Teresa Medeiros (8 page)

She would have to rely on her wits to convince the skeptical Mr. Lennox that she belonged in his century. A bitter smile curved her lips. Her father was no more to her than some nameless actor, but at least she’d inherited an innate talent for mimicry. It had served her well when she was being jerked from household to household, from France to the Colonies, and from the decadent splendor of King Louis’s court to a desolate Puritan village. She had adapted her speech patterns, mannerisms, and behavior to fit other people’s expectations
of her with such consummate skill that sometimes even she forgot who she was.

As she sank down on the edge of the bed to ponder her plan, something rustled beneath her feet. She glanced down to discover the newspaper Lennox had waved beneath her nose the previous night.

One Million Dollar Prize Offered for Proof of Magic
.

She snatched up the paper, her eyes narrowing with a cunning that would have had Marcus dropping to his knees to pray for her eternal soul. If she was going to survive in this foreign time without depending on anyone but herself, she would need more than just her wits and her erratic witchcraft. She would need resources.

She pored over the article, muttering beneath her breath the phrases she did not comprehend. Her resolve grew stronger with each word she read. She had met the conditions of Lennox’s competition. She had proved to him that magic existed. She deserved the prize.

She hugged the paper to her breast, her heart skipping with excitement. One million dollars would be more than enough to allow her to bid the haughty Mr. Lennox a hasty farewell and book passage to France. She could purchase a cottage like her grandmama’s in the middle of some secluded forest. She sighed with yearning, already picturing the ivy creeping up its weathered stone walls.

There she would be free to grow her own herbs, compose spells, and test the limits of her God-given gifts without the constant fear of discovery. After a decade of practicing her magic in Marcus’s grimy cellar with only indifferent spiders for company, the cozy vision made her throat tighten with longing.

Her wistful smile faded as she drew the amulet from her bodice. With wealth of her own, she would never have to rely on the capricious affections of men for food, lodging, or happiness. She would never be coerced into becoming the mistress of some wealthy nobleman, then have to endure being passed to another
man and another bed when he tired of her. She would never become what her mother had been.

The emerald sparkled in the sunlight with a clarity uncommon to stones of its ilk. What would happen if she simply wished for wealth? she wondered idly. Given the amulet’s perverse inclination to woo disaster, she feared she would find herself buried beneath a spill of gold doubloons or spitting out francs. When it came to something as mundane as currency, she’d rather take her chances with Lennox than trust her unpredictable talents.

But how to convince him she was no fraud and coax him into surrendering his prize? Tossing aside the paper, she rose to pace the salon with fresh urgency. The solution to her dilemma was simple enough—perform magic for him. But after her encounter with the Reverend Linnet, she feared putting her faith in any man. Especially a man as dangerous as Tristan Lennox. He claimed to seek magic, yet spoke of witches with icy derision. For all she knew, he might be just another ambitious witch hunter seeking to slip a noose around her slender neck.

She touched her throat, suppressing an involuntary shudder. There must be some way to learn if witches were still being persecuted in this age. If she could prove Mr. Lennox more enlightened than his ancestors, she would be free to demonstrate her powers, collect her reward, and begin a new life for what she prayed would be the last time. As soon as she could do so without arousing suspicion, she would seek out the library. Her gaze drifted to the soaring ceiling. Surely a mansion this grand had a library.

As Arian secured the amulet in her bodice, a twinge of discomfort reminded her that she had more pressing needs at the moment than knowledge or money.

Twenty minutes later, when Sven Nordgard’s shy knock received no reply, he nudged open the bedroom door of
the suite to find his employer’s guest on hands and knees peering beneath the bed.

“Got to keep the cursed thing somewhere, doesn’t he?” came her distinctly annoyed mutter. “Or perhaps His Lordship is too superior to need one.”

Sven flipped up the lenses of his sunglasses to study the intriguing angle of her pert rump, unsure whether he should back out or proceed. He’d always been more comfortable dealing with terrorists than women.

“Miss?” he said timidly.

She jerked, striking her head on the enameled footboard with enough force to make him wince.

“Please, may I be of some assistance, miss?”

