Teresa Medeiros (10 page)

Tristan bit off a succinct oath. “So just how in the hell am I supposed to get rid of the ‘puir lassie’?”

“You could throw a bucket of water on her and see if she melts?” At Tristan’s glare, Cop hastily added, “Or you could pay her off. Offer her a few thousand dollars to perform a vanishing act. It worked on the woman who filed that paternity suit last fall.”

“That’s because I never touched her and she knew it. Shaking hands at an AIDS fund-raiser doesn’t qualify as intercourse, not even in New York City.” Tristan rose to stare blindly down at the distant streets below, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“Sven was able to get a valid set of fingerprints from the toothbrush you loaned her. We’ve already got the NYPD, Interpol, and our own private detectives running background checks of every criminal, con artist, and missing person matching her description. We should know something definitive by the end of the week.”

“And if I don’t want to wait that long to sleep in my own bed?”

Cop spread a magnanimous palm on his breast. “Why, I’d be delighted to book the beguiling Miss Whitewood a room at the Plaza or even put her up at my own loft. Located off Fifth Avenue with a breathtaking view of Central Park—” Tristan wheeled on him with such savagery that Copperfield took two hasty steps backward,
despite the fact that the desk was between them. “Never mind.”

The tension fled Tristan’s body as quickly as it had come, leaving him weary to the bone. Unable to stomach Copperfield’s speculative gaze, he turned back to the window, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning about moving somewhere else until we get her claim settled.”

Even as Tristan acknowledged the lightness of his decision, he wondered why it left him with such a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Monday dawned with a crisp blue October sky and a media blitz more frantic than anything Copperfield had anticipated. The influx of press forced Tristan to close the fern-draped atrium of Lennox Enterprises to the public, but not before several resourceful reporters had wormed their way into his corporate lair. Sven was forced to run interference for him when he emerged from his office. Tristan knew if he gave the command, Sven would drop his shoulder and plow through the shouting mob like Emmitt Smith demolishing the Giants’ defense on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

“Mr. Lennox, can you confirm that Miss Whitewood appeared to be riding a common kitchen broom?”

“No comment,” he replied.

“Have you released the name brand of the broom? Was it a Tuff-Bristle or a Perfect Sweeper?”

“No comment.”

“Sir, would you classify Miss Whitewood as a good witch or a bad witch?”

He refused to dignify that with any answer at all.

He had almost reached the elevators when a hacking cigarette cough brought him up short. He knew without looking what question would follow and exactly who would ask it. The
Prattler
’s Eddie Hobbes had spent the last ten years becoming the bane of Tristan’s existence. Tristan even recognized the rustle of Hobbes’s notepad as the man made a great show of pretending to consult it.

“Mr. Lennox, is it true that a Mr. Wite Lize, aka Mr. Leopold Finch, is still calling for local authorities to reopen the murder investigation of his son?”

Tristan turned, his eerie composure silencing the mob in mid-murmur. Hobbes wore a rumpled sports coat and was puffing on a fat cigar in flagrant defiance of the No Smoking sign posted directly over his balding head.

“As you well know, Hobbes,” Tristan said, “there was no murder investigation. Arthur Finch disappeared nearly a decade ago and is officially listed as a missing person.”

As Tristan coolly dismissed him by turning back to the elevator, the reporter snickered and elbowed the photographer next to him. “That’s one picture you’ll never see on any milk carton.”

The shouting resumed with renewed vigor. “Mr. Lennox! Mr. Lennox!”

Tristan stepped into the sanctuary of the arriving elevator, leaving Sven to block the press’s pursuit. As soon as the doors slid shut, he relaxed his rigid posture and sagged against the elevator wall, rubbing the back of his neck in a futile attempt to massage the stiffness from it. The leather couch in his office looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than it was. He bitterly hoped Miss Whitewood had spent a cozy night nestled between the satin sheets of his king-sized bed. He was on his way to ensure that it had been her last.

Who would have thought one small woman could throw his empire into such chaos? The Tower’s phone lines had been jammed since dawn, leaving most of his
fifteen thousand employees helpless to resume their duties. The wasted manpower galled him almost as much as the media’s brutal siege.

Three altercations had already broken out between Tower security and the invading press, leaving behind a trail of smashed cameras and tape recorders that had Copperfield downing half a bottle of extra-strength aspirin in anticipation of a flurry of assault charges and civil lawsuits.

Copperfield might blame him for thrusting himself back into the limelight he hated, but Tristan was fully prepared to lay the blame where it belonged—at Arian Whitewood’s dainty feet. Had she not staged such a flamboyant stunt, the press’s attention would have waned by now or been distracted by some breaking scandal or juicy morsel of gossip. He was tempted to drag her downstairs and abandon her to their mercy.

Arriving at the penthouse, he strode off the elevator, prepared to do just that. The living room was deserted, the door to his private office still locked as he had left it.

A rhythmic roar drew him toward the bedroom. He hastened his steps, wondering what new calamity Miss Whitewood had devised to inflict on him. His unwanted houseguest was nowhere in sight. The roar intensified and he whirled around to find himself almost nose to nose with the helicopter hovering directly outside the window.

Even if the
Prattler
’s logo of carnivorous teeth and flapping tongue hadn’t been stenciled on the craft’s nose, Tristan would have recognized it by the predatory smirk of the photographer leaning out the door to get a clear shot of him.

Repressing the adolescent urge to flip the man off, Tristan satisfied himself with snatching the drapes shut. The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors soon faded.

Tristan peered through the pearly gloom. “Miss Whitewood?”

