Celine remained frozen to one spot, her fingers trembling in the folds of her blue linen skirt. A mad part of her wanted to run to him. His voice seemed to beckon her closer, the sound filled with a lulling music.
“I—I’m . . .” She thought to apologize, but stopped herself. Straightened, her hands clenched at her sides.
He glided toward her, his movements liquid. His eyes were the oddest color, the grey of molten gunmetal. Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, causing his pupils to flash as if he were a panther.
“You don’t belong here,” he said, his whisper like ice against her skin. He reached for her, then pulled back, his fingers twisting into a fist. “Who sent you?”
Though her knees shook and her voice trembled, Celine did not falter or look away. “The gentleman downstairs.”
“Rest assured, I’ll have words with him later.”
“You will not.” Celine took a step forward. “If you are cross with anyone, be cross with me. I chose to come upstairs. No one forced me to do anything.”
A woman with dark skin and jeweled rings the size of walnuts tilted her head back and laughed throatily; a young, tanned-skinned gentleman with cherubic curls grinned like a fox.
Frustration crossed the beautiful boy’s face. The muscles in his forearms pulled taut. Celine had the distinct feeling he wanted to reach for her just as much as she wanted to reach for him. Wanted to touch her as much as she wanted to touch him. The longer she looked at the boy, the more she simply wanted, the desire taking on a life of its own.
Over his shoulder, the disheveled girl on the chaise scowled at Celine.
“Why does it hurt me to see you kissing her?” Celine asked without thought. As soon as the question left her lips, something cracked behind her heart.
He flinched as if she’d slapped him. Then his expression hardened. “Why should I give a damn if something hurts you?”
His rudeness should have shocked Celine. But it didn’t. “Do you love her?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t be. But still I would like to know,” she said, another pang knifing between her ribs. Why was she so captivated by him? By the line of his jaw, the bronze skin of his bare chest, and that cursed, cursed mouth.
“Leave. Now.” He strode toward her, bringing them within an arm’s length of each other.
“You’re trying to frighten me. It won’t work.” Celine lifted a hand to his face. Then stopped herself, stricken by the breadth of her desire. “Who are you?”
He swallowed, his eyes unblinking. Then all at once, the intensity in his gaze dampened. He let his voice fade to a hypnotic drone. “You will go downstairs at once, Celine Rousseau. You will have no memory of coming here, nor will you repeat this intrusion.”
Her bones seemed to vibrate inside her body as her limbs began to move of their own volition. Celine turned in place, a cloud settling over her mind. She fought for her bearings, gritting her teeth. Then she spun around, forcing the haze around her thoughts to clear. “I do not have to listen to you.” Her jaw locked in defiance. Anger threaded through her veins. “And how the devil do you know my name?”
All motion halted in the space. Countless pairs of eyes settled on her, all unmoving and unblinking. It was as if Celine had stepped into a painting by a Dutch master, one of light and shadow, every stroke bewitched.
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” the young man with the foxlike smile murmured, his angelic blond curls falling across his forehead. “She’s bested you, Bastien.”
Bastien?
She . . . knew that name. Didn’t she? Flickers of desiccated fruit peelings in a darkened alley, of being chased down a shadowy street, of feeling relief at the scent of leather and bergamot raced through her mind.
With a glower that would have melted stone, the beautiful boy twisted his head around, his wrinkled shirt shifting over his trim torso, exposing more of the bronze skin across his chest. “Go to the devil, Boone. And take her with you.”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs at Celine’s back. She turned just as Michael snared her by the arm, his features frantic. Even in her periphery, she noticed the boy named Bastien lower his chin dangerously, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Concern had blanched Michael’s tawny face of color. “What are you . . .” His voice