike breath, then pooled on the counter. “But by sticking together we have a better chance of defeating him than by standing alone being played one against the other. Whatever else you do, you have to trust me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Except you. You’ll hurt me, Daniel.

A piece in a game. That’s what he’d called her earlier. The stakes for her—her identity, her heart, her daughter. Whether she stayed or left, she risked everything. For him? A question mark, and no enlightenment on the horizon.

Would he really use Rosane against her? Was it fair to keep Rosane away from her father and keep her from knowing her roots? It was, after all, what Christi sought for herself. Maybe if she allowed Daniel to see Rosane, he would understand it was better if he didn’t upset their ordered lives.

She huffed a ragged sigh. A headache echoed the pain searing her stomach. “You’ve the right to know your daughter, and she, you. But promise me something, Daniel—”

“Anything.”

“Promise you won’t try to take her away from me under any circumstance.”

“I’ll do anything to keep you both safe.”

“Promise me,” she insisted. “I need to hear the words.”

From across the kitchen, the harsh light above the sink cut his face with grim shadows and rigid lines. But the amber of his eyes was clear and vibrant. “I promise.”

The solid timbre of his voice, the unbending look in his eyes, the shred of soul reaching out to her told her he would do everything he could to keep his word. Part of the storm inside her ebbed. “Thank you.”

She pushed herself off the refrigerator’s surface and stuffed her hands deep into her coat pockets. “I need time…to tell Rosane about you.” Christi lifted her shoulders and shook her head.

His cup halted midway to his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Christi lowered her gaze to the black and white checkerboard of tiles on the floor, then raised it again. “She thinks her father’s dead.” An almost imperceptible flinch flashed through his eyes. “I’m sorry. But in a way, you were dead to both of us. Please. Give me time to prepare her.”

He nodded curtly. “I’ll give you a week.”

“It may not be enough.”

“One week, Christiane.” He stamped his cup against the counter with impatience. “Then you’ll have to marry me and let me take my rightful place in her life. Or you’ll have to leave.”

Leaving would be easier. A short-term remedy for a long-time ill. But marrying him wasn’t a decision she was ready to make in such a short time. And with her parents recently dead, she’d lost too much to turn back with no answers. If a friend had come to her with this dilemma, she’d have counseled her to stay, to see things through. She had a week—a lot could happen in a week. “I’ll tell Rosane about you. But I can’t marry you. Not when you refuse to tell me what’s going on between you and Armand and why you think my life is in danger.”

Daniel grabbed a rag from a hook inside the cupboard door beneath the sink, then wiped the coffee spill. He plopped the wet rag into the sink. “If Armand invited you here, he has a reason. And it’s not your well-being.”

“What other reason could there be?”

Taking a sip from his mug, he leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles. “Did you know I was the guest of honor at the gala tonight?”

“No, I—”

“Armand conveniently forgot to mention the fact because it suited him to make a point.”

“But—”

“There’s no but, Christiane. Armand is the devil himself. He invited you here to continue what he started nine years ago.” He held up a hand to halt the question about to spill out of her mouth. “He found you nine years ago through me. He wanted something then. I don’t know what, only that it scared your mother and made me abandon my music scholarship. I wanted to protect you then, Christiane, and I want to protect you now. He invited me here to let me know I had no control over the outcome. I won’t let him win.” Frustration strained his face. “Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t.” Points to be made? Devils in disguise? Covert plans and schemes? Daniel was wrong. Armand had nothing to gain from her. Daniel was turning this once warm kitchen into a deep freeze of suspicion where half truths fogged the air. “What has Armand done to you to make you hate him so?”

“He treated me like a son. Then he betrayed my—me.”

“How? What happened?”

For a long time, Daniel simply stared at her. She wanted to go to him, shake him, punch him, do something, anything to let the words locked in his skull spill out. But she did nothing, except stare back, and wait for the words she knew wouldn’t come.

“What’s important now is keeping you safe,” he said.

Enough was enough. He wanted to play with smoke and mirrors, and she wanted straight answers. They weren’t going to get anywhere at this rate. If he couldn’t explain, then she couldn’t accept the notion of Armand as a threat. She wasn’t going to let Daniel put down the only solace she’d felt in a long time.

“Armand and Marguerite have been nothing but kind and generous. They’ve given me something I’ve been looking for since I was a little girl. A sense of where I come from, where I belong.”

Even on the other side of the room, Daniel crowded her. “You belong with me.”

She placed both her hands on the table separating them and challenged him. “Then why did you leave?”

