Teresa Medeiros (22 page)

The questioning murmurs escalated. Shading her eyes against the lights, Arian spotted Copperfield directly in front of the podium, his usual sunny expression replaced by a fretful scowl. Tristan’s companion stood beside him, her short-cropped auburn hair clinging to her skull in a sleek cap. The rail-thin woman smiled up at Tristan, the proprietary gleam in her eye unmistakable.

“When I sponsored the magic competition,” Tristan was saying, “many of you thought I’d overloaded my own circuits. But as you all know, exposing phonies who prey on weak-minded individuals for profit has become something of a personal crusade of mine. I don’t have to tell you how surprised I was when Miss Whitewood’s broom came sailing over the wall of Lennox Enterprises.”

“Not half as surprised as I was,” Arian muttered, earning her a sidelong look that she ignored.

“Are you still implying she’s a phony?” a woman near the front called out.

Tristan managed a smile that was even more enigmatic than usual. “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. But since the young lady was clever enough to outwit me, I’d prefer to believe she possesses a rather high degree of supernatural powers.” The crowd exchanged chuckles and knowing smirks.

“Hey, how ‘bout a demonstration?” shouted a balding
reporter who had accessorized his tux with a T-shirt that had a bow tie stenciled on it.

Tristan slipped a protective arm around Arian’s waist; she held her breath to avoid inhaling the wintry enchantment of his aftershave. “What did you have in mind, Hobbes? That she make a few of your ex-wives disappear?” That crack won Tristan a laugh from his enthralled audience.

“Just a few of their lawyers,” the reporter shot back, blowing a flawless smoke ring toward the stage.

A woman crowned by a neat blond chignon appeared less than amused by the banter. She tapped her pen on her open pad. “What’s the purpose of bringing us here tonight, Mr. Lennox? Do you feel you owe Miss Whitewood a public apology for insinuating she was a fraud?”

“Oh,” Tristan said, drawing a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his tuxedo as if he’d just remembered it was there. “I owe Miss Whitewood far more than an apology. I owe her a million dollars.”

The crowd gasped as Tristan unfolded the oversized bank draft and pressed it into Arian’s limp hand.

She stared dumbly at his offering, knowing she should be delirious with joy. Everything she’d ever wanted was finally within her reach. Magic. Wealth. Freedom from the demands and manipulations of men like Tristan Lennox.

But as the cameras flashed and Tristan graciously stepped back to let her bask in the adulation of the crowd, Arian couldn’t help but feel as if she’d lost far more than she’d gained.

Tristan lifted the beveled rim of his champagne glass to his lips, his gaze following Arian as she wended her way through the teeming mob of well-wishers. Copperfield hovered at her elbow, self-appointed to fend off the press’s more probing questions and to make sure Arian didn’t turn some avid reporter into a porcupine.

Where the hell was Sven? Tristan wondered, noting that his bodyguard’s assigned post by the north doors was vacant. With Eddie Hobbes sniffing around, he could hardly afford any gate-crashers. Especially one as potentially disastrous as Wite Lize. He finally located the burly Norwegian grazing at the salad buffet. Tristan rolled his eyes heavenward, thankful that Sven was using a plate instead of diving headfirst into the endive.

If Arian’s gracious smile was frayed around the edges, Tristan was the only one who seemed to notice. He had expected her to squeal with delight when he had awarded her the check, not murmur, “You’re too generous, sir,” in that husky contralto of hers that always sent dark shivers of desire down his—

“Tristan?” He became aware of graceful fingertips stroking his sleeve.

There was no need for Tristan to glance down at his date. Even in flats, she stood over six feet tall. “Hmm?”

Cherie Boldiszar sucked in her cheeks, emphasizing her Slavic cheekbones. “When you didn’t call after our last date, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Tristan didn’t remember their last encounter as a date, but as a sweaty coupling between virtual strangers. “I’m terribly sorry. Business, you know,” he muttered, his gaze drifting back to Arian.

The Hungarian supermodel might wear tinted contacts to correct her nearsightedness, but she wasn’t blind. She nodded in Arian’s direction. “Charming, isn’t she? Like a young Audrey Hepburn.”

“Enchanting,” he murmured.

He had mourned the loss of Arian’s frizzled curls as if he’d shorn off each one personally, but he had to admit her new cut flattered her. When she turned her head just so, her hair swung out to reveal the delicate curve of her jaw, the exotic tilt of her eyes—those sparkling, fathomless eyes.

