Dark Fire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Author's Note

  Author Bio

  Dark Fire

  by Peggy Web

  Copyright

  Peggy Webb Dark Fire

  Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

  Cover Design Copyright 2011 Pat Ryan Graphics

  Publishing History /Bantam/1992

  All rights reserved. Copyright 1992 by Peggy Webb.

  Chapter One

  "Yes, that is Love—that wind of terrible and jealous beauty, blowing over me—that dark fire, that music . . ."

  from Cyrano de Bergerac by EDMOND ROSTAND

  The roar of jets filled the skies.

  Lieutenant Commander Sid Granger felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as the formation of sleek fighters streaked into the blue, their slim noses pointed toward the sun. F-14 Tomcats, looking as fierce as their name, piloted by the navy's finest, the TOPGUNs.

  Sid shaded his eyes against the sun, following the formation of jets until there was nothing left to see except a series of contrails snaking white against the hard azure California sky.

  "It makes you want to be up there, doesn't it. Eagle?"

  "Always." Sid watched the last of the plumed contrails break apart and billow wide until they were a part of the vast blue horizon, then turned to the speaker, a fellow instructor at the U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School. "But not enough to stick around Miramar and cancel my leave," he added with a grin.

  "Thirty days in Paris. Thirty days of French wine and French women." Macky "Hellcat" Waynesboro placed his hand reverently over his heart. "Do the navy proud. Eagle. Kiss them all at least once."

  "Me? With this nose that launched a thousand ships? With this face that looks like a hatchet with ears?" Sid laughed. "I'll do well if they don't run screaming at the sight of me and throw themselves into the Seine."

  Macky tilted his head and studied his friend, seeing beneath the laughter. Sid Granger had earned the call sign Eagle partly because of his fierceness in the skies and partly because of his looks. He was a big, rawboned man with the noble nose and the fighting spirit of his Kentucky-hills ancestors. A giant in the skies and in the classroom, he was unaccountably distant with most women.

  "You underestimate your charms," Macky said lightly. "Wait till you get to Paris. Women are going to fall all over you."

  "More than likely, they'll trip over my nose." At Macky's aggrieved look, Sid added, "But I'll kiss at least one, just for you."

  "Is that a promise?"

  "You can put money on it."

  Sid stuffed his hands in the pockets of his flight suit and went off, whistling. It was a good exit, one designed to cover his dismay at the thought of making good his promise.

  Sid was the first to arrive in Paris. The others would come later, his buddies, all graduates of the same class at Annapolis, lean, hard men who had been selected during their careers to go to TOP- GUN.

  Paris was the chosen rendezvous site because of the air show. Men who loved the skies never got far from them . . . even when they were on leave.

  Sid slung his bag over his shoulder and walked across the cobblestone courtyard. For his thirty- day leave he had taken a second-story apartment in a building known for charm and quaintness rather than glitz and glamour. The rooms were open and airy, with wide French windows that faced the courtyard. The furniture was antique rather than modern, the plumbing adequate rather than admirable, and the staff discreet rather than intrusive.

  The Chateau de l'Ange. House of the Angel, so named because the builder's young fiancee had perished in a fire in the west wing and was said to still walk the halls in search of her lover. The romantic legend appealed to Sid's poetic soul.

  When he reached the middle of the courtyard he set down his guitar case and his bag, then breathed deeply of the heavily perfumed air. Roses were everywhere, planted in fat pots sitting at the carved feet of wooden benches, trained into trellises on the brick walls, shaped into trees in enormous stone urns. The courtyard was one of the reasons he kept coming back.

  That, and the grand piano that would be waiting for him in his apartment. Here in the House of the Angel his creative spirit always took flight.

  "Hello, Paris. I'm back."

  A breeze whispered through the rosebushes. Sid smiled. It was enough welcome for him.

  The iron gate at the entrance to the courtyard creaked open. Sid turned at the sound and was immediately stricken with a paralysis that constricted his breathing and rooted his feet to the ground. Two women were coming through the gate, one with the red hair and friendly face of a spaniel puppy and the build of a stuffed chair.