“I told you. To keep you safe. I had no choice.”

As she straightened her stance, she let out a short, sharp laugh. “No choice, no heart, no love. Where does that leave me, Daniel? I’ll tell you where. It leaves me hanging and I don’t like that. I’ve had too much of that in my life. It has to end.”

The turbulent mix of emotions churning through her was too much. She needed time to think, time to sort through all the questions, time to let her rioting feelings settle. “Well, it’s been an interesting evening, but I’m tired.” She ran a hand through her hair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on my daughter and go to bed.” She walked stiffly to the kitchen door and turned. She gripped the door frame with a force that sapped the blood from her fingertips, leaving them white. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

“It’s not going to end this simply.”

“It can.”

“Armand’s already played his next move.” Daniel swallowed another sip of coffee. “I’ve been invited.”

“Invited?”

“Here. As a guest.”

“Then bid your fond regrets. If he’s playing a game, who says you have to follow his rules?”

“There’s too much at stake. I need to keep you safe. We have a daughter. Obligations.”

With one hand she grandly made the sign of the cross. “I absolve you from them all.”

“Not this time.” Both his hands tightened around the mug. “Marry me, Christiane.” His voice bore a strangely insistent urgency.

Her smile was forced. She was a fool. He would never love her. And she couldn’t help loving the boy who’d painted her dull world with rich music and vibrant passion, the boy who’d made her believe she could belong. Expectations would only lead to heartache. But to sever the ties, she had to find out how deeply they ran. In her. In him. So she reached out.

“Do you remember when I told you about the moon?” She’d let herself become vulnerable. She’d told him about her anchor in an ever-changing world. And he’d told her she didn’t have to look that far. In his eyes, in his kiss, in his lovemaking, she’d heard his unspoken promise. He’d become her anchor, her moon.

“Yes.”

“Make me believe, Daniel. Make me believe.”

AFTER CHRISTIANE left the room, Daniel dumped the bitter coffee down the sink. He hated instant. He hated having to push Christiane. But mostly, he hated how hard he’d become. He looked down at the black star sapphire ring he wore on his right hand. Just like his father.

Though the ring was a reminder his soul was tainted, he had a measure of hope for Christiane. As he’d kissed her, he’d sensed the remnants of a bond forged long ago between them, sensed it reignite. If he could fan it into life, strengthen it, then maybe he could save her from whatever twisted scheme poisoned Armand’s mind. He’d done it once when he’d given up his scholarship to buy her freedom; he could do it again.

Distractedly, he rinsed the cup and placed it in the sink. He’d spent the past nine years trying to make amends for his choices. Everyone he’d tried to protect had ended up hurt anyway— Christiane, his mother, his sister…his daughter.

With a careless swoop, he grabbed his coat, jacket and tie from the back of the chair. Five years ago his music had finally paid off and allowed him to buy his mother the art gallery she’d always wanted and help his sister set up her family practice. Which left the debt he owed Christiane and their child.

Turning off the kitchen light, he stepped into the darkened hall. The memories of his feelings for Christiane had tortured him for years. He had no desire to reexperience that agony. Not when he’d finally come to terms with his life.

He would make a good husband, take care of Christiane and their daughter, provide a safe home for them. She’d have her roots. He’d have his career. They’d both have their daughter. They could carry off this marriage with polite civility. The physical bond was enough. He’d see to that. Why complicate the whole thing with useless feelings that only got in the way?

Look what had happened the last time he’d let anything touch his heart. He’d lost everything he’d cared for. He’d found out Armand had used him to get to Christiane, that Armand had tried to kill Christiane’s mother years earlier and caused her to flee in fear, that the only way to protect Christiane from suffering her mother’s fate was to leave her behind and give up his coveted Van Cliburn scholarship.

Except that it was too easy to let down his guard around Christiane, to let her passion fuel his, to forget he’d made a bargain with the devil and that the prize was her life.

As he wound his way through the familiar corridors, he shook off the sense of dread creeping into his bones. The last time he’d walked through this house, he’d sentenced himself to hell. What would his presence here cost him this time?

At the foot of the stairs, he heard the whisper of Christiane’s voice wishing their daughter sweet dreams, the smack of lips against fingers as she blew her a kiss. With an unexpected fierceness, the memory of Christiane’s kiss ratcheted through him. One kiss had cartwheeled him back to sharing sundaes, moonlit car rides and a pile of blankets under a star-studded sky. One kiss had him wishing for a house in the woods filled with music and laughter and family.