Cherie sighed. “I wonder what her plans are. With
a million dollars in her purse, she can go anywhere. Do anything.”

Cherie’s dreamy words startled Tristan from his reverie. He was so used to planning everything down to the minutest detail that it had never occurred to him that Arian might possess plans of her own. Plans that did not include him. Contempt at his own shortsightedness made him drain his champagne in a single swallow. It lingered on his tongue, as corrosive as acid.

What had he expected? That Arian would continue to live in his penthouse, sleep in his bed, wear his pajamas? He had no claim on her. She wasn’t a share of stock he could buy or some faltering company he could plot to take over, however dangerously appealing the idea.

Cherie’s hot breath grazed his ear. Arian would have had to stand on a stool
and
her tiptoes to accomplish such a feat. “I was hoping that when you were done baby-sitting your little prodigy, we could go back to my place for a drink. I’ve got a bottle of Glenlivet I’ve been saving just for you.”

Tristan turned to stare at her, belatedly remembering that his sole purpose in asking her out had been to forget Arian Whitewood for a few hours.

As Cherie ran her tongue over her collagen-enhanced lips in an invitation no man should be able to resist, he understood what she was offering. A casual coupling with no emotional obligations. Fleeting release from the exquisite tension in his trousers. Safe sex in a dangerous world. If he pressed, she would snap open her Chanel purse and pull out a clean bill of health from her gynecologist and a package of foil-wrapped party favors.

She was also offering him the perfect opportunity to break the spell Arian had cast over him before he was lost altogether.

“I am parched,” he murmured, capturing Cherie’s hand to draw her toward the moonlit balcony that overlooked
Central Park. “Why don’t we whet our thirst before we go?”

The witch was crying.

Fat tears trickled down her cheeks, cutting rivulets in her smooth flesh. Her nose dripped, growing more hooked with every moment spent beneath the glaring spotlights.

Arian gazed up at the melting ice sculpture, her own heart aching with empathy. She feared that if she started crying, she, too, would melt into a miserable puddle on the black satin tablecloth. Just as Tristan had predicted, the press’s fickle attention had waned, leaving her to prop her chin on her hand and watch the merriment swirling around her with morose fascination.

Tristan might be a million dollars poorer, but he hadn’t lost his wicked sense of humor. In deference to All Hallows’ Eve, he had had the ballroom decorated with towering cornstalks, fat orange pumpkins, and crackling sheaths of red, gold, and yellow leaves. The waiters wore black masks and champagne flowed from the mouths of leering gargoyles into clinking glasses while the orchestra thumped out the chords of a rousing ditty called the “Monster Mash.” The wanton gyrations of the dancers horrified Arian, but she could not stop her own willful feet from tapping to the song’s provocative rhythm.

Her gaze met Sven’s across the teeming ballroom and he wiggled his beefy fingers at her. He was wending his way among the tables, eating sprigs of parsley from abandoned plates. Copperfield had been ambushed by one of the
Prattler
reporters in the far corner and was gesticulating wildly in a futile bid for freedom. Tristan and his lovely companion had vanished.

“Just one more photo, Miss Whitewood? I’m working my way through college.” The pleading voice and earnest face belonged to a freckled young man who
dropped to one knee at her feet and pointed his camera at her like a musket.

Sighing, Arian drew the bank draft from her tiny gold purse and held it beneath her chin, forcing a wan smile. He snapped three photos in quick succession before melting into the crowd without so much as a “Thank you.”

Arian was left holding the prize she’d fought so hard to win. The artistic flourish of Tristan’s signature only reminded her that she had been nothing more than a brief diversion in his jaded life. A business transaction that had cost him more than he’d planned, but nothing so dear as his heart.

That revelation had been driven like a stake through her own heart when Tristan had led her from the dais after the presentation of the check and casually introduced her to his companion. When he’d given the gaunt beauty’s name the French pronunciation, Arian had been forced to grit her teeth against a wave of spiteful jealousy. The spark of genuine friendliness in the woman’s azure eyes had only made her feel worse. Especially when all Arian really wanted to do was turn her into a codfish and dump her in the champagne fountain.

The true torture had begun when they’d been compelled to pose for several publicity photos. Arian had stood stiffly in Tristan’s pseudoembrace, despising the provocative heat of his hand against her naked back.