She climbed to her feet, glaring at him and rubbing her head. Even with his limited deductive skills, Sven could not help but notice that she kept shifting restlessly from foot to foot. “You may stop sneaking up on me, sir.”

He lowered the lenses of his sunglasses and ducked his head. “Mr. Lennox sent me to see what you would like for breakfast. There is yogurt and fresh bagels with fat-free cream cheese, wheat-germ waffles, bran muffins, and always I can squeeze the fresh juice for you. Orange. Grape. Tomato. Pineapple. Peach nectar. Apple. Pear …”

As he recited the vast array of beverages favored by his employer, the woman’s fragile complexion grew even pastier. When he reached “mango,” she began to sway. Alarmed, he rushed forward to steady her.

She clutched his massive arm, her face crumpled in abject misery.

“What is it, miss? Are you sick?”

She studied his face, as if weighing whether or not she dared confide in him. Her pallor was replaced by a furious blush as she stood on tiptoe and whispered something in the general direction of his ear.

He frowned down at her. “I am sorry, miss. My English is not so good. I know not of this pot.”

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she dragged his ear down to her mouth to hiss something even more explicit.

“Ah!” He felt a broad smile crack his stoic face. “I understand.”

Thankful to have found a task he felt competent to execute, he tucked her small hand in the crook of his arm and led her to an expanse of wall textured with flocked paper. He punched a shiny black button, unable to resist a tiny flourish as he did so.

The wall slid open, eliciting a gasp of pure astonishment from his companion. She drifted ahead of him into the spacious room.

She glided past the Italian marble of the sunken whirlpool tub and matching pedestal sinks without a second glance. She paid little heed to the plush mauve carpet crushed beneath her feet or the twin brass shower heads wrapped in a frosted glass enclosure. Not even the thick burgundy towels draped over the electronic towel warmer were enticing enough to lure her rapt attention from the gleaming object perched beneath a tasteful Andrew Wyeth print.

She drew her gaze away from it only long enough to flash Sven a grin of utter delight. “Why, ’tis the grandest chamber pot I’ve ever seen!”

Tristan’s Gucci loafers didn’t make even a whisper of sound as they traversed the wide corridor to the boardroom of Lennox Enterprises. Since it was Sunday morning, the maze of offices flanking the hall had been deserted by all but his most conscientious employees. In defiance of superstition, Tristan had located his corporate headquarters on the thirteenth floor of the Tower.

Copperfield marched at Tristan’s side, frantically shuffling a stack of manila files. “The press are clamoring for some answers about the girl. I’ve fielded interview requests from the
Times
, the
Post, People
magazine, and Jay Leno. What should I tell them?”

“Tell them I have no comment at this time.”

The rhythm of Copperfield’s steps faltered. “Let me clarify this. First you offer a million dollars to the first scam artist clever enough to con you. Then some woman dressed like the corpse from an Amish funeral flies in on a burning broom and crash-lands in your arms in front of a thousand witnesses and you have no comment?”

“That’s correct. Until I have some concrete answers, I see no point in whetting their appetites. You know as well as I do that the scent of blood will only send them into a feeding frenzy.”

Copperfield jotted a notation in a margin before slapping one of the files shut. “So what are you planning to do with her? Keep her prisoner in your penthouse tower like some princess in a medieval romance?”

“She’s no prisoner,” Tristan replied, his bland expression costing him more effort than usual to maintain. “She can leave anytime she likes.”

“Then I suppose it’s pure coincidence that her baby-sitter just happens to be a six-feet-four Norwegian armed with a Glock nine-mil and a Walther PPK he’s convinced once belonged to James Bond.”

The perpetual sarcasm in Tristan’s voice ripened. “I confess. You’ve found me out. I gave Sven strict orders to shoot her in the back if she tries to leave, then heave her body down the nearest elevator shaft.”

Although Tristan would never have admitted it, he wasn’t sure if Sven’s presence was supposed to deter Arian from leaving or deter him from spending any more time than necessary in her presence. After his brief flirtation with espionage, he had spent a restless night on the sofa in his corporate office.

