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Dark Fire
Dark Fire
Dark Fire
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Dark Fire

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In this modern-day Cyrano de Bergerac story, Sid Granger, a fighter pilot with the soul of a poet, thinks he’s too homely to woo and win exquisite cover model Rose Ann Jones. He agrees to use his poetry and music to woo her for his buddy, never expecting that, instead of falling for the buddy, Rose Ann will fall for Sid’s romantic soul. When Rose Ann discovers the charade and runs, Sid has to come to terms with his own self-image before he can make Rose Ann believe she is the only music that fills his heart.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherPeggy Webb
Release dateMay 11, 2011
ISBN9781465957733
Dark Fire
Author

Peggy Webb

Peggy Webb is the bestselling author of more than fifty novels, including the Southern Cousins mystery series, the Stormwatch series, and The Tender Mercy of Roses. 

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    Dark Fire - Peggy Webb

    Dark Fire

    by Peggy Web

    Copyright

    Smashwords Edition

    Peggy Webb Dark Fire

    Copyright 2011 Peggy Webb

    Cover Design Copyright 2011 Pat Ryan Graphics

    Publishing History /Bantam/1992

    All rights reserved. Copyright © 1992 by Peggy Webb.

    Chapter One

    Yes, that is Love—that wind of terrible and jealous beauty, blowing over me—that dark fire, that music . . .

    from Cyrano de Bergerac by EDMOND ROSTAND

    The roar of jets filled the skies.

    Lieutenant Commander Sid Granger felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as the formation of sleek fighters streaked into the blue, their slim noses pointed toward the sun. F-14 Tomcats, looking as fierce as their name, piloted by the navy's finest, the TOPGUNs.

    Sid shaded his eyes against the sun, following the formation of jets until there was nothing left to see except a series of contrails snaking white against the hard azure California sky.

    It makes you want to be up there, doesn't it. Eagle?

    Always. Sid watched the last of the plumed contrails break apart and billow wide until they were a part of the vast blue horizon, then turned to the speaker, a fellow instructor at the U.S. Navy Fighter Weapons School. But not enough to stick around Miramar and cancel my leave, he added with a grin.

    Thirty days in Paris. Thirty days of French wine and French women. Macky Hellcat Waynesboro placed his hand reverently over his heart. Do the navy proud. Eagle. Kiss them all at least once.

    Me? With this nose that launched a thousand ships? With this face that looks like a hatchet with ears? Sid laughed. I'll do well if they don't run screaming at the sight of me and throw themselves into the Seine.

    Macky tilted his head and studied his friend, seeing beneath the laughter. Sid Granger had earned the call sign Eagle partly because of his fierceness in the skies and partly because of his looks. He was a big, rawboned man with the noble nose and the fighting spirit of his Kentucky-hills ancestors. A giant in the skies and in the classroom, he was unaccountably distant with most women.

    You underestimate your charms, Macky said lightly. Wait till you get to Paris. Women are going to fall all over you.

    More than likely, they'll trip over my nose. At Macky's aggrieved look, Sid added, But I'll kiss at least one, just for you.

    Is that a promise?

    You can put money on it.

    Sid stuffed his hands in the pockets of his flight suit and went off, whistling. It was a good exit, one designed to cover his dismay at the thought of making good his promise.

    Sid was the first to arrive in Paris. The others would come later, his buddies, all graduates of the same class at Annapolis, lean, hard men who had been selected during their careers to go to TOP- GUN.

    Paris was the chosen rendezvous site because of the air show. Men who loved the skies never got far from them . . . even when they were on leave.

    Sid slung his bag over his shoulder and walked across the cobblestone courtyard. For his thirty- day leave he had taken a second-story apartment in a building known for charm and quaintness rather than glitz and glamour. The rooms were open and airy, with wide French windows that faced the courtyard. The furniture was antique rather than modern, the plumbing adequate rather than admirable, and the staff discreet rather than intrusive.

    The Chateau de l'Ange. House of the Angel, so named because the builder's young fiancee had perished in a fire in the west wing and was said to still walk the halls in search of her lover. The romantic legend appealed to Sid's poetic soul.

    When he reached the middle of the courtyard he set down his guitar case and his bag, then breathed deeply of the heavily perfumed air. Roses were everywhere, planted in fat pots sitting at the carved feet of wooden benches, trained into trellises on the brick walls, shaped into trees in enormous stone urns. The courtyard was one of the reasons he kept coming back.

