Teresa Medeiros (20 page)

The elevator doors slid open. One moment Sven stood there, his expression pleasantly vacant. The next, a fluffy, blond goat stood there, chewing his own beard.

Arian’s intake of breath froze in a feeble squeak. Cop’s cry of astonishment was drowned out by Tristan’s triumphant whoop.

Tristan clapped his friend on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. “What are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a goat wearing sunglasses before?”

Cop sank down on the ottoman, his bronze skin paling to a rather noxious green. Arian flinched as Sven trotted over and began to nibble on one of the potted ferns flanking the hearth. Moaning in mortification, she buried her burning face in the settee pillows, wishing she could burrow beneath them and disappear. She hadn’t felt like such a dismal failure since she’d accidentally poisoned one of her mother’s paramours with a love potion concocted of rotted eggs and wolfsbane. The man had survived but her mama had delivered a blistering tirade that had left her ears ringing for days.

“Arian?”

She heard Tristan’s gentle query through a fog of
misery. Perhaps if she didn’t answer, he’d just go away and leave her to loathe herself to death. Something cold and clammy nudged her arm. She slowly lifted her head to discover it was Sven’s snout A familiar pair of mirrored lenses reproached her.

“Oh, Sven! What have I done?” She wrapped her arms around the goat and sniveled into his silky pelt.

“Quite an impressive demonstration. It’ll probably take Cop a hell of a lot longer to recover than Sven.” Tristan’s matter-of-fact tone stifled Arian in mid-sob.

She dared a glance at his eyes. They were twinkling with wicked delight. “You’re not angry with me for turning your bodyguard into a goat?” she whispered.

“You can turn him back into a big, dumb aspiring actor, can’t you?”

Sven tossed his flowing blond mane with an offended snuffle. Tristan gave his rump a friendly swat and he went trotting over to butt the bedroom door.

Arian squeezed the amulet until it cut into her palm, unable to completely disguise her bitterness. “I think I can.”

Tristan shrugged, the casual motion emphasizing the exquisite cut of both his jacket and his shoulders. “If not, we can always chain him to a stake in the courtyard. Just think of the money Lennox Enterprises will save on lawn care.”

“Sweet Jesu, I’m so sorry,” Arian wailed, burying her face in her hands.

Tristan had to nudge her chin up with his knuckle before Arian realized he had only been teasing her. His fingertips brushed the curve of her jaw with jarring tenderness. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’re not some cruise ship magician. I shouldn’t have expected you to perform on demand. But since Copperfield will be finalizing the press arrangements for tonight, I felt it imperative that he understand the magnitude of what we’re dealing with.”

“Tonight?” Arian echoed, her chagrin replaced by a thrill of foreboding.

“Tonight?” Cop mumbled, watching Sven ingest a corner of the drapes.

Tristan began to pace the carpet, easily resuming his role of self-appointed master of all their fates. “I’ve booked the ballroom at the Plaza for a modest reception to be given in Arian’s honor. I considered hosting it here, but thought meeting our enemies on neutral territory would be safer. Do you agree, Cop?”

“Neutral territory,” Cop murmured, his dazed nod confirming that he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was agreeing with. Sven lost interest in the drapes and wandered over to nibble on the hem of Cop’s chinos.

“Am I in danger?” Arian asked, her longing for acclaim balanced by a far more healthy fear of condemnation. Although she’d left them over three hundred years in the past, the ugly snarls and shouts of accusation still echoed through her memory.

“Only if the press leaks any inkling that your powers might be genuine.” Tristan dropped to one knee and cupped her hands in his. “They might not burn you at the stake in Times Square, but people do have a rather narrow-minded tendency to condemn what they can’t explain.”

“ ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ ” Arian murmured.

He squeezed her hands. “You could spend the rest of your life hiding behind locked doors, afraid to answer the phone, looking over your shoulder every time you hear a footstep behind you.” From the bleakness shadowing his eyes, Arian knew he spoke from bitter experience. “If they catch even a whiff of mystery or scandal, they will hound you to the very gates of hell.”

