Christmas Flame Read online

  “You should see the square.” Dan guided her across to where maroon drapes hung from the ceiling arches to the floor twenty feet below, framing the tall French doors. Gold tapestry edged the velvet curtains, and gold ropes held them away from the panes.

  The famous Opernplatz, or Opera Square, glistened wetly under the black wrought iron street lamps. Electric. Even the nostalgic burgers of Frankfurt, intent on restoring what the war had cost them, had not installed gaslight. Heads down and umbrellas up, pedestrians scurried past. A gaggle of youngsters carrying six-packs added a modern touch.

  The white marble fountains had been turned off for the winter, but white lights outlined its statues and created a glittering fairyland to match the dozens of Christmas trees. A Texas girl of course knew that Americans had borrowed the tradition of the lit Christmas tree from their many German immigrants.

  “What time is it?” she whispered. Genevieve had left her plain service watch at home. It didn’t go with make believe.

  “It’s 1840 hours. You have plenty of time to finish your champagne before the bell.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Grant~

  Frau Mueller the stage manager kept glaring at him, willing him to go to his dressing room. But Grant kept his eye on the three front-of-house monitors, daring Hilde Mueller to object to his behavior. He knew he should be in his dressing room composing himself but he needed to feast his eyes on Genevieve.

  His mate looked even more luscious than he had remembered. How long had it been since he had seen her in person? Two years, four months and twelve days. But who was counting?

  Her glorious bosom was wrapped in purple velvet so dark as to be almost black. He nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of those ripe, gift-wrapped breasts, and the opulent hips swelling beneath her corset. Her skin glinted like temptation personified, through the delicate lace of her sleeves.

  Hovering solicitously beside her was a runt in dress blues. Runt didn’t have as many medals as the least of Grant’s brothers, but he had a chestful. What was that scrawny bastard to his Genevieve? Gradually the red mist that obscured his sight dissipated as he recognized one of his brother Lincoln’s buddies.

  In his own way, Maj. Daniel Gilmore was a hero. Knowing Linc as he did, Gilmore’s presence in Frankfurt confirmed he was in military intelligence. What was a supposedly happily married man doing dancing attendance on his mate? Surely Genevieve had not changed so much that she would have an affair with a married man?

  Gilmore touched her back lightly and indicated the tall windows overlooking the public square. Genevieve gave him one of her radiant smiles and drifted across the room, the frivolous skirt of that delicious gown playing peekaboo with her six-inch fuck-me stilettos. Those sandals made her tower above Gilmore, not that the bastard seemed to mind.

  Despite his lack of height and breadth, the jammed lobby posed no problem to Maj. Gilmore and his companion. He and Genevieve glided over to the windows as the throng parted before them. It exposed the pushing and shoving of the two men following them.

  They were as short as Gilmore and a great deal squatter. Their ill-fitting business suits were out of place in this well-heeled audience. The Christmas Eve performance was a good deal glitzier even than usual. But these fellows had not dressed for a gala.

  Unless he was greatly mistaken, they were packing. Could these obtrusive fellows be Gilmore’s bodyguards? Hardly. They were obvious but furtive. Totally unlike secret servicemen. His phoenix intuition crossed into overdrive. Around his nose, what would be his stiff rictal bristles when he was in phoenix prickled a warning. For better or worse, sensing danger was his gift.

  Shift on a stick. What did those bulked up jerks want with his woman? Or with his woman and her companion? The son and brother of military officers never forgot his country was at war. And where there was war, there were dirty tricks. He had hoped to enjoy a pleasant supper party with his mate, even if she had brought along her own damned date, but it looked as if fate would force him into a very different role.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Genevieve~

  The concert hall was as splendid as the lobby and exterior. But it was entirely modern. The architects had retained the traditional shoebox shape but had substituted beechwood walls for the gilded nineteenth century plasterwork. Rectangular fabric baffles stood in for the painted and arched ceilings of the original hall.

