I can tell you, the doorman seemed pretty surprised when an armed man dashed past him into the building. Not nearly as surprised as I was, though, to meet a doorman at the entrance of a villain's lair. What kind of bloody place was this? The Villain Hotel for Megalomaniacs and Masterminds?
Another scream ripped through the air. If I'd had any doubt left that there was danger threatening in this place, it was gone now. Whoever that poor woman was, she sounded as if she were having her toenails pulled out with hot tongs. I had to find her! I had to find Mr Ambrose!
Following the distant sound of voices, I rushed down a corridor, the doorman's shouts echoing behind me—but I was too fast for him to catch up! Soon, I reached a big set of double doors, and in front of them—damn! Another doorman!
'Out of the way!' I ordered.
'English, n'est-ce pas?' The doorman smiled, extending his hand. 'Tickets, please.'
Tickets? Tickets? What kind of sick show were they running in there? Were they demanding money so people could watch some poor woman being tortured?
I raised my revolver. 'Out of my way. Now!'
The doorman paled and ducked behind the nearest column. Pushing open the double doors, I ran on, past a staircase, up another, through a door, and...
Light and sound engulfed me.
My chin dropped. Flabbergasted, I stared at the sight before me. I stood at the entrance to a huge room, a hall really, decorated in gold, silver, brocade and every imaginable luxury—more than I had ever seen squashed together in one place, except maybe Buckingham Palace. Seats stretched out as far as the eye could see, an ocean of people filling them. On the gold-decorated walls, boxes with velvet drapes half hid the richest patrons, but from the shadows, pearls shone and diamonds sparkled. At the opposite end of the room from me rose a stage, and on the stage stood two people. A handsome man and a woman, clasped in his arms. The woman parted her lips and screamed.
No.
Not screamed.
Singing. She was singing. The fancy building. The doorman. The audience.
Oh, vous êtes admirateur de l'opéra?
Bloody hell. How could I have been so stupid?
By not learning French, Lilly. That's how.
But...wait just a minute.
Opera?
Opera?
That thing where performers stood at fake balconies for hours upon hours and sang about how lovesick they were, and how they couldn't live without the one man/woman/weird creature they were destined for? The thing that people attended as a pastime, with absolutely no thought of earning money in the process?
And Mr Rikkard Ambrose was supposed to be here?
Listening to an aria about...
'Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro,
Al mio duolo, a'miei sospir!'
About amor.
I didn't know much Italian, but even I knew that word. Rikkard Ambrose was here, listening to this?
No.
No, that couldn't be possible. It had to be a mistake. Maybe I'd entered the wrong building. Maybe I had...maybe...maybe...
Slowly, inevitably, as if by magic, my gaze was drawn upward to one of the boxes. There, among the shadows, in one of the best seats in the house sat a tall, dark, ramrod-straight figure, his hands curled around the armrests of his seat hard enough to dent metal. I couldn't see his face, but I could see those hands of his. The left little finger was twitching.
No.
No.
No, no, no. It couldn't be, could it?
The sound of hurried footsteps from behind tore me from my daze. I had just enough presence of mind left to duck behind a decorative curtain before the two doormen burst into the room, looking around wildly. The audience didn't notice them. They were too focused on the stage. And I...
I was still too damn focused on Mr Ambrose. Mr Rikkard Ambrose. At the opera. Listening to people singing in Italian about lo—
I couldn't even think it.
The doormen whispered to each other in frantic French. Their searching gazes swept over the crowd, but couldn't find any sign of the lunatic with the gun that was yours truly. I could only follow the gist of the hurried conversation in French, but after a while, they seemed to agree that whatever they had seen, it probably wasn't a gun after all, and if it was, and some rich bugger got shot tonight, it would be better for both of them not to have seen a gun, and not to have let an assassin run past them without raising so much as a finger. With that agreement reached, they nodded to each other and returned to their posts, once more staunch guardians of the opera.
I, meanwhile, stood behind the curtain and waited. Waited as the people on the stage sang about eternal love and devotion, and as Mr Rikkard Ambrose's little finger twitched ever faster. Finally, the opera drew to an end. The curtain closed, opened once more for a final round of applause, then closed for the last time last time.
So did the curtain up in the box of a certain someone.
Without even thinking about it, I launched myself from my hiding place and sprinted towards the nearest staircase. Around me, thunderous applause roared. I didn't give a damn. Quick as a flash, I dashed up the stairs, down the corridor, around a corner, and...
There!
Two mint-condition ten-year-old coat tails vanishing around another corner. I ran faster. By the time I rounded the bend, no one and nothing was to be seen—except a closed door, with a plaque on it saying
ACCES INTERDIT!
Bureau du propriétaire
Hmm...
What could 'acces interdit' possibly mean?
Probably 'please come in right away'. And of course, kind lady that I was, I would oblige. Marching forward, I pushed open the door.
It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they had, I saw before me a sparsely lit – and sparsely furnished – room, filled with stacks of papers. Lists, accounts, numerous books of music and song...the selection was varied and vast. A lone candle flickered on a rickety table. And in the light of the candle I could just make out a tall, dark form silhouetted against the window.
'Leave the papers I asked for on the table,' Mr Rikkard Ambrose commanded, not bothering to turn around. 'Then go and get me something to drink.'
'No.'
He stiffened. There was a long, long moment of silence. Slowly, so slowly it could almost be called a waste of time, he turned around to face me. His familiar, cold, sea-coloured eyes, the eyes I hadn't seen in far too long, met mine, and I felt a tugging in my chest.
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
'I am going to kill Karim when next I see him.'
