Breath of Magic

by Teresa Medeiros

Louisa poked her in the breastbone, deflating her sinful pride. "You ever think about having those things reduced? My uncle Maury in Queens is one of the best plastic surgeons in New York. I could give you his number."

  Arian hesitated, unsure what a "numba" was or if it was appropriate to accept one if offered.

  "That won't be necessary, Louisa," Tristan recovered himself enough to say. "Just bring us a sampling of your petite fall collections, then leave us in private."

  Arian managed to avoid his eyes until Louisa returned to thrust a bewildering array of garments into her arms. She had assumed the woman would bring patterns or fashion dolls, not tailored gowns. As the woman shooed her into a curtained antechamber, Arian threw a panicked glance over her shoulder at Tristan only to have him heft his champagne glass in mocking salute.

  Tristan sipped the champagne as he waited for Arian to emerge, idly wondering if a rich red or a cool turquoise would best offset the midnight hue of her curls. He glanced at his Rolex, noting that fifteen minutes had already passed. He waited fifteen more before scowling at the curtain. It hung limp, not even stirring in the draft from the air-conditioning.

  "Miss Whitewood?" he called out, struggling to soften the edge of impatience in his tone. "Would you like to come out and show me what you've tried on?"

  Silence.

  Setting the champagne glass aside, Tristan rose and went to the curtain, battling a strange premonition that he would pull it back to find the alcove empty. That Arian might have vanished as abruptly as she'd appeared in his life. He reached for the curtain.

  A faint scuffling noise accompanied by muttered French curses made him jerk back his hand. He took several hasty steps backward as Arian emerged, noting with wry humor the color of the dress she had chosen.

  Black.

  The slim Chanel sheath was far more flattering than the borrowed uniform, but its sleek lines were spoiled by the wad of fabric she'd clenched at the small of her back.

  Her face was red and unshed tears of frustration glistened in her eyes. "Silly frock has no buttons or frogs. How on earth am I supposed to fasten it?"

  "Have you tried the zipper?" he suggested gently.

  When she only blinked up at him, he turned her around and pried her fingers from the rayon. He caught the tongue of the zipper between his fingertips and eased it upward, noting with idle appreciation the tiny dimple at the base of her spine. The skin of her back was as soft and pale as if it had never known the kiss of the sun.

  He was forced to lift her hair to complete the task, the casual motion releasing a cloud of fragrance. He secured the zipper and backed away from her, in danger of becoming intoxicated from more than just the champagne.

  She gave her hips an intriguing little wiggle. " 'Tis far too small. I can barely breathe."

  "Try one of the others, then," Tristan snapped, growing rather short of oxygen himself. He gave her a none-too-gentle push toward the dressing room and returned to the settee to drain his champagne.

  Both bemused and irritated by her modest tastes, Tristan watched as she modeled one selection after another: a black Missoni turtleneck; a demure gray Donna Karan suit with Peter Pan collar; a long-sleeved Versace dress trimmed with virginal cuffs identical to the ones on the dress he'd wanted to burn. When she ducked into the alcove to change for the final time, Tristan rubbed his clean-shaven chin in exasperation.

  Arian had displayed her humble choices with such pride that he hadn't the heart to tell her she could have found any one of the outfits a few hundred dollars cheaper at a convent's garage sale.

  Her innocent enjoyment was alarmingly contagious. He'd bought clothes for women before, but most of them had been content to be handed his Gold Card and curtly dismissed. None of them had sought his opinion on hem length or twirled around as if a homely black pair of leggings was a Dior original.

  Arian emerged from the dressing room just as Louisa trotted back into the salon, nearly buried beneath a mound of iridescent taffeta. "Thought you might want to take a look at this. It's so rare to find a Givenchy in the little lady's size."

  "Oh, how lovely!" The wistful cry spilled from Arian's throat before she could stop it.

  Thrusting her own pile of garments into Tristan's arms, she rescued the emerald-hued gown from the woman's clumsy hands, unable to resist the temptation to hold it against her and test its length. Instead of dragging the floor, the pleated skirt swirled around her ankles in a perfect bell. Her mother had often worn fabrics so fine and rare when Arian was a little girl.