  The chairs were upholstered in taupe plush, rather than maroon velvet, but were probably more comfortable than the originals. Tiers of balconies fitted with matching taupe armchairs overlooked the broad stage. They were crammed with the members of the chorus. Altos and sopranos in blue gowns, basses, baritones, and tenors in black tie.

  As Genevieve smoothed her skirt to sit, the stage itself was still empty. She opened her program and began to read. The notes and words were in German. But she and Dan were fluent, so that posed no problem. The Messiah’s libretto had been originally written in English, for the English court, but Germans took a sensible approach to the arts. Translation was normal.

  Dan leaned over to ask if she planned to join in the Hallelujah chorus at the end of the second section. She nodded. Of course. She loved to sing. She had met the D’Angelo sisters long ago when they were all members of the San Angelo Children’s Choir, which year after year routinely scooped all the regional and state prizes.

  The buzz from the audience rose to fever pitch as the members of the orchestra shuffled out and took their seats. The usual discordant tuning began. Music stands were rearranged. Seats were repositioned to accommodate the greater or lesser bulk of instruments or players. At last the concertmaster emerged to polite applause and the room quieted. He sat, apparently only so he might rise and bow to Herr Kapellmeister Börn.

  The famous conductor returned the concertmaster’s tribute before acknowledging the audience. The four soloists came out and shook hands with Börn. Genevieve felt Grant’s eyes on her and was sure she blushed an unbecoming fuchsia. That was the difficulty when the lights were barely dimmed so that the audience could follow along with the words. The gentleman beside her had even brought his own score, and he was far from the only one.

  When Börn lifted his baton, she settled back to enjoy herself. The magnificent music washed over her. Up on the stage, Grant, impossibly handsome in tailcoat and white tie, sat waiting for his first solo. It had to be her imagination that he was staring at her. Grant was a professional waiting for his cue. His attention would surely be on his conductor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Grant~

  His Genevieve was sitting sixth row center right under his eye as he had intended. She was as lustrous as a pearl. Her rosy lips parted, her bosom swelled, and her green eyes sparkled when Grant opened his mouth and let the splendor of the words pour out in a magnificent wave. For her.

  Whatever Dan Gilmore was to her, Handel was more. She smiled and shook her head when Dan put his lips to her ear. Unfortunately, Gilmore wasn’t the only man who couldn’t take his attention off Grant’s queenly mate.

  The two men from the lobby were standing together at the rear. Standing room tickets went on sale the day of a performance. These cheap tickets were usually snapped up by pensioners and students. These men were no kind of music lovers. It would have been one thing if they had been using their opera glasses to pick out the performers, as so many others were doing. But their unwavering stares were fixed on Genevieve and Gilmore.

  Who the hell were these grim, grizzled thugs? His uneasiness grew as the men failed to transfer their attention to the singing or the singers. Just before the half, Genevieve and Gilmore stood and joined in the Hallelujah Chorus with the rest of the audience. But the two observers did not sing. Their opera glasses did not waver. Neither did they join in the applause.

  Shift. Grant was going to have to distress Frau Mueller by disappearing during the intermission. He needed to do some spying of his own. Fortunately, if he took lesser phoenix not only would he be virtually invisible to peo
ple, he would only be hawk-sized and could fly around in the high-ceiling lobby. Surely among that overwrought splendor, he could find a discreet perch?

  He only had twenty minutes to track down his quarry and get his monkey suit back on before Act Two. By any definition, it was going to be a rush. He opened the door of his dressing room a crack before he changed into lesser phoenix and deprived himself of hands. He locked his clothes in the bathroom away from prying eyes.

  No one noticed when a glowing bird hopped awkwardly past the door of the star’s dressing room. He hoped that if Frau Mueller or her assistant passed by that they would leave his door ajar. Otherwise he was going to add to the already flamboyant legend of the Angel of the Opera by appearing backstage in the altogether.

  The lobby rang to happy chatter. Nearly everyone was sipping at a glass. He spotted Genevieve’s shining golden curls without difficulty. She was far and away the tallest woman in the room. And the most beautiful. And where she went, the gallant Gilmore led, once again cutting through the assembly without fuss.

