Breath of Magic

by Teresa Medeiros

  There be dragons.

  The ancient warning popped into his head without preamble. He hesitated, the throb of the helicopter's rotors drowned out by the thudding of his heart in his ears.

  He knew he should march over and snatch the living room drapes closed, but the prospect of once again being entombed in his own penthouse made his gut clench with primitive claustrophobia.

  For ten long years, he'd been a prisoner of his wealth. A prisoner of his regrets. A prisoner of the past. He'd erected an impregnable fortress in the very heart of New York City only to find himself trapped inside a cage of glass walls and steel beams.

  But Arian's courageous smile made him believe escape was possible. Escape to a haven of blue skies, autumn breezes unpoisoned by smog, a far horizon unspoiled by the jut of skyscrapers. Her smile also reminded him that if his enemy had breached his defenses as easily as she had, he'd be dead right now.

  The helicopter edged nearer. The photographer leaned out, positioning his telephoto lens for a close-up. Tristan crossed the room in three angry strides, grabbed Arian by the hand, and stabbed the elevator call button. The doors slid open without protest, earning a disgruntled look from his companion.

  "Where are you taking me, Mr. Lennox?" she asked as he dragged her into the elevator.

  He shot her dress a disparaging look. "Bloomingdale's."

  9

  As the service elevator lumbered its way toward the ground floor of Lennox Tower, Tristan studied Arian from the corner of his eye. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making the obvious crack about a French maid. The dowdy black dress he'd pilfered from Housekeeping wasn't much improvement over her original costume, but at least he'd been able to coax her into leaving off the white apron.

  Their departure had been delayed for over an hour while he combed Lennox Enterprises for a suitable pair of stockings. An ambitious young executive had finally rushed up, waving the spare package of panty hose she carried in her briefcase for just such emergencies. While visibly appalled by their sheerness, Miss Whitewood's misgivings had been mollified by their modest hue.

  Black.

  Tristan fought the urge to chuckle. Arian's eyes might be hidden behind the oversized pair of Ray-Bans he'd confiscated from Sven's extensive collection, but her head was tilted at the perfect angle to study the rapidly descending numbers above the door. At first Tristan thought she was counting floors, but then he realized she was muttering a fervent stream of Hail Marys. If she got any paler, she'd be transparent, he thought, his amusement spoiled by an annoying twinge of pity.

  "Try to relax, Miss Whitewood. It's an elevator, not a death trap."

  She offered him a wan smile. " 'Tis a bit like traveling in an oversized coffin, is it not?"

  "After my security teams clear the Tower of all press, I'll take you for a spin in the express elevator. It's designed to travel from the penthouse to the ground floor in under fifty seconds."

  Arian clutched her stomach. "Forgive me, Mr. Lennox, but I was under the impression this was going to be my last ride. Aren't you escorting me to my new lodgings?"

  Tristan could feel her unflinching scrutiny, even through the tinted lenses of her glasses. "I've reconsidered my decision. It shouldn't take my staff more than a few days to verify your claim." Or more likely, to prove you're nothing more than a conniving charlatan. "There's no reason you can't remain my guest until then. And since you may be forced to address the press yourself before this is all over, I'm taking you to Bloomingdale's to choose some more suitable clothing."

  He drew his own pair of Oakleys from the pocket of his Burberry coat and slipped them on to let her know the matter had been settled and no arguments to the contrary would be tolerated. But Arian didn't look surprised, merely thoughtful.

  When the elevator doors groaned open, she bounded through them as if fearful the steely jaws would snap shut and crush her. Tristan could still hear the hungry buzz of the reporters swarming the main entrance to the Tower, but the alley outside the service entrance was deserted, just as he had hoped. The press would never expect him to make such an obvious escape. He was a little disconcerted himself to realize he hadn't left the Tower on foot since its construction had been completed over seven years ago.

  He caught Arian's elbow and guided her toward the street, frowning as he felt her stumble. He'd deliberately borrowed a pair of low-heeled pumps, yet she was teetering along as if they were spike heels from a Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue.

  He shot her feet a puzzled glance, noting the problem immediately. "Your shoes are on the wrong feet."

