A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
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