A tray appeared in her line of vision. “Champagne, miss?”

“No, thank you,” she murmured, stuffing the check back into her purse. “I don’t indulge in spirits.”

The tray flipped over to reveal a porcelain cup, but the champagne glass still clung miraculously to its bottom, its liquid intact. “How about some nice hot tea, then?”

Arian laughed, charmed by the clever trick despite her melancholy. A scarlet-coated waiter was beaming
down at her, his blue eyes twinkling merrily through the eye slits of his mask.

“How ever did you do that?” she exclaimed.

He wagged a white-gloved finger at her. “Shame on you, young lady. It’s very poor etiquette to ask a magician to reveal his secrets.”

Arian sat up straighter in her chair. It had never occurred to her that there might be others in New York who shared her talents. The possibility of meeting a kindred spirit relieved her loneliness the tiniest bit. “You’re a sorcerer?”

“A master illusionist, my dear. Specializing in fabrications, deceptions, and prevarications.”

Arian frowned. “Lies?”

“Mr. Lize to you, my dear. Mr. Wite Lize at your humble service.” He executed a debonair bow and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before handing her the cup of tea. “You looked as if you needed cheering.”

Charmed by his gallantry, Arian took a sip of the steaming brew. It tasted just like her grandmama’s always had—more sugar and cream than tea. The familiar warmth threatened to melt the lump of misery lodged in her throat.

“Exquisite,” he murmured.

“Pardon me?” Arian replied, nearly choking as she lowered the cup to find the grandfatherly figure gazing hungrily at her bosom. She’d become even more sensitive about her generous figure after noticing the relative concavity of Cherie’s chest.

The old man stroked the face of her amulet with one gnarled finger. “Such an exquisite gem.”

Arian tried not to recoil from the fruity stench of his breath. “ ’Tis a family heirloom,” she said, indulging in a petty fib of her own.

“I thought it might be a gift from Mr. Lennox. They say he has impeccable taste in both jewelry and women.”

The tea, despite its sweetness, had left a bitter taste in Arian’s mouth. “So I’ve discovered.”

Mr. Lize’s probing gaze shifted to her face. “Oh, dear. I hope you haven’t fallen prey to his seductive wiles.”

Arian stiffened. “Of course not. We have a business arrangement, nothing more.”

His voice lowered to an urgent whisper as he squatted in front of her. “Then you are wise as well as lovely and gifted. Lennox’s magic is dark and tainted by his ambitions. Things, and people, who are no longer useful to him have an uncanny way of disappearing.”

Arian leaned away from him, alarmed by his vehemence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will.”

The certainty in his tone chilled her. Over his shoulder, she saw Sven start toward them. Her eyes must have betrayed her relief, for the old man’s glower was replaced by a benevolent smile. He snapped his fingers in her face, making her flinch, but her annoyance changed to delight when a small bouquet popped into existence.

Sven elbowed one of the dancers out of the way, reaching into his jacket. Wite Lize pressed his offering into Arian’s hand and whispered, “Beware the warlock.”

When Arian glanced up from the bouquet, he was gone, vanished as if into thin air. Sven’s hand emerged from his jacket, clutching a fistful of carrot sticks. He began gnawing on one as he loomed over her. “Was that man disturbing you?”

“No,” Arian murmured, knowing she was lying. The old man’s enigmatic words had disturbed her deeply.

While Sven shambled off in search of some cucumber dip she studied the bouquet of paper flowers, bemused by its whimsy. Closer examination revealed that it was fashioned from a single sheet of paper clipped, then fanfolded into separate blooms. She smoothed it on
the table, puzzled by the nagging familiarity of its ragged margin.

A tiny thrill of foreboding crawled up Arian’s spine as she recognized it as the missing page ripped from the
Forbes
pamphlet she’d discovered in Tristan’s penthouse. The text had been methodically inked out, leaving only a grainy black-and-white photograph.

Tristan in yet another incarnation, bearing far more resemblance to the boy he had been than the man he would become. Tristan being led away by two uniformed men, his shoulders slumped, his wrists bound by a pair of silver shackles. He had glanced back at the camera in an unguarded moment, his expression dazed as he peered through strands of hair badly in need of a trim. A surge of tenderness tore through Arian. She wanted to reach out to him, to stroke his cheek and smooth his hair and tell him that everything was going to be all right.