Breath of Magic Page 4

  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.

  4

  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.

  Arian jerked the paper up to her nose, fearful her eyes would reveal a glint of avarice. "One million dollars? Tis an uncommon amount of wealth, is it not? Just how many francs would that be?"

  "Sorry. I don't do foreign exchange rates in my head."

  Lowering the paper, she wrinkled her nose hopefully at him. "Did I win?"

  His sharp bark of laughter erased her timid smile. The wintry spice of his cologne made her nose tingle as he leaned forward. She shrank back into the pillows.

  "That remains to be seen." His tone swerved from menacing to conversational with dizzying swiftness. "But if I'm not able to discredit you for the clever little fraud you obviously are, what name would you like on your check – Glenda, the Gold-digging Witch of the North?"

  Arian felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She'd barely just arrived in this curious place and this arrogant stranger was already accusing her of witchcraft. He had judged and convicted her without a trial. The hint of mischief playing around his mouth warned her he was capable of far more deliciously diabolical punishments than the Reverend Linnet had ever plotted.

  But Linnet had been a thorough tutor. She would never again be bullied into confessing anything. Not without first considering the possibility that this man's magic competition might have been nothing more than bait to lure some unsuspecting witch into his trap.

  Folding her arms over her chest, she said coolly, "My name is not Glenda. Tis Arian. Miss Arian Whitewood." She sniffed disdainfully, wishing her nose was less pert and more aristocratic, then uttered the four words Marcus had so frequently used to explain her many eccentricities. "I am from France."

  "And how many frequent flyer miles did you earn crossing the Atlantic on your broom, Miss Whitewood?"

  When she only blinked at him to hide her bafflement, he swore beneath his breath and rose from the bed. Arian's relief was spoiled by a shiver. An unnatural chill seemed to permeate the air in his absence. As he crossed the enormous salon, her gaze drifted back to the newspaper, only to be riveted by the innocuous line of print at the top of the page.

  October 25, 1996.

  5

  The newspaper tumbled from Arian's numb fingers just as the floor-to-ceiling curtains parted to reveal a radiant galaxy of stars through a wall of sheer glass.

  Her host was no less enigmatic by starlight than in shadows. He swept out an arm toward the dazzling vista. "Well, Miss Arian Whitewood from France, welcome to New York City."

  If he had said, "Welcome to paradise," Arian would have been no less astounded. She could not choke so much as a gasp past her constricted throat. She had lived the past ten years in a world bereft of beauty. Drawn by its irresistible temptation, she slipped from the bed, tugging her skirts down to shield her ankles from Lennox's probing gaze. She sidestepped him, gliding forward until she could press her thirsty fingertips to the cool glass.

  It was only then that she realized the lights were not stars at all, but thousands upon thousands of lamps glowing from the windows of soaring towers. "' Tis a wonder they haven't burned the city to the ground," she murmured, awestruck by the discovery. "Not even Paris has so many candles."

  The
y gazed upon the marvel from an unthinkable height. Arian made the mistake of glancing down only to discover a multitude of similarly lit processionals creeping along the broad avenues far below. Dizziness washed over her in waves as she comprehended for the first time just how far she'd strayed from home. Her ears began to roar. Her vision blurred. Terrified of humiliating herself by swooning in front of this indifferent stranger, she fumbled at the window for a latch, frantically seeking a breath of fresh air.

  She swayed, but before her knees could buckle, his hands were there to cup her shoulders, their warmth palpable even through the hardy weave of her sleeves.

  "The windows are hermetically sealed," he said softly. "They don't open."

  Even as Arian accepted his unspoken invitation to lean against him, she could not help but wonder what manner of man would be so extravagant as to fashion his walls of windows, yet so foolish as to shut out all the lovely things that could drift through them – crisp autumn breezes, the cheery song of a thrush, the aroma of honeysuckle on a sultry summer day. An unwelcome trace of pity softened her wariness.

