Teresa Medeiros (5 page)

A poodle-permed contestant wearing a flowered house dress trotted forward, waving a tiny pink sweater. “If you’ll give me twelve hours, Mr. Lennox, I swear I’ll find the missing Pekingese this sweater belongs to.”

The woman grunted as a reporter elbowed her out of the way to thrust a microphone in Tristan’s face. “Is it true, Mr. Lennox, that a computer simulation has confirmed that Richard Rastasi of Iraq has bent the handle of a spoon a trillionth of a centimeter using only the power of his mind?”

Tristan calmly pushed the microphone aside. “Next.”

“But I found my husband’s car keys under the couch cushions and they’d been missing for over a year!” The contestant cursed in fluent Yiddish as one of Tristan’s assistants gently led her away.

Copperfield rubbed his throbbing temples. “I knew I should have taken five extra-strength aspirin this morning instead of only three.” A turbaned swami carrying basket, cobra, and flute glided forward from the milling crowd. Copperfield groaned. “Or maybe a bottle of Prozac.”

He shot the sky a nasty look. The sporadic roar of
the helicopters certainly wasn’t helping his head. Both the
Global Inquirer
and the
Prattler
had been circling like vultures since dawn, their parasitic photographers hanging out open doors, telephoto lenses in hand. He wondered who at the
Prattler
fancied himself such a wit as to have had their helicopter painted to resemble a rather myopic shark.

“Next,” came Tristan’s cool command. His pen descended with a methodical slash as the swami slunk away. A flashbulb popped, invoking a sullen hiss from the cobra.

“How can you be so calm?” Copperfield asked. “Your credibility is in tatters. The front office has already fielded calls from Ricki Lake’s booking agent,
America’s Oddest People
, and four major stockholders offering referrals to their therapists.”

Tristan doodled a Pekingese that looked more like a cloud with legs on the steno pad before shooting Copperfield an arch glance. “Maybe you should review the numbers of those therapists. You look as if you could use some analysis.”

Copperfield threw up his hands in frustration. “Oh, do forgive me if spending the night on the floor of your closet aggravates my neuroses.”

Tristan shrugged, looking anything but repentant. “I thought you knew where the emergency release was.”

“It was a little hard to find in the dark. If you hadn’t sent Sven to let me out this morning, I’d still be fumbling through your silk pajamas. And does any human male really need fifty pairs of silk pajamas?”

Tristan’s gaze flicked to Copperfield’s chest. A knowing smile quirked his lips. “Nice tie. It matches your eyes.”

Their exchange was interrupted by a flurry of discord near the bank of glass elevators. “Unhand me, you Visigoth!” shouted a cultured voice. “You’re wrinkling my cape.”

As the top-hatted figure broke from his captors and
sped toward the stage, Tristan settled back in his chair, his legendary composure growing even more dangerous. An unnatural hush fell over the crowd. The reporters edged nearer, nostrils twitching like predators scenting the coppery tang of fresh blood.

Never one to squander a potential audience, the newcomer swept off his glossy top hat to reveal a leonine mane of snowy white hair. “Wite Lize, illusionist extraordinaire, at your most humble service.” He flicked the lid of his cane; a bouquet of carnations popped into existence.

The antiquated trick was greeted by a smattering of cautious applause.

The helicopters had withdrawn for the moment and Tristan’s words shredded the tense silence like slivers of glass. “Get him out of here.”

Captained by Sven, a burly Norwegian whose budding acting career had been tragically cut short when he was fired from
Baywatch
because of his irresistible compulsion to gaze lovingly into the camera, Tristan’s legion of omnipresent bodyguards moved in. They were distinguishable from the crowd by the suspicious bulges beneath their gray jackets and the regulation Ray•Bans they wore despite the overcast sky.

The intruder wagged a chiding finger at them. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, gentlemen. According to the newspaper, this contest is open to all. I have just as much right to that million dollars as anyone. If you cause me so much as a twinge of mental anguish, I shall have to call my attorney.” He fished around in his top hat, drawing out first a squirming rabbit, then a cellular phone from its interior. A little girl clinging to her mother’s hand squealed with delight.