  It was the other one who took Sid's breath away. She was dressed in white—a soft, filmy skirt that floated around her legs, a diaphanous blouse that bared her shoulders, and a long chiffon scarf that hugged her neck, then floated behind her like a cloud. She was holding on to the older woman's arm, looking down at her and laughing at something one of them had said.

  Her face was glorious. It looked as if it had been designed by angels and sculpted with roses. Delicate brows arched over wide-set eyes. A perfect nose balanced above beautifully carved lips. High cheekbones were a perfect counterpoint for a sweetly curving chin. A soft pink blush tinged her creamy skin.

  "Oh, look. Rose Anne," the older one said in the distinct drawl of the Deep South.

  Her voice spurred Sid to action. He picked up his belongings and ducked behind a grouping of rose trees. Avoidance was always his best tactic with beautiful women. He was spared having to make jokes about his nose, and they were spared having to pretend they didn't notice it. Besides that, the woman called Rose Anne probably wouldn't be caught dead in the company of any man who didn't look like an ad for one of those expensive weekends on the Riviera. He looked more like a coat hanger than a bronzed weekend Romeo.

  From the cover of the rose trees he stared at her. She was so beautiful, he felt that looking was almost a sacrilege.

  Rose Anne. What a name. Like music.

  "They've planted white roses again," the one with the red hair said. "Last time we were here they were all gone. Dead of some terrible scourge or other, I think the gardener told me."

  "Aphids, Auntie," the beautiful Rose Anne said, laughing as she hurried across the courtyard. "It was the aphids that killed all the white roses."

  White roses? Were they coming his way? Sid quickly surveyed the roses in front of his nose.

  Red. He was safe . . . unless they wanted to inspect the red roses too.

  Rose Anne bent over the white roses, her white dress and scarf billowing around her. Sid's heart pounded as he watched her. She looked like something sent down from heaven, something pure and untouchable.

  The other woman hovered nearby, her eyes darting about like hunting dogs searching for fallen birds.

  Sid tried to make himself a part of the scenery. If they spotted him, he would say he was the gardener, looking for aphids. Or maybe the brick- mason come to inspect the courtyard's ancient fountain. Or the new cook, hired to bring genuine American cuisine to the patrons.

  Anything but what he was. Fighter pilots were supposed to be like Macky "Hellcat" Waynesboro and William "Gunslinger" McGuire and Ron "Hawk" Hiddleston—cool-headed and certain with the women, charming, debonair, and handsome. The only women he'd ever been certain with were his mother, his two sisters, and sweet country girls like Erma June Fortenberry from Hollow Stump, Kentucky, who used to sit beside him on the front porch swing in the summers and talk abou
t her strawberry jam and her pickled peaches.

  Sweat inched from under his hair and ran down the sides of his cheeks. He had been cooler facing enemy fire.

  "Do you think Antoine will mind if I pick one?" As she turned to face the woman she called "Auntie," the sun struck Rose Anne's eyes. They were a brilliant and riveting green.

  "Lord, honey . . . Antoine wouldn't care if you beheaded his entire rose garden. He worships the ground you walk on. He'd die if you stayed at some fancy hotel instead of his place."

  "We'll give him something he loves in return." Rose Anne carefully plucked a white rose. "Maybe a box of chocolates. He loves sweets."

  "Or another signed photograph of you. I think he's planning to start his own Rose Anne museum."

  Rose Anne held the flower to her nose, closing her eyes to inhale the fragrance. "Hmmm, lovely."

  In his rose-scented lair, Sid stole secret moments with the forbidden beauty. The nearness of her sang through him with a wild joy that was almost terrifying. Was it love, coming so suddenly through the garden gate? He was an aviator, trained for war. What did he know of romance?

  Tucking the flower behind her ear. Rose Anne opened her eyes and stared across the courtyard. For a moment Sid thought he had been found out. He clenched his Jaw and waited.