  Her curious intimacy with a stranger only intensified the alien nature of the landscape. A keen sense of isolation swept through her as she realized that everyone she'd ever known had been dead for centuries – Marcus, Charity Burke, even the Reverend Linnet. She would have thought it impossible to yearn for Gloucester, but even the village's uncompromising harshness seemed preferable to starting over one more time.

  She had little choice, she reminded herself sternly. Until she could figure out which miscalculation in her spell had brought her to this place, she would simply have to shrug off her fears and do what she'd done her entire life – pretend to belong somewhere she never would.

  She lifted her head to discover her host wasn't admiring the magnificent view, but her pensive reflection. Their gazes merged in the glass, and for a fleeting moment, the loneliness echoed in his cool gray eyes created the disconcerting illusion that he was more lost than she was. Before she could deem it anything more than a trick of the light, his gaze lowered to the amulet.

  "What's that you have there?" he asked, guiding her around to face him. "A crucifix to ward off vampires and marauding chief executives?"

  " Tis nothing," she mumbled, tucking it into her bodice. "Just a worthless trinket."

  Too late, it occurred to her that dropping the amulet down her dress only presented the avaricious Mr. Lennox with an irresistible challenge. She stiffened, expecting him to plunge his greedy hand between her breasts as Linnet had done. But his warm knuckles barely grazed her collarbone as he snagged the amulet's chain with a deft grace infinitely more dangerous than Linnet's pawing. Twas as if he sought to pilfer not only the amulet, but the heart that lay beneath it as well.

  He held the emerald up to examine it. "A striking piece. Is it antique?"

  "You might say that."

  "The setting is rather unusual. Where did you get it?"

  The casual question did not fool Arian. "I did not steal it, sir, if that's what you're asking." She lowered her eyes, fearful his crystalline gaze might unearth long-buried seeds of deceit. " 'Twas a gift from my mother."

  The emerald cast a sparkling prism of light across Lennox's implacable features. "Ah, a woman of impeccable taste."

  "Except when it came to men." As Arian's nervous gaze licked up and down Lennox's lean length, taking in his flawlessly tailored breeches, crisp waistcoat, and tan shirt unbuttoned at the throat to release a sprinkling of golden hair, she breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she hadn't been similarly cursed.

  The amulet twirled before his hypnotic eyes as if it belonged there, giving Arian a brief moment of horror. What if he innocently gave voice to his unspoken wish that he'd never laid eyes on her? Would she pop back into the bottom of that murky pond in Gloucester or simply cease to exist altogether?

  She snatched the amulet from his hand, knowing even as she did so that she was being ridiculous. Lennox was but a mere mortal. She was the witch. The amulet was simply a channel for her powers, not the source of them.

  Lennox obviously wasn't a man accustomed to having anything snatched from his grasp. His face hardened into a dispassionate mask. "So tell me, Miss Whitewood, how did you accomplish your cheap little trick? Was the broom radio-controlled? Digitalized? Motorized? Was that how the fire started? A gasoline leak? A flaw in the motor? You do realize that they're disassembling what was left of the device in my laboratory even as we speak."

  Arian was too dazed by his barrage of questions to fashion a coherent denial. "I don't know… I don't remember…"

  As he backed her against the window, danger roiling off him like woodsmoke, she became thankful that it didn't open. "Just who the hell are you? A con artist? A corporate spy? One of those leeches from the tabloids? Or did Wite Lize send you?" She wouldn't have thought it possible, but his expression darkened further. Her knees began to tremble again, but this time he made no gallant move to steady her. "Such a ridiculous stunt would certainly have appealed to his flair for the dramatic."

  Arian didn't know whether to be grateful or unnerved when a polite cough sounded behind Lennox. "If this is a formal interrogation, Tristan, shouldn't the lady have an attorney present?"

  Lennox swung around. "Dammit, Cop! Don't you ever knock?"

  Arian's relief at having his wrath shifted to a new target was eclipsed by horror as she saw the man standing behind him. She clapped a hand over her mouth too late to muffle a shriek.

