Teresa Medeiros (6 page)

Arian jerked the paper up to her nose, fearful her eyes would reveal a glint of avarice. “One million dollars? ’Tis an uncommon amount of wealth, is it not? Just how many francs would that be?”

“Sorry. I don’t do foreign exchange rates in my head.”

Lowering the paper, she wrinkled her nose hopefully at him. “Did I win?”

His sharp bark of laughter erased her timid smile. The wintry spice of his cologne made her nose tingle as he leaned forward. She shrank back into the pillows.

“That remains to be seen.” His tone swerved from menacing to conversational with dizzying swiftness. “But if I’m not able to discredit you for the clever little fraud you obviously are, what name would you like on your check—Glenda, the Gold-digging Witch of the North?”

Arian felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She’d barely just arrived in this curious place and this arrogant stranger was already accusing her of witchcraft. He had judged and convicted her without a trial. The hint of mischief playing around his mouth warned her he was capable of far more deliciously diabolical punishments than the Reverend Linnet had ever plotted.

But Linnet had been a thorough tutor. She would never again be bullied into confessing anything. Not without first considering the possibility that this man’s magic competition might have been nothing more than bait to lure some unsuspecting witch into his trap.

Folding her arms over her chest, she said coolly, “My name is not Glenda. ’Tis Arian. Miss Arian Whitewood.” She sniffed disdainfully, wishing her nose was less pert and more aristocratic, then uttered the four words Marcus had so frequently used to explain her many eccentricities. “I am from France.”

“And how many frequent flyer miles did you earn crossing the Atlantic on your broom,
Miss
Whitewood?”

When she only blinked at him to hide her bafflement, he swore beneath his breath and rose from the bed. Arian’s relief was spoiled by a shiver. An unnatural chill seemed to permeate the air in his absence. As he crossed the enormous salon, her gaze drifted back to the newspaper, only to be riveted by the innocuous line of print at the top of the page.

October 25, 1996
.

The newspaper tumbled from Arian’s numb fingers just as the floor-to-ceiling curtains parted to reveal a radiant galaxy of stars through a wall of sheer glass.

Her host was no less enigmatic by starlight than in shadows. He swept out an arm toward the dazzling vista. “Well, Miss Arian Whitewood from France, welcome to New York City.”

If he had said, “Welcome to paradise,” Arian would have been no less astounded. She could not choke so much as a gasp past her constricted throat. She had lived the past ten years in a world bereft of beauty. Drawn by its irresistible temptation, she slipped from the bed, tugging her skirts down to shield her ankles from Lennox’s probing gaze. She sidestepped him, gliding forward until she could press her thirsty fingertips to the cool glass.

It was only then that she realized the lights were not stars at all, but thousands upon thousands of lamps glowing from the windows of soaring towers. “ ’Tis a wonder they haven’t burned the city to the ground,” she
murmured, awestruck by the discovery. “Not even Paris has so many candles.”

They gazed upon the marvel from an unthinkable height. Arian made the mistake of glancing down only to discover a multitude of similarly lit processionals creeping along the broad avenues far below. Dizziness washed over her in waves as she comprehended for the first time just how far she’d strayed from home. Her ears began to roar. Her vision blurred. Terrified of humiliating herself by swooning in front of this indifferent stranger, she fumbled at the window for a latch, frantically seeking a breath of fresh air.

She swayed, but before her knees could buckle, his hands were there to cup her shoulders, their warmth palpable even through the hardy weave of her sleeves.

“The windows are hermetically sealed,” he said softly. “They don’t open.”

Even as Arian accepted his unspoken invitation to lean against him, she could not help but wonder what manner of man would be so extravagant as to fashion his walls of windows, yet so foolish as to shut out all the lovely things that could drift through them—crisp autumn breezes, the cheery song of a thrush, the aroma of honeysuckle on a sultry summer day. An unwelcome trace of pity softened her wariness.

