Chapter One #3
Chevalier walked toward her, yanking her back to the present, the supposedly fake papers and his intimidating presence.
Except walk was too ordinary a word. Stalked might be better.
He stopped when they were toe-to-toe and for the first time she realized the complete power of the man.
Tall, wide-shouldered and fit beneath the expensively cut dark gray suit, he exuded authority and commanded attention.
He dominated the room with a strength of force she’d never encountered before.
It was as if her surroundings were sucked into his aura.
His gaze focused on the part of her hair falling over her shoulder. He picked up a lock and rubbed it between his fingers, inhaling deeply, as if pulling her scent into him. Something crossed his face, an expression close to grief.
She blinked and the glass-and-chrome desk, the leather chair, the bookcases and tinted windows, wavered, before disappearing. Suddenly she was surrounded by a darkness broken only by the moon’s light. Sadness rushed through her, pressing on her shoulders, squeezing her lungs and heart.
A man stood in front of her. He looked like Chevalier.
He had Chevalier’s stormy gray eyes and thick black hair, but he wasn’t dressed like Chevalier.
If she wasn’t mistaken, he was dressed in period clothing.
Like from medieval times. He touched her cheek and spoke to her in a language she didn’t understand.
Her sadness drove into her, weakening her with its intensity. She was sad for him and for her.
“Where did you get this?”
Yanked back to the present by his harsh question, she took a deep breath.
The room swam into focus, the desk and chair still sitting before the windows, the bookcases in their right place.
And Chevalier in front of her, dressed not in medieval clothing but an expensive gray suit that matched his eyes.
His fingers touched her necklace, then skimmed the soft skin of her neck. Heat exploded inside her and centered on his touch. He did nothing more than touch, but it felt as if she’d been branded.
She struggled to shake off the remnants of the strange vision. Something weird was going on here. Something otherworldly and something she didn’t want anything to do with, yet her feet refused to move to the door.
Their gazes locked, held. His was so familiar.
“It was a gift from my mother. Years ago.”
He lifted the silver key she’d worn almost her whole life and cradled it in his large palm.
He muttered in what sounded like French. He cocked his head, studying her. “I make you nervous.”
“Yes.” No reason to deny it.
“Don’t be afraid, Madelaine. I would never hurt you.” His voice wrapped around her, held her spellbound until the room around them faded once again.
“I would never hurt you, chérie.” A callused hand touched her cheek, skimmed down to her chin, sending shivers through her.
“I know.” She leaned in to the caress—
Lainie took a frightened step back and stumbled over the leg of a chair.
What the hell?
“I should go.” She gathered her briefcase and shot a look at the papers strewn over the desk chair and on the floor.
She wasn’t happy she wouldn’t be returning the papers to Giselle, and Giselle would be furious when she discovered Lainie didn’t have them, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
Whatever was going on in this room was far bigger than Giselle and her wrath.
“Madelaine. Please—”
“I’m sorry. I need to go. Just—” she waved a hand toward his desk, “—do whatever you want with those.”
She practically raced to the door and out into the crowded dance floor. She pushed through the crowd.
“Sorry.” She used her elbows when people wouldn’t move out of her way.
“Hey!”
“What the—”
“Excuse me.” Air. I need air. Breathe, Lainie.
She stumbled through the door and leaned against the rough brick of the facade, ignoring the curious stares of the people waiting in line and the strange expression of the bouncer.
Christien quickly stepped out a side door and made his way down the dark, deserted alley.
He reached the street just as Madelaine stumbled out the front doors of his club and leaned against the wall.
The expression on her face stopped him. Confusion.
Terror. He’d scared her but he’d been angry when he saw her.
Angry that another shared her looks. Angry she was in his club, making him remember.
When he learned her name, and saw the key around her neck, everything changed.
But before he could find out for certain if she truly was his Madelaine, she’d fled.
He didn’t want to frighten her more by chasing after her, but mon Dieu, he had to know if it really was her.
He made the sign of the cross and muttered an expletive.
Madelaine. Her name whispered through his soul.
He ached with the remembered feel of her and it had taken everything inside him to keep from gathering her in his arms and holding her tight.
For so long he had been without her, to suddenly find her in his club was a miracle and many, many prayers come true.
He took a step in her direction, but a cab pulled up and she scrambled inside. The cab pulled away, taking her with it.
He breathed fast. Sweat beaded on his brow and his hands clenched into fists until his nails dug into his palms.
Everything had been the same. The luxurious fall of mink hair. The cinnamon-colored eyes. Even her height when she wasn’t in those silly shoes. He unclenched his fists and wanted to roar with frustration and misery.
’Tis her. And yet it wasn’t her. He’d searched those eyes, looked deep into her soul and saw nothing but fear with small glimpses of memories she kept tightly locked away. There had been a moment when he was certain she remembered, but the moment passed.
He sagged against the brick wall, his legs suddenly weak, and watched the taxi until it turned a corner out of sight.
Wouldn’t their love have withstood the ages? Regardless of time and rebirth, she would have remembered, wouldn’t she?
Heart heavy with the grief he’d carried for seven hundred long years, he headed inside.
He wouldn’t be able to learn her address until the taxi returned.
He thanked all that was holy that Ronald flagged down the taxi in their employ.
He would discover where she lived soon enough. But not soon enough for him.
He entered his office and stopped, inhaling deeply. Lavender. He closed his eyes, his memories racing back to a time of brutality. To a time when the only light in his life had been his sporadic visits to a fortress in France and a woman named Madelaine.
He looked down at the fake contract sent by Etienne Lucheux. He touched the papers, his mind working quickly. What game was Lucheux playing? What message was he sending and how had he managed to resurrect a dead woman?
An uneasy feeling twisted his gut and he breathed deep, absorbing the familiar smell of his lost love.
And a woman who wore a silver key around her neck.