I lifted an eyebrow. 'Don't blame him. I tortured the address out of him.'
'I surmised as much. And I pay him not to crack under torture.'
'You...!' Eyes narrowing, I took a step forward and stabbed a finger in his direction. 'You are not exactly in a position to go around criticizing people, Mister I'm-going-to-a-place-so-dangerous-I-can't-take-you-along Ambrose!'
He cleared his throat. 'Ehem. Well...as to that, Mr Linton...'
'What "danger" were you referring to, exactly?'
'Well, I...'
'I knew it. I bloody knew it!' Eyes flashing, I took a step forward. 'There is no damn danger is there? The only bloody reason you didn't want me along is because you didn't want me to know you own a goddamn opera in Paris, wasn't it? And you certainly didn't want me, the dastardly female who just dared to turn you down like a ton of bricks, to sit next to you while you mope and listen to a lady sing love songs in Italian!'
His little finger twitched and...was that the tiniest blush on his chiselled cheeks? Surely not! Inwardly, I grinned. Outwardly, I didn't want to lose my job.
'Don't be ridiculous, Mr Linton,' Mr Ambrose told me coolly, tugging at his lapels, which had been absolutely straight already. 'You did not "turn me down". Nobody has ever turned down an offer of mine.'
'Oh, I didn't, did I? Out of curiosity, Sir...what would you call the answer "no" in response to a proposal?'
He considered for a moment. Finally, he decided:
'A delay in negotiations to be solved at my earliest convenience through the application of alternative strategies.'
'Indeed?'
'Yes, indeed, Mr Linton.'
You had to hand it to him—he might be full of crap, but it was high-quality, perfectly delivered crap.
'Then, pray tell me...' I took a few more steps towards him, not taking my eyes off him for a second, 'if you aren't hiding out here, soothing your bruised megalomaniac male ego, what are you doing?'
'Why the interest?' he enquired coolly. 'If you have, as you say, "turned me down" like a large amount of building material?'
'Ha!' Crossing the last bit of distance between us, I jabbed my finger into his chest—not a wise move, since I nearly broke my finger. 'Ouch! I knew it! I knew you were hiding out here drowning your sorrows over your broken heart.'
He looked as outraged as it was possible for a stone statue with money constipation to look. His dark, sea-coloured eyes flashed at me with a stormy light.
'I am not in the habit of drowning anything. But I might make an exception for you.'
'Hit a tender spot, did I? Well, deal with it!' Slapping his chest, I grabbed him by the collar. 'You bloody well deserve it! Do you have any idea how worried I've been?'
'Indeed?'
It was just an instant. A moment so short it hardly existed—but for that moment, triumph flashed in his eyes.
'Don't you dare smile, you bloody son of a bachelor! This is no joke!'
'Smile?' One eyebrow lifted infinitesimally, daring to play innocent. 'I do not waste time or facial musculature on such wasteful activities, Mr Linton.'
'No, you don't, you bloody block of stone! You just somehow smirk with your coat tails while keeping your face perfectly straight. It's bloody infuriating!'
'I have no idea what you could possibly mean, Mr Linton. I don't—'
I hit him. Not hard—the episode with my finger had reminded me what kind of obstacle I was dealing with—just hard enough to get his attention.
He blinked. A bit like a giant who wasn't quite sure whether a mouse had just been stupid enough to stab him in the foot. There was a moment of total silence as he gazed into the distance. When he lowered his eyes to look at me and opened his mouth, he found tears in my eyes.
His mouth closed again.
'I was afraid for you.' The words tore from my throat. I told myself that my voice didn't quiver. Not the tiniest bit. Not the tiniest little bit! 'You pretended to be in danger, and I was bloody afraid for you!'
'Mr Linton...Lillian, I...' Slowly raising a hand, he touched my cheek, his fingers so careful and tender one might think I was the most precious object in the world. Until he grabbed me hard and pulled me towards him.
Our mouths clashed like a prima donna and her manager, both wrestling for control and ignoring the fact that they bloody needed each other. My hands were suddenly in his hair, holding him tight, so tight it felt as if I could meld us together forever. And, dammit, that's exactly what I wanted! I didn't want marriage. I didn't want to swear obedience. I just wanted him! Was that so hard to understand?
Well, since it's Rikkard Ambrose you're talking about, yes, probably.
Why couldn't I have fallen in love with a nice, compliant egghead?
Then he kissed me again, and I remembered why. I remembered exactly. His lips were....oh...they were hotter than a furnace, stronger than a hurricane, and sweeter than chocolate melting on your tongue.
Well, maybe not the last, but that would be a bit too much to ask for from anyone. So I asked for something I knew he was willing to give. I asked for more. With my mouth, I begged for it, and for the first time in his life, Mr Rikkard Ambrose gave freely. Very freely indeed.
When we finally ran out of breath, I reluctantly released his hair from my grip. Placing a last searing brand on my lips, he broke the kiss.
'All right,' he panted. 'You may have been correct.'
'I? Correct? And you admit it?' I raised an eyebrow. 'Goodness gracious! Where is my calendar? I must mark today in red for all eternity as a memorial to this momentous occasion.'
Silence.
'So, tell me, Sir...in what regard was my correctness so correctly correct today?'
A muscle in his jaw ticked. 'The things I told you about Dalgliesh—they were made up. There is no danger here.'
'Ah! I knew it!' I tapped an accusing finger against his chest. 'I knew that everything is fine here, and nothing bad is happeni—'
It was then that the high-pitched scream of a woman pierced the air.
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No author's note today, I'm afraid. I'm being cooked in the summer heat and need to go in search of a nice iceberg to cool down on ;)