A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz

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      “Exactly.”

      “Now I know you’re going crazy.” Jean-Paul shook his head slowly, causing the light to dance on his balding pate. “Promise me you won’t blow your image of the dashing, tall, dark and handsome hero until after you’ve fulfilled your contract’s obligations.”

      “Worried about your commission?”

      Jean-Paul’s jaw dropped. “That’s not fair, and you know it. About the girl…”

      If Christiane was in Quebec City, it could only mean one thing. Armand was going to try to use her just as he’d tried to use her mother.

      “I’ll do the only thing I can,” Daniel said, resigned. He’d once found heaven and had to put her through hell. Now she was in danger. He had to protect her. And there was only one way she’d allow him that close.

      “Which is?”

      “Marry her.”

      HER PRESENCE here seemed fated, Christi reflected. A month ago if anyone had told her she’d be in Quebec City discovering roots she’d never known she had, she would have told them they were nuts. Yet here she was, three thousand miles from home, accompanying her mother’s cousin to a party launching two weeks of winter carnival celebrations—and feeling more at home than she’d ever dreamed.

      This vacation was exactly what she’d needed after dealing with the trauma of her parents’ accidental deaths a few months ago. In Armand’s home, her mother’s presence wrapped around her like childhood comfort, and it eased the pain of her loss.

      For the past few days, Armand and his sister, Marguerite, had proved gracious hosts. Marguerite had spoiled Christi and her daughter Rosane, with home-cooked meals. Armand had entertained them with stories from his youth. As he talked about her mother with love and told her of his memories of their shared childhood, Christi had relaxed. Her belligerent stomach, on fire since her parents’ accident, seemed to have taken a recess, too. She hadn’t had to unpack the half-dozen rolls of Tums at the bottom of her suitcase or use the emergency one tucked in her purse. Even her dour daughter’s demeanor had softened. Rosane had actually smiled at some of Armand’s outrageous sleight-of-hand tricks.

      “It was very kind of you to include me this evening,” Christi said to Armand after their hostess fluttered away.

      “Nonsense, as one of the directors of the arts committee, it is my prerogative to invite whomever I desire.” His thick French accent was unmistakable despite his flawless English. His impeccable tux, neatly groomed black mustache and slicked-back charcoal hair reminded her of the perfect gentlemen in old black-and-white movies. His slow, gracious charm put her at ease here as it had since she’d arrived in Quebec City.

      “Besides,” he continued, “I needed an escort, and with you on my arm, I am the envy of every man here.”

      She laughed. “You’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

      “One of my many charms.” His white teeth shone and his dark eyes glittered with good humor. “Can I get you anything, ma chère?”

      “Some sparkling water, please.” She didn’t want to chance alcohol now that her stomach was finally behaving.

      “I shall return momentarily.” Armand bowed and moved in the direction of the bar at the other end of the cavernous room.

      When Armand had invited her to a party at a friend’s home, she’d expected a quaint little house, not a mansion. And this mansion fell just short of a palace as far as she was concerned. Antique furniture was arranged in cozy sets for easy conversation. Large portions of the marble floor lay bare for those who preferred to mingle or dance. Fresh greenery adorned with carnival masks and opalescent streamers decorated everything from priceless paintings to the curving cherrywood staircase ascending to the second floor. Multicolored lights and flickering candles in sconces gave the whole place a festive atmosphere.

      As she mingled her way around the room, she caught snatches of conversation.

      “He’s simply marvelous,” an older lady said, fanning her face with a hand.

      “Can you believe his show next week sold out in less than one hour?” said another. “I waited in line all day for the ticket window to open for nothing!”

      “Every time I hear him play, I fall in love.”

      “Speaking of love, I heard he met someone. In France. Or was it England? There’s talk of wedding bells.”

      “Pity.”

      “Not for her. Not with the contract he just signed.”

      Christi introduced herself to several people, passed a group of gray-haired, tuxedoed men and was about to join a group of women who seemed about her age when a commotion at the archway between this room and the next caught her attention.

      Madame Bernier stood on a chair and clapped her hands. In her green and gold sequined dress, she looked like an overweight hummingbird. “Attention everyone,” she said in French. “Let’s all make our way to the ballroom. The music is about to start.”

      Like salmon spawning, everyone hurried in the direction of the ballroom, murmuring excitedly as they went. Christi lagged behind.

      “Can I have everyone’s attention?” Madame Bernier waited a few minutes for the chatter to die down and the last person to squeeze into the ballroom.

      Christi found a spot at the back of the room, but couldn’t see the musician everyone seemed to have gone gaga over.

      “As you all know this simple gala is to welcome home our favorite pianist,” Madame Bernier said. “He’s just finished a smashing European tour. Next week, as part of the Mardi Gras Masked Ball, he will perform a piece commissioned by the arts committee especially for the event. I’m told it’s called ‘A Rose at Midnight.’” The crowd oohed their approval. “He’s graciously offered to donate all the proceeds to the young artist grant program sponsored by the arts committee.” Madame Bernier raised her hands and clapped, encouraging the crowd to do likewise. The response was almost deafening.

      When the roar died down, Madame Bernier spoke again. “Tonight, as a special favor to me, he’s agreed to treat us to a sample of his best-known pieces.” With one hand, she waved grandly at the piano. “Everyone help me welcome home Daniel Moreau!”

      Daniel Moreau.

      The name echoed and reechoed inside the chamber of her brain.

      The crowd clapped. Each meeting of palm against palm cracked like shattering glass and each shard scored her heart.

      Daniel? It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Her heart beat too fast as she tried to see past the sea of heads. Her hands grew cold and clammy as she instinctively threaded her way through the people packed into the room. She needed to see. She needed to touch. She needed to know. An eerie, familiar melody buzzed inside her brain, simultaneously taking her back and begging her to go forward.

      As if in answer to the echo of her past, the music started.

      Unique.

      Unmistakable.

      Daniel.

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