    That, and the grand piano that would be waiting for him in his apartment. Here in the House of the Angel his creative spirit always took flight.

    Hello, Paris. I'm back.

    A breeze whispered through the rosebushes. Sid smiled. It was enough welcome for him.

    The iron gate at the entrance to the courtyard creaked open. Sid turned at the sound and was immediately stricken with a paralysis that constricted his breathing and rooted his feet to the ground. Two women were coming through the gate, one with the red hair and friendly face of a spaniel puppy and the build of a stuffed chair.

    It was the other one who took Sid's breath away. She was dressed in white—a soft, filmy skirt that floated around her legs, a diaphanous blouse that bared her shoulders, and a long chiffon scarf that hugged her neck, then floated behind her like a cloud. She was holding on to the older woman's arm, looking down at her and laughing at something one of them had said.

    Her face was glorious. It looked as if it had been designed by angels and sculpted with roses. Delicate brows arched over wide-set eyes. A perfect nose balanced above beautifully carved lips. High cheekbones were a perfect counterpoint for a sweetly curving chin. A soft pink blush tinged her creamy skin.

    Oh, look. Rose Anne, the older one said in the distinct drawl of the Deep South.

    Her voice spurred Sid to action. He picked up his belongings and ducked behind a grouping of rose trees. Avoidance was always his best tactic with beautiful women. He was spared having to make jokes about his nose, and they were spared having to pretend they didn't notice it. Besides that, the woman called Rose Anne probably wouldn't be caught dead in the company of any man who didn't look like an ad for one of those expensive weekends on the Riviera. He looked more like a coat hanger than a bronzed weekend Romeo.

    From the cover of the rose trees he stared at her. She was so beautiful, he felt that looking was almost a sacrilege.

    Rose Anne. What a name. Like music.

    They've planted white roses again, the one with the red hair said. Last time we were here they were all gone. Dead of some terrible scourge or other, I think the gardener told me.

    Aphids, Auntie, the beautiful Rose Anne said, laughing as she hurried across the courtyard. It was the aphids that killed all the white roses.

    White roses? Were they coming his way? Sid quickly surveyed the roses in front of his nose.

    Red. He was safe . . . unless they wanted to inspect the red roses too.

    Rose Anne bent over the white roses, her white dress and scarf billowing around her. Sid's heart pounded as he watched her. She looked like something sent down from heaven, something pure and untouchable.

    The other woman hovered nearby, her eyes darting about like hunting dogs searching for fallen birds.

    Sid tried to make himself a part of the scenery. If they spotted him, he would say he was the gardener, looking for aphids. Or maybe the brick- mason come to inspect the courtyard's ancient fountain. Or the new cook, hired to bring genuine American cuisine to the patrons.

    Anything but what he was. Fighter pilots were supposed to be like Macky Hellcat Waynesboro and William Gunslinger McGuire and Ron Hawk Hiddleston—cool-headed and certain with the women, charming, debonair, and handsome. The only women he'd ever been certain with were his mother, his two sisters, and sweet country girls like Erma June Fortenberry from Hollow Stump, Kentucky, who used to sit beside him on the front porch swing in the summers and talk about her strawberry jam and her pickled peaches.

    Sweat inched from under his hair and ran down the sides of his cheeks. He had been cooler facing enemy fire.

    Do you think Antoine will mind if I pick one? As she turned to face the woman she called Auntie, the sun struck Rose Anne's eyes. They were a brilliant and riveting green.

    Lord, honey . . . Antoine wouldn't care if you beheaded his entire rose garden. He worships the ground you walk on. He'd die if you stayed at some fancy hotel instead of his place.

    We'll give him something he loves in return. Rose Anne carefully plucked a white rose. Maybe a box of chocolates. He loves sweets.

    Or another signed photograph of you. I think he's planning to start his own Rose Anne museum.

    Rose Anne held the flower to her nose, closing her eyes to inhale the fragrance. Hmmm, lovely.

    In his rose-scented lair, Sid stole secret moments with the forbidden beauty. The nearness of her sang through him with a wild joy that was almost terrifying. Was it love, coming so suddenly through the garden gate? He was an aviator, trained for war. What did he know of romance?