Tristan’s fingers twitched, snapping the pen in two.

Copperfield smiled, rather enjoying his employer’s discomfiture. “He has a point. Another lawsuit would only generate more negative publicity.”

“He may have a point, but we have a restraining
order. Would you rather I ordered Sven to shoot him on sight?”

“Sven,” Copperfield called out, already envisioning the grisly headlines. “Would you please escort Mr. Lize to the nearest exit?”

The little girl started to cry as the bodyguards seized the magician by the arms.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Lennox, child,” Lize crooned. “He doesn’t like it when you make things appear.” His veneer of civility crumbled as they dragged him toward the exit. “You only know about making things disappear, don’t you, Lennox?” Shoving his face into a reporter’s TV camera, he snarled, “Ask him about my son. Ask him how he made my son disappear all those years ago!”

The familiar accusations continued to ring in the air long after Wite Lize was gone, but Tristan simply flipped to a fresh page on the steno pad, chose a solid-gold Cross pen from the breast pocket of his suit, and murmured, “Next.”

It was almost a relief when the hollow
thud-thud
of a returning helicopter broke the awkward silence. The mother knelt to dab at her daughter’s cheeks, shooting Tristan a reproachful glance. “Now, honey, I told you before we left home that there was no such thing as magic. Poor Mr. Lennox simply has more money than he has common—”

The rest of her words were drowned out by a scream of pure terror, so shrill it pierced even the rhythmic clamor of the helicopter’s blades.

The little girl pointed heavenward, a snaggletoothed grin transforming her tearstained face. “Look, Mommy—the Wicked Witch of the West!”

Tristan came to his feet. “What the hell …?”

Copperfield was so busy gaping at his employer’s astounded expression that he failed to look up until the crowd let out a collective gasp.

“That’s odd,” Tristan murmured, following the erratic
path of the smoke trail across the sky. “I don’t remember authorizing a skywriter.”

Copperfield’s own jaw dropped as he realized the trail of smoke and cinders was being shed by a flying broom. A flying broom piloted by a petite brunette whose terrified shrieks verged on deafening.

Copperfield winced as the contraption did several clumsy loopedy-loops around the helicopter, narrowly missing its twirling blades. Never one to disdain a photo opportunity, the
Prattler
photographer leaned out for a clearer shot only to drop his camera and grab for his safety strap when the helicopter swerved, avoiding a collision with the soaring spire of the Chrysler Building by a hairsbreadth.

Choosing discretion over valor, the helicopter wisely retreated. A curious downdraft seized the broom, slowing it to a near float. It came tumbling end over end toward the courtyard, the squeals of its rider growing in volume with each dizzying flip-flop. The squeals ended with an ominous thud.

Tristan was the first to reach her. Before Copperfield could even recover from his shock and leap down from the stage, Tristan was kneeling in the grass, the stranger’s head cradled in his lap.

From the haste with which Sven dropped to one knee, tossed back his sun-streaked mane, and drew his sleek 9-millimeter, Copperfield suspected the bodyguard had been waiting for just such an opportunity his entire film career. “Step away from her, sir,” he commanded, doing his best Schwarzenegger. “She could be an assassin.”

His employer gave no sign that he’d heard the warning, much less had any intention of heeding it. With a tenderness Copperfield had forgotten he was capable of, Tristan brushed a curl from the woman’s pallid brow.

Her lashes fluttered open to reveal dark luminous eyes. She blinked up at Tristan, her expression quizzical, then lifted a trembling hand to touch his cheek. A lopsided
smile curved her lips. “Good heavens. You must be Lucifer.”

As her fingers curled into her palm and her eyes drifted shut, Tristan lifted his helpless gaze, giving Copperfield a jarring glimpse of an emotion he hadn’t seen in his friend’s eyes for over a decade.

Wonder.