He snapped on the light just inside the sitting room’s French door and pushed the door with enough force to close it just shy of a slam. He’d had no more time to prepare this time than the last. But now, his power and influence were equal to Armand’s. He would not cave.

He dropped his coat, jacket and tie onto the plum-upholstered, spindly-legged chair by the door. Having Christiane here was more complicated than he’d expected. He could have dealt with hate. Indifference—even better.

But she’d asked him for the moon.

He choked out a rough bark. The one thing she wanted from him was the only thing he couldn’t give her. For both their sakes. His control over the darkness was precarious at best. If he let her into his heart, they were both doomed.

He poured himself generous fingers of scotch from Armand’s finest stock, then slumped into the chair next to the gaping maw of the hearth. Leaning his head back, he propped his feet on the kidney-shaped coffee table.

“To you, old man.” He raised his glass to the glacial chill of the empty room. “And to your defeat.”

But there was no satisfaction in the promise, only the sure knowledge of inevitable death. The liquor he swallowed didn’t warm him. Nothing would. Not until he discovered Armand’s plans and knew how to keep Christiane safe.

An insistent cacophony jangled in the back of his mind, proving that chaos was only a step away. He closed his eyes and let the notes flow through his brain. They arranged and rearranged themselves into a familiar pattern. He sighed as he recognized the melody. Music had dragged him from the black edge of hell twice. Could it manage the feat a third time?

Unable to resist, he went to the piano and let his fingers dance over the keys.

“Maybe tonight…”

For years the melancholic notes had tormented him. Taunting him when he was tired and his defenses were down. Letting the piece run its course was the only way to get rid of it. Tonight he added a few notes, but still the end wouldn’t come.

Like this melody that wouldn’t finish itself, Christiane was unfinished business.

He’d tried letting her go. Now he would try hanging on to her.

Tumbling the piano bench backwards, he stood. With a stiff motion, he reached for his glass and drained the rest of the scotch, taking pleasure in the liquor’s caustic burn down his throat. Again he raised this glass to the cold room. “One more time—without feeling.”

Chapter Three

Christi needed a few moments to orient herself when she woke up the next morning. As the room focused around her, she remembered where she was and sighed. Daniel’s apparition last night had ruined her joy at finding her mother’s family.

Strong light filtered through the open moiré draperies, but the house was deathly silent and a slow dread snaked its way from her stomach to her throat. The last thing she wanted to do today was face Daniel again or confess a truth she’d hidden for much too long to her daughter. Both would cost her what little balance she had left in her life.

She reached for her watch on the night table. “Eight-fifteen! Ugh.”

She let herself flop back onto the bed. After last night, she could use a couple more hours of sleep. Given her scrambled state of mind, she was surprised she’d slept at all.

Her gaze wandered over the room. But it wasn’t the carved walnut furniture, the Aubusson rug or the cream lace coverlet that caught her eye. It was her grandmother’s portrait near the rocking chair in the corner. Catherine Langelier. Armand had told Christi that the silver brush set on the dresser was Catherine’s. And if she closed her eyes, Christi swore she could smell the trace of her grandmother’s rose-scented perfume lingering on the lace runner on the vanity.

She let her imagination roam until a weathered woman formed out of the mists of her musings. She sat at the vanity, wearing an old-fashioned white satin robe that was rich, yet demure. A delicate gold chain draped the creases of her neck, the pendant hidden beneath the neckline of her gown. A blue jar of cold cream stood next to a gold-cased lipstick and a fancy bottle of perfume. Light refracted into a rainbow as it passed through the bottle’s long, prism-shaped top. The woman sat stroking her long white hair with the silver brush. And in a trick of reverie, it seemed to Christi as if the woman looked straight at her through the mirror and smiled.

Christi shook her head. The image faded away. “I must be more tired than I thought. Damn you Daniel for showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time and screwing up my life again.” But the last part wasn’t fair. If she didn’t have feelings for him, she could have gone on as if nothing had happened between them.

Masks. She’d kept too many of them in her makeup bag over the years. It was time to strip them off and find out who she really was and what she was really made of. That would mean taking risks. Would Rosane hate her when she found out the truth about her father? Was there any chance they could all breach those nine years and become a real family? Was marriage to Daniel, even on his terms, such a bad thing?

Her job as the public relations manager of a small cable television station in Fort Worth had trained her to make decisions on the spot and stick by them. But there she wore her public mask; she could keep an objective distance. Now her decision would alter her life permanently. And the last thing she wanted was to lose more than she already had.