    Tucking the flower behind her ear. Rose Anne opened her eyes and stared across the courtyard. For a moment Sid thought he had been found out. He clenched his Jaw and waited.

    We're going to be late, Rose Anne.

    I know. Rose Anne sighed. I wish I could just sit in this garden in the sunshine for the rest of the afternoon.

    And burn your skin? Old Charlie would blow a gasket.

    He would, wouldn't he? Rose Anne linked her arm through the older woman's and headed for the gate.

    Sid waited until the gate closed and the murmur of their voices faded to silence before he left his place among the roses. Taking his belongings, he hurried to the apartment entrance. He took the stairs two at a time, his bag slung over his shoulder and his guitar banging against his legs.

    The apartment was cool and inviting. A grand piano gleamed in the sunshine beside the French windows.

    Sid stowed his gear in the closet, then crossed to the piano. Leaning down, he ran his hands lightly over the keys, testing their action, their tune.

    He was tired from his long flight. Almost exhausted. Taking a nap would be smart. Then he would be fresh and ready to go when his buddies arrived.

    As he started from the piano, a vision of Rose Anne's face rose before him. He sank onto the piano bench once more, filled with a dark fire, a music of jealous and terrible beauty that swept through his soul.

    His hands began to move over the keyboard.

    o0o

    Here she is! Everybody, here she is! Charlie Lazarre, Rose Anne's manager, trotted toward her like a Shetland pony, his squat legs racing to outdistance his pot belly. Red in the face from his efforts, he arrived puffing and wiping the sweat on his face with a polka dot linen handkerchief.

    Cooing like a pouter pigeon, he bent over her hand. You look ravishing, my dear. Ravishing. Straightening up, he anxiously patted a curl on her cheek blown loose by the wind. The Paris press is going to love you. They already love you.

    Quit hovering. Charlie. That's my job. Bitsy Rucker planted herself squarely between Charlie and her niece. Why don't we go over there and dig into that pile of fattening goodies and leave our girl to do what she does best . . . charm the press. Besides that, you're going to work yourself up into a heart attack one of these days.

    You're right, Bitsy. She'll charm them. Charm them. Charlie went toward the dessert table, still wiping the perspiration.

    Bitsy leaned to whisper in Rose Anne's ear, I'm going to sneak you some chocolate-covered strawberries when Charlie's not looking.

    Chocolate was forbidden on Rose Anne's austere diet, as were whipped cream and butter and

    nuts and every other delicacy that would put an ounce of fat on her willowly body.

    Just one, she said.

    The saint's drawers! If I had your discipline, I'd a been president of the United States by now instead of an old biddy following you around the globe. Bitsy cast a practiced eye in the direction of the press hounds waiting for the kill. Watch that slick-looking number with the twirly mustache. He reminds me of the one in Rome who tried to sneak into your bedroom dressed as a florist's delivery boy. If he gives you any trouble, just holler and I'll come running with a big stick.

    You worry too much. Auntie. Rose Anne patted her hand. Go and enjoy the food.

    I will. Especially since I'm eating for two. She always took an extra helping in the name of her niece, who was, in her opinion, being starved to death for no good reason.

    Bitsy left to join Charlie, muttering under her breath about the world's obsession with skin and bones. Smiling, Rose Anne turned to meet the paparazzi.

    o0o

    Darkness curtained the courtyard. The white roses she had admired earlier were now mere shadows in the black-velvet night that had fallen over Paris.

    Rose Anne stood on her balcony, delicately munching the forbidden chocolate strawberry and enjoying the cool breeze that whispered over her skin. The heady perfume of roses wafted upward from below.

    Somewhere in the heart of Paris, lovers would be holding each other in candlelit nightclubs, dancing with their cheeks pressed close and their bodies touching. Sighing, she closed her mouth around the rich, juicy berry.

    She envied them, those careless lovers free to flirt and dance until two and gorge themselves without worrying about dark circles under their eyes or extra pounds on their hips or even worse— unscrupulous people who might be using them for their own selfish purposes. To be free. To be loved for herself rather than her fame and her face.

    In the beginning of her career it hadn't mattered. She had chosen her path, and she was happy. But lately she found herself filled with a strange nostalgia, as if she had left something precious behind in the marshy depths of south Georgia, as

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