Teresa Medeiros (7 page)

Due to the late hour, glowing banks of monitors revealed screen after screen of empty offices, shadowy elevator shafts, deserted stairwells, and numerous entranceways guarded by uniformed security personnel. Tristan had long ago learned to shrug off accusations of paranoia. He lived with the knowledge that all the security guards and sophisticated surveillance equipment in the world wouldn’t stop his enemy from destroying him.

“Activate the cameras in the penthouse,” he commanded,
sinking into the swivel chair the guard had abandoned.

“But, sir, I have strict orders never to activate those units unless you’re out of the building.”

Tristan cast him a look of deadly patience. “And who do you think gave those orders?”

Deluth scratched his head, his florid brow beginning to sweat. “Y-y-ou, sir,” he ventured.

“That’s right. And who signs your paychecks?”

“You do, sir.”

Tristan continued to stare at him.

Deluth hunched over the panel, swapping two panoramic views of the courtyard for opposing views of the penthouse interior. Tristan leaned forward to adjust the toggle switch until the suite’s single bedroom sharpened into crisp focus.

His mysterious guest was wandering the spacious room, her hands linked at the small of her back as if she were an inquisitive child fearful of touching something that might give her a nasty shock. As Tristan zoomed in on her, he was the one to receive the nasty shock. Arian Whitewood was no child. She might be dressed like some poor relation of the Addams family, but not even the hideous cut of her dress could disguise the fact that her petite body was ripe with womanly curves.

Tristan grimaced as he felt something panting down the back of his neck. He swiveled around to discover Deluth hanging over his shoulder, his beady eyes bright with interest.

Refusing to examine his sudden urge to shove the doughnuts, box and all, down the burly ex-marine’s throat, Tristan bit off a single word. “Out.”

This time, he didn’t have to repeat himself. Tucking the box of doughnuts under his arm, the guard retreated, clearly more relieved than offended by his dismissal.

Tristan turned back to the monitor, coolly observing his quarry and wondering what mad impulse had
prompted him to have her installed in his suite. In his bed. When she’d collapsed in the courtyard, Sven had rushed forward to take her from his arms, but Tristan’s first instinct had been to shield her from the flashing cameras and shouting reporters. Cradling her slight form against his chest, he’d made a beeline for the express elevator and stabbed the button for the ninety-fifth floor. Habit, he supposed. The penthouse had always been his only refuge from the dogged persistence of the press.

But his careless act may have worked to his advantage. As long as she resided in the Tower, he would be able to monitor her every move until he could formulate a plan to discredit her.

The curious creature was all hair and eyes. A mass of corkscrew curls tumbled to her waist in a natural tangle no expensive perm could duplicate. The elfin delicacy of her features only magnified her dark eyes. He scowled at her image. She reminded him of those pathetic prints of sad-eyed waifs that had adorned the walls of the orphanage where he’d grown up. Her eyebrows were striking slashes against skin so pale as to be nearly translucent.

“Don’t they have tanning booths in France?” he muttered.

Despite his conviction that she was the worst sort of fraud, he could not help being intrigued by the Gallic lilt of her husky voice and her quaint mannerisms. The girl had curtsied to Copperfield. Copperfield, for God’s sake!

When she had awakened to find him looming over her, she had snatched the blankets up to her chin as if she were the vicar’s daughter and he was some mustache-twirling villain from some Off-Broadway Gilbert and Sullivan revival bent on ravishing her. Remembering how she had looked with her rosy lips parted in sleep, her dark hair spread across his pillow as if it belonged there, Tristan shifted irritably.

Even more perplexing than her manners had been the hint of fragrance that clung to her skin. His mental scan of potential perfumes had yielded nothing. It wasn’t Beautiful or Obsession or even some Chanel of obscure numerical origin. Tristan despised any puzzle he could not solve. Her elusive scent had made him inexplicably hungry, tempting him to brush aside that beguiling cloud of hair and nuzzle the skin of her throat until he identified it.