Arian’s fingers glided over the sheets, puzzled to encounter the sinful sleekness of satin instead of the scratchy weave of faded homespun. One of her mama’s lovers had insisted on satin sheets. Had it been the petulant Pierre or the mustachioed Jacques? A duke or a musketeer?

Snuggling deeper into the firm tick, she murmured something half English and half French, all vowels and slurred consonants. She could sleep away the entire morning if she liked. Her mama’s temper was capricious at best and if Arian dared trouble her before noon, she was likely to get a hairbrush hurled at her head. Arian winced at the thought. Her head already ached as if she’d forgotten to duck.

She rolled to her back and knuckled open her eyes, expecting to see a carved cherub leering down at her from a gilded tester.

The heavenly creature glowering down at her possessed neither dimpled cheeks or a simpering pout. His honey-hued hair had been cropped above the ears, accentuating
the chiseled strength of a brow creased with determination. A tantalizing hint of a cleft marred a chin that would have been too pretty without it. His slightly off-center nose was complemented by the jaded quirk of his lips.

Arian’s eyes lingered there, captivated by the insouciant grace of that mouth. He was less cherub than rebellious angel—divine, seductive, and dangerous enough to imperil her vulnerable soul.

As if he also possessed the power to read her thoughts, he said, “I suppose you were expecting Lucifer? My competitors have called me much worse on occasion, but even they’ve never accused me of impersonating the Prince of Darkness.”

She jerked her gaze from his lips to his eyes, the sharp motion making her head throb. She touched her fingertips to her temples, remembering through a muddled haze her dizzying flight, her desperate attempt to elude the dragon’s steely claws, her reckless plummet from the sky.

She would have sworn this man had been waiting to catch her. That his strong, warm hands had soothed her brow. That his pewter-gray eyes had misted with tender concern.

Those eyes were narrowed now, the mist in them chilled to frost. Arian had awakened once as a child to find one of her mother’s paramours sitting on the edge of her bed, gazing down at her in just such a predatory manner. Her shrill scream had jarred her mama from a champagne-induced stupor and Arian had been shipped off to live with her grandmama three days later.

She snatched the sheet up to her chin, knowing Marcus would have been gratified by the unexpected surge of Puritan modesty. “You should be ashamed of yourself, sir. Leering at a defenseless maiden while she sleeps. Have you no scruples?”

“None to speak of.” He stroked his immaculately shaved chin. “The face of an angel. The voice of a siren.
Charming.” The flinty gleam in his eyes warned her he was in little danger of being enchanted.

Arian dared a peep under the sheet and was mollified to find her drab Puritan garments intact. She was even more relieved to discover the amulet still draped around her neck. A single lamp burned high on the wall, its flame as disarmingly steady as the stranger’s gaze.

“Where am I?” she whispered, peering around in a vain attempt to escape his scrutiny. “What is this place?”

“Lennox Tower.”

Unable to resist the magnetism of those eyes, she stole a sidelong glance at him. “And you, sir, would be …?”

“Tristan Lennox. You disappoint me. Didn’t you bother to do your homework before staging that idiotic stunt?”

“Home work?” Arian parroted, wondering if his French would be as incomprehensible as his English.

“I find it difficult to believe your employers didn’t provide you with a detailed dossier on Lennox Enterprises. Shareholder profiles? Stock portfolios? A current photo of the CEO?”

She shook her head, but he mistook her confusion for denial.

He arched one tawny eyebrow. “The rules and restrictions of the magic competition?”

Arian seized eagerly upon the only phrase she understood. “Magic?”

He tossed a folded sheaf of paper in her lap. She recognized it as a newspaper, similar to the pamphlets she’d seen distributed on the street corners of Paris as a child. Pamphlets denouncing the extravagant pensions Louis bestowed on his nobles or deriding the excesses of his most recent mistress. Still eyeing Lennox warily, she wiggled to a sitting position and tilted his offering so she could read it. The bold script seemed to leap out
at her—
One Million Dollar Prize Offered for Proof of Magic
.