  Although the dress only fell to mid-calf, she still lifted its hem to examine them. "No they're not. They're my feet," she assured him.

  Blowing out a breath of exasperation, he knelt before her and lifted each foot in turn to remove the pumps, giving her no choice but to clasp his shoulder for balance. As he cupped her right foot in his palm to slip on the appropriate shoe, his thumb lingered against its delicate arch, beguiled by the warmth of her skin through the sheer nylon. Her fingers tensed on his shoulder. He glanced up to meet her wary gaze, feeling unaccountably guilty.

  Realizing how ludicrous he must look playing Prince Charming to her Cinderella in the middle of a graffiti-spattered alley, he crammed her foot into the other shoe, ignoring her wince.

  She continued to stumble along, this time because she was staring so intently at her feet. "Imagine that. A different shoe for the right and left. Who would have thought of anything so clever?"

  Their sudden emergence onto Fifth Avenue spared Tristan from coming up with an answer to that ridiculous question. As he paused to turn up the collar of his coat, the bustling crowd threatened to swallow Arian's slight form. She craned her neck to gape up at the surrounding skyscrapers, outwardly oblivious to the dirty looks of the pedestrians forced to bump and jostle their way around her. As she reached the curb, a horn blared, forcing Tristan to lunge forward and jerk her out of the path of a speeding taxi.

  "If you don't watch where you're going, you'll be spending the next few nights at the hospital. Or the morgue," he snapped as he herded her into the flow of pedestrian traffic. His heart was galloping along at twice its normal rate, reminding him that he was long overdue for a checkup.

  Unfazed by his rebuke or her narrow escape, Arian threw back her shoulders and took a deep breath, drawing the cheap rayon of the uniform taut across her breasts. "I adore October! The air is so sweet and crisp. Isn't it glorious?"

  Tristan averted his gaze from her chest and sniffed cautiously. "All I can smell are exhaust fumes."

  "Why, would you look at that charming lamp!" She snatched his hand right out of his pocket and dragged him over to examine a perfectly ordinary crosswalk signal.

  Arian seemed to have found her balance while Tristan was the one left stumbling to keep up as she tugged him this way and that, pointing and chattering at sights he had passed a thousand times, but never noticed through the smoked glass windows of his stretch limousine.

  He was almost enjoying the rare anonymity of being part of a crowd. He was accustomed to heads snapping around and a path magically opening wherever he went, but if anyone glanced at him today, they would simply see a well-dressed man with a petite, dark-haired young woman clinging to his hand.

  Encouraged by Arian's rapt attention, he sought to explain the formula he'd developed to help pinpoint any avenue address. "If you'll drop the last digit of the address, divide the remainder by two, then add or subtract the key number offered in several prominent travel guides, you'll be able to discover the nearest cross street." When she failed to compliment his genius, he spun around, realizing too late that his hand was empty and Arian was nowhere in sight.

  His surge of panic receded when he saw a flash of black going round and round in one of the revolving doors of Trump Tower, much to the annoyance of the scarlet-coated doorman and the amusement of the gathering crowd. It took Tristan three circuits to rescue Arian, and by the time he su
cceeded, she was so dizzy and breathless with laughter she had to lean on his arm for support.

  Her delight lingered until they passed a corner cart where the aroma of roasting wieners threatened to send her into a frenzy of near-religious ecstasy.

  "Would you care for a hot dog?" he asked stiffly, wondering if the vendor had change for a hundred or took American Express.

  "A hot dog? No, thank you," she said weakly, backing away from the cart. At first Tristan feared it was his own sneer of distaste that had spoiled her eagerness, but she was gazing at the skewered sausages with something more akin to horror. "Some of the poor in Paris considered cat a great delicacy, but I never could bring myself to try it."

  She withdrew with a forlorn little sigh, leaving Tristan to choke back his laughter as he realized just how badly she had misconstrued his offer. He was about to explain when she seized his arm and tugged him into the doorway of Tiffany's.

  Peeping around his shoulder, she said, "Don't look now, but those men are following us."

