A Rose At Midnight. Sylvie Kurtz

was very kind of you to include me this evening,” Christi said to Armand after their hostess fluttered away.

      “Nonsense, as one of the directors of the arts committee, it is my prerogative to invite whomever I desire.” His thick French accent was unmistakable despite his flawless English. His impeccable tux, neatly groomed black mustache and slicked-back charcoal hair reminded her of the perfect gentlemen in old black-and-white movies. His slow, gracious charm put her at ease here as it had since she’d arrived in Quebec City.

      “Besides,” he continued, “I needed an escort, and with you on my arm, I am the envy of every man here.”

      She laughed. “You’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

      “One of my many charms.” His white teeth shone and his dark eyes glittered with good humor. “Can I get you anything, ma chère?”

      “Some sparkling water, please.” She didn’t want to chance alcohol now that her stomach was finally behaving.

      “I shall return momentarily.” Armand bowed and moved in the direction of the bar at the other end of the cavernous room.

      When Armand had invited her to a party at a friend’s home, she’d expected a quaint little house, not a mansion. And this mansion fell just short of a palace as far as she was concerned. Antique furniture was arranged in cozy sets for easy conversation. Large portions of the marble floor lay bare for those who preferred to mingle or dance. Fresh greenery adorned with carnival masks and opalescent streamers decorated everything from priceless paintings to the curving cherrywood staircase ascending to the second floor. Multicolored lights and flickering candles in sconces gave the whole place a festive atmosphere.

      As she mingled her way around the room, she caught snatches of conversation.

      “He’s simply marvelous,” an older lady said, fanning her face with a hand.

      “Can you believe his show next week sold out in less than one hour?” said another. “I waited in line all day for the ticket window to open for nothing!”

      “Every time I hear him play, I fall in love.”

      “Speaking of love, I heard he met someone. In France. Or was it England? There’s talk of wedding bells.”

      “Pity.”

      “Not for her. Not with the contract he just signed.”

      Christi introduced herself to several people, passed a group of gray-haired, tuxedoed men and was about to join a group of women who seemed about her age when a commotion at the archway between this room and the next caught her attention.

      Madame Bernier stood on a chair and clapped her hands. In her green and gold sequined dress, she looked like an overweight hummingbird. “Attention everyone,” she said in French. “Let’s all make our way to the ballroom. The music is about to start.”

      Like salmon spawning, everyone hurried in the direction of the ballroom, murmuring excitedly as they went. Christi lagged behind.

      “Can I have everyone’s attention?” Madame Bernier waited a few minutes for the chatter to die down and the last person to squeeze into the ballroom.

      Christi found a spot at the back of the room, but couldn’t see the musician everyone seemed to have gone gaga over.

      “As you all know this simple gala is to welcome home our favorite pianist,” Madame Bernier said. “He’s just finished a smashing European tour. Next week, as part of the Mardi Gras Masked Ball, he will perform a piece commissioned by the arts committee especially for the event. I’m told it’s called ‘A Rose at Midnight.’” The crowd oohed their approval. “He’s graciously offered to donate all the proceeds to the young artist grant program sponsored by the arts committee.” Madame Bernier raised her hands and clapped, encouraging the crowd to do likewise. The response was almost deafening.

      When the roar died down, Madame Bernier spoke again. “Tonight, as a special favor to me, he’s agreed to treat us to a sample of his best-known pieces.” With one hand, she waved grandly at the piano. “Everyone help me welcome home Daniel Moreau!”

      Daniel Moreau.

      The name echoed and reechoed inside the chamber of her brain.

      The crowd clapped. Each meeting of palm against palm cracked like shattering glass and each shard scored her heart.

      Daniel? It couldn’t be. Not after all these years. Her heart beat too fast as she tried to see past the sea of heads. Her hands grew cold and clammy as she instinctively threaded her way through the people packed into the room. She needed to see. She needed to touch. She needed to know. An eerie, familiar melody buzzed inside her brain, simultaneously taking her back and begging her to go forward.

      As if in answer to the echo of her past, the music started.

      Unique.

      Unmistakable.

      Daniel.

      Goose bumps skated up and down her arms. The room swirled in dizzying eddies of colors. Spirals of hope and despair had her struggling for breath. And like a dam overcome with melting snow, a flood of memories gushed, nearly taking her feet from under her.

      Daniel.

      Her hand sought support and found an arm. “Mademoiselle?”

      Shaking her head, she snapped her hand away and gulped in air to stem the raging tide of panic surging through her. Slowly, the room stopped spinning, her breath returned to normal and her numbed brain started to function.

      She parted the sea of adoring females that crowded around the piano, hanging on to every chord he cajoled from the instrument.

      His hands came into view. Hands that had the long fingers of an artist. The well-toned muscles between the knuckles bore witness to the hours of practice. Her skin heated at their remembered touch. She readjusted her position. To get a better view. Nothing else.

      When she caught sight of his profile, her stomach rebelled, washing waves of acid against its sides. Hand fisted against the pain, she fought to clear the flash from the past superimposing a younger man over this musician’s features.

      Her Daniel had been positively skinny, whereas this man had a supple leanness about him. Her Daniel had sported long, unkempt, sun-bleached hair, instead of this man’s rich brown neatly cut style. Her Daniel’s angular, intense face had pleased her. She searched the uncompromising lines of this man’s face and found it hard to believe they were the same person.

      There was no softness left in him. Instead, there was a primal quality about the way he played—as if he were darkness condensed and controlled, his emotions caged and doled out precisely for a choreographed response, his motions smooth and graceful, yet ordered and precise. There was no doubt he mastered the instrument.

      She shivered.

      Yet something was missing. Something that had once stirred her so deeply she’d broken all of her self-imposed rules.

      Her Daniel had played with unbridled passion, the wildness a joy to watch. This Daniel played with soul, but without heart.

      When he lifted his gaze, he found hers as if he’d known all along she would be there. She saw no apology in his eyes, no awkwardness, only clear, deep amber. For an instant the color smoldered intimately to intoxicating brandy, then it hardened, giving him an aloof expression that struck her as sadness disguised.

      When the music stopped, people crowded around him like theater curtains, obscuring him from her view. She didn’t fight the sweep. She let it separate her from him because she’d long ago put aside all her silly notions of a happy reunion. Instead, she’d spent her energy on forging a future for herself and her daughter. She was content with her choices. Daniel was her past.

      It was time to leave. Time to get back to Rosane.

      “CHRISTIANE!”

      Fingers curled around her nearly