Page 27 of Greek's Temporary Cinderella

There was something about the way she was just sitting there, resplendent in the soft white faux fur jacket nestled around her shoulders, the upswept hair exposing the line of her neck, the cut of her cheekbones, her always beautiful eyes deepened and darkened by make-up and thick, blackened lashes. Her face was semi-averted from him and she was looking out of the window, studiedly taking no notice of him. All he could see of her gown was the sweep of silk from waist to ankles, her legs slanting away from him.

She was remote from him, withdrawn from him—as if he did not exist for her.

Something flared in the depths of his eyes and he rested his gaze darkly upon her averted profile. He would make himself exist for her—she would take notice of him. He would make it impossible for her not to.

I want to be rid of this desire for her—dear God, I just want to be rid of it! I want it not to be able to torment me ever again.

It was his only wish.

The car had pulled up outside the opera house, the Palais Garnier, and the driver was opening her door for her. Eliana stepped out carefully, her gaze going to the grand edifice—a legacy of the opulence of the Second Empire of Napoleon III in the mid-nineteenth century. Then Leandros was beside her, taller than ever, it seemed to her, in his evening dress, guiding her in.

The glories of the interior were breathtaking, and she gazed around the lobby, already crowded with women in evening gowns, men in black tie tuxedos. The sheer opulence was almost beyond belief. Her eyes went to the massively imposing staircase that divided in two to sweep to the upper floor with a flamboyance that only the extravagances of the Second Empire could justify. Everywhere there were columns and carvings and statuary, gilded and glowing in the lamplight. She all but blinked at the dazzle.

She felt a touch at her elbow and started.

‘This way,’ Leandros said at her side.

And then she was being guided up that magnificent staircase, gazing around her as she went. She gathered the skirt of her evening gown with one hand, her heels ringing on the marble stairs. Others were doing likewise, making the ascent to the next level up. There was a chattering of mostly French but other languages too all around her, and the scent of expensive perfume in the air.

They were shown into their loge and she stood gazing out over the auditorium, filling up now, and at the other boxes all around as well. She felt hands on her shoulders, and started again.

‘Let me take your jacket,’ Leandros said.

She was reluctant to part with it, but he was already sliding it from her shoulders—and besides, she was already too warm. Yet with it gone she felt horribly exposed, knowing just how much of her flesh he was seeing—her shoulders, her arms, and the expanse of her décolletage that she had been unable to cover, even with the aid of the safety pins raising the drape of her bodice.

She sat herself down on one of the gilt and velvet chairs, leaning forward slightly to continue her perusal of the spectacular interior of the opera house—and to avoid having to pay any attention to Leandros. Her nerves were on edge, and she was supremely and uncomfortably conscious of her appearance, and of his presence behind her.

She heard him saying something in French to someone who seemed to have come into the back of the box, and she wondered if they were to share it. But then the exchange ceased, and instead she heard the sound of effervescent liquid being poured. A moment later Leandros was standing beside her, proffering a glass of lightly foaming champagne. She took it without thinking, and he raised his own glass to her. The light from the wall lamp threw his features into chiaroscuro, accentuating the planes of his face—hardening them, it seemed to her—and she felt herself tense.

‘To my very own Manon,’ he said.

His voice was as edged as a knife-blade inserted between her ribs.

‘My faithless fiancée...’

She paled—she could not help it. The blade in her flesh twisted, and she almost cried out in pain. Yet she had no defence against it.

She had only the glass of champagne he had bestowed upon her.

She took a mouthful, ignoring the delicate mousse, simply swallowing it down, needing to feel its impact. Yet for all that she could still feel her eyes sting, and she lowered her gaze, letting her mascara-laden eyelashes veil it from him. What good would it do to let him see her pain at his scathing taunt? He would only think she deserved to feel it.

And I know I have no defence to make.

She took another mouthful, welcoming its effervescence in her mouth, in her suddenly constricted throat, as she swallowed it down. She felt its kick and was glad. Grateful.

Leandros was taking the seat beside her—too close, far too close—angling his long legs away from her, then handing her a programme, which presumably had been delivered along with the bottle of champagne.

She was grateful for the programme, which gave her something to do other than knock back her champagne. She balanced the glass carefully on the unoccupied chair on her other side and bent her head to peruse the programme. It was in French, and she had to focus on trying to understand its explanation of the contents of each act. But she knew the sorry tale well enough—even though Manon had never been a favourite Puccini for her. How could it be with such a heroine?

Though ‘heroine’ was scarcely the word for her. She was vain and conceited and unrepentant, as well as faithless and venal.

Does Leandros truly think me as despicable as she was?

She reached for her champagne again to block the anguished question. As she did, she realised that the house lights were starting to dim, and the audience had taken their seats. The orchestra was done with tuning up, and a hush was descending over the auditorium. The emergence of the conductor—a famous name, she knew—heralded the start of the performance.

Setting aside her programme, she held the champagne glass instead, finding some comfort in sipping from it as the music sprang into life and the curtain rose on the first act, where the hapless lover, des Grieux, would meet the woman who would destroy his life.

Despite the innocuous opening scene, with its cheerful crowd and carefree students, how could she possibly enjoy so sad and sordid a story? Only when the tenor singing des Grieux—another famous name—launched into the celebrated aria, one of the best known of the opera, did she feel unwilling emotion welling up in her as the familiar cadences caught at her, caught her up in des Grieux’s headlong plunge into total, overwhelming love at first sight, swept away by so fatal an indulgence.

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