Teresa Medeiros (25 page)

And his name.

“I guess you’re just an old-fashioned girl, aren’t you?”

Her voice broke on a heartwrenching little hiccup. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Tristan tapped the button on the leather armrest, activating the intercom. “Take us back to the Tower, Barrett.”

“Yes, sir,” came the dutiful reply.

As the road unfurled beneath them like the twitching tail of a sleek black cat, Arian shrank into the corner of her own seat, shivering with misery. The drafts blowing from the silver vents felt like a spring breeze compared to the arctic blasts rolling off Tristan. He was staring out the window, his features carved in ice as he watched the countryside give way to city streets.

He was probably just rehearsing the most polite way to tell her farewell, Arian thought, as the driver guided the limousine into the Tower’s private parking stable. Or perhaps he wouldn’t even bother. Perhaps he
would just order one of his many servants to fetch a broom from housekeeping and shove her off the roof.

The limo rolled to a halt in the cavernous stall. As Tristan’s emotionless voice came floating out of the shadows, Arian cringed, already anticipating the worst.

“We’ll be married the Saturday before Thanksgiving if you don’t have any objections. That should give my consultants ample time to plan the wedding.”

The driver whisked open the door in Arian’s astonished face. Before she could coax her limp limbs or her stunned brain into action, Tristan had slipped past her, leaving behind nothing but an intoxicating whiff of his cologne. His clipped footsteps were already fading before Arian shook off enough of her bewilderment to realize he hadn’t even given her a chance to accept or reject his unconventional proposal.

Something was banging on the bedroom door.

Arian stumbled out of Tristan’s bed, rubbing her raw eyes and wondering if she was awake or if this was just another of the disturbingly vivid dreams that had plagued her throughout the night. As she bumped her shin on the footboard, pain jolted up her leg, assuring her this was no dream. The sun slanted through the drawn drapes, warning her it was nearly noon.

Biting back a curse, she limped toward the door, her bleary mind still haunted by echoes of her sleep-induced fantasies. She had been at a ball, she remembered through a drowsy fog, drifting down a marble staircase into the waiting arms of her black-garbed prince. She sighed with longing, but that innocent vision was consumed by one so sinfully and deliciously carnal it brought a flush of mingled lust and embarrassment stinging to her cheeks.

“Naughty girl,” she mumbled to herself. “What would Goody Hubbins say?”

Her dreams had become even more preposterous
as the night wore on, culminating with Tristan asking her to be his bride. Arian stumbled to a halt, almost pitying herself for letting such a ridiculous fancy send a thrill of pure joy shooting through her heart.

“No more chocolate cream before bedtime,” she muttered, shaking off the poignant daze.

The banging on the door had ceased, but Arian would have sworn she heard a faint roar, like that of the ocean at low tide or the murmur of many voices. She pressed her ear to the door, frowning. Perhaps it was just Sven watching cartoons again.

She dragged open the door and padded into the living room, indulging in an enormous yawn. “All right, Sven. None of your saucy Monsieur Roadrunner and his annoying ‘beep-beep’ before I get to watch
Dreaming of Mademoiselle Jeannie.”

At least twenty pairs of eyes swung around to blink at her. None of them were Sven’s.

Arian put a hand to her tangled mop of hair, then lowered it as if it would be enough to shield a figure barely confined by the rumpled silk of Tristan’s nightshirt. She stumbled backward toward the bedroom, but her escape route was cut off by a matronly woman bearing a thick stack of pamphlets.

“Good morning, Miss Whitewood. Mr. Lennox asked me to scour the newsstands for these. He said he hoped you would find them inspiring.”

The woman dropped the pamphlets into Arian’s arms and retreated with a motion that was only a bob short of being a curtsy. Arian caught a brief glimpse of a lady in white on one of the glossy covers. Nuns? she thought, her confusion growing. Why was Tristan sending her pamphlets about nuns?

