Chapter Eight
Vanessa sank slowlyback against her pillows, tears stinging her eyes. Her gaze fell upon the mask he’d left behind, and she blinked away the tears, anger chasing away the pain.
What was the matter with him? They’d been so close in those moments before she’d tried to unmask him. She knew how difficult it must have been for him to share his pain about losing Bridget and had felt that he trusted her enough to finally let her see him for who he really was.
Maybe she’d been wrong to push the matter, but how could he expect her to make love to him without even knowing his name? Was he Adrian Strathmore? She closed her eyes and relived the moments she’d spent with him, trying to visualize Morgan Strathmore’s features and remember his voice. In her heart, she was so sure she’d put the pieces together.
Prometheus didn’t want to take off the mask, not because he didn’t trust her to keep his identity a secret but because he didn’t want her to see his scarred face. Did he think so little of her, to believe that his scars would matter? Though they’d only spent a handful of hours together, she felt as though she knew him far better than anyone else in her life. The conversations they’d shared, the sweet kisses they’d exchanged...
He was beautiful to her, no matter what he looked like.
Her anger faded as she realized how very much someone must have hurt him. There had to be a reason why he feared that she wouldn’t accept him because surely he knew how much he had come to mean to her. Why wasn’t he willing to take the chance?
With trembling hands, she reached out and grabbed the mask, bringing it to her face and peering out the eyeholes, breathing in a lingering trace of his scent that clung to the fabric. She tried to imagine how it would feel to live this way, hiding in the dark, every breath stifled.
Gasping, she wrenched the thing away. It made her feel claustrophobic, suffocated.
He’d said he wasn’t going to come back, but she didn’t believe him. This thing between them was too powerful for him to stay away forever. Perhaps, after a day or two, he’d realize how foolish he’d been and return.
Next time, she promised herself she’d tell him she already knew who he was. Somehow, she had to convince him she’d still be attracted to him, no matter how extensive the scars behind the mask were.
* * * *
AFTER LEAVING VANESSA’Sflat, Adrian found himself back near Madame Mamie’s, standing in the shadows across the street, watching the customers come and go, fury and self-loathing roiling within him.
The only thing that had ever given his life meaning was the work he’d done as Prometheus.
“Perhaps it’s time for you to lie low,” she’d said, and he knew she was right. Roger was on to him. The close calls he’d had on his last two missions proved that, but he also knew he wasn’t going to stop. Especially now that he no longer had Vanessa in his life.
Loss welled within him, but he forced it back down, made himself focus on his surroundings, not on thoughts of the lovely woman he’d left behind.
He could stand the pain of walking away from her. What he could not bear was the thought of her walking away from him. If she’d seen his face and been disgusted, he never could have lived with it. Far better to make the cut himself.
* * * *
“NO YELLOW ROSES TONIGHT?” Marcus asked, leaning comfortably against Vanessa’s dressing table as she removed the heavy stage makeup.
She frowned and shook her head. Over a fortnight had passed since the last time she’d seen Prometheus. Every night, she left her window open, hoping against hope that he’d return to her, but she’d begun to think that would never happen.
Coincidentally, Adrian Strathmore had stopped coming to see her perform at the exact same time. If she’d had any lasting doubts about his identity, that fact alone would have proven irrefutable.
“What do you know about Adrian Strathmore?” she asked, rinsing her face and meeting her friend’s gaze.
He shrugged. “Just the usual gossip. When he was a boy, there was a fire at the earl’s country estate. The old earl got his wife out, and then went back for his children. He got two of the boys out without incident, but when he went back for the third, part of the roof collapsed upon them. Somehow, he managed to throw the boy out a second-story window, into a hedge to break his fall, but he didn’t make it out himself. They say Adrian is very badly burned, but he keeps to himself so much that I don’t know anyone who’s ever actually seen him.”
“Do you think perhaps the burns aren’t that extensive?” She knew for certain that the bottom half of his face had not been affected, because she’d stared at that mouth, kissed him, ran her hand across his jaw. She’d seen the edge of a scar the one time he’d let the mask slip a bit, but it hardly seemed extensive enough to make a man shut himself away as Adrian Strathmore did.
“Why?” Marcus asked warily. “Please don’t tell me you’ve set your cap for him. You could do far better than a deformed recluse.”