Her curious intimacy with a stranger only intensified the alien nature of the landscape. A keen sense of isolation swept through her as she realized that everyone she’d ever known had been dead for centuries—Marcus, Charity Burke, even the Reverend Linnet. She would have thought it impossible to yearn for Gloucester, but even the village’s uncompromising harshness seemed preferable to starting over one more time.

She had little choice, she reminded herself sternly. Until she could figure out which miscalculation in her spell had brought her to this place, she would simply have to shrug off her fears and do what she’d done her
entire life—pretend to belong somewhere she never would.

She lifted her head to discover her host wasn’t admiring the magnificent view, but her pensive reflection. Their gazes merged in the glass, and for a fleeting moment, the loneliness echoed in his cool gray eyes created the disconcerting illusion that he was more lost than she was. Before she could deem it anything more than a trick of the light, his gaze lowered to the amulet.

“What’s that you have there?” he asked, guiding her around to face him. “A crucifix to ward off vampires and marauding chief executives?”

“ ’Tis nothing,” she mumbled, tucking it into her bodice. “Just a worthless trinket.”

Too late, it occurred to her that dropping the amulet down her dress only presented the avaricious Mr. Lennox with an irresistible challenge. She stiffened, expecting him to plunge his greedy hand between her breasts as Linnet had done. But his warm knuckles barely grazed her collarbone as he snagged the amulet’s chain with a deft grace infinitely more dangerous than Linnet’s pawing. ’Twas as if he sought to pilfer not only the amulet, but the heart that lay beneath it as well.

He held the emerald up to examine it. “A striking piece. Is it antique?”

“You might say that.”

“The setting is rather unusual. Where did you get it?”

The casual question did not fool Arian. “I did not steal it, sir, if that’s what you’re asking.” She lowered her eyes, fearful his crystalline gaze might unearth long-buried seeds of deceit. “ ’Twas a gift from my mother.”

The emerald cast a sparkling prism of light across Lennox’s implacable features. “Ah, a woman of impeccable taste.”

“Except when it came to men.” As Arian’s nervous gaze licked up and down Lennox’s lean length, taking in his flawlessly tailored breeches, crisp waistcoat, and tan
shirt unbuttoned at the throat to release a sprinkling of golden hair, she breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she hadn’t been similarly cursed.

The amulet twirled before his hypnotic eyes as if it belonged there, giving Arian a brief moment of horror. What if he innocently gave voice to his unspoken wish that he’d never laid eyes on her? Would she pop back into the bottom of that murky pond in Gloucester or simply cease to exist altogether?

She snatched the amulet from his hand, knowing even as she did so that she was being ridiculous. Lennox was but a mere mortal. She was the witch. The amulet was simply a channel for her powers, not the source of them.

Lennox obviously wasn’t a man accustomed to having anything snatched from his grasp. His face hardened into a dispassionate mask. “So tell me, Miss Whitewood, how did you accomplish your cheap little trick? Was the broom radio-controlled? Digitalized? Motorized? Was that how the fire started? A gasoline leak? A flaw in the motor? You do realize that they’re disassembling what was left of the device in my laboratory even as we speak.”

Arian was too dazed by his barrage of questions to fashion a coherent denial. “I don’t know … I don’t remember …”

As he backed her against the window, danger roiling off him like woodsmoke, she became thankful that it didn’t open. “Just who the hell are you? A con artist? A corporate spy? One of those leeches from the tabloids? Or did Wite Lize send you?” She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his expression darkened further. Her knees began to tremble again, but this time he made no gallant move to steady her. “Such a ridiculous stunt would certainly have appealed to his flair for the dramatic.”

Arian didn’t know whether to be grateful or unnerved when a polite cough sounded behind Lennox. “If
this is a formal interrogation, Tristan, shouldn’t the lady have an attorney present?”

Lennox swung around. “Dammit, Cop! Don’t you ever knock?”

Arian’s relief at having his wrath shifted to a new target was eclipsed by horror as she saw the man standing behind him. She clapped a hand over her mouth too late to muffle a shriek.