“Then why?” Arian withdrew her hands from his, unable to bear another betrayal. “Why are you throwing me on their mercy?”

“I’m not. I’m only going to toss them a bone. I’m
announcing the reception this afternoon at a press conference. That should start them drooling in anticipation. Tonight I’ll publicly declare you the victor in our contest of wits and grudgingly toast your good fortune. Then I’ll trade a few sly winks to let them in on our private joke.”

“Which is …?” Arian asked, failing to see the humor in her situation.

Tristan rose to his full height, his face transformed by a snide sneer. “That you’re nothing but a cunning little scam artist who’s managed to con one of the wealthiest men in the world out of a million dollars.”

Arian recoiled from his contempt as if it were a blast of brimstone, fearing she had stumbled into one of her own nightmares. But that was before his sneer melted into a slanted grin. “Don’t you see, Arian? Instead of thinking you’re a witch, they’ll think I’ve simply been duped. That I lack the evidence to prove you’re a fraud. I’d much rather let them think you made a fool of me than risk exposing your rather
unique
talents.”

Arian knew how expensive Tristan’s concession would be to a man of his pride. Yet he made it without asking anything in return—not even the truth about her past. The wistful ache in her heart multiplied. She twisted the amulet’s chain into a knot, wishing she had more to offer him than half-truths and blatant falsehoods.

“Oh, they’ll request a few interviews and snap some photographs,” Tristan continued. “They may even hound you for a few days, but after that, some more alluring scandal will grab their attention and you’ll be free.” His eyes betrayed a hint of wistfulness. “Free to start a new life without any of the baggage from the old.”

“I didn’t bring any baggage,” Arian murmured. “I didn’t have time to pack.”

“God, it’s brilliant,” Cop muttered, his eyes slowly sharpening into focus. “You’re giving them everything they think they want, yet nothing at all.”

“Precisely,” Tristan replied.

Cop pried his pants leg out of Sven’s mouth and sprang to his feet. “And you’re giving it to them tonight!”

“I thought you’d appreciate the irony,” Tristan said, looking almost irresistibly smug. “And to think, you once accused me of having no imagination.”

“What’s so special about tonight?”

Tristan’s eyes glittered with wicked mischief. “Why, Arian, I’m disappointed in you! Don’t you know that tonight is the night when werewolves howl at the moon and witches take to the windy skies on their brooms? It’s October the thirty-first.” Tristan’s voice lowered to an ominous purr, sending a shiver of dark anticipation tingling down her spine. “Halloween.”

Never had a witch suffered such a heinous fate on All Hallows’ Eve.

The foppish Antonio minced around Arian’s stool, surveying her from all angles before bending over to slap another dab of paint on her face. “Can’t have you looking like Casper the Ghost at the reception, can we, dear? With that complexion, you’ll positively disappear next to the other guests.”

“I rather wish I would,” Arian muttered, rubbing her stomach to try and soothe the flock of butterflies that had nested there.

He tweaked her nose, his thin chest heaving with a heartfelt sigh. “If only Mr. Lennox had given us more time. I’ve got a surgeon friend in Queens who could chisel that little snout of yours down to absolute perfection.”

Arian cupped a protective hand over the offending feature. “No, thank you. I’ve never been particularly fond of it, but I’d rather not have it whittled upon.”

Antonio had arrived promptly at noon with a retinue of pink-garbed assistants and a trunk full of modern torture devices. Within minutes, he’d transformed the penthouse bathroom into a private chamber of horrors. While the sloe-eyed beauty expert claimed to be from
Milan, Arian noticed that in moments of extreme travail, such as when she’d protested that only harlots removed the baby-fine down from their legs, his Continental accent dissolved into a distinct drawl.

In the past four hours, Arian had had her legs waxed, her teeth whitened, her eyelashes curled, and her toenails painted a dazzling coral. Even as Antonio applied the finishing touches to her face paint, two Asian women were slathering her thighs with a gel the consistency of marmalade and wrapping them in sheets of cellophane.