  Ignoring her hissed dictate, Tristan threw a casual glance over his shoulder. Five burly, gray-suited men were huddled in front of a toy store, their efforts to look inconspicuous failing miserably. One of the men seemed to be admiring his reflection more than the charming window displays.

  "Those men are paid to follow us," he whispered back. "They're my bodyguards. I arranged for them to delay their departure until Cop could divert the press's attention, but I would never leave the Tower without them."

  Arian stole another look. "Why, you're right! There's that kind Mr. Nordgard. Sven!" she trilled, waving wildly. "Oh, Sven!"

  Tristan pulled her hand down. "For God's sake, don't wave! You'll blow his cover and then he'll sulk for the rest of the day because you recognized him in his Ray-Bans."

  Arian drew off her own sunglasses to reveal a pensive frown. "Why do you require guards, Mr. Lennox? I can't imagine a man like you being afraid of anything."

  "The streets of New York can be a very dangerous place." Her luminous brown eyes reminded him that there were more subtle dangers than gang members or kidnappers. "Only a fool wouldn't be afraid," he added lightly, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

  If he expected her to linger at Tiffany's to admire the costly trinkets she planned to buy with his million dollars, he was sorely disappointed. She forsook the glittering window display without so much as a longing glance when a policeman mounted on a handsome sorrel came trotting past.

  "Oh, sir! Please, sir, might I have a moment of your time?" Arian cried, bounding after the horse before Tristan could restrain her.

  The officer slowed, guiding his mount in a prancing circle. The mouth above his helmet strap looked as if it hadn't cracked a smile since the early eighties. He shot Tristan and his trench coat a suspicious glance. "Is that fellow bothering you, ma'am? Are you in need of assistance?"

  By the time Tristan reached the duo, Arian was already explaining."… it's just that she's the first horse I've seen in New York. I was beginning to fear there weren't any left."

  "Bathsheba's been with the force for five years now, ma'am. I'm the one who named her," the officer confided, his stern mouth softening in a bashful grin. But his suspicious glower returned when he shifted his gaze to Tristan. "A little warm for that coat, isn't it, sir?"

  Tristan summoned a genial smile instead of tearing open the front of his coat and flashing his Armani suit at the man. "I'm just recovering from a nasty head cold."

  Arian stroked the horse's velvety muzzle, her other hand absently toying with her necklace. "You're quite the beauty, aren't you?" she crooned. "I wish I had an apple to – "

  The horse tossed its mane with a raucous whinny before lowering its head to nuzzle Arian's skirt pocket. Its teeth emerged with a fat red apple clenched between them.

  The cop chortled with delight, but Arian looked nearly as stunned as Tristan suspected he did.

  "Thank the pretty lady, Bathsheba," the policeman commanded, but Bathsheba was too busy gulping down the apple core to comply. "Good afternoon, ma'am. I get the feeling you're not from around here, but I hope you enjoy your stay in the Big Apple." The cop nudged his horse into a saucy trot, his expression so smitten Tristan half expected him to tip his helmet to Arian like some noble gentleman of yore.

  He, however, was more chilled than charmed by her resourceful trick. He stood directly behind her, near enough to warn, but not to threaten. Near enough for the distracting perfume of her hair to sweeten the exhaust fumes.

  "I thought witches only offered apples of the poisonous variety," he murmured.

  Arian's tension was palpable, even in her off-key laughter. "Tis fortunate the mare didn't pull a rabbit out of my pocket. At least I can claim the apple came from my breakfast tray."

  "Oh, you can claim whatever you like, Miss Whitewood." The bustling crowd seemed to perform its own vanishing act as Tristan whispered into her ear, "But I'm not required to believe you."

  "Excuse me, honey, but our children's department is on the eighth…"

  The clerk's nasal whine trailed off as Arian freed the velvet skirt she'd been fondling and turned away from the rack.

  "Oh," the woman said. "You ain't a little girl." She worked her jaw in tireless rhythm, like a cow chewing its cud, as she eyed Arian up and down, taking in her severe dress, her scuffed pumps, her unbound mass of curls. "Our cosmetics department is on the ground floor if you're interested in some ashes to go with that sackcloth."

