A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
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