  She remembered sneaking downstairs once during a ball, peeping through the gilded banisters to watch her mother glide through the intricate steps of a court dance with the grace of a young queen. To Arian's adoring eyes, her mama had seemed the most beautiful woman in all the world. Arian stroked the lustrous fabric, allowing herself a stab of grief for the first time since her mother's death.

  The gown elicited a pang of primal yearning, not just for its elegance, but for all it represented. Beauty. Grace. A world where every pleasure was not condemned as sin.

  Her face must have betrayed her longing, for Tristan softly said, "Why don't you try it on? It suits you."

  "C'mon, honey," the clerk urged, throwing him a knowing wink. "It might set Mr. Lennox back six months of Lamborghini payments, but he obviously thinks you're worth it."

  Arian felt herself go hot, then cold, as she realized what the woman believed of her. She shouldn't have allowed it to catch her by surprise. After all, how many times had she seen her mother barter both body and soul for a scrap of silk or some shiny bauble?

  She lifted her head, expecting the woman's crude assumption to have restored the mocking sparkle to Tristan's eyes. But they were as gray and inscrutable as a December sky.

  Even with his arms full of women's garments and a disheveled lock of hair falling over his brow, Tristan managed to appear a portrait of casual elegance. She remembered the damning familiarity with which the clerk had greeted him, the fresh strawberry in his champagne. He probably brought all of his mistresses to this place.

  "I don't want it," Arian declared, thrusting the billowing temptation back into the clerk's arms. " Tis a sickly hue that would make me look bilious in the moonlight. She moved to stand stiffly by the door, deliberately ignoring Tristan's gaze and the clerk's crestfallen pout. Let the woman think they were having a lover's spat if it so pleased her.

  "Have these wrapped and delivered along with an assortment of the appropriate foundation garments," Tristan commanded, handing over Arian's choices and peeling a tip from a fat wad of bills.

  "Yes, sir!" Louisa replied, tucking the hundred dollar bill in her bra.

  Arian's pride would not let her steal even a last wistful glance at the crumpled gown. So she missed the cryptic signal Tristan gave the simpering clerk behind her back.

  As they strolled toward the Tower, Tristan stole a puzzled glance at Arian's stormy profile. She hadn't laughed or spoken once since they'd left Bloomingdale's private salon, not even when he'd coaxed her into trotting down the up escalator, offered to give her a spin in a revolving door, and pointed out Sven crashing into a girdle display because he insisted on wearing his sunglasses indoors.

  He should be the one brooding, he thought grimly. He'd wasted an afternoon of invaluable time playing personal shopper, leaving his corporation to defend itself against the press's ruthless assault.

  He clenched his teeth against a sigh, wishing he could forget the naked longing he'd glimpsed on Arian's face before she'd thrust the Givenchy gown back at the harried clerk. He'd been a fool to let it affect him. Women had been using that look for centuries to beguile men into begging, borrowing, or stealing whatever their calculating little hearts desired.

  He'd traveled several long, angry strides before he realized that Arian was no longer at his elbow. He whirled around to discover she'd pressed her palms and nose to a store window like a child at a bakery counter. She was studying a display of orange and yellow boxes. Halloween fil
ms, he noted indifferently, no doubt teeming with ax-wielding maniacs and decapitated babysitters.

  "Is this place a library?" Arian asked, her face showing its first trace of animation in over an hour. "Might I go in and examine the books?"

  Tristan glanced up at the yellow block letters of the towering sign. "It's not a library. It's a video store."

  "Vi-de-o?" She sounded out the word as if it were utterly foreign to her.

  "You know – a place to buy and rent movies." She continued to look blank. "I know the French have movies because I've been forced to sit through several of them. Subtitles? Sad clowns? Brigitte Bardot?"

  Nothing.

  Tristan sighed and reached for the door handle. She hung back, shooting him a furtive glance from beneath her lashes. "You've already been far too generous, sir, and I don't wish to keep you from your work. Perhaps Mr. Nordgard could escort me back to the Tower?"

  Tristan recognized a dismissal when he heard one. He gave her a cold smile. "You're absolutely right, Miss Whitewood. I've neglected my duties long enough."