As soon as Christi flipped back the blankets, the room’s frigid air assaulted her. She’d seen signs of central heat, but for some reason, the warm air didn’t seem to reach this part of the stone house. She rubbed her arms and reached into the suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed for a sweater.

Rosane should be up by now.

Christi peeked through the door across the hall.

“Rosie?”

There was no answer. The bed was neatly made. There were no signs of her daughter anywhere.

“No!” The “what ifs” galloped through her mind like a car without brakes. What if Daniel was still here? What if he’d taken Rosane? What if he’d told her who he was before Christi had a chance to prepare her?

“Calm down. She’s perfectly all right. Daniel promised you a week.” But the image of Daniel’s determined face came flashing back into her mind. His demand wasn’t a whim, but a wish he fully intended to fulfill.

Feet bare and with only her blue flannel nightgown and red sweater on, she rushed down the stairs. “Rosane! Rosie, where are you?”

Christi jerked to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. A childish giggle warbled from the kitchen. Like a hound on a scent, she followed the sound. And when she reached the kitchen, she didn’t know what to make of what she saw.

Rosane, already dressed in a purple sweatshirt and jeans, heaped spoonfuls of Cap’n Crunch into her mouth and giggled. Her daughter who rarely smiled was giggling with glee. One of Christi’s hands instinctively reached for her stomach; the other covered her mouth.

The gray eyes behind those long lashes were like her own. The rich golden brown hair spilling over her shoulders was like her mother’s. The long artistic fingers curled around the spoon were Daniel’s legacy. Christi saw the past in her daughter. A past that wound down for generations. Generations she knew nothing about. Daniel was wrong, staying here was right.

Armand entertained Rosane by making a dollar coin appear and disappear from midair. Marguerite, roly-poly like the plastic people Rosane used to play with as a toddler, puttered at the counter. From all indications, the woman seemed to live in the kitchen. Christi hadn’t seen her anywhere else. Daniel, she noted with relief, was nowhere in sight.

The kitchen’s warmth contrasted keenly with the coldness of the rest of the house. The table of whitewashed pine and the six matching chairs with their red gingham cushions provided a homey atmosphere out of character with the stiff, formal furnishings in the rest of the house. In daylight, she could almost convince herself her conversation with Daniel was just a bad dream.

Rosane tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and squinted at Armand. “Hey! How come you’re squeaking?”

Armand lifted his arms and opened his eyes wide in innocence. The spreading warmth of his smile softened the harsh angles of his thin face. The pleasure, when Rosane squealed with delight as he pulled a kitten from his jacket, was genuine. Daniel was wrong. Armand had no evil motives. Rosane forgot about the forbidden sugared cereal and lavished love on the squirming gray kitten.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Rosane asked, leaning back from a cheek cleaning by the kitten’s sandpaper tongue.

Armand lifted the kitten’s tail. “I believe it is a girl.”

“Can I keep her?”

“She is especially for you.”

Rosane let out a jubilant shriek and hugged the kitten to her chest.

“What are you going to name her?” Armand lifted his coffee cup and his sister filled it for him.

Rosane’s face scrunched in concentration. “Something French. How do you say smoke?”

“Fumée.”

“Few-may.” As the kitten’s rough tongue scraped her nose, Rosane giggled again. “It’s a good name. She looks like a puff of smoke, don’t you think? Fumée. I like that.”

A pang of envy knocked around Christi’s chest at the ease with which Armand had made Rosane feel at home and at his ability to wrest smiles out of her. Not the devil, she thought, a magician.

“Armand, pas à la table,” Marguerite chided. Her round glasses magnified her black eyes, making them the most prominent feature on her moon face. “The child has to eat.”

“Let her have some fun.”

“She is not yours to spoil,” she said in French.

“It is no worse than all the junk you are stuffing her with.”

Marguerite waved his retort away with a dimpled hand. “Non, it’s not the same.”

Armand leaned back in his chair and gazed at Rosane with adoration. “She’s perfect, n’est ce pas?”

“Diable, Armand! She is just a child,” Marguerite insisted, jamming a strand of gray hair back into its tight bun.

“She looks like Caro, don’t you think? Only she is much stronger. You can tell by the way she carries herself and the depth in those eyes.”

Marguerite harrumphed and slammed shut the refrigerator door. She filled a saucer with milk and set it next to Rosane’s cereal bowl. She wiped her hands on the pristine white apron cinched over her plain, out-of-date black dress. In broken English, she said, “Maybe Fumée have hunger.”

Rosane set the kitten down. It lapped contentedly at the milk. “She does. Look at her go!”