Nothing. He checked the bathroom, but failed to find anything more incriminating than a dripping faucet and damp toothbrush. Apparently, the woman had decided her hoax wouldn’t survive the scrutiny of his scientists and had chosen to spare him the unpleasantness of evicting her. He sank down on the foot of the bed and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly more weary than he had realized.

It took him a hazy minute to realize the bed was vibrating as if he’d just dropped a quarter into it. Utterly baffled, he flattened his palms against the mattress, but the strange quivering continued. He leaned over, gingerly lifted the bedskirt, and peered beneath the bed.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the murky light, but all he could see were a pair of black stockinged feet. “Miss Whitewood?”

The bed trembled with renewed violence. Dropping to his knees on the carpet, Tristan wrapped his fingers around the slender ankles attached to the feet and tugged. Arian slid out from beneath the bed, stiffer than an ironing board, her eyes clenched shut.

“Miss Whitewood?” he said, more gently this time.

Her eyes popped open, huge in her ashen face. Her dress was even more miserably rumpled than before and a litter of baby dust bunnies nested in her hair, validating Tristan’s decision to hire a new cleaning service.

“Is it gone?” she whispered through her chattering teeth.

“The helicopter?”

“No, the dragon!”

Tristan mentally kicked himself for not having Cop follow up on that Bellevue connection. “You saw a dragon?”

“I did, sir. Right outside the window. He came swooping out of the sky at me with his teeth bared and his tongue flapping in the wind. I thought he was going to crash right through the window and—” She hugged herself as a fresh shudder raked her.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Tristan eased her to a sitting position, caught off guard by his own primal impulse to slay her dragons, real or imaginary. Her pliant body trembled violently against his chest. She seemed so genuinely terrified that it was difficult to remember she was probably nothing more than a cunning actress.

Awkwardly supporting her weight, he plucked a dust bunny from her hair. “There’s no need for you to be afraid, Miss Whitewood. What you saw wasn’t a dragon. It was only a helicopter.”

“A hell-copter?” she echoed, looking less than comforted.

“ ‘Helicopter,’ ” he repeated, wondering just how provincial France had become since his last business trip to Paris. “An aircraft designed to fly people from one place to another.”

Arian was silent for a long moment as she pondered his explanation. “Then those men weren’t inside its stomach?”

Tristan suppressed a smile. Being eaten by a dragon would have been a more than fitting fate for the
Prattler
photographer and his pilot. “No, they were simply riding
inside
the helicopter to reach their destination.”

“Which was?”

Her innocent question reminded him that the men had been predators of a different sort. “Unfortunately, my window. They were trying to snap a photograph of you.”

She blinked up at him. “A photo-graph?”

Tristan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was turning out to be a very long day. And it wasn’t even noon yet. Too weary to attempt another explanation, he dumped her out of his lap and went to the dresser.

He chose a gold frame from its polished surface,
held it in front of Arian’s nose, and tapped the glass with his forefinger. “A photograph.”

Arian studied the smiling blonde, her expression almost wistful. “She’s very lovely. Is she your wife?”

Tristan turned the picture around and frowned down at it. “I don’t know who the hell she is. The interior decorator left her here.” Shrugging, he replaced the frame on the dresser. “Anyway, the photographer might be an unscrupulous monster, but the helicopter itself is harmless. I have one just like it sitting on my helicopter pad on the roof. Would you like to go for a ride?”

Arian sprang to her feet, backing away from him as if he’d just offered her candy to get in the back of his limousine. “Oh, no, really I’m quite fine where I am. I’ll just stay here, thank you.”

Grateful to be reminded of his original mission, Tristan leaned against the dresser. “Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Arian took the chair farthest from the window, as if she didn’t quite trust his assurance that the dragon/hell-copter wouldn’t return to rip her succulent throat out. She tried to smooth her wrinkled white cuffs, but whatever starch they’d once absorbed was long gone. Unnerved by the pathetic display, Tristan scowled down at her. He’d be glad when both she and her pitiful dress were gone. He couldn’t bear watching her mope around his suite like some forlorn waif from the cast of
Les Miserables
.

His voice came out more brusque than he intended. “You and I need to discuss the future.”

Her eyes widened and the skin around her mouth went pinched and pale. “The future?”

“Specifically, your future. Your near future. And exactly where you’ll be spending it.”

She smiled, looking oddly relieved. “Oh,
that
future.”

“I’m afraid your presence here is making the day-to-day operations of Lennox Enterprises nearly impossible
to execute. My scientists are currently making every effort to investigate your claim to the prize money, but until they reach a conclusion”—Tristan made a deliberate effort to gentle his voice—“I think it would be best if you sought accommodations elsewhere.”

Arian’s smile faded, then reappeared with suspicious brilliance. She rose from the chair and extended her hand. “Your hospitality has been more than generous, Mr. Lennox, but I would never presume to overstay my welcome.”

Her rapid assimilation dizzied him. He had expected to find himself battling arguments, tears, and a demand for an extravagant housing allowance, but it was almost as if she were accustomed to being kicked out of places with little or no notice. Her graceful capitulation pricked a conscience he hadn’t realized he still possessed.

She was already turning to go when he blurted out, “I’d be more than happy to book you a room at a nearby hotel.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” She waved a hand at him, her tone almost breezy. “I simply can’t bring myself to accept another moment of your charity. But you needn’t fret about me. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Then she was gone, sailing through the gaping doors and leaving him standing alone with his mouth hanging open.

The doors slid closed. Arian’s disappearance was followed by muffled thumping and a mumbled French curse.

“Miss Whitewood?” Tristan ventured.

Puzzled silence.