Teresa Medeiros (19 page)

There had been only Arian in his silk pajama shirt and bare feet, her dark eyes flashing with anger, her soft lips quivering because his cruelty had almost driven her to tears.

His unsteady legs betrayed him. He sat down abruptly on the edge of the platform, resting his hands on his knees to control their violent trembling. “Who the hell are you?” he whispered, searching her face.

Gazing into the molten pewter of Tristan’s eyes, Arian realized he was no longer demanding, but pleading. A plea she found it nearly impossible to resist.

“I’m Arian Whitewood,” she whispered back, spreading the oversized nightshirt to bob a shy curtsy.

“From France?” he added hoarsely.

She nearly blurted out the truth, but some small, superstitious part of her was hesitant to invoke the Reverend Linnet’s name. The sin had been solely his, but
the shame of that dark episode seemed to taint even this shadowless haven. She longed to leave Linnet and Gloucester in the past where they belonged.

Tristan watched Arian hesitate, saw the shadow pass over her face. How many times had he felt the presence of a private specter only to have Eddie Hobbes or some other reporter drag it into the sunlight for strangers to poke and prod? He certainly didn’t want Arian or anyone else delving into his past or nudging his ghosts into wakefulness.

“Don’t,” he said, lifting his hand to stay her words. “All I asked for was proof of magic. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.” A choked laugh escaped him. “Unless, of course, the
Prattler
’s right and you really are a lascivious alien with insatiable appetites who’s going to whisk me off to Venus and keep me in sexual bondage until I father a new race of superbeings.” Tristan had frequently entertained such fantasies as a sex-starved,
Star Trek
-obsessed teenager, and to his keen chagrin, he discovered it wasn’t such a stretch of his imagination to picture Arian in a silver foil bikini leveling a laser gun at his heart. Hell, she might not even need the gun.

Her cheeks had darkened in an endearing blush. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m only a witch.”

“Only a witch,” Tristan echoed, clambering to his feet. Wonder crept over him, as gently and irrevocably as a mist of green stealing over a slumbering garden. “Just a cauldron-stirring, lightning-hurling, broom-riding princess of darkness.”

Arian sniffled. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Tristan approached her with the respect he would have accorded her from the beginning had he not been so desperate to elude her enchantment. “I haven’t been very nice to you, have I? I was a dreadful bully.”

“An absolute wretch.” Her voice subsided to a defensive mumble. “I could so pull a rabbit out of a rabbit hutch.”

Tristan winced. “Lightning was too good for me. You should have turned me into a frog.”

“A tadpole,” she concurred with a sullen nod. “ ’Twould have been no more than you deserved for—” She glanced up at him, her eyes brightening with poorly disguised hope. “Do you honestly believe I could? Turn you into a frog?”

As Tristan cupped her chin in his palm, his thumb strayed out to caress her parted lips. He had thought to wring a confession from them, but it seemed he would be the one compelled to confess tonight.

“Yes, Arian,” he said softly. “I believe.”

Beguiled by the reverent glow in his eyes, Arian wondered how she could feel so blissfully elated and so miserably uncertain at the same time. Beneath the guise of smoothing a wrinkle, she tucked the amulet into her nightshirt, praying Tristan’s newfound faith was not misplaced.

When Tristan marched into Copperfield’s office the next morning, clutching a paper sack from a nearby hardware store instead of a stack of files, Cop’s scowl warned him that his allegiance had shifted. He might as well have had “Michael Copperfield, Defender of Chaste Witches” lettered in gold on his door. Tristan could have told his friend that his vigilance was unnecessary. He had every intention of protecting Arian from himself.

Copperfield snapped open a folder and used it to shield his mutinous expression. “Don’t nag. I’ve been working on the Monkman account since dawn. I’ll have a copy of my report on your desk by noon or you can dock my—”

“There’s no rush. You’ve been working far too hard lately. Maybe you need a vacation.” Gratified by the drop of Cop’s jaw, Tristan added, “As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to take the day off myself.”

His attorney couldn’t have looked any more flabbergasted had Tristan announced he was donating all of
his assets to charity and joining a Sicilian monastery. “But you haven’t had a day off since nineteen eighty-nine!”

