feet refused to obey the promptings of his mind, and he found himself standing in the shadows outside the stage door, waiting for one more glimpse of her face.
He sensed her nearness even before she emerged from the theater. At first, he saw only Sara, her vivid blue eyes sparkling, her long blond hair falling like a heavenly cloud about her slim shoulders.
And then he noticed the man at her side, the proprietary grip of his hand upon her arm.
A low growl rose in Gabriel's throat. His first instinct was to attack, to rip out the man's throat with his bare hands. And then he saw the way Sara smiled at the young man, the happiness in her eyes, and he felt as if someone had driven a stake through his heart.
Dissolving into mist, Gabriel followed them as they walked down the street to a small cafe. Inside, they sat at a back table, talking about the evening's performance. The man, whose name, Gabriel learned, was Maurice Delacroix, praised Sara's dancing.
"I was good, wasn't I?" she said, but there was no boasting in her tone, or in her expression. "It was odd, but I felt as if…"
"As if?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it, Maurice. I wish…"
Maurice leaned closer, his hand enfolding hers. "What do you wish, Sara?"
"I wish Gabriel could have seen me dance tonight. I think he would have been pleased."
Maurice withdrew his hand from hers as if he'd been stung. "Gabriel again! When are you going to get over your infatuation with your benefactor?"
"I'm not infatuated. I just miss him, that's all." Sara stared at the candle sputtering in the middle of the table. The short time she had spent with Gabriel seemed so long ago, yet she had never forgotten him.
At first, she had written to him, but she had no last name for him, no address save Crosswick
Abbey, and her letters had come back with the notation that they were
undeliverable. Yet her bank account was always full. She had felt guilty spending his money when she couldn't even acknowledge his generosity with a note of thanks.
For a time, she had refused to spend his funds, and when two months passed with no withdrawal, she had received a short letter from Gabriel urging, almost demanding, that she indulge herself at his expense. It was the only letter she had received from him, and she had carried it with her until it grew dog-eared around the edges. Fearing its destruction, she had placed it between the pages of the first Paris Opera playbill that listed her name as
prima ballerina
.
Five years. She still couldn't believe how much she had learned, how far she'd come. She was the leading ballerina. It was a miracle. Most dancers started at a very young age and studied for years, yet the most intricate steps had come to her easily.
She was recognized on the street. Men sent her flowers and trinkets. She had received numerous proposals of marriage. She had danced before royalty. She had done all the things she had ever dreamed of, and still her life was lacking. She wanted to dance for Gabriel. She wanted to dance
with
Gabriel, to feel his arms around her once more, to gaze into the depths of his haunted gray eyes, to hear him sing his sad songs. More than anything, she yearned to wipe the sorrow from his eyes, to make him smile, to hear him laugh.
"Sara?"
Startled, she looked up.
"I asked if you're ready to go?"
"Yes." She smiled at Maurice. He was a handsome young man, tall and lean, with the inborn grace of a dancer. His hair and eyes were chocolate brown; his lips were full and sensual.
"I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I haven't been very good company tonight, have I?"
As always, he forgave her instantly. "Not very. Come, I'll walk you home."
He lingered at the door until she rewarded him with a kiss, and then, whistling softly, he went down the stairs, turning to wave before he disappeared around the corner.
In the quiet of her room, Sara turned on the lamp and got ready for bed. Sitting at her dressing table to brush her hair, she thought again of how
He sensed her nearness even before she emerged from the theater. At first, he saw only Sara, her vivid blue eyes sparkling, her long blond hair falling like a heavenly cloud about her slim shoulders.
And then he noticed the man at her side, the proprietary grip of his hand upon her arm.
A low growl rose in Gabriel's throat. His first instinct was to attack, to rip out the man's throat with his bare hands. And then he saw the way Sara smiled at the young man, the happiness in her eyes, and he felt as if someone had driven a stake through his heart.
Dissolving into mist, Gabriel followed them as they walked down the street to a small cafe. Inside, they sat at a back table, talking about the evening's performance. The man, whose name, Gabriel learned, was Maurice Delacroix, praised Sara's dancing.
"I was good, wasn't I?" she said, but there was no boasting in her tone, or in her expression. "It was odd, but I felt as if…"
"As if?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it, Maurice. I wish…"
Maurice leaned closer, his hand enfolding hers. "What do you wish, Sara?"
"I wish Gabriel could have seen me dance tonight. I think he would have been pleased."
Maurice withdrew his hand from hers as if he'd been stung. "Gabriel again! When are you going to get over your infatuation with your benefactor?"
"I'm not infatuated. I just miss him, that's all." Sara stared at the candle sputtering in the middle of the table. The short time she had spent with Gabriel seemed so long ago, yet she had never forgotten him.
At first, she had written to him, but she had no last name for him, no address save Crosswick
Abbey, and her letters had come back with the notation that they were
undeliverable. Yet her bank account was always full. She had felt guilty spending his money when she couldn't even acknowledge his generosity with a note of thanks.
For a time, she had refused to spend his funds, and when two months passed with no withdrawal, she had received a short letter from Gabriel urging, almost demanding, that she indulge herself at his expense. It was the only letter she had received from him, and she had carried it with her until it grew dog-eared around the edges. Fearing its destruction, she had placed it between the pages of the first Paris Opera playbill that listed her name as
prima ballerina
.
Five years. She still couldn't believe how much she had learned, how far she'd come. She was the leading ballerina. It was a miracle. Most dancers started at a very young age and studied for years, yet the most intricate steps had come to her easily.
She was recognized on the street. Men sent her flowers and trinkets. She had received numerous proposals of marriage. She had danced before royalty. She had done all the things she had ever dreamed of, and still her life was lacking. She wanted to dance for Gabriel. She wanted to dance
with
Gabriel, to feel his arms around her once more, to gaze into the depths of his haunted gray eyes, to hear him sing his sad songs. More than anything, she yearned to wipe the sorrow from his eyes, to make him smile, to hear him laugh.
"Sara?"
Startled, she looked up.
"I asked if you're ready to go?"
"Yes." She smiled at Maurice. He was a handsome young man, tall and lean, with the inborn grace of a dancer. His hair and eyes were chocolate brown; his lips were full and sensual.
"I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I haven't been very good company tonight, have I?"
As always, he forgave her instantly. "Not very. Come, I'll walk you home."
He lingered at the door until she rewarded him with a kiss, and then, whistling softly, he went down the stairs, turning to wave before he disappeared around the corner.
In the quiet of her room, Sara turned on the lamp and got ready for bed. Sitting at her dressing table to brush her hair, she thought again of how
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