He had removed the temptation of further nocturnal spying by disabling the penthouse security cameras before leaving the Command Center. He could care less if Deluth or any other of his security guards spent their on-duty hours ogling Miss Whitewood’s nubile legs, but he despised the thought of them trespassing on her solitude
—intruding upon her private melancholy as he himself had been guilty of doing. He’d rather let Sven do his dirty work for him.

Dousing a flicker of shame with a shot of cynicism, he said, “Miss Whitewood didn’t seem to have any engagements more pressing than collecting her million dollars.” He threw open the boardroom door. “If this meeting proceeds as planned, I’ll allow you the pleasure of personally evicting her from my suite.”

As soon as they entered the boardroom, it became evident that nothing was going to go as planned. Instead of the beaming faces Tristan had expected, they were greeted by a variety of expressions ranging from glum defeat to utter despondency. The heavy drapes had been drawn to ward off the morning sunlight, only adding to the aura of gloom.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Tristan said briskly, settling into the sleek leather chair at the head of the oak conference table.

As Copperfield slumped into the chair at his right, an assistant melted out of the dark paneling to place a cup of steaming black coffee at Tristan’s elbow.

Tristan eyed the five men and three women seated around the long table, knowing they were the most gifted panel of computer programmers, physicists, chemists, and engineers ever assembled in the United States under one corporate banner. Yet at the moment they were all avoiding his eyes as if they heartily wished they possessed one-way plane tickets back to their countries of origin.

“I trust you have the results we discussed,” he said, his smile deceptively gentle.

Several members of the panel made a great production of rifling through the mountains of computer printouts that littered the table, but it was Gordon Montgomery who lunged to his feet.

Tristan had always admired the Scotsman’s frankness. Montgomery was also the only man in the room
with an IQ higher than his. The convex lenses of his glasses magnified his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m turribly sorry, sir. We’ve worked the whole night through, but have nothin’ of any significance to report.”

“Nothing at all? Not even the chemical composition of the device? Theories on its potential methods of aviation?”

Montgomery shook his head, his uncombed nest of ginger hair making him look more like a scientist of the mad variety. “We’ve dissected the thing into microscopic cross sections and done magnetic resonance imaging until we’re bug-eyed, but I’m tellin’ you, sir, it’s nothin’ but a pile of splinters and a heap of scorched straw—a bloody broom!”

Tristan took a sip of the coffee. Its bitterness wasn’t nearly as keen as his disappointment. After his lapse of judgment in the Command Center last night, it somehow seemed even more imperative that he prove Arian Whitewood nothing more than a conniving little fraud. “Then we simply have to assume the motor fell off in flight, causing the crash.”

Copperfield’s smile was a fraction too smug for Tristan’s comfort. “It’s a pity most standard kitchen brooms don’t come equipped with flight recorders and little black boxes.”

Tristan spared him a brief, but icy glare. “All right then, Montgomery. Have your technicians map the surrounding city blocks into quadrants and begin combing the area for debris. Tomorrow morning, we’ll—”

“Uh-um, excuse me, Mr. Lennox.” Sven’s shaggy blond head appeared in the crack between door and frame.

“What is it, Sven?” Tristan demanded, unable to suppress a tiny thrill of alarm. He knew it would take nothing less than a bomb threat or a call-back audition for
Baywatch
to make his bashful bodyguard brave the corporate offices without his permission.

Despite his agitated state, Sven could not help giving
the security camera mounted in the corner a come-hither look as he rounded the table. He cupped his massive hand around Tristan’s ear and whispered something.

Tristan frowned, thinking he couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. Sven straightened and beckoned him toward the window. Nearly quivering with curiosity, Copperfield beat them both around the table to tug open the drapes, flooding the paneled gloom with sunlight.

Exchanging baffled glances, the scientists lined up on either side of Tristan as he peered down into the courtyard thirteen stories below. At first glance, everything appeared to be as orderly as it should have been on a peaceful Sunday morning.

“There, sir.” Sven pointed one of his beefy fingers. “The fountain.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, realizing that the majestic geyser designed to be the focal point of the courtyard had fizzled to a lethargic sputter. Even as he watched, it diminished to a trickle, then to a pathetic little dribble.