She could hear celebrations outside, in the streets surrounding the chateau, the citizens of the town of St. Pol singing and laughing and setting off fireworks. It must be almost midnight.
Unpinning her hat, she stepped over to the windows, into the light from the full moon that poured in through the stained glass. Looking down, she watched the snow falling softly, the twinkling lights of the houses surrounding the chateau, the blinking neon that advertised night spots in the town below.
There were a few dozen people perched atop the ancient, crumbling chateau wall, some holding cameras and telescopes aimed skyward. Celine leaned her forehead against the glass, letting the moon’s silver light wash over her.
Silver. Gold. Below, she could see the chateau’s outdoor heated pool and tennis courts and guest villas, and the Lamborghinis and Mercedes and Aston Martins that crammed the courtyard.
Wealth. She had always taken it for granted. But her family’s wealth couldn’t protect her anymore.
Daddy couldn’t buy her way out of this.
Her head began to pound more fiercely. She turned away from the window. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she would have to take an aspirin, no matter how much she hated pills.
Crossing to her armoire, she tossed her hat into the jumble of brightly colored fedoras and berets and plaid tams on the top shelf. She unzipped her dress, pulled it over her head and slung it across a hanger. Wearing only her gold silk teddy—a lacy little nothing she had picked up for six hundred dollars in Milan—she bent down and rifled through the clutter of boots and shoes on the bottom of the armoire, looking for her purse. She might have an old aspirin in it somewhere.
She found the large, hot-pink leather bag, carried it back to the bed, and sat down. Her fingers encountered passport, plane ticket, wallet, sunglasses, camera, sightseeing guidebook, a rolled-up Chicago Cubs baseball cap, and a chocolate Toblerone bar with a few bites left. No aspirin.
She closed her eyes with a shoulder-slumping sigh.
Outside, she could hear the crowd counting down: “Six ... cinq ... quatre ... trois ... deux ... un—Bonne Annee!”
Happy New Year.
She started to cry. It was a stupid thing to cry over, not being able to find an aspirin, but she couldn’t stop the sob that had welled up inside her.
It was just so typically Celine: ready to fly around the world at a moment’s notice, but unprepared for anything as simple and mundane as a headache.
It was a moment before she realized the laughter and songs outside had stopped, changed, turned into a cry of awe.
Celine opened her eyes—and gasped the same sound of wonder as she looked out the window.
The moon was slowly turning black. Disappearing into darkness! Mesmerized, she stood and stepped toward it, breathless at the sight of the night sky engulfing the lunar glow.
Suddenly a ray of the silver-blue light struck through the window. Like a prism, the stained glass condensed it into painful brilliance. Startled, blinded, Celine threw up a hand to cover her eyes, dropping her purse, falling backward.
But there was nothing beneath her.
The bed had disappeared!
Falling, she flailed wildly. There was nothing around her! Nothing to grab onto. A strange heat shimmered through her body. It felt like she was made of a million particles of fire. She opened her mouth. Screamed. She didn’t hear the sound. She was falling into darkness and couldn’t breathe. Because there was no air.
Chapter 2
Celine came awake with a start, suspended for a moment in the confusing fog between sleep and consciousness. She lay motionless in bed, groggy, unsure whether she was dreaming ... but what she felt couldn’t possibly be real.
Because what she felt was an arm around her waist. A burly, muscular, masculine arm.
Not daring to move or even breathe, she widened her eyes, blinking, trying to tell whether she was still asleep. She couldn’t see. The room was pitch-black. There was no moonlight. No glow from the lights outside. No light at all. Like there had been a power failure.
But she was definitely awake.
And definitely not alone.
And that bare arm was definitely attached to a bare man!
Even as the shock of it stunned her, she felt a tingle of awareness chase down her body: warm breath dusting the nape of her neck, a broad, hairy chest pressed against her back, a muscled leg thrown over hers. And nestled against her hip ...
Celine sat up with a yelp of panic and outrage. “Who are you and what are you doing in my room?” she cried, trying to untangle herself from his heavy limbs.
The man mumbled something she couldn’t make out, in weary-sounding French, and recaptured her easily with his arm. Pulling her close again, he kissed her bare shoulder and settled back to sleep with a sigh.