  He crooked a finger at Sven, who was lurking behind a nearby Italian ice stand. Sven came trotting over, visibly pouting to be summoned in so ignominious a manner in front of his colleagues.

  Tristan handed him a credit card. "The lady has carte blanche. See that she gets whatever she wants."

  As Tristan watched Arian vanish into the store's interior, he was almost grateful to her for rekindling his suspicions so effectively.

  10

  The Manhattan skyline glittered like a freshly cut diamond, radiating beauty, but no warmth. Tristan gazed at it through jaded eyes as he brought the tumbler of Scotch to his lips. The digital clock on his desk silently heralded the arrival of midnight.

  "The witching hour," he murmured, lifting his glass in a bittersweet toast.

  Another man might have identified the emptiness inside of him as loneliness, but Tristan had long ago learned to endure his own company as penance for his mistakes.

  Exhausted from dodging press and having photographers masquerading as window washers popping up outside his corporate suite, he had cocooned himself in his private office shortly after leaving Arian to Sven's care. It dismayed him to discover the infusion of fresh air had blunted his brain's efficiency instead of sharpening it. He'd caught himself snapping at his personal assistant, yawning over the quarterly reports, and shivering at the stifling chill of the air-conditioning, which he always insisted be set to a comfortable and ecologically sound seventy-two degrees.

  When Sven had returned with his written report detailing Miss Whitewood's every gesture and blink, Tristan had snatched it out of his hands, eager to search for evidence of her duplicity. The single sheet of paper now lay crumpled on the floor beside his overflowing trash can.

  Contrary to Tristan's hopes, Arian hadn't attempted a rendezvous with a potential accomplice or even eluded Sven's surveillance long enough to use a public phone or restroom. The only anomaly Sven had noted in her behavior was her panicked dive into an open manhole when a helicopter had passed overhead.

  Shaking his head, Tristan drained the Scotch and rose from his desk, forced to accede the day an abject failure. He could only hope tomorrow would be more productive. If his team of scientists couldn't give him the ammunition he needed to discredit Arian, perhaps his army of private detectives could.

  He emerged from his office into the darkened living room, nearly tripping over a brightly colored game-board that attested to Sven and Arian's evening activities.

  "Candy Land?" he muttered.

  Monopoly he could understand, but what was the point of playing any game where you couldn't charge exorbitant rent for hotels or bankrupt your opponents?

  His bedroom door was cracked ajar, allowing a strip of flickering light to escape. He shot the room a hostile look, resenting its occupant anew for making him feel as if he should tiptoe across his own suite.

  He was reaching to summon the elevator when the muffled sound of weeping drifted to his ears.

  Tristan froze, his finger poised above the glowing call button. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to the plush sofa in his corporate office and seek the oblivion of sleep.

  Tom between an infuriating sense of helplessness and his desire for escape, he slowly lowered his hand. Surely any man who could compute the independent variables of logarithmic functions in his head could comfort a crying woman. After all, it was only a logical process of isolating the problem, formulating an acceptable hypothesis, and providing feasible alternatives. She'd probably lost a round of Candy Land or was sulking because she thought he hadn't overridden her feeble objections and bought her the Givenchy dress.

  Tristan's purposeful stride did not falter until he eased open the bedroom door.

  Arian was perched in the center of his bed, her attention riveted on the unearthly blue glow of the television. Relief surged through Tristan. She was undoubtedly engrossed in one of those sentimental "chick flicks" Copperfield adored – Love Story or perhaps An Affair to Remember. After the older boys at the orphanage had teased him mercilessly for crying when Bambi's mother died, Tristan had vowed to never again let his own emotions be so manipulated.

  He started to withdraw, but a pathetic hiccup enticed him into the room. Arian was oblivious to his presence, offering him an irresistible opportunity to study her.

  She sat with her legs tucked beneath her, a soggy bowl of popcorn cradled in her lap. She'd pinned her clean, damp hair in a careless knot at her nape using a duo of mismatched tie clips. The shirt from one of his own pairs of silk pajamas draped her slender form. Black, of course, he noted dryly.