  They both stared at her as if she'd lost her wits.

  She lowered her hand and pointed a quivering finger at the intruder. His black, unpowdered hair had been sleeked back in a leather thong. "H-h-he's an Indian!"

  The two men exchanged a bemused glance.

  "Don't be alarmed," Lennox said, arching a wry brow. "He's entirely domesticated. He hasn't scalped anyone since the Wall Street Journal accused me of intrading in eighty-nine."

  The savage gently extended his sun-bronzed hand, as if fearful any sudden moves might cause her to bolt. "How do you do, ma'am. I'm Michael Copperfield – Tristan's legal counsel, PR advisor, and token Native American."

  Arian still hesitated, remembering how the Reverend Linnet had preached that all Indians worshiped the devil as their master. But the good reverend had also accused her of fornicating with Satan and tried to drown her.

  She spread her skirts and bobbed a timid curtsy before placing her hand into Copperfield's. Instead of bringing it to his lips as she expected him to do, he pumped it up and down in a most curious manner. Comto the wintry gaze Lennox swept between the two of them, the savage's twinkling brown eyes radiated warmth.

  "Cop majored in law and minored in public relations," Lennox offered. "He's a living oxymoron."

  Arian gasped at his blatant rudeness. "The poor fellow can't help it if his wits are not as keen as yours. There's no need to insult him."

  Lennox stared at her for a long moment. Then his lips curled in a tender smile that conveyed his sarcasm more effectively than a sneer. "We seem to be experiencing a slight language barrier. Miss Whitewood claims she's from France."

  The Indian snorted. "So did the Coneheads."

  "Are you implying she's an alien?"

  "No, but the Prattler is. The Global Inquirer insists she's Elvis's illegitimate daughter. They're both begging for exclusive interviews."

  The men towered over Arian, making her feel like one of the squat dwarves in her grandmama's fairy book. As they continued to discuss her as if she weren't even in the room, she glanced down at her feet to make sure she hadn't accidentally rendered herself invisible.

  Her ears pricked up when Copperfield said, "She did bang her head a pretty good one. Maybe she honestly doesn't remember crashlanding in the courtyard. She might have a temporary case of amnesia."

  "Temporary and selective. You watch too many soap operas, Cop. She might have an evil twin, too."

  "Yeah, and you might have a nice one somewhere," the In
dian shot back, his mutinous tone making Arian want to applaud.

  Lennox pivoted on his heel.

  "Where are you going?" Copperfield demanded.

  "To find some answers," Lennox snapped, shooting Arian a glance rife with menace. "I'm sure as hell not going to find any here."

  Copperfield stared after him, a bemused smile playing around his mouth. "Congratulations, Miss Whitewood. I do believe you've cracked the ice prince's facade. I haven't seen him in such a temper in years."

  "I was under the impression that was his usual temper," she replied glumly, wondering why she cared.

  He shrugged. "Tristan's not such a bad sort. He never forgets a friend." The Indian's smile lost a fraction of its warmth as he turned his piercing gaze on her. "Or an enemy."

  When Tristan strode into the dimly lit Security Command Center of Lennox Tower, the guard on night duty almost choked on his doughnut.

  The former marine jerked his booted feet off the semicircular control panel, leaped out of his chair, and sucked in his paunch with an audible hiss. "Sir!"

  In his present mood, it was no great challenge for Tristan to suppress his smile. At least the man hadn't saluted him. "At ease, Deluth. You've got powdered sugar on your upper lip."

  Deluth swiped at his mouth, his paunch reinflating. "Sorry, sir. I wasn't expecting you."

  Tristan didn't waste time pointing out that if the man had been doing his job, he would have seen his boss approaching the Command Center on security camera number 638, which would have given him ample time to hide both the box of doughnuts and the crumpled issue of Playboy sticking out from beneath his chair. He could hardly blame the guard for being surprised by his sudden appearance. Although Tristan had designed every fiber-optic circuit in the room, he had never deigned to make personal use of them.

  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.