  And behind them came those shoving brutes, shouldering the crowd aside. They pushed their way to the nearest table, elbowing between a gray-haired couple quietly sipping champagne. The man protested civilly. Thug One responded with a grunt. Thug Two made a rude gesture. The man leaned around Thug Two and pulled his wife to his side. They bowed frigidly and went away exclaiming about modern manners.

  Grant circled the room to be certain that Thugs One and Two had no friends present. They seemed to be alone. He perched on the gilded column behind them and listened to their grumbling. Grant had the phoenix gift of tongues, honed by years of living in foreign parts. Bulgarians. Stinking Bulgarian boar shifters. Spies making plans for later. Plans involving Gilmore and Genevieve.

  He didn’t need the twitching of his rictal bristles to tell him those plans were evil. Ill will had a stench all its own. This pair intended violence. He knew that as surely as he knew Genevieve was his to protect. The question was how.

  He remembered all too well the attack on his niece in California*. He had dealt by himself with the wolverine who had arranged Quincy’s abduction. He could deal with these boars. Except that immolating two men in the lobby of the Alte Oper would cause its own set of problems. He needed back-up and he needed it now.

  Frau Mueller was rapping on his bathroom door and impatiently calling out. He perched on the picture over the couch and willed her to leave his dressing room. The silence made her swear. She instructed her assistant over the headset. Johann was to seek Herr Doktor Doktor D’Angelo in the soprano’s dressing room.

  At the best of times, Frau Mueller’s formality embarrassed Grant. Both his doctorates were purely honorary. He had managed to persuade her to drop the second Doktor, but of course she would not when speaking to an underling. She left shaking her head and shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Grant returned to human and grabbed his cell. He called Lincoln from the bathroom as he struggled back into his clothes. Shift. He had exactly eight minutes and twelve seconds.

  Lincoln answered at once. “What the hell do you want? I’m working,” he complained.

  “I’ve got a problem, Linc. And this phone is on speaker and it’s not encrypted. I repeat, not encrypted.”

  “Huh. Just a minute.” There was a pause while Lincoln did something. A muted buzzing filled the background. “Okay, Grant. Proceed. In code. Where are you?”

  It took six of his precious minutes to discreetly inform Linc that his old buddy Daniel Gilmore was at the Alte Oper being shadowed by unspecified shifters. Fortunately, the D’Angelo brothers had perfected their secret code in adolescence. Unfortunately, they had not anticipated this conversation.

  But Linc’s, “I’ll take care of it,” required no code at all.

  Frau Mueller was back, rapping desperately on the bathroom door. “Herr Doktor, are you ready?”

  “I will be.” Grant flushed the toilet. His tie was still undone and he fiddled with it as best he could.

  “Go sing,” ordered Linc, as if he was in charge. That was the worst of big brothers.

  Grant hung up, pulled the edges of his bow tie square, adjusted his lapels and joined Frau Mueller and Linda in the hallway.

  “Something I ate,” he murmured at their skeptical faces.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Genevieve~

  She would enjoy this treat if it killed her. During the intermission, she had insisted that she and Dan have a second celebratory glass of champagne. Now that it was approaching, she was actively dreading Grant’s supper party. She greatly feared that she would be an unwelcome third wheel with Grant and the soprano. Her butterflies began a jitterbug.

  Blonde and willowy Helena Del Court was as famous as Grant and not just for her singing. She and her billionaire lover Ivan Sarkany** had come to an inglorious parting of the ways documented in full color by the sketchiest tabloids. It was going to be awkward to sit across from Grant’s latest and pretend her usual indifference to his charms.

  That was one thing she had never faced. Grant did not bring women to Grape Creek. Except for his manager, Linda Hoskins, who Frankie and Eleanor with much eye-rolling accused of spoiling their brother.