  Several empty video cases were scattered across the bed. He tilted his head to read their titles: Bell, Book, and Candle, I Married a Witch, Escape to Witch Mountain, The Witches of Eastwick. He shook his head in wry disbelief. Even the thick-headed Sven should have been able to detect a discernible pattern and included it in his report. She was probably researching the proper deportment for a con artist masquerading as a witch.

  A reluctant smile touched his lips as he watched her dab at her nose with a drooping sleeve. Unlike most women of his acquaintance, she didn't cry as if she lived in mortal terror of smudging her mascara. If he lingered long enough, he suspected he'd catch her blowing her nose on the sheets.

  A fat tear rolled down her cheek. Her breath caught in a piteous sigh.

  "Arian?" he said softly, the casual intimacy of the rumpled bed and moody lighting making "Miss Whitewood" seem too formal.

  She cast him a beseeching look. Tears spiked her lashes, making her eyes look even larger. He realized she'd been aware of his presence the entire time, but too engrossed in the film to care. "Did you see it? That nasty Dorothy dropped a house on the poor witch. The innocent creature was just minding her own business, then splat!"

  Tristan slowly turned his head to gaze at the television. He had expected to find Deborah Kerr in a wheelchair or Ali McGraw gasping her last, not a chorus line of munchkins gleefully chirping, "Ding-dong, the witch is dead!"

  "Horrid dwarves," Arian muttered, staunching a fresh spill of tears with the hem of the satin sheet. "Should have known they'd take that bratty Dorothy's side."

  Reeling as if he, and not the unfortunate witch, had just had a house dropped on his head, Tristan stared at Arian as if seeing her for the first time. Copperfield might have shed a sheepish tear when Old Yeller died, but Tristan had never encountered anyone so tenderhearted as to weep for one of the vanquished witches in The Wizard of Oz.

  His natural inclination to laugh was overwhelmed by a far more unnatural inclination to gather Arian into his arms. To lower his lips to her face and kiss away each salty tear in turn. To part her trembling lips with his tongue and…

  Shaken, he picked up the remote and thumbed off the TV. "The witch was wicked," he said flatly. "She deserved to die."

  He tossed the remote on the bed and walked away, convincing himself that he had only imagined the fl
icker of fear in Arian's eyes.

  The hillside blazed with the light of a hundred torches. Arian backed toward the yawning chasm, preferring its certain doom to facing the creatures that came shambling out of the darkness.

  The beasts stalked her, their soulless eyes glowing yellow out of empty sockets. An icy claw brushed her throat. As she recoiled from the skeletal face of Goody Hubbins, a scream caught in her throat, choking her with blind terror.

  "Halt!" came a cry from the top of the hill.

  The Reverend Linnet stood silhouetted against the moon, a black cape swirling around his ankles. The brim of his tall hat shadowed his features. Her accusers shuffled backward until she stood alone at the edge of the pond.

  Linnet pointed a finger at her trembling form and uttered a single damning word. "Witch!"

  She went tumbling into the water, but before its murky blackness could enfold her, the man on the bluff drew off his hat. The moon spun his hair into purest gold and frosted his gray eyes with moonbeams. The last sound she heard before the icy water closed over her head was the mocking music of Tristan Lennox's laughter.

  "Holy Mother of God," Arian gasped, sitting straight up in the bed.

  Desperate to escape the lingering miasma of the nightmare, she threw back the satin coverlet and bounded out of the bed, sending a stack of video cases cascading to the floor.

  She had hoped to learn about this society's attitude toward witches from their amazing miniature plays, but the videos had only left her more confused than before. In I Married a Witch, the groom viewed his bride's magical talents with amused tolerance while in Bell, Book, and Candle, the hero lived in mortal terror of falling beneath an enchantress's spell. In Escape to Witch Mountain, two children were persecuted and terrorized because of their supernatural powers. Most disturbing of all, The Witches of Eastwick actually were in league with the devil! Arian blushed anew to remember the lewd acts they'd offered to perform on a smirking Satan.

  Huddled beside the bed, she rubbed her arms through the thin silk of her borrowed nightshirt. Beads of rain had begun to pelt the windows and there seemed to be no escaping the artificial draft that cooled the air. 'Twas almost as if the chill of that watery grave still clung to her.