“To melt the unsightly cellulite,” one of the women whispered with a knowing wink. Arian had no idea what cellulite was, but she tried to look suitably ashamed.

Antonio smoothed her eyebrows with his fingertip. “I’ll pluck these after I’ve finished with your hair. We don’t want anyone mistaking you for Brooke Shields or Sam Donaldson, do we? But first comes the real challenge.” Fully aware that he had the attention of everyone in the bathroom, he whipped the towel from her damp hair with a flourish.

Arian’s curls tumbled around her face with their natural exuberance. Antonio circled her like a vulture, clucking dolefully beneath his breath. “Impossible. Simply impossible. Only an artist would even try …” He drew himself up to his full height and straightened his narrow shoulders. “But I, Antonio Garabaldi, am such an artist, and you, my dear, shall become my new masterpiece!”

Arian could not quite suppress a small scream as he snatched up a pair of gleaming shears and came at her with blades flashing.

Tristan fervently hoped none of his employees had seen their uncompromising boss enter the atrium elevator carrying a cardboard tub adorned with pink ribbon instead of his habitual briefcase. Beside him, a silent Copperfield rocked back and forth on his heels as the
elevator ascended to the penthouse. Although they were on their way to reassure Arian that the press conference had proceeded exactly as planned, Cop seemed to be suffering from a severe case of second thoughts. Tristan gazed up at the flashing numbers and tried to ignore his friend’s dour expression.

But neither of them could ignore the steady
chomp-chomp
coming from behind them.

They turned as one to find Sven munching salad from an enormous Styrofoam tray. He waved a laden fork at them and flashed his gleaming teeth. “From the deli downstairs. Is delicious. You should try.”

As Tristan resumed his position, he whispered to Copperfield, “He doesn’t seem to be any the worse for wear.”

“That’s easy for
you
to say,” Cop hissed back. “He didn’t eat the Chia Pet off
your
desk.”

Tristan shrugged. Since Sven seemed to have no memory of his brief transformation, his bodyguard’s compulsive craving for leafy greens was the least of Tristan’s worries. He was more concerned with the inherent dangers of introducing a witch into New York society. As long as Sven didn’t start nibbling on the drapes at the reception tonight or butt Dan Rather in the …

“Lieutenant Derschiwitz called before I left my office.” Copperfield interrupted Tristan’s mental review of potential disasters. “According to NYPD, FBI, CIA, and Interpol files, Arian Whitewood simply doesn’t exist.”

Tristan remembered the plush feel of Arian in his arms, the intoxicating taste of her lips. Arian Whitewood might be a witch, but she was no phantom.

His enigmatic smile only aggravated Cop’s frown. “Derschiwitz still urged the greatest caution. He said some con artists are so clever they’ve just never been caught. What do you really know about this woman, Tristan? Has she discussed her past with you?”

“No.” He shot Cop a meaningful look. “Nor have I discussed mine with her. She’s entitled to her privacy
just as I am. If she should decide to confide in me, I’ll be very flattered, but I’m not going to go digging into her past like some tabloid—” Tristan strolled off the elevator just in time to hear Arian’s muffled scream.

He shot toward the penthouse bathroom, charging through the open door before Sven could even drop the salad and draw his Glock.

The sight that greeted him was worse than any he might have imagined. A cloud of dark curls littered the Berber carpet. Scissor blades flashed in the air, dancing and darting with lethal skill. As the maniac wielding them lifted another thick sheath of Arian’s hair to inflict a fatal snip, Tristan seized him by the yoke of his silk shirt and slammed him into the nearest mirror.

“Holy shit,” Antonio bawled, his sophisticated accent disintegrating into a full-blown Georgia drawl.

Tristan released the cowering hairdresser, realizing with a stifled flush of horror what an utter ass he’d just made of himself. An even more horrible suspicion took root in his mind as Antonio slid down the mirror, landing in a boneless heap at his feet. Tristan checked his reflection and smoothed back his moussed hair before turning to face the havoc he had wreaked.