  Arian fingered the amulet, thinking she just might turn the condescending creature into a dormouse, but Tristan rescued her from the temptation by emerging from the other side of the rack and drawing off his sunglasses.

  The clerk swallowed whatever she'd been chewing with a gratifying gulp. "Why, Mr. Lennox! I didn't recognize you!"

  He offered her a smile that was scathing in its tenderness. "Obviously." Arian fought the urge to squirm as he slipped a possessive arm around her waist. "But if you're too busy to assist me in selecting an extensive new wardrobe for my guest, we'll just be on our way to Bergdorf Goodman's."

  The woman almost fell off her pointy heels in her rush to block his path. "Oh, no, Mr. Lennox. We always have time for you at Bloomingdale's. If you and the lovely young lady will follow me…?" Patting her shellacked helmet of hair with a trembling hand, she ushered them into a private salon.

  "What country is she from?" Arian whispered. "I don't recognize her accent."

  A shadow of a smile touched Tristan's mouth. "A sprawling kingdom called Queens."

  Arian found the salon's rose-colored carpet, walls, and settee soothing to her nerves. She still hadn't recovered from her recent brush with disaster. Given the capricious nature of her magic, she was fortunate she hadn't turned herself into an apple and been gobbled up by the horse. More than ever before, she must remember to heed Marcus's sage advice to "be careful what she wished for." Especially when Tristan Lennox was around.

  She stole a glance at his implacable profile. More disturbing than the literal fruits of her error had been the figurative ones. Wariness and suspicion had cast a shadow over the convivial mood they had so briefly shared. Twas probably just as well. There had been a fleeting moment, when he had gazed into her eyes and touched her hair, that she had been tempted to confide in him. To spill the entire sordid story of her flight from Gloucester and Linnet's clutches.

  He was presently explaining to the fawning clerk how her entire wardrobe had met with an unfortunate accident. Arian glared at his broad back, having been present when he'd ordered that her one and only dress be tossed into something called an incinerator. It was only after she'd protested that he'd agreed to have it laundered, then removed to the darkest, most inaccessible recesses of his closet.

  The clerk soon disappeared through a narrow door, but instead of bringing fabric samples for Arian to peruse, she returned with a single glass of champagne balanced on a silver tray. A fat strawberry floated in its effervescent depths.

&nbs
p; "Why, thank you, Louisa. You always remember my strawberry." Tristan removed his coat and lounged back on the settee, favoring the woman with a genuine smile.

  Arian's stomach did a strange little flip. Even she could not deny the devastating charm of the man's smile. It crinkled his eyes and erased the stern furrow from his brow. His long fingers cupped the bowl of the champagne glass with maddening grace as he plucked out the strawberry and brought it to his lips.

  "Anything to please, Mr. Lennox. That's our policy at Bloomingdale's. Especially for you." The clerk's coy nudge indicated she was willing to go beyond the call of duty to ensure his satisfaction.

  Repulsed by the woman's obsequious manner, Arian assumed the haughty demeanor her mama had always affected when rebuking her paramour's servants. "Pardon me, madam, but weren't you about to measure me for a gown?"

  The woman started as if just remembering Arian's presence. "Measure you? Don't you know your size?"

  Reluctant to display her ignorance, Arian glanced down at herself, then ventured, "Little?"

  The clerk exchanged a bemused glance with Tristan. "Maybe I'd betta measure her."

  Drawing a writing pad and a yellow tape from her dress pocket, she circled Arian like a starched buzzard, clucking ominously beneath her breath. As the woman knelt to measure her inseam, Arian began to regret drawing attention to herself, especially when she noted the amused twinkle in Tristan's eyes. He lifted the champagne glass to his lips, but it failed to hide his smirk.

  Louisa slid the tape beneath Arian's upraised arms, then gave an admiring whistle. "You got some hefty boobs for such a tiny frame."

  Tristan choked on his champagne. Arian didn't know whether to sink through the floor in mortification or laugh at his discomfiture.

  "Why, thank you," she replied instead, drawing in a breath that showed her assets off to their best advantage. Her generous figure had been an ongoing source of consternation for Marcus as well. There were some God-given charms even a homespun bib could not disguise.