He watched through narrowed eyes as she picked up the remote control and idly trailed her fingers over it. Her mouth formed a startled O as a panel in the far wall hissed open to reveal a thirty-five-inch screen with the
Nick at Nite
logo emblazoned in the corner and the manic figures of Samantha Stevens and her very first Darrin cavorting across it. The girl drifted toward the television, her eyes widening to enormous proportions as a young Elizabeth Montgomery twitched her nose, sending Dick York into an eye-rolling, foot-stomping tantrum. Maybe he should have Cop check to see if there had been any recent escapes from Bellevue.

He became even more puzzled when she pressed her nose to the screen, then turned her head to peer both ways. He had once seen a cat do the same thing before circling the television to make sure the tasty little people trapped inside hadn’t escaped out the back. When the girl straightened, her pert nose was smudged with dust Tristan made a mental note to fire his cleaning service.

Still casting the television furtive glances over her shoulder, she crept toward the bedside table where the sleek Swedish telephone sat.

His ugliest suspicions confirmed, Tristan flicked the switches that would allow him to monitor her conversation and trace the call. He had hosted the magic competition with the slender hope of capturing a deadly shark only to end up netting a harmless guppy. Even as he settled back in the chair to nurse a twinge of gloating
satisfaction, his methodical mind sorted through her possible contacts.

Would she call her editor at the
Prattler?
The CEO of one of his major business rivals? Wite Lize? Or perhaps another partner in her cunning scheme to swindle him out of a million dollars—some faceless lover who would mock Tristan’s gullibility before whispering all the tender, wicked things he would do to her when they were reunited?

Tristan stiffened, wondering where that last wayward thought had come from. He’d never been a man given to flights of fantasy, especially when it came to women.

The girl held the phone in her hand for several minutes, her expression intent, before pushing the first button. The shrill beep jangled Tristan’s nerves. Like a panther poised to pounce, he waited for her to complete the connection.

The notes meandered on, one after the other. Tristan leaned forward, frowning. No exchange took that long to dial—not even an international one.

His disgust shifted to bewilderment as the jumbled notes merged into a winsome melody. He sank back in the chair, stunned to realize she was punching out a halting rendition of “Frère Jacques” on the numbered buttons, much as a toddler might pick out the notes of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on a toy phone. An unprecedented tightness seized his chest, so intense he briefly entertained the notion that he might be having a heart attack.

“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up …”

The mechanical voice startled him almost as badly as it did the girl. She dropped the phone as if it had bitten her, severing the connection, and collapsed into a sitting position on the bed.

As she gazed around the enormous suite, Tristan could not help but wonder if she found it as sterile as he had deliberately designed it to be. To his chagrin, the
room’s icy elegance only emphasized her disheveled charm. Her shoulders rose and slumped in a soundless sigh. Tristan had never seen anyone look quite so forlorn. He fought a brief surge of horror at the prospect of being a helpless witness to her tears.

But instead of crying, she simply curled up in the middle of the bed without bothering to draw the covers over her. The television bathed her in its impersonal light.

His eyes were drawn against their will to the slender legs tucked into the protective half-moon of her body. Her heavy black stockings were ripped just below the knee, revealing a pale strip of calf. A raw pulse of desire in his groin startled him.

If he was so inclined, he knew he could thumb through Deluth’s well-worn copy of
Playboy
and find gorgeous women in varying states of dress and undress, their lush, silicone-enhanced bodies contorted in every provocative pose he’d once dreamed of as a lonely adolescent. There was no reason that innocent glimpse of flesh should quicken his breath or make his mouth go dry with want.

Tristan sank back in the chair, running a damp hand across his mouth. It was probably just the novelty of seeing so little flesh when he was accustomed to seeing so much. Or perhaps he’d been working too hard after all. He was going to have to take Copperfield up on his offer to fix him up with another one of those gaunt, hollow-cheeked model friends of his.