She had little time to ponder for it was as if the woman’s approach had released a floodgate of jabbering strangers.

“Miss Whitewood, if you would just sign this release
form in triplicate, Mr. Copperfield can put the paperwork for the prenuptial agreement into motion.”

She recoiled from the gold pen thrust in her face.

A gaunt woman darted at her, her lips pressed in a disapproving line. “As soon as you’ve chosen your gown pattern, I must insist you schedule an appointment for a fitting. Mr. Lennox has left us so little time.” She rattled a yellow tape, glancing hopefully at Arian’s breasts. “Perhaps I could even measure you now.”

Arian tried to retreat, but they stalked her across the carpet, honking like a flock of geese.

“Would you prefer shrimp canapés or goose liver tartlets at the reception?” snapped a foppish fellow with a petulant smirk.

An elderly priest beamed down at her. “Mr. Lennox has declined premarital counseling, but I wanted you to know I was available if you wished to discuss issues of intimacy such as …”

“… smoked caviar or baby ducklings? If you’d like, we can roll and butter …”

“… the finest bakery in New York,” exclaimed an enormous man wearing a white apron dusted with flour. “I did Trump’s wedding cake, you know. Both of them.”

“Bavarian meatballs or escargots? You are French, aren’t you? I must wire Paris immediately. We simply can’t do a Gallic theme at the reception without fresh snails.”

Arian collapsed into a sitting position on the ottoman, the voices blurring into a meaningless cacophony. They seemed to be speaking neither English nor French, but some other language beyond her comprehension. If it hadn’t been for the solid object poking her rump, she might have thought she’d drifted into another bizarre nightmare. She briefly considered touching the amulet and wishing them all away, but a twinge of conscience prevented her. She wasn’t quite sure where they’d end up.

It wasn’t until the panel on the opposite wall hissed
open that she realized she was sitting on the remote control. Her bewildered attentions were easily distracted by a thirty-five-inch color image of Tristan’s face.

“Quiet!” she pleaded, rising to her feet.

Her pursuers fell into a reverent hush, automatically stepping back to clear a path between Arian and the television. Still clutching the stack of pamphlets, she drifted toward the screen, mesmerized by the unholy beauty of Tristan’s features. She wanted to groan with disappointment when they were replaced by an image of a somber stranger wearing a tan coat and clutching a microphone. She realized with an uneasy start that he was standing in front of the Tower.

“So who is this resourceful sorceress who’s cast her spell of matrimony over the billionaire once voted America’s most eligible and unattainable bachelor?” he intoned. “No one seems to be sure, but early this morning in a press conference that stunned both the business and entertainment communities, Tristan Lennox announced he would wed Miss Arian Whitewood on November twenty-third in a lavish ceremony to be held at Saint Paul’s Chapel on Broadway.”

The last cobweb of slumber drifted from Arian’s brain on a breath of shock.

The reporter continued. “The enigmatic computer magnate claims he and his bewitching fiancée intended to announce their engagement at a reception held last night at the Plaza, but a Halloween hoax got out of hand, resulting in a visit from the New York Fire Department and early cessation of the festivities.”

Just like her peculiar dreams, Arian thought. Cameras flashing in her face; Tristan in the arms of another woman; a black limousine thundering through the night.

“Shall I have this cleaned for you, ma’am?” asked a maid, holding out the crumpled Givenchy gown.

Not dreams, Arian realized with a start, but memories. Every last one of them.

Tristan waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

The exquisite gentleness of his hands on her. And in her.

His brusque declaration before he’d exited the limo.

Totally oblivious to the expectant silence of the maid, Arian glanced down at the pamphlet on top to discover a beaming young woman, radiant in white satin. Not a nun, but a bride. A
Modern Bride
, according to the elegant script etched above her billowing veil.

Arian slowly lifted her gaze to the screen to find herself staring into the mocking eyes of her future husband.

