A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz
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