In such a prime location, gaining business from surrounding restaurants and boutiques, she paid an exorbitant amount for rent. An exorbitant amount she didn’t mind paying because she loved the old Mexican-style building. Plus, she hoped to expand one day soon, and there was enough space here to do that. But Mr. Schetfield’s miserly ways were pushing her to the edge of her tolerance.
“I’ll take care of the problem,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
“Since that is exactly what you told me the last time I called, I don’t believe you.” As he sputtered, she added, “Why don’t you tell me how much you’re willing to spend? That way, I can call a plumber and get things rolling.”
“No. That just won’t work.” The old man’s rough voice crept a notch higher. “I want my son, Morgan, to do the job. Good boy, my Morgan.”
Was good boy Morgan even a plumber? “Send Morgan over, then. Today.”
The bell over the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer.
Julia hurried to end the conversation. “Are we agreed?”
“Sure, sure.”
The connection severed, she replaced the phone in its cradle. She strode to the front of the store, where a tall, pleasant-looking man dressed in a suit and tie stood, a bewildered, what-do-I-do-next expression on his face.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Julia asked, drawing his attention.
His lips lifted in a relieved smile. “Yes. Yes, there is. This is going to sound strange, but I’m searching for a glass donkey. My mother collects them, and her birthday is tomorrow.”
A last-minute shopper, then. “Any color preference? Or era?”
Surprise flashed in his big brown eyes. He shook his head. “No. I’ll take whatever you have in stock. I’ve been to six different antique dealers. You’re my last hope.”
“I have two here,” she said, her pride evident. “Does your mother prefer blown glass or etched?”
“Blown, I think.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Why don’t I buy both, though, just to be safe?”
“Excellent choice.” In the center of the store, Julia climbed a gray step stool and rooted around a shelf for the desired items. A few seconds later, the tinkling of the doorbell sounded again. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled warmly when she saw who had arrived. “Good morning, Mrs. Danberry.”
“Morning, dear.” Mrs. Danberry, a regular customer of Julia’s Treasures, gave her quintessential “old woman” curls a pat. The springy silver bob immediately bounced back into place. “I came to see if you have anything new.”
“Yesterday I acquired a corncob pipe that I know you’ll love. I’ll have it ready for viewing in a few days.”
“Oh, wonderful. I’m still going to have a look around, though. I might’ve missed something the last time I came in.”
“Of course.” Still grinning, Julia returned her attention to the shelf. When she found what she needed, she lifted the donkeys from their perches and eased to the floor. “Here you go,” she told the man, bequeathing both items to him. “Are these what you had in mind?”
He palmed them both, one in each hand. After studying them, he blew out a satisfied breath. “Yes, they are. They’re perfect, actually.”
“The first is a seventeenth-century model made from—”
“No need to explain,” he interjected. “I’m already sold on them. You just saved me a lecture about a son’s responsibility to his family.”
A chuckle tickled her throat. “Glad I could be of assistance.”
He tilted his chin and gave her a lingering once-over, then cleared his throat. That was a first. But, um, what did it mean? “You know, you have very pretty eyes.”
His words, though innocent, caused her tongue to thicken, a familiar sensation whenever she spoke with the male species about, well, anything remotely flirtatious. She quickly lost her good humor. “Uh, I—uh—thanks. My mother gave them to me.” After that, speech became impossible. She tried anyway, managing another “uh” and two grunts.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.
Her cheeks warmed. She nodded, though what she really wanted to do was slink away and hide. The admiration slowly faded from his expression, leaving her maudlin.
He gave her a strange perusal, paid for his donkeys and left without another word.
“You really should work on your technique, dear,” Mrs. Danberry said, strolling to the cash register. “He might have asked you on a date.”
What would I have said?
Julia squeezed her eyes shut and let her head sink into her upraised hands. Was it too much to ask for God to strike her down with a bolt of lightning?