“Do you like the flavor of maple?” A conspiratorial smile animated Marguerite’s starched face.

It was as if they were trying to outdo each other to gain Rosane’s affection. A smile sneaked up on Christi. Family wanting to fit together, wanting to be liked. There’s no evil in that.

“I love it!” Rosane stroked the kitten as if it were made of glass. “Mom always buys the real thing even though it’s more expensive. It’s much better than that fake syrup stuff.”

“Try this.” Marguerite placed two pieces of toast before Rosane. They oozed with a spread the pale sand of maple sugar. “I think you not have Map-O-Spread at Texas.”

Rosane took a healthy bite and nodded her approval. “This is good. Mom never lets me have sugar stuff for breakfast. Except for pancakes on Sunday sometimes.”

Christi pressed her fingers tighter against her lip to silence her laughter. She’d gone from junk food queen to Mother Earth while she carried Rosane. The transformation had done wonders for her until her parents’ death. Then all the old feelings of rootless-ness returned with a punch, and with them, her stomach troubles. Had Rosane felt deprived? Guilt spiked an unwelcome wave of acid in her gut. Sometimes the creature she’d borne seemed so foreign to her.

Christi shook her head, pasted on her famous all’s-right smile and marched into the kitchen.

“Well, you’re cheerful this morning.” Christi kissed the top of Rosane’s head and ran her fingers through the soft strands of her daughter’s hair.

“Look, Mom! Look what Armand gave me!” Rosane lifted the kitten up for inspection. “Can I keep her? Can I?”

How could she refuse Rosane anything when she looked so happy? “She can be yours while we’re here.”

“Oh, goodie!” Rosane rubbed her nose against the kitten’s. “Did you hear that, Fumée? I get to keep you.” She squeezed the kitten to her chest before turning the creature over on her lap to scratch the soft belly. The kitten nipped at the wiggly fingers, and Rosane giggled at their game.

Christi glanced at Marguerite, then at Armand. The kitchen’s temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. Was it her imagination or had the starched lines and stony expression reappeared on Marguerite’s face?

“You slept well last night?” Smiling at her, Armand pushed away his cup of coffee. His slow gracious charm put her at ease as it had since she’d arrived two days ago.

“Yes, thank you.”

“What can I make you for breakfast?” Marguerite asked in her halting English. Her gaze inspected Christi’s attire and her frown disapproved.

“That’s all right, you don’t have to serve me. I’ll help myself.”

“I do not permit anyone to disturb my kitchen.”

Then the coffee mess Daniel left last night must have tickled her pink this morning. “In that case, I’ll have some tea.” The odor of fresh-brewed coffee permeated the kitchen. Christi longed for a cup, but didn’t think her stomach could handle it this morning.

“Orange Pekoe or menthe?”

“Mint is fine.”

After she put the kettle on, Marguerite turned back to Christi. “What you like to eat?”

“Just toast, please.” Christi didn’t think she could manage anything else and the answer of “nothing” seemed unacceptable, judging from the disapproving scowl Marguerite leveled at her.

“That is all?”

Christi nodded. Acid lapped in her stomach. With a hand, she massaged her stormy stomach. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me at the party last night.” She attempted a smile. “Thank you for keeping an eye on Rosane. I appreciate your kindness.”

Marguerite harrumphed and returned to the stove.

Rosane slunk out of her chair to play on the floor with the kitten. She teased Fumée with a lock of her hair and the kitten batted at it with its paws.

Armand pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lit it with a monogrammed gold lighter and puffed deeply. A moment later, a rheumy cough rattled in his chest. The stink of the smoke did nothing to improve Christi’s appetite.

“I have a present for you, too.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary—”

Armand reached behind him to the sideboard and picked up a thick album sheathed in burgundy leather. “I have found the photo album I told you about yesterday.”

“You did!” Christi had never seen a picture of her mother as a child. And her mother had categorically refused to speak of her past. All of Christi’s questions had remained unanswered, brushed aside like pesky fruit flies. As she scooted her chair closer to the table, anticipation warmed her.

A gold L was embossed on the cover. As he turned to the first page, the leather creaked. She wrinkled her nose at the scent of dust and history that rose into the air like fairy powder. He glided the album across the table until it rested between them. She wrapped her feet around the chair’s legs and leaned in for a closer look.

“This is your grandmother, Catherine, and her husband, Henri.” Armand seemed as eager to share the album’s contents as she was to view them. “Henri died young—only a few years after your mother was born. Marguerite and I came to live with Catherine and Caroline soon after when our own parents were killed in a train accident.”

