Breath of Magic by Teresa Medeiros
"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
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.
But the betrayal that haunted his eyes told her that nothing had ever been right again after that moment.
She reached to touch him anyway, but her hand froze an inch from the page as she recognized the spattered stains on his shirt and hands. Blood. Dark, profuse, and damning.
Her hand trembled as she withdrew it.
Beware the warlock.
As the stranger's cryptic warning echoed over the strident wail of the orchestra, Arian crumpled the page in her fist.
Hadn't she, too, been the victim of gossip and slander and false accusations? She would never convict Tristan without a trial. She would seek him out and ask him to explain what terrible crime that dazed, shackled boy could have committed.
She rose, stuffing the sheet of paper and all of its ugly insinuations into her purse.
Arian was forced to battle her way through the crowd. The steady flow of champagne had loosened both tongues and inhibitions. Someone had dimmed the chandeliers, enticing the dancers to bob and jerk to the throbbing beat of the orchestra. Shadows contorted their faces into writhing masks and a thin haze of cigarette smoke hung over the room, stinging Arian's eyes.
She bounced up and down on tiptoe, then clambered up on an abandoned chair, but still could not distinguish Tristan, Sven, or Copperfield from the seething mob.
Her foot smashed a miniature pumpkin as she jumped down and began to elbow her way through the crush, repeatedly asking, "Excuse me, but has anyone seen Mr. Lennox?"
Her plea earned her nothing but disinterested shrugs and pitying smiles. She'd barely traveled three feet before a trio of squat men blocked her path.
"Trick or treat, honey!" bellowed a balding, rotund reporter with an equally fat cigar dangling from between his lips.
Tristan had called the man by name, Arian remembered through a haze of desperation. They had even shared a joke. Perhaps the man was a friend of Tristan's.
She clutched the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm looking for Mr. Lennox. Have any of you gentlemen seen him?"
"What do you need a stiff like Lennox for when you've got me?" The man's fetid breath made her nose wrinkle. She was doubly horrified when he wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her into a sweaty bear hug. "How 'bout we go back to my apartment for an interview? You could give me a little exclusive… or something?"
If Arian could have reached her amulet at that moment, she would have given the wretch something he wouldn't have soon forgotten. As it was, she could only stomp his toes with the heel of her slipper in helpless outrage.
He released her with a startled yelp. His companions howled with laughter.
As Arian turned to flee, the man covered his embarrassment with an ugly snort. "I wonder how the little witch got her start – performing tricks or turning them? She must be damn good. Even for Lennox, a million dollars is a lot to pay for a whore."
Arian froze, her blood chilling to ice. The laughter and music faded to a dull roar in her ears.
Had Tristan's attempt to protect her misfired so miserably? Was that what they were all thinking? That she was nothing but a conniving harlot who had seduced him into surrendering the prize?
Suddenly she wanted Tristan with an intensity that shook her. Not to confront, but to touch. She wanted his arms to shield her from the darkness as they had the night of the blackout. She wanted his kiss to wash the bitter taste of the reporter's slurs from her mouth.
A crisp breeze cut through the haze of smoke, rattling the sheaths of leaves and cooling Arian's burning cheeks. Her gaze shifted to the open balcony doors and all they promised. Fresh air. Escape. Freedom.
Painfully aware of the leering eyes gnawing at her spine, she straightened her shoulders and marched through the doors, the skirt of the Givenchy gown billowing behind her like a sail.
Later she would have good reason to be thankful she wasn't touching the amulet,
18
Tristan Lennox was blushing. He might not have recognized the foreign sensation had it not crept over him with such excruciating slowness. As he met Arian's accusing gaze, the guilty flush crawled up his throat, over his jawline, and into his cheeks, kindling a fire that refused to be quenched. Arian had no claim on him, yet he felt like a straying husband caught with his pants around his ankles.
Even more damning was his body's perverse response to her unspoken condemnation. Cherie had been twined around him – soft, yielding, her open mouth requiring little persuasion – and his body had reacted with nothing more than mild interest. Yet there Arian stood, glaring daggers at him, her lips compressed to a line he doubted even his skilled tongue could penetrate, and he went as ramrod stiff as her spine. He thrust Cherie away from him, fearing the sudden violence of his erection would betray him.
The sparkle in Arian's eyes seemed to have intensified. "Pardonnez moi, monsieur. I did not mean to intrude."
With a snap of her skirts, she stalked back into the ballroom, flinging a last reproachful glance over her shoulder.
Tristan had never found jealousy particularly arousing before. He had always made it his policy to discourage clinging women or avoid them completely. So why did the flash of temper in Arian's eyes, so at odds with her prim demeanor, make him long to crush her in his arms, to kiss her until her every breath resounded with his name? He took two steps toward the door, then one back toward his date.
"Go after her," Cherie said, making shooing motions with her elegant hands. He shot the model a rueful smile, keenly regretting that he hadn't sent flowers after their last encounter.
When Tristan was gone, Cherie plucked her champagne glass from the ledge and lifted it in a wistful toast. "Good luck, little witch. Maybe you can turn that gorgeous ogre into a prince after all."