* * *
THAT NIGHT, Julia lay underneath a downy comforter, tossing and turning. When she actually slept, she dreamed of Mr. Half-Naked all over again. Naughty dreams, more wicked than before. He stripped and kissed her. Their naked, sweaty bodies tangled together in passion, and she’d lost count of how many times she’d screamed or moaned “Yes!” “Please!” and “More!”
Why did her dream lover refuse to leave her mind? And why was she still lying in bed, allowing him to slide those phantom hands over her nipples, down her stomach, and slip inside her panties? Circling and grazing before sinking deeply into her. After two more shouts of “Yes!” Julia lumbered to her feet. She swept aside the gauzy, cream-colored canopy that enclosed her bed, the rest of her bedroom coming into view. A small room with old-world charm, filled with her favorite antiques.
She needed something to do, something that was totally and completely unpleasurable. Like… Her taxes! Yes, that was it. Taxes.
She marched into her office, grabbed her account books and carried them to the kitchen table, where there was more room to work. She plopped into the nearest chair, an eighteenth-century brocade bench she’d acquired at an estate sale several years ago. But only five minutes later, she growled and shoved the books aside. She was tired, cranky—and okay, a little aroused—and the numbers blurred together. She needed something else to do.
Since her newest acquisitions were still strewn across the table, she reached out to lift the pipe. At the last minute, she switched her aim and picked up the jewelry box. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She’d never discovered what actually lay inside it, had she?
When she tried to press the latch, her finger shook. Contact was never made. Brow puckered, she tried to press the latch again. Once more, the uncontrollable shaking stopped her. What was the problem? It wasn’t like Mr. Half-Naked and his sword would reappear, right? Right.
You’re thinking about him again, her mind tsked.
“For goodness’ sake,” she muttered, finally jabbing the button. “This is ridiculous.”
Lights flickered throughout the house, purple mist drifting upward, an intoxicating scent of masculinity enveloping her. This time, Julia didn’t jump up, didn’t drop the box atop her hand-carved tabletop. No, she simply bit her bottom lip and stared wide-eyed as Mr. Half-Naked did, indeed, reappear. He was still half-dressed, and he still carried a sword.
He belonged on the front page of Hunky Barbarians.
“Wow.” And not a good, this-feels-so-wonderful, give-me-more wow, but a bad, what-the-hell-is-happening wow. Julia gulped. “I’m having another nightmare. That’s all it is.”
She rubbed a palm down her face, blinked her eyes and shook her head, thinking the gorgeous creature would vanish by the time she refocused.
His extraordinary image never even wavered.
He isn’t real, he isn’t real, he isn’t real, she mentally chanted, slowly rising to her feet. Step by agonizing step, she approached the savage apparition. He wore a let’s-get-this-over-with expression and not much else. Those pants. That sword. Slowly, shakily, she reached out and poked his chest once, twice. Both times, the heat of his skin singed her. Finally, she jerked back, her jaw slack.
This wasn’t her imagination or a dream.
“Knew you’d summon me back,” he said wi
th a stiff bow. “Just as before, your desire is my command.”
What kind of man could appear and vanish in less than a blink? Man. The word echoed in her mind. Was he even human? Could he be…a genie, perhaps? Yesterday he’d vowed to fulfill her every wish and desire, too.
No. Just no way. That wasn’t possible. Genies were a myth.
Are they? What if genies do, in fact, exist? The thought continued to tease her mind, battering against her beliefs. Didn’t her sister often say there was a bit of truth to every tale?
There was only one way to find out.
“Leave,” she whispered to him. “Don’t say another word. Just leave. Right now.”
He scowled—then disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
Three minutes passed, then four. The only sound was the ticking of a clock, and each tap pounded in her ears like a war drum. When she felt enough time had elapsed, she sucked in a deep breath as if she were gathering courage rather than oxygen, reached out and jabbed the button again. Just like before, the lights flickered and purple mist erupted. Mr. Body’s clean, unique fragrance invaded her nostrils.