“How awful!”

Although she could not mistake Catherine for Caroline, Christi noticed the strong resemblance between her grandmother and her mother, between her mother and herself. A quick glance at Rosane showed her the resemblance was passed on. Alike, yet so different.

Even the flicker of the imagined woman sitting at the vanity bore a certain likeness to the women in the album’s pages. Had her tired mind invented a distant relative? With a shake of her head, Christi scattered the question and concentrated on Armand’s stories.

“This one,” he said, laughing easily as he pointed to a picture of her mother in a gauzy summer dress and a floppy hat, both soaked and dripping, “was taken after Caro insisted she could row the boat all by herself. She was very bossy even as a ten-year-old. The canoe tipped over as she got in and she fell into the lake.”

Some things didn’t change. Her mother had disguised an iron will with a soft voice. “And you were waiting with a camera?”

“Of course. I showed this photo to all her potential boyfriends. Until she took one of me in a rather ungraceful position after I had fallen while sledding.”

As Armand told her stories of his youth, Marguerite placed a plate of scrambled eggs and ham next to her brother. He ignored it.

A vignette fell before Christi of places and people that were part of her, yet alien—a picnic with Catherine holding a young Caroline on her lap, Armand and Marguerite stood behind them, hamming it up for the camera. Birthday parties. Graduations. Vacations. Family together, sharing, feasting, laughing.

She drank in every detail. Each new glimpse into her mother’s world clicked a missing piece in the puzzle of her past into place. And with each space filled came a growing sense of a form wanting to finish itself.

Daniel was wrong. Armand didn’t want to take anything from her. He wanted to give her what should have been hers all along.

Rosane climbed on Christi’s knee for a while, commenting on the funny outfits in the pictures, but soon returned to the floor with her kitten.

As Armand closed the cover of the album, Christi sighed and sank contentedly against the back of her chair. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Leaving the album before her, he shook out a newspaper and puffed on a fresh cigarette. A moment later, the newspaper convulsed in time to a coughing fit.

Christi fingered the album’s leather, loathe to sever her connection with her missing past.

Armand crumpled the newspaper beside his ignored plate of food. “Has your mother ever told you of the legend of Rose Latulippe?”

“No, she believed fairy tales were too violent for children.”

“Pity.” Armand took out a handkerchief and coughed into it. “It is such an interesting story about a young girl who danced with the devil on Mardi Gras.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Did you know that legends have a basis in fact?”

“I’ve heard that.” With slow movements of her index finger, Christi traced the gold L on the cover.

“One of your names is Rose, is it not?”

“Y-yes.” Her finger hesitated on the downward curve of the L.

Armand’s gaze drifted to Rosane who tested the kitten’s pouncing skills with a piece of string. “Did you have a strong impulse to name her Rose?”

How could he know such a thing?

“And her father, was he not a handsome stranger?”

She gasped, snapping her finger from the album. “No, of course not.” The quick denial was for Rosane’s benefit.

Christi had woven her memories of Daniel into a mantle of fantasy for her daughter. She’d worn that same fantasy as comfort against the pain his disappearance had caused.

Armand’s eyes twinkled with devilish delight, sending a swell of confusion sweeping through her. He was an old man, one of her only living relatives. He couldn’t possibly want anything but her well-being, could he?

“There’s no need to protect the child.” For once, Armand’s silken voice did nothing to smooth the goose bumps skittering up her arms. Nor did the cup of hot tea Marguerite placed before her. “Rosane is part of the legacy. In time she, too, will take her rightful place.”

“Rightful place? What do you mean? What legacy?”

“All in good time.”

What was happening? Why did Armand’s charm suddenly make her tense? She grabbed the photo album with both hands and hugged it to her chest like armor. She couldn’t have explained the feeling of abandonment that keened through her. Was she in danger? More important, was Rosane? There was no estate, no inheritance, no money other than her pitiful salary. Damn Daniel for planting doubts into her mind.

“Does it give you a thrill to scare people?” Daniel’s frame filled the doorway. His shirt and pants looked slept-in and his hair finger-combed. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Fear or love? One snowballed right into the other.

Her gaze automatically sprang to her daughter, gauging whether she or Daniel was closer to the child. Then a flush of heat brushed her cheeks at her foolishness. Daniel wouldn’t hurt her. He’d promised.

“Ah, Daniel, it is a bit early for you, is it not?” A crooked smile spread over Armand’s lips that somehow now seemed unnaturally red.

