The Music of the Night by Amanda Ashley Page B

away.
     
    He caught her before she slid out of
her chair.
     
    She was quite lovely, he thought,
light as a feather in his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his
hand. What was she doing here in the Opera House long after everyone else had
gone?
     
    A soft laugh escaped his lips as he
carried her down the aisle, turned left and disappeared through a secret door.
     
    Down, down, down, he went, until he
reached the boat by the underground lake.
     
    He placed her gently in the stern,
then poled across to the other side.
     
    “Christie.” He spoke the name softly
– reverently – certain it was short for Christine. He wondered if, this time, he
might be blessed with a happy ending.
     
     
     
     
     
    Christie woke to the sound of music.
Sitting up, she glanced at her surroundings. She didn’t have to wonder where she
was. She knew. She had seen it all before: the organ, the masked man sitting
behind it with his head bowed over the keyboard, the boat rocking gently in the
water beyond, the flickering candles.
     
    She was in the Phantom’s lair.
     
    He continued to play, seemingly
unaware of her presence. The music was darkly sensual, invoking images of
sweat-covered bodies writhing on silken sheets. The notes poured over her,
making her skin tingle.
     
    She studied his profile, though she
could see little but the ghostly mask. Was he as hideous as he was portrayed on
stage and in the movies? If she were Christine, she would rise from her bed and
tiptoe towards him. She would wait for the moment when he was so caught up in
the music he was composing that he was oblivious to everything else, and then
she would snatch the mask from his face.
     
    But she wasn’t Christine and none of
this was real. She had to be dreaming. It was the only answer.
     
    The music ended abruptly and she
found herself staring into his eyes.
     
    He inclined his head in her
direction. “Welcome to my abode, my lady.” His voice was like warm whisky,
smooth and intoxicating. Would he sing for her if she asked?
     
    Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at
being in his bed, she threw the cloak aside and gained her feet. “I’m sorry,”
she stammered. “I must have fainted.”
     
    “Would you care for breakfast?”
     
    “What? Oh, no, thank you.” She forced
a smile. “I really must go.”
     
    In a lithe motion, he rose from the
bench and glided towards her. “So soon?”
     
    She nodded, struck by the beauty of
the unmasked portion of his face. And his eyes, they were dark, so dark.
     
    He gestured towards a small table.
“You may as well eat.” He lifted a white cloth from a large silver tray
revealing plates of sliced ham, fried potatoes and soft boiled eggs. The scent
of coffee wafted from a silver carafe. A crystal pitcher held orange juice; a
white basket held a variety of muffins and croissants.
     
    Her stomach growled loudly. She
hadn’t eaten since early last night, after all. “Well, I guess it would be a
shame to let it go to waste.”
     
    “Indeed.”
     
    He held her chair for her. “Please,”
he said, “help yourself.”
     
    “Aren’t you going to join me?
     
    A faint smile played over his lips.
“I’ve eaten. Please, enjoy your meal.”
     
    And so saying, he went back to the
organ.
     
    It was the strangest meal she had
ever eaten – her sitting at the table, him sitting at the organ, the air filled
with music that soothed her soul and excited her at the same time.
     
    She studied him surreptitiously,
noting the way he swayed ever so slightly to the music, the graceful play of his
long, tapered fingers over the keys, the intense yet faraway look in his eyes.
His white shirt emphasized his broad shoulders. The ruffled front should have
looked feminine but there was nothing feminine about this man. His black
trousers hugged well-muscled thighs. And the mask . . . It drew her gaze again
and again as she imagined what lay behind it.
     
    Glancing