Then, suddenly, he was frowning down at her, his swirling violet eyes alight with irritation. “What is it you wish now, little mouse? This coming-and-going nonsense must cease.”
He was a real-life genie, she thought, awed. She couldn’t deny his existence and wasn’t even sure why she’d wanted to. He was an exquisite specimen of manhood. So exquisite, in fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had “grade A one-hundred-percent pure beef” stamped on his butt.
After gathering more courage, she waved her arm and told him, “Welcome to my home, genie.”
His brows knit together in confusion and for the moment, he didn’t appear quite so menacing. “I am a man. A warrior, not a genie. Genies grant wishes. I do not, nor do I have the power to do so.”
She paused. “But you have magic powers of some kind, right?”
“Only in the art of seduction. Whatever pleases you—that is within my realm of capabilities—I will do. I supply the female mind and body—your mind and body—with untold bliss.”
He could have been filing his fingernails for all the excitement that simmered in his voice. Still, the man flat-out admitted he wanted to…wanted to… Her tongue began to feel heavy, preventing speech, the same thing that happened at the shop. Why, why, why? This man—this nongenie—wasn’t hitting on her. He wasn’t thinking about asking her out on a date. More than likely, such a dangerously handsome male found her unattractive. Repulsive, even. On her best days, people considered her plain.
“I love you, honey, so I’m going to be honest with you. When it comes to men, plain women like us must lower our expectations. We’re the best friend, not the love interest.”
“But, but…you and Daddy…”
Momma offered an unamused smile. “I had to make him choose me. But we’ll talk about that when you’re older, all right?”
The memory rose from a secret compartment in the back of her mind, where she stored the most painful recollections. She felt normal again, at least, but now she had a hollow ache in her chest.
She studied her guest. He looked capable of anything, anything at all, and she found herself wondering what his limitations were. “So you’re saying that if I want you to clean my toilets, you will?”
“Toilets?”
“Lavatory. Chamber pot. Powder room.”
“Aye, I have cleaned many of those.”
She wanted to laugh at his disgruntled expression, but the sword strapped to his waist kept her quiet. Surely he didn’t have to obey her every whim. “What if I want you to crawl on your hands and knees to polish my floor? Or dust every single one of my antiques with your tongue? Or…I don’t know…eat a mud pie because I spent an hour pretending to bake it?”
“Would those things bring you enjoyment,” he said, a feral glint entering his mystical eyes, “they would be mine to do, aye.”
His words surprised her and should have made her happy, but suddenly Julia was overwhelmed with pity for him. “How many times have you had to do this?”
“Too many to count.”
To always be reliant on someone else’s pleasure… Other men probably dreamed of being caught in just such a circumstance. A sexual object enjoyed by countless women. But not this man. He was tense and edgy, self-loathing radiating from his every pore.
For a long while, silence permeated the room. Julia didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to tell him to make the situation more bearable. She felt a bombardment of guilt for even suggesting he do any those awful things for her.
Well, no more. Really, why did she need a slave? She didn’t. She enjoyed cleaning her home, cooking her own meals—not mud pies—and she didn’t like others handling her antiques, unless they planned to buy them.
She would not treat this man as a slave. He was a human being and deserved more. She’d treat him like the big brother she’d always wanted. Yes, yes. A brother.
Admit it, girlie. You simply don’t have the courage to take him up on what he’s really offering.
She gulped. Maybe she didn’t have the courage, but wasn’t a bad thing right now. He didn’t want her, not really. No sexual desire glittered in his eyes. She didn’t even detect a glimmer of attraction.
Be with someone who didn’t really want her? No, thanks.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Most call me Pleasure Slave.”
Pleasure Slave? “I’m not calling you that.” Not now, not ever. “Do you have a name that doesn’t have anything to do with the bedroom? Like John or Phil?”
