Helene raised a single eyebrow and handed the object over.
Mariana held the glass to her eyes and . . . saw nothing useful. Her overwrought mind was playing tricks on her. A phantom husband was the stuff of novels full of whimsy and scandal, not the stuff of real life.
The glow of the theater’s lights dimmed, and the roar of the assembled dulled to a low rumble. The ballet was set to begin. All eyes shifted their focus away from the drama of each other and toward the impending drama to be enacted on the stage.
All, except Mariana. She couldn’t succumb to the sugar-coated fantasy of the ballet. In an effort to relax, she exhaled every last bit of breath in her lungs and inhaled a slow, steady stream of air. But it was to no avail. Her heart a relentless tattoo in her chest, the walls of the theater threatened to close in on her.
She shot to her feet. “Helene, I need some fresh air.”
Without a care for the other woman’s response, Mariana darted out of the dark box and into a bright, empty corridor. Finally, blessedly alone, the walls expanded, and a self-conscious smile pulled at her lips. She was in danger of becoming the sort of excitable woman who tested her patience within thirty seconds of conversation. It was no state in which to conduct one’s life. A restorative visit to a museum would do her a bit of good. Perhaps the Museum of Natural History . . .
An inconspicuous door flew open, and a hand shot out, closing around her upper arm with the strength of a steel vise. A scream caught in her throat as she was dragged into a pitch-black room, the door snapping shut behind her. Her heart hammered in her chest as if it was trying to break free of her body, and her mind raced in time with its frenetic rhythm.
Before another scream could gather in her chest, a leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm reached across her torso, trapping her arms to her sides and pulling her tight against a solid, muscular chest. She struggled, twisted, wiggled, and stomped—everything she could think of to free herself. But nothing succeeded, and her breath continued coming hard and fast through her nose.
It wasn’t until her body stilled in frustrated exhaustion that she inhaled andsmelled. Located in the scent surrounding her were notes she recognized—notes specific to one man. It was the scent of . . .
“Can I trust you not to scream?”
It was the voice of a dead man.
Chapter 2
Suds: In the suds; in trouble, in a disagreeable situation, or involved in some difficulty.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Or, more accurately, it was the voice of a missing, and presumed dead, man.
Mariana gave a single, assenting nod.
One arm maintained its restrictive hold across her body, even as his other hand loosened its grip over her mouth. That hand hovered, just a whisper of a touch on her skin, so lightly she could speak if she wanted.
It occurred to her that she and her husband hadn’t touched in ten years, just as another tension coiled in her body. But it was one not born of fear, it was more basic than fear. This was a primordial response, one specific to them. Did he feel it, too?
Once she’d been so sure he did. She’d been too sure. Of course, that was when she’d thought she was worth something to him.
A subtle arch of her back would reveal his desire, or lack thereof, even through several layers of silk skirts . . .
Every muscle in her body aligned in a rigidno. She wouldn’t stoop to that level.
She cleared her throat, the sound a short, muffled scrape against the back of her throat. It achieved its intended effect when his hands fell away as if shocked into a similar realization. He stepped back, and her body swayed, suddenly too free. She heard the key turn in a lantern, and the dark transformed into dim, flickering light. She leaned forward to steady herself against a shelf of what appeared to be rags and various scrubbing implements.
Her blood rioted through her veins on a single emotion: relief. She could come apart with the ferocity of the feeling, but she wouldn’t. At least, she wouldn’t in front of him, not even in the near dark.
Nick was alive.
“I knew you would come looking for me.”
Annoyed by his cheek, she whirled around and assessed the long, shadowy length of him dressed in unrelieved black. “Why are you dressed as a waiter?” she retorted. “And why do you have a beard?” She wouldn’t mention that it was a sin against nature to obscure the strong line of his jaw and the subtle cleft of his chin.
His eyes, the gray of an overcast sea, met hers, and his head canted to the side, an arrogant angle to his right eyebrow. “It’s better that you don’t know.”
Mariana resisted the temptation to reach out and slap that ridiculous beard off his face. Instead, she summoned the righteous indignation that had served her well over years of dealing with this man. “I received a message that you were missing and presumed dead, so I came to Paris to retrieve your dead body. To state the matter plainly, these past two days have been gruesome.”
He leaned an indolent shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms, intending to put her on the defensive.