  "We're going to be late, Rose Anne."

  "I know." Rose Anne sighed. "I wish I could just sit in this garden in the sunshine for the rest of the afternoon."

  "And burn your skin? Old Charlie would blow a gasket."

  "He would, wouldn't he?" Rose Anne linked her arm through the older woman's and headed for the gate.

  Sid waited until the gate closed and the murmur of their voices faded to silence before he left his place among the roses. Taking his belongings, he hurried to the apartment entrance. He took the stairs two at a time, his bag slung over his shoulder and his guitar banging against his legs.

  The apartment was cool and inviting. A grand piano gleamed in the sunshine beside the French windows.

  Sid stowed his gear in the closet, then crossed to the piano. Leaning down, he ran his hands lightly over the keys, testing their action, their tune.

  He was tired from his long flight. Almost exhausted. Taking a nap would be smart. Then he would be fresh and ready to go when his buddies arrived.

  As he started from the piano, a vision of Rose Anne's face rose before him. He sank onto the piano bench once more, filled with a dark fire, a music of jealous and terrible beauty that swept through his soul.

  His hands began to move over the keyboard.

  o0o

  "Here she is! Everybody, here she is!" Charlie Lazarre, Rose Anne's manager, trotted toward her like a Shetland pony, his squat legs racing to outdistance his pot belly. Red in the face from his efforts, he arrived puffing and wiping the sweat on his face with a polka dot linen handkerchief.

  Cooing like a pouter pigeon, he bent over her hand. "You look ravishing, my dear. Ravishing." Straightening up, he anxiously patted a curl on her cheek blown loose by the wind. "The Paris press is going to love you. They already love you."

  "Quit hovering. Charlie. That's my job." Bitsy Rucker planted herself squarely between Charlie and her niece. "Why don't we go over there and dig into that pile of fattening goodies and leave our girl to do what she does best . . . charm the press. Besides that, you're going to work yourself up into a heart attack one of these days."

  "You're right, Bitsy. She'll charm them. Charm them." Charlie went toward the dessert table, still wiping the perspiration.

  Bitsy leaned to whisper in Rose Anne's ear, "I'm going to sneak you some chocolate-covered strawberries when Charlie's not looking."

  Chocolate was forbidden on Rose Anne's austere diet, as were whipped cream and butter and

  nuts and every other delicacy that would put an ounce of fat on her willowly body.

  "Just one," she said.

  "The saint's drawers! If I had your discipline, I'd a been president of the United States by now instead of an old biddy following you around the globe." Bitsy cast a practiced eye in the direction of the press hounds waiting for the kill. "Watch that slick-looking number with the twirly mustache. He reminds me of the one in Rome who tried to sneak into your bedroom dressed as a florist's delivery boy. If he gives you any trouble, just holler and I'll come running with a big stick."

  "You worry too much. Auntie." Rose Anne patted her hand. "Go and enjoy the food."

  "I will. Especially since I'm eating for two." She always took an extra helping in the name of her niece, who was, in her opinion, being starved to death for no good reason.

  Bitsy left to join Charlie, muttering under her breath about the world's obsession with "skin and bones." Smiling, Rose Anne turned to meet the paparazzi.

  o0o

  Darkness curtained the courtyard. The white roses she had admired earlier were now mere shadows in the black-velvet night that had fallen over Paris.

  Rose Anne stood on her balcony, delicately munching the forbidden chocolate strawberry and enjoying the cool breeze that whispered over her skin. The heady perfume of roses wafted upward from below.

  Somewhere in the heart of Paris, lovers would be holding each other in candlelit nightclubs, dancing with their cheeks pressed close and their bodies touching. Sighing, she closed her mouth around the rich, juicy berry.

  She envied them, those careless lovers free to flirt and dance until two and gorge themselves without worrying about dark circles under their eyes or extra pounds on their hips or even worse— unscrupulous people who might be using them for their own selfish purposes. To be free. To be loved for herself rather than her fame and her face.

