The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

  Without releasing the kiss, I removed a hand from his face to unbuckle my seat belt. Pushing him back in his seat, I climbed onto his lap. I straddled his legs and leaned forward to continue my gasp for him. My air. I consumed his lips and forced my tongue into his mouth. When he returned the assault on mine, I sucked on his tongue before gently scraping my teeth over it. He pulled back. I held his lower lip captive with mine, before I lowered to his scruffy jaw. He had shaved this morning, but within hours he’d turned prickly. In less than two days, he would have the perfect look, with his chiseled jaw and tan cheeks that offset his moss green eyes. He’d make male models jealous and women drop their panties. With that thought, I slipped my hands down his chest and began to tug his shirt upward.

  “Ireland,” he laughed against my lips.

  I didn’t respond. I was a woman on a mission. I continued to push his shirt upward and lowered my head to kiss his abs.

  “Irish.” He stopped my head and dragged my face up to his. “What is this?”

  He searched my eyes, and stared at my swollen lips, but I didn’t know what he was looking for. All I knew was I needed him. I needed to feel him inside me one more time. I had an overwhelming feeling that if I didn’t have him one more time, I would never feel again. I wasn’t ready to let go. I wasn’t ready to let him go, so I could be with another man and he could return to endless women.

  I shook my head and tears leaked from my eyes.

  “Hey,” he said, brushing the tears softly over my cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

  Shaking my head again, I leaned for him, kissing him hard again. He braced my face with his strong hands, gently trying to slow my lips until he brought me to a stop. He pulled back and leaned his forehead against mine.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s join the Mile High Club,” I tried to tease, rubbing my hands up and down his exposed abs and chest.

  When I looked up into his eyes, he wasn’t smiling. He was probably already a member. I took a deep breath and pulled back farther to scan his face. I traced the contour of his nose with my eyes, which I’d kissed after making love to him. I scanned across his set cheeks, knowing my tongue had traveled those ridges on several occasions. I followed the curve of his lips, which I’d never taste enough. I looked up at his sandy brown hair, lightened in places from the sun, which was now sexily messed by my eager fingers that rubbed through it in my aggressive attack. I finally rested on his eyes that weren’t shining with flecks of gold, like they often did when he looked at me. His eyes were deep green and solid with questions. I didn’t have the answers.

  The pilot announced that we would be landing soon and we should fasten our seat belts for the descent into Texas to refuel. I slid off Tristan’s lap and righted my skirt. His hands were still outright, as if he was going to grab me and draw me back onto his lap. He didn’t and I returned to my seat. We were disconnected, in more ways than one. I buckled the belt and wiped away the final tears to look out the window at the rapidly approaching ground below. Tristan’s eyes weighed heavy on me over my shoulder, but I refused to look. I was embarrassed enough.

  “Ireland, my Irish Isle, what was that?” I recognized the hint of a smile in his voice, but it wasn’t complete. Not nearly as complete as I knew it could be.

  He used a finger under my chin to force me look at him.

  “Nothing,” my voice choked. “I’m being silly.” I attempted to smile at him, but it felt false. It didn’t feel right on my face.

  We didn’t exit the plane when we landed for the layover in Texas. I took Tristan’s iPod, after all, to drown out any thoughts of what I wanted from him. I closed my eyes as soon as we took off again for New York. I was worried I would dream, so I kept forcing my eyes open, hoping to hold off sleep. A hand slipped behind my back and my belt was unbuckled. Dragging my eyes open, I struggled to look at Tristan who was lifting me over the seat and into his lap.

  “Sit here,” he muttered into my ear as he placed me on his legs. My feet dangled into my original seat, and my side was tucked against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and it struck me that we were in the same position as the first night he touched me. Lesson one was that night. I had another lesson to add.

  Lesson Three. Heartbreak is inevitable when your heart is full of love for someone who doesn’t love you back.

  We landed in New York hours later and I felt restlessly rested. I had slept on Tristan until I had to return to my seat and buckle for the descent. Despite the private plane, our luggage had to go through special customs, as Tristan and I followed into the low building. Tristan held my hand as we walked through the pitch-black night. The air was cool in late April, as spring was struggling to blossom in New York compared to the summer temperature of the Cayman Islands.

  He rubbed my hand with his thumb as we walked. I squeezed his fingers back, holding onto him as if I was holding onto a life preserver to prevent from drowning or death by sharks.

  As we entered the building, we were approaching the counter still holding hands, when I heard a voice I recognized speak from the comfortable chairs in the customer waiting area.

  “Isolde?”

  Chapter 24

  [Tristan]

  Yet more enemies blocked the start,

  “Isolde, sweetheart?”

  “Mark?”

  “Uncle Mark?”

  The names hung in the air as I took in the face of Mark Cornwall, my uncle, staring at Ireland. I immediately sensed something was wrong and dropped her hand.

  “Tristan?” she whispered so low, it was almost air instead of words. I was aware she spoke. I just couldn’t reconcile that she spoke to Mark, my Uncle Mark.

  “Mark, what are you doing here?” Confused, I didn’t break the glare from my uncle.

  “Isolde, darling, your mother called me to tell me when you were arriving. I told her I would meet you with a car.” My uncle clearly ignored my question, or maybe he had answered it without addressing me.

  I glanced at Ireland, who refused to look at me. Her head was bent and her short blonde hair, which had grown a bit in the heat, was shielding her face.

  “Isolde?” My voice cracked on the name. Isolde Ireland? It came to me like a tidal wave splash in the face. She was Isolde Ireland, that’s why she looked familiar. She was Sports Illustrated’s cover model