Almost as if his unnatural twinge of hunger had disturbed her, the girl reached to tug the homely skirt down over her legs. With one abrupt motion, Tristan switched off the camera, feeling like the very worst sort of voyeur.

Arian awoke the next morning with a feline stretch and a sated yawn. She burrowed into the fleecy pillow, thinking to steal another hour’s sleep, then sat bolt upright as she remembered where she was.

New York City. Nineteen ninety-six. In Tristan Lennox’s bed.

A brisk hint of his cologne still clung to the satin sheets.

Arian sprang to her feet in one lithe motion, beset by a ridiculous pang of guilt. ’Twas hardly her fault she found the decadent fragrance intoxicating. The most exotic aroma she’d smelled on any man in the past ten years had been the sweat of hard work mingled with the stench of cod and the earthy musk of cows and pigs.

The sunshine streaming through the wall of glass did much to dispel the desolation she’d experienced the night before. ’Twas impossible to gaze down upon the bustling avenues and not feel a surge of exhilaration. She’d never seen so many people in one place, all rushing like industrious ants to somewhere even more compelling.
She pressed her nose to the window, wishing she could throw it open and absorb the sounds and smells of this thrilling century.

Her expectant smile faded as if a cloud had passed over the sun as she recalled the disconcerting sensation of pewter-gray eyes studying her reflection in the glass. From the tips of his shiny leather shoes to the tawny sheen of his hair, her host had exuded a masculine confidence so powerful it bordered on arrogance. Shuddering, Arian remembered another arrogant man, a man willing to debase and even drown her if she refused to bow to his will.

Tristan never forgets a friend. Or an enemy
.

Copperfield’s gentle warning drifted back to haunt her. Arian had no intention of being either friend or enemy to Tristan Lennox. She simply wanted to discover what manner of colossal blunder had sent her crashing into his life.

She’d found it impossible to think last night with her body battered by exhaustion and her mind muddled with shock, but today her musings felt as crisp as the sunlight.

“ ‘Time,’ ” she muttered, pacing the thick carpet while she struggled to recall the hastily scrawled words of her spell. “ ‘Time halts, but keeps on flowing …’ ”

It had been her rather ambitious intention to freeze Linnet and his bloodthirsty minions in time while she made her escape. She had never dreamed her clumsy spell-casting would send her hurtling over three centuries into the future. She nearly stumbled, her chagrin tempered by belated awe and burgeoning excitement. Why, her powers must be far greater than she’d ever dared to hope! But were they great enough to return her to 1689 where she belonged?

Her spirits plummeted as she recalled the grim fate that awaited her there. If her current luck prevailed, she’d arrive just in time to hear Linnet mouthing some sanctimonious words over her freshly dug grave.

Time
, Arian thought, jerking up her head. She had manipulated time once. What was to stop her from doing it again? What if she returned herself to Gloucester the day before Linnet witnessed her disastrous broom flight? She might have to experiment with several different spells, but if she were successful, the dastardly minister would have no motive for persecuting her and no evidence to convict her. Instead of dying a premature and tragic death, she could resume her barren existence as Gloucester’s social pariah.

She groaned, rubbing her temples as her dragon-induced headache threatened to return. ’Twas too easy to envision her hair dulled with dust, her hands callused and raw from milking cows and scaling codfish, her spirit broken from battling petty Puritan intolerance. How long would it be before she withered into a dry and bitter old crone like Goody Hubbins?

She surveyed the alien landscape outside the window with a fresh eye. Perhaps there was a different future for her than the one she’d just imagined—a future within the future. There was certainly little enough to bind her to the past. Her grandmama was dead, and while she was undeniably fond of Marcus, her very presence in his household threatened his good standing within the Puritan community. Gloucester was already beginning to seem like nothing more than a dim memory of a vaguely disturbing dream.