Like a Spell Does Evening Bind

"Once I choose to look with Luciana's eyes it was very easy to see and understand the primitive allure of the almost regal dignity, the curious, hypnotic quality of that unique voice. Beneath my roof I was sheltering a young prince of darkness. The sensuality of power radiated from his every move. . ."

-Giovanni

Prologue

Rome, 1870

Christine contemplated the door with wary eyes. Such a simple thing, but ripe with symbolic meaning. It was a door of thick, dark oak, the bronze handle ending in a fanciful curl. A door, a symbol of transition, change. Her life's upheavals had taught Christine to be wary of the promise radiating from the door. Or rather, the man that lay beyond it. Her heart fluttered. Had he truly meant it, or was he simply toying with her? He made her feel young and gauche and stupid, unsure if his silken-voiced promises were made in truth or jest. Rome's languid heat pressed on her, raising a fine dew of perspiration as she loitered at the foot of the stair, contemplating the door to his basement room.

All of a sudden, the door creaked open, and there he was in all of his dark glory. Her throat went dry, her hands fisted in her lacy shift. Her eyes skittered away from the masked, sphinx-like visage to feast on the way his black silk robe exposed a thin sliver of his darkly tanned chest, complete with a smattering of black chest hair. Embroidery in black thread sinuously caressed the sleeves and the line of his broad shoulders, catching the light of the lone candle flickering in the sconce on the wall. Black trousers encased his legs, but his feet were bare. It seemed titillating and forbidden to see his naked feet, more so than even his bare chest.

"Look at me, Christine," he said, coaxing her in his voice of chocolate, smoke, and angel's tears. Obediently, she lifted her gaze to those startlingly, painfully green eyes. The left side of his face held none of Michangelo's fondness of pert, Cupid's bow mouths, or straight Roman noses. No, Erik's mouth was ripe with sensuality, his nose proudly aquiline, cheekbone set a catlike tilt. The right side was concealed by a white, stern half-mask, which only added to his mystery. His collar-length black hair, usually combed so neatly back, was distractingly disheveled, one stubborn lock hanging in his eyes. An artful toss of his head cleared his vision. His hot gaze raked over her, hungrily devouring the sight of her clad in nothing but her shift and her hair.

"Have you made your choice, pet?" he purred, head tilted at a flirtatious angle. Rather than seem like the aloof prince of darkness, his eyes burned. Her answer mattered to him. Intensely. Gooseflesh stippled her skin. In his presence, her doubts burned away like fog under the hot eye of the sun. She wanted this.

"Yes," she breathed. His hand unfurled in the very definition of subtle grace, and Christine folded her own into it, trembling.

A/N: Just a snippet to whet your appetite! R&R

The title is a quote from Faust, which Christine first sings (unknowingly) to Erik in Kay.

"Oh how strange! Like a spell does the evening bind me! A deep and languid charm . . ."