Free Brimstone Seduction by Barbara J. Hancock Page B

dance of damnation.
    He leaned toward her and her breath caught, but he was only reaching for the opera glasses. She released them from her fingers at the same time as she released a—she hoped—unnoticeable sigh. He didn’t turn back to the dancers. He held the glasses and continued to look down at her.
    â€œThese levels are closed until performances. Performers don’t enter the boxes or wander around. I’m not sure why your sister had these,” he said.
    â€œYou don’t know who owns this box?” she asked.
    â€œThere are records you could search, but they haven’t been computerized. I’m afraid our offices are Victorian by today’s standards,” Severne said. “Decades of papers and dusty files are an immortal’s prerogative.”
    Behind him, several stories below, the dancers writhed and undulated for Faust’s pleasure as Mephistopheles pretended to hold their strings like they were marionettes. Kat felt a little bit like her strings were being tugged by a fate that would have her dance for John Severne.
    How would she ever find her sister in the purposefully ambiguous atmosphere of l’Opéra Severne? The owner of the box might have nothing to do with her sister’s disappearance. In spite of what Severne had said, the boxes were curtained, not locked. Anyone might have slipped in and out of them unseen.
    Severne had stepped lightly to the side. He was offering her a seat. Because she didn’t want to seem intimidated or afraid, she took it, and he sank down beside her. Thankfully, the dancers were now separately working on individual elements of the ballet so the overall suggestive effect of the piece was lost. Unfortunately, the only suggestion left was the full force of her affinity for Severne, closed in the curtained-off box where her seat and Severne’s were so close that his arm brushed hers.
    He moved to place the opera glasses back in their slot. He had to lean across her body to do so. She couldn’t will the affinity away. This close, it was impossible to ignore. Even if she could, his natural magnetism would have called to her with or without Brimstone in his blood.
    It was the end of the day. Whatever he did in his Victorian offices, he’d literally rolled up his sleeves. The hair on his arm brushed hers. The tattoos she’d seen before peeked from beneath his white sleeve. This was his leisure—overseeing rehearsals, pondering damnation and torturing her.
    He sat back from returning the opera glasses to her chair, but the scent of smoky sandalwood still teased her nose. She wouldn’t meet his penetrating gaze. He hadn’t looked back at the dancers since she’d arrived. While she avoided his eyes, she noticed the longish black waves of his hair were slightly damp and curled against the open collar of his shirt.
    She was familiar with temptation and resistance. Surrender was a new possibility. She was afraid if she spent too long in John Severne’s company, her limits might be tested. He was a daemon, but he had taken the guise of a very attractive man. She was drawn to the burn beneath his control. She was drawn to what he might hide beneath the hardness he cultivated for the world. His penchant for sugary kisses and his reaction to her cello music gave her a glimpse at what vulnerabilities he might hide.
    He wasn’t a forthright man, but a daemon. His every move screamed those truths to her even though his words and demeanor were enigmatic.
    â€œYour music will make this dance impossible to resist. The audience will be captivated,” he said.
    And yet he also made raw confessions at every turn.
    She lifted her gaze from the dancers below to Severne’s eyes. The shadows were too deep to see any green, but he tilted toward her as if to accommodate her search, and a shaft of stage light fell over his eyes. The rest of his face was still shadowed, but his eyes were fully illuminated and as