Daniel sat in the empty chair across from Christi. “It’s never too early to deal with the devil.”

Marguerite banged a frying pan onto the stove and snapped on a burner. She jerked open a drawer and with a loud rattle, extricated a whisk. From a low cupboard, she clanked a bowl.

“The devil exists only in legends, dear boy.” Armand looked much too pleased with himself. He turned to her. “Have I scared you, ma chère?”

“Of course not.” Christi shrugged, letting the album slip to her lap, and sipped her tea. She wasn’t sure what she felt about anything at the moment.

“I was merely trying to enrich you with the most famous Mardi Gras legend of the area. You wanted to know of your past. That includes the bad as well as the good, no?”

“Is the legend bad?”

Marguerite dumped the metal bowl in the sink. It rattled against the sides before landing upside down over the drain.

“It is merely a tale to warn young girls there is a price to pay for dancing with the devil.”

Was he trying to warn her to stay away from Daniel? Her gaze jumped from Armand to Daniel and back. Had she become the pawn again? Were they playing for her attention, the way Armand and Marguerite had vied for Rosane’s? The sudden tension between the two men was palpable. Daniel’s long silence didn’t help matters. What was he thinking behind that intense frown?

Rosane tugged at the skirt of Christi’s flannel gown and mouthed, “Who is he?”

“Daniel is a guest,” Armand said, saving Christi from the fluster of her own thoughts. She needed time to sort through all this and was given none.

“Can I watch TV?” Rosane asked, cradling the kitten in her arms.

“For a few minutes. As soon as I get dressed, we’re going to go shopping for some snow pants so you can play with the little girl next door.”

“Okay.”

Armand folded his discarded newspaper. Tucking it under his arm, he rose. “If you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to. You may keep the album. Perhaps this afternoon we can share an apéritif and I will tell you about the time your mother stole Marguerite’s beau and about the hair-pulling match that followed on the church steps. Or maybe you would like to hear about the Christmas we all got the mumps.”

All of it. She wanted to hear all the stories that would bring her closer to her mother. “Will you tell me why she left?”

A twinge of pain pierced his features. He suddenly looked old and vulnerable. Not like the devil at all, but like the shadow of the healthy man he’d once been. “If you wish.”

Daniel had to be wrong. There was no subterfuge. Whatever game existed between them had nothing to do with her. “Thank you.”

Marguerite placed a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast before Daniel, then attacked the sinkful of dishes with enough vigor to dislodge industrial slime.

Christi drained the last of her tea, but couldn’t force herself to eat any more of the toast. As she moved the chair back to get up, it screeched against the linoleum tiles.

Daniel leaned forward across the table and placed a hand over her forearm. His touch, soft as sin and just as seductive, shivered all the way down to the soles of her bare feet. “I have a meeting this morning, but don’t think you can escape me. We need to settle this thing between us.”

Nestling the album in one arm, she rose, uncharacteristically unsure of what she wanted to say. “You promised me a week.”

“Before you make your decision, not before I get you out of here.”

ARMAND SAW the pictures clearly in his mind. The colors were gone, but the contrast of black against white made his memories that much more vivid.

He was eighteen and walking back from a soirée dansante with his cousin Caroline and his sister Marguerite. He’d had a little too much to drink and done too little dancing to wear it off. That was the only reason he could imagine why he’d made such a monumental error.

“Ah, Armand, you were an impulsive fool then, but you have grown since and learned the value of patience. This time, you will allow no mistake.”

Winter’s cold bite and the wine cellar’s peaceful darkness engulfed the small space, but the wine would keep him warm and he didn’t need light to see the past. By the dim glow of the weak sun eking through the dirty square window, he poured himself another glass of red wine and savored half its contents before he allowed the movie in his mind to restart. He reviewed the film of that night long ago, immersed himself in the memories.

Ma belle Caroline.

“Do you know who you are?” he’d asked her as their boots crunched the hard-packed snow on the sidewalk.

“Of course I do. I’m your cousin, Caroline Rose Langelier. I’m not the one who drank too much wine tonight. You are.” She’d laughed at him and hooked her arm through his.

“No, you’re more than that. You’re a direct descendant of Rose Latulippe.”

“Did you hear that, Marguerite?” Caroline called back to her cousin trailing behind them. “I’m a descendant of a lost soul.” Then she teased him with a playful tickle. “Maybe you’re right, Armand. I danced with a lot of devils tonight!”

“You don’t understand.” Armand stopped and grabbed her arms as he faced her. “You’re special.” The intensity of his belief must have frightened her for he saw the color drain from her cheeks.