  In the beginning of her career it hadn't mattered. She had chosen her path, and she was happy. But lately she found herself filled with a strange nostalgia, as if she had left something precious behind in the marshy depths of south Georgia, as if there were secret wonders that had gone undiscovered when she'd taken the path to fame.

  "I'm going to watch television, Rose Anne. Want to join me?" Bitsy, wearing a pink silk nightcap over her flaming red curls, joined Rose Anne on the balcony.

  "What is it?"

  "An old Grace Kelly movie. She was nearly as beautiful as you are." Bitsy leaned over the railing and inhaled the night air. "Smells like home."

  "Are you homesick. Auntie?"

  "Heck, no. You know me. Give me a good sturdy pair of shoes and a plane ticket, and I'll go anywhere . . . including, by George, Africa."

  Rose Anne had forgotten about Africa. Three years earlier the thought of going on location there filled her with anticipation. Now it filled her with dread. The heat. The flies. The incessant hum of insects.

  She sat on the railing and gazed out over the courtyard, the half-eaten strawberry clutched in her hand, forgotten. From across the way came the strains of music.

  "Do you hear that. Auntie?"

  Bitsy cocked her head toward the sound.

  "Sounds like they're trying to rip the ivories off the piano."

  "It's beautiful."

  "Beautiful . . . but sad." The breeze threatened to rob Bitsy of her nightcap. She ducked back inside. "Lord, I can't listen to that anymore. If I do, I'm liable to break down and cry." She patted Rose Anne's arm. "You stay if you want to, but I'm fixing to get settled in with Caiy Grant."

  "I thought it was Grace Kelly."

  "It is, but she's secondary." Bitsy adjusted her cap. "If you had been a movie star instead of a model, I guess we'd be traipsing all over the country with somebody like Cary Grant instead of Charlie."

  "You can't fool me. You love Charlie."

  "I do, but don't tell him. I don't want him to get a big head."

  Bitsy went off to her favorite chair in front of the television set, and Rose Anne went to the open French doors and leaned her head against the door frame. The music wrapped itself around her and she drew it close, feeling it caress her skin, invade her heart.

  There was a thunderous crashing chord, an
d the music ceased. Rose Anne felt deprived, as if someone had suddenly snatched her cloak away and left her shivering in the dark.

  "Don't stop," she whispered.

  Almost as if he had heard, the musician started playing again. Soon he lifted his voice, rich and deep and mellow. It was music like none she had ever heard, music of such dark and haunting beauty, she felt as if she were touching the man's soul.

  Breathless, she pressed her hand to her throat. Instrument and voice blended as one, sending the music across the courtyard like arrows to pierce her heart. The deep fragrance of roses drifted upward and the night brightness of stars shone down as Rose Anne stood in the doorway, invaded by music.

  It seemed to be coming from the apartment directly across from hers, but when she looked she could see no lights. Somehow that was appropriate, that the beautiful brooding music should be coming from a dark and mysterious room.

  The magnificent voice touched her in ways she had never been touched. She pressed a hand against her throat, feeling the passionate fluttering of her pulse and the increased heat of her skin. The heat flamed through her, ignited by the music and trapped by her clothes. Slowly, she unbuttoned her filmy robe and let it drop to the floor.

  A breeze caressed her bare shoulders, but it did nothing to alleviate the flames that still licked her. She was liquid with music and heat and passion.

  The music soared around her and over her and through her. She closed her eyes and embraced it.

  Without warning, the music stopped. Rose Anne leaned against the door frame with her eyes closed, imprisoned by the intensity of the melody that still echoed through her.

  Who was the musician? The creator? Surely it had to be a man of passion and spirit, for how could he be anything less when her heart was stripped bare and her soul was crying out for the dark fire that only he could provide.

  She stayed in the open doorway, trapped by secret longings while the full moon shed its splendor in the skies and the roses lent their perfume to the night. She felt a dampness on her cheeks. Slowly she lifted her hands to her face and touched tears.