They both stared at her as if she’d lost her wits.

She lowered her hand and pointed a quivering finger at the intruder. His black, unpowdered hair had been sleeked back in a leather thong. “H-h-he’s an Indian!”

The two men exchanged a bemused glance.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Lennox said, arching a wry brow. “He’s entirely domesticated. He hasn’t scalped anyone since the
Wall Street Journal
accused me of insider trading in eighty-nine.”

The savage gently extended his sun-bronzed hand, as if fearful any sudden moves might cause her to bolt. “How do you do, ma’am. I’m Michael Copperfield—Tristan’s legal counsel, PR advisor, and token Native American.”

Arian still hesitated, remembering how the Reverend Linnet had preached that all Indians worshiped the devil as their master. But the good reverend had also accused her of fornicating with Satan and tried to drown her.

She spread her skirts and bobbed a timid curtsy before placing her hand into Copperfield’s. Instead of bringing it to his lips as she expected him to do, he pumped it up and down in a most curious manner. Compared to the wintry gaze Lennox swept between the two of them, the savage’s twinkling brown eyes radiated warmth.

“Cop majored in law and minored in public relations,” Lennox offered. “He’s a living oxymoron.”

Arian gasped at his blatant rudeness. “The poor
fellow can’t help it if his wits are not as keen as yours. There’s no need to insult him.”

Lennox stared at her for a long moment. Then his lips curled in a tender smile that conveyed his sarcasm more effectively than a sneer. “We seem to be experiencing a slight language barrier. Miss Whitewood claims she’s from France.”

The Indian snorted. “So did the Coneheads.”

“Are you implying she’s an alien?”

“No, but the
Prattler
is. The
Global Inquirer
insists she’s Elvis’s illegitimate daughter. They’re both begging for exclusive interviews.”

The men towered over Arian, making her feel like one of the squat dwarves in her grandmama’s fairy book. As they continued to discuss her as if she weren’t even in the room, she glanced down at her feet to make sure she hadn’t accidentally rendered herself invisible.

Her ears pricked up when Copperfield said, “She did bang her head a pretty good one. Maybe she honestly doesn’t remember crash-landing in the courtyard. She might have a temporary case of amnesia.”

“Temporary and selective. You watch too many soap operas, Cop. She might have an evil twin, too.”

“Yeah, and you might have a nice one somewhere,” the Indian shot back, his mutinous tone making Arian want to applaud.

Lennox pivoted on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Copperfield demanded.

“To find some answers,” Lennox snapped, shooting Arian a glance rife with menace. “I’m sure as hell not going to find any here.”

Copperfield stared after him, a bemused smile playing around his mouth. “Congratulations, Miss Whitewood. I do believe you’ve cracked the ice prince’s façade. I haven’t seen him in such a temper in years.”

“I was under the impression that was his usual temper,” she replied glumly, wondering why she cared.

He shrugged. “Tristan’s not such a bad sort. He never forgets a friend.” The Indian’s smile lost a fraction of its warmth as he turned his piercing gaze on her. “Or an enemy.”

When Tristan strode into the dimly lit Security Command Center of Lennox Tower, the guard on night duty almost choked on his doughnut.

The former marine jerked his booted feet off the semicircular control panel, leaped out of his chair, and sucked in his paunch with an audible hiss. “Sir!”

In his present mood, it was no great challenge for Tristan to suppress his smile. At least the man hadn’t saluted him. “At ease, Deluth. You’ve got powdered sugar on your upper lip.”

Deluth swiped at his mouth, his paunch reinflating. “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Tristan didn’t waste time pointing out that if the man had been doing his job, he would have seen his boss approaching the Command Center on security camera number 638, which would have given him ample time to hide both the box of doughnuts and the crumpled issue of
Playboy
sticking out from beneath his chair. He could hardly blame the guard for being surprised by his sudden appearance. Although Tristan had designed every fiber-optic circuit in the room, he had never deigned to make personal use of them.