A pause, tension radiating from him. “Tristan.”
“Tristan,” she repeated, liking the sound. A strong name. Romantic. It suited him. “That’s what I’ll call you, then.”
“If that is your desire.” He gave her a slow, leisurely smile that held a hint of genuine appreciation.
Her heart rate kicked into overtime, the impact of that take-no-prisoners grin leaving her reeling. Had no one else ever used his real name?
“I will hear your name, little mouse.”
Annoyance replaced her admiration and launched her quickly to her feet. “You can stop referring to me as a tiny rodent who eats garbage. I’m not that unattractive. And for your information, I’m not little. I’m normal. You just happen to be excessively tall.”
His lips twitched, his eyes becoming the purest blue. “So I say again—I will hear your name.”
“I’m Julia,” she replied grudgingly. “Or, if you like being a jerk, call me Jules. I like it just as much as little mouse.”
“I shall keep that in mind.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Would you prefer I call you little dragon?”
“Nope.” Maybe?
“Little kitten?”
“No! No animal nicknames.”
Eyes twinkling with merriment, he said, “Very well…little apple.”
Argh! “No fruits, either.” And dang him. Why did she kind of want to laugh right now? Why did his amusement delight her?
His lips stopped twitching and started curling. “I am ready to hear what you desire of me.” Pause. “Julia.”
“I want nothing from you,” she hastened to assure him. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing?”
She shook her head, and his features tightened.
“Why did you summon me on three separate occasions if you had no wish to make use of me?” he asked, and mmm, mmm, mmm he looked good enough to eat.
She shrugged while fighting the urge to twirl a lock of her hair. Who am I? “The first time I thought you were an intruder.”
“Ah.” Like the flip of a switch, he lost his dark glower, his expression once again glowing with amusement. “You thought to defend yourself from an Imperian warrior with…what did you call it? Martial arts?”
Imperian warrior? Bristling at his superior tone, she locked her fists on her hips and glared. “My hands are deadly weapo
ns, you know. They’ve killed people. They’ve killed people dead.” No way I just spoke those words aloud. Just no way.
“I believe you,” he said. “If you had attacked me, I’m quite sure I would have died…of laughter.”
Julia fought a surge of anger. The man had a lot of nerve! First he scared the crap out of her. Then he called her a tiny rodent…dragon…fruit. Now he had the gall to insult her nonexistent self-defense skills.
I would have died of laughter, she silently mimicked.
“Where is your husband? You did not kill him with your martial arts, did you?” He uttered a low, rumbling chuckle that purred and soothed and probably sent women to their knees.
Uh-oh. Caught in a lie. A piece of lint on the hem of her white tank top suddenly became fascinating.
“Wait. Did you kill him?” All traces of humor vanished from Tristan’s voice. “By Elliea, you did! Where did you place the body?”
“Elliea? And what is an Imperian warrior?”
“Elliea is—” He thought for a moment. “My creator. A supernatural being with more power than anyone else.”
Ahhh. Another name for God.
“An Imperian warrior is a warrior from Imperia.” He used such a matter-of-fact tone, as if he explained the simplest concept to the dumbest girl on earth, and her cheeks heated several degrees.
“Look,” she said, shifting from one foot to another. “I don’t know where Imperia is.”
He shrugged. “Your predecessor didn’t either. The husband,” he prompted.
“Oh. Well. I’m not actually married.”
Tristan blink-blinked. “No? Then where is your man?”
Shift. “Technically, I don’t have a man.”
“Not a father? Brother? Protector?”
Shift, shift. Jaw clenched, cheeks hotter by the second, she shook her head.
“So you spoke an untruth.” It was a statement, not a question, laced with puzzlement rather than ire.
That was good, right? “I thought you were an intruder, remember? What else was I supposed to say? ‘We’re all alone so go ahead and kill me, since you don’t worry about the neighbors overhearing my screams’?”
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