“Precisely my point.” He planted his palms on Cop’s desk, too wired with anticipation to care if his eyes betrayed his delight. “I want you to come with me. I have an extraordinary surprise for you.”

“The ninety-six profit projections?” Cop ventured.

“Something a hell of a lot more interesting.” He grabbed Copperfield’s arm and dragged him toward the door.

Cop sniffed at his breath. “I haven’t seen you this giddy since the Republicans reclaimed Congress. Have you been drinking?”

Although the Tower was still ringed with news vans and reporters waving microphones, the atrium of Lennox Enterprises was mercifully devoid of their shouting and jostling. Tristan had ordered extra security posted at each entrance with express orders to deny access to anyone who was not an employee or resident of the building. His refusal to comment on Arian’s status had only whetted the press’s insatiable curiosity. His lips twitched as he suppressed a calculating smile. The press conference he’d scheduled for noon should send them all scurrying back to their holes to sharpen their teeth and claws in anticipation of a fresh kill.

As they crossed the atrium, Sven ducked beneath a fern and fell into step beside them.

“Good morning, Nordgard,” Tristan said.

“Morning, sir.” The bodyguard’s doleful expression implied it was not a good morning at all.

“So how did the audition go?” Tristan asked, ignoring Copperfield’s startled glance. He wasn’t exactly known for taking an interest in his employees’ personal lives or even allowing them to have one.

“I didn’t get the part,” Sven confessed in his grave baritone. “They said I was too masculine.” Tristan eyed the Norwegian’s bulging neck muscles, wondering
which role he could possibly have coveted in a play about two aging homosexuals. As they approached the elevators, Sven drew a flip phone from his jacket. “Shall I alert security team three, sir? Will you and Mr. Copperfield be leaving the building?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tristan replied.

“Mr. Lennox has a surprise for me,” Cop inserted coyly, earning himself an elbow to the ribs.

“Oh, goodie. I love surprises!” Sven exclaimed, visibly brightening.

Tristan paused. “I’m terribly sorry, Sven, but
you’re
not invited.” He thrust the paper sack he was carrying into the crestfallen giant’s hands. “I have more vital security matters for you to attend to. I want these installed throughout the Tower before noon today.”

Sven drew a piece of plastic from the mouth of the bag, looking more befuddled than usual. “What are they, sir? Bomb detectors? Some sort of newfangled wiretap?”

Tristan plucked the two-pronged device from Sven’s hand and popped it into the nearest electric outlet. “I might be mistaken, but I believe they’re called child protector caps.”

*  *  *

Arian’s voice rose to a majestic crescendo on the last note of the spell. Her outstretched arm quivered with anticipation.

Nothing. Her fingers did not emit so much as a feeble spark.

Her shoulders slumped with disappointment as she examined the fresh tub of Häagen-Dazs she’d placed on the marble hearth. She poked at its ribboned surface
to find it nearly as solid as when she’d removed it from the miniature freezer over the bar.

“What pathetic sort of witch can’t even melt frozen cream?” she muttered, sucking her finger clean. Even the rich taste of the chocolate melting on her tongue failed to console her.

What more could she do? she wondered despairingly. She’d been up since dawn crafting a plausible spell. She’d drawn the salon’s drapes and dimmed the track lighting to create a suitably spectral ambience. She’d even donned a midnight blue robe she’d found in the closet and brushed her hair until it crackled like a cloud around her face. A brief glance into the mirror above the mantel assured her she was the very portrait of a respectable enchantress.

All she lacked was talent.

Her frustration escaped in a gusty sigh. The amulet lay where she had forced herself to abandon it, glinting against the watered silk of an overstuffed ottoman.

Gathering up the skirts of Tristan’s bathrobe so they wouldn’t trip her, she marched over and glared down at the amulet. She was beginning to feel as if it weren’t a charm, but a curse. The hateful thing seemed to be winking at her, taunting her for her incompetence. She was torn between snatching it to her bosom and flushing it down the chamber pot. It might enable her to claim the million dollars, but it also prevented her from satisfying her desperate, inexplicable need to prove herself worthy of Tristan’s faith.

She’d slept little after he’d escorted her back to the suite last night, although he’d left her at the elevator with nothing more than a chaste peck on the brow. ’Twas almost as if their tender tryst during the blackout had never occurred. Arian eyed the plush carpet beneath the window where they had lain, stabbed by a fresh pang of longing.