“Armand, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t you see? With your soul, I could buy eternal life.” He’d seen it so clearly then—her still beating heart in his hands, her last breath trapped in his mouth, his body tingling with the reward of never-ending life.

Her amusement tinkled ice-clear in the dark night. “I think we better get you home and in bed.”

When he squeezed her arms too tight, her laughter died and her eyes rounded in fright.

“Marguerite?” she pleaded to his sister, but her frightened gaze remained locked with his.

Impatient, as usual, Marguerite wrenched his death grip from Caroline’s arms. “Armand, stop it! Can’t you see you’re scaring her?” She walked between them the rest of the way home.

Armand drained the remainder of his glass of wine and poured himself another.

He’d wasted years trying to find Caroline after she ran away. Her choice of a military life married to a foreigner was a good one. The frequent moves had made her hard to trace. She must have panicked when she realized Fort Worth was their last stop before her husband’s retirement.

Christiane was eighteen by the time he found them again. Except for the lighter shade of hair, she was the spitting image of her mother at that age. But he’d sent a boy to do a man’s job and lost another nine years waiting for his prize.

Now his human body had betrayed him. He could wait no longer. He’d had to engineer Caro’s death. Only then could he lure Christiane home where she belonged.

Lifting his glass in a toast, he saluted the darkness. “To you, Caro. And to the gift of your daughter. I’m sure you understand why her presence here is necessary. I have so little time left.”

Chapter Four

Christi sped through her morning routine, eager to get out of the house and away from the venomlike antagonism writhing between Daniel and Armand and poisoning the atmosphere. She and Rosane were on their way to the Galeries de la Capitale via the city bus.

As the bus bounced along Grande-Allée and the house disappeared from view, her spirits lifted. The sun sparkled against the snowbanks and warmed her heart, if not the air. She’d purposefully donned her brightest red sweater over her favorite black pants and her wild parrot earrings to cheer her. Now, she found she didn’t need the external props. She was just another mother going to enjoy a day of shopping with her daughter. Tomorrow was soon enough for a serious discussion, she decided, and shrugged off the pinprick of guilt.

The Galeries de la Capitale was a huge two-level mall that boasted more than two hundred and fifty stores, boutiques and restaurants. Large glass windows ran the length of the ceiling down the center courtyard, giving the place a light and airy feel.

“Look, Mom!” Rosane pointed toward the Mega-Parc at the lone skater on the rink. A girl glided easily over the smooth surface as her coach shouted instructions. “Can I try that?”

“It’s harder than it looks, honey.” Christi laughed, remembering the many times she’d wished for a padded bottom when she’d learned to skate.

“Can I? Pe-lease?”

Christi couldn’t refuse Rosane anything when she put on her pleading face. “Let’s go shopping first.”

They saw familiar names like Sears and The Gap among the sea of unfamiliar ones. At La Baie, they found a sale on everything they needed and left the store with two big shopping bags crammed full.

On impulse, Christi ducked into a music store. Music reflected its author. Maybe she could get an insight on what had changed Daniel through his work. She chose a CD of his first album, Shifting Sands, released five years ago and a CD of his latest album, Âme d’Hiver, winter’s soul, released for the Christmas shopping season. She fingered the single red rose on a bed of crystallized snow. To the CDs, she added an inexpensive player and a pack of batteries.

She and Rosane browsed several boutiques before they reached a bookstore.

“How come they have a library in a mall?” Rosane asked.

“Librairie is French for bookstore, honey.”

“Can I pick out a couple of books? I’ve read the one I brought already.”

“Sure.”

Christi wandered the aisles until she reached the mythology section and started leafing through books.

“Can I go find my books now?” Rosane asked, fidgeting.

“Sure. Just stay where I can see you.” Christi’s fingers eagerly snatched several books from the shelf. She’d found the titles she wanted. What answers would they give her?

Unconsciously, her hand dropped to her coat pocket and searched for the roll of Tums she kept there. As she read on, she didn’t even notice the minty chalk sliding down her throat.

NEAR QUEBEC CITY, 1698. Mardi Gras.

Outside a tempest of the devil’s own making brewed. Winds howled. Snow swirled. Temperatures chilled bones to the marrow. But inside, a fire roared and laughter rang loud and warm on this February night.

This was the grandest party of the decade. The whole village was here, feasting and drinking on her father’s generous provisions. Paul, her fiancé, stood at her elbow, his adoration plain on his face. To be sixteen, in love and the center of attention was glorious. Rose had never been happier.

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