Copperfield stormed into Tristan’s office without bothering to knock and slapped a legal-sized sheet of paper on the desk.

“The Monkman report?” Tristan queried, arching an eyebrow.

“My letter of resignation. I quit!”

Tristan plucked up the letter, drew open a filing-cabinet drawer, and dropped it inside. It drifted down to rest on top of a heap of identical letters. “That’s only the third time this month. You’re slipping.”

Copperfield shook a finger at him. “I mean it this time. I’ve had enough of your sadistic little games.”

Tristan settled back in his chair, propping his foot on the opposite knee. “It was the press conference, wasn’t it? Did I make a grammatical error people are going to attribute to you? Did I accidentally call Arian my ‘finance’ instead of my ‘fiancée’?”

“Precisely my point. You obviously don’t need my help to manipulate the press. You had them slavering at your feet.” Cop snorted. “ ‘Resourceful sorceress,’ indeed!”

Tristan could not resist a feline smirk of satisfaction. “I was rather proud of that one.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re limber enough to kiss your
own ass because Michael Copperfield won’t be around to do it any more.”

Copperfield stalked toward the door, his pace slowing by imperceptible degrees with each step. Tristan watched the brass hand of the clock on his desk tick away the seconds, counting beneath his breath. It was a game they played, seeing how far Copperfield could actually get before Tristan called him back. He waited until the second hand reached the twelve, until Cop’s hand curled around the doorknob in arrested slow motion.

“Don’t go.”

Copperfield pretended to waver until Tristan rolled his eyes and added a weary “Please.”

The attorney returned to drop into the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. It was the absence of Cop’s usual sulk that made Tristan realize how deeply he had wounded his friend. If discovering the staggering extent of Arian’s ambitions hadn’t left Tristan so numb, he might have felt a stab of regret.

“I’m your best friend,” Cop said. “Hell, I’m your only friend. If you can’t confide in me when you fall in love, who can you confide in?”

Tristan shuffled a stack of papers from one corner of his desk to the other, avoiding Cop’s eyes. “I never said I was in love.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re in love. Up until Arian and her magical broom swept you off your feet, if anyone so much as hummed ‘The Wedding March’ in your presence, you’d run screaming from the room.”

“Love isn’t the only reason for getting married. There’s always companionship.”

“Get a cat.”

Tristan leveled an acid glare at him. “And sex.”

Cop leaned forward, dropping his voice to a mocking whisper. “This is the nineties. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you don’t have to be married to have sex.”

“You do if you want to have it with Arian Whitewood.”

Cop sank back in the chair. “You’ve got to be kidding. Well, if you plan to marry every virgin witch you meet, I should warn you that bigamy is illegal in this state.” When Tristan’s face failed to betray even a flicker of amusement, Copperfield’s smile faded. “Christ, this isn’t just another Halloween prank, is it? You really intend to go through with it.”

In reply, Tristan selected a folder and handed it across the desk. “I’ve already sent Dauber from Legal to get Arian’s signature on the release forms. When he returns, you can start work on the prenuptial agreement.”

Cop turned the file over in his hands, a troubled frown creasing his brow. “You’re the very soul of romance, aren’t you? How did you persuade Arian to marry you? Drop to one knee, clap a hand over your heart, and quote the latest divorce statistics?”

“I should think you’d be applauding my foresight. Aren’t you the one who’s always reminding me that nothing lasts forever?”

Copperfield’s sigh was almost wistful. “I guess so. But maybe some things should.” He fixed Tristan with a troubled stare. “Has it occurred to you that there may be inherent legal difficulties in marrying someone who doesn’t seem to exist?”

Tristan nodded toward the file. “You’ll find in there triplicate copies of Arian’s birth certificate and proof of United States citizenship.”

Cop sat up straighten “How on earth did you get your hands on those?”

“I bought them.”

Cop slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe she’d finally confided in you. You know, someday you’re going to run into something or someone that you can’t buy.”