Haydée’s skin was still crawling long after the Count had carried her from the opera house. There was no shred of doubt in her mind that it was him. He was older, certainly. His hair had greyed and his skin had lost its youthful lustre, but his eyes were just as icy and unrelenting as the first time she looked into them. They cut through her and burrowed down into the raw, still-open wound he’d left behind all those years ago. She knew him, but did he know her? What did he see