  “Linda acts as if he’s a willful toddler and she’s his nanny. I mean nursemaid, not grandmother,” Eleanor had declared. “I fully expected her to cut up his meat for him.”

  Not even Genevieve could be jealous of Grant’s relationship with Linda. Genevieve did not want to be a substitute mommy to Grant. And why he should have permitted fame to turn him into a helpless infant, she had even less idea. Her hero, Grant D’Angelo had been a tireless running back, president of the school council, and the valedictorian of his high school class. The furthest thing from incapable.

  Maybe fame had changed him. They hadn’t met often after he graduated from Julliard and his international career took off and his trips home became few and far between. And it wasn’t as if the Air Force granted her leave to coincide with his vacations. How long had it been since she had talked to Grant? Two years, four months and twelve days. But who was counting?

  The bells chimed to summon the audience back, and she and Dan returned to their seats. When Grant strode back on stage, the Angel of the Opera looked a shade less dapper, a shade less sleek. His tie was askew and his dark hair had been ruffled into waves. Presumably he had spent the intermission tumbling the soprano. Her butterflies were replaced by lead balls.

  Although Helena Del Court looked every bit as glossy as she had before. Her makeup was perfect. Not a single curl was out of place on her towering blonde updo. It’s a wig, you idiot. Genevieve’s heart sank deep into those sexy, new sandals. She swallowed hard and pinned a smile on her frozen face.

  *Phoenix Aflame

  ** Dragon’s Pleasure

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Grant had never been so eager to make his bow after any performance. The audience clearly had not noticed his distraction for as one they surged to their feet. As the noise of their applause increased in volume it synchronized. In Northern Europe this was always a sign of collective delight. Herr Kapellmeister Börn beamed as he took Grant and Helena’s hands. They bowed again before filing off.

  The audience clapped louder. The bravos echoed. Börn was delighted. He led the way back to the stage where the musicians remained standing. There were two more rounds of bows and curtsies before the conductor dismissed the orchestra. He and the soloists returned for a final bow.

  This time even the tumult did not work. “Let’s leave them wanting more,” declared Börn. “Happy Christmas, people.” He disappeared into his dressing room.

  And not a moment too soon. Grant stepped in front of the bored security guard stationed in the greenroom corridor. “A favor, please,” he requested.

  The guard would be honored personally to escort the guests of Herr Doktor Doktor backstage. He hurried off to perform his errand.

  Grant had to trust that Lincoln’s reach was as great as he
had promised. Presumably Linc’s people would pick up the Bulgarian spies and deal with them. He would take Genevieve and Gilmore to the brasserie in the square where he had reservations. As soon as he freshened up. Standing under the bright stage lights while worrying about his mate had not left him in any shape to dine.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Genevieve~

  Because they were at the front of the house, it took a long time for Genevieve and Dan to get to the lobby doors. They waited patiently as everyone shuffled forward. By the doors, a middle-aged security guard held up a neat white placard with their names on it.

  “You are the guests of Herr Doktor Doktor D’Angelo?” he asked.

  Genevieve admitted it.

  “It is my honor to escort you to the dressing room of the Herr Doktor Doktor.”

  “We’ll need to collect the lady’s boots and wrap first,” Dan said cheerfully.

  “Naturally. This way, if you will be so good, Herr, Frau?” He led them to the cloakroom and stood beside Genevieve while Dan struggled genteelly with people suddenly aware that midnight with all its rituals was fast approaching.

  After a few minutes he returned with Genevieve’s black bag and her velvet cape. The guard found her a bench so she could change into her boots. Dan draped the cape over her shoulders. The guard led them to a door marked ‘No Admittance’ and held it for them. Two men tried to squeeze in after them.

  “Achtung Herren! No admittance, gentlemen,” protested the guard as one of the pair grabbed the edge of the door to prevent it from closing.

  Dan moved without haste. Suddenly his slim form blocked the doorway. The husky pair surged forward. He did something that spun the first intruder into the second. They collided, swearing. Dan pulled the door closed. It was over before it had begun.