Almost
.

Driven by a compulsion born of both curiosity and
dread, she reached for the amulet with trembling fingers. Closing her fist tight about it, she extended her other hand, squinted at the container of frozen cream and whispered, “Burn.”

A jet of flame ten feet long shot from her fingertips with a deafening
whoosh
. The frozen cream began to melt, then to bubble, finally boiling over until there was nothing left of cream or container but a lump of steaming cardboard.

Arian popped her smoking fingers into her mouth, extinguishing them with a sizzle.
“Sacre bleu!”

Her awe eclipsed by crushing defeat, she hurled the amulet at the far wall, savoring a petty thrill of satisfaction when it ricocheted off and vanished amongst the plump cushions of the settee.

“Temper, temper, my dear,” chided a mocking male voice.

Arian whirled around to discover the elevator had arrived just in time for Tristan to witness her tantrum. The second in two days, she reminded herself with a cringe of embarrassment.

“I—urn—I couldn’t get the clasp fastened,” she offered lamely as Copperfield followed Tristan off the elevator.

If Cop was surprised to find her still in residence after last night’s debacle, he hid it behind a sympathetic smile as the elevator departed.

Tristan’s excitement was palpable, giving his step a buoyancy she’d never seen before. It both pained and warmed her to think she might be responsible for his transformation.

He clasped both of her hands in his. “I brought Copperfield here so he could experience a taste of what I experienced last night.”

Arian’s befuddled brain dismissed their encounter in the lab, remembering instead the lazy flick of Tristan’s tongue over her lips. “I c-can’t possibly …”

“Now don’t be modest,” he admonished. “I simply want you to demonstrate your powers for Cop.”

It was Copperfield’s turn to arch a skeptical eyebrow. “C’mon, Tristan. She’s a charming girl, but even I never believed she possessed any sort of supernatural power. I’m a lawyer, not an idiot.”

Tristan’s coaxing smile threatened to melt Arian’s bones more effectively than any fireball. He gently caressed the fine bones of her hands with his thumbs. “Don’t be shy, Arian. Something simple will be fine. Just make yourself invisible or levitate an ashtray.”

Drawing her hands from his, Arian backed toward the settee, scrambling for the words of a spell, any spell. Her mama had resided briefly with an English marquess who had quoted frequently from his favorite bard. “Uh, double, double, toil and trouble,” she blurted out, “fire burn and cauldron bubble …”

“Cute,” Cop said dryly, “but not highly original.”

Arian stumbled over the hem of Tristan’s robe. The back of her knees crashed into the settee. She sat abruptly, using the opportunity to reach behind her and dig beneath the pillows for any trace of the amulet.

Tristan shot Copperfield a warning scowl. “She’s just suffering from stage fright. Give her a moment to compose herself.”

Cop’s own composure was slipping. “Oh, why don’t you stop taunting the poor girl? It’s like kicking a helpless kitten. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

Fearful they might actually come to blows over her, Arian wailed, “Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf!”

Both men stopped glaring at each other to gape at her, transfixed by her performance. She rooted frantically between the cushions, wincing as one of her fingernails tore to the quick. If she could just keep them distracted until she could locate the amulet …

“Eye of newt and toe of frog.” She deliberately lowered her voice, weaving a husky enchantment that had little to do with the gibberish she was muttering. “Wool
of bat and tongue of dog!” Inspired by the sparkle of approval in Tristan’s eyes, she tossed back her head, sending a cascade of curls tumbling down her back, and waved her free arm gracefully in the air. The arch of her spine enticed the expensive silk to cling to her generous curves.

“Bewitching,” Tristan murmured.

Copperfield rolled his eyes.

Arian suppressed a grunt of mingled triumph and frustration as the amulet’s chain rippled like quicksilver through her fingers. The bard’s overwrought stanzas were beginning to elude her as well. “Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing; baboon’s blood and—and piglet’s … thing.”

She made one last lunge beneath the cushions, her voice rising along with her desperation. She couldn’t bear to watch Tristan’s expectant smile fade to the same cynical sneer he had given his mother. “Snout of shoat and gall of”—her fingers brushed the smooth surface of the emerald. She seized it with a gleeful shout—“goat!”