"I believe mine was the greater," Christine replied, her own words shaky. "But if you will untie me, ange, I would like to touch you… and see you."

"My name is Erik. You may call me that, but now is not the time. Behave yourself this night, ma voix, and I will come to you again soon. Your tutelage has only just begun," She felt his chest lift and press against her from behind as he drew in a long, deep breath, held it, then released it.

His gloves, fingers spread, ran down from her wrists, over her face, jaw, and neck, smoothly over her bare breasts, pausing to massage them… then close and hard over her belly and to her throbbing sex. Heat followed the leather, and she sagged again under the weight of desire, closing her eyes and tipping her head back into the blare of light.

And then suddenly, he left. He left her burning and aching for more, her nipples hard and pointed, one redder than the other from his mouth, and sore. Her sex throbbing again, in memory and need. Her back cold without him behind her, her gown sagging from her uplifted arms.

And then, before she could fathom that he'd left her stranded and half-naked on the middle of the Opera House stage, something fell from above. Her arms dropped, still tied, to her waist, the rope slapping onto the hard wood at her feet.

Chapter Two

Christine was still struggling to untie the rope around her wrists when the limelight above blinked out and left her in total darkness, half-clothed and in the middle of the stage.

She heard the whisper of movement above and knew that it was her ange, Erik, who was making his way along the jittery catwalk above, which was normally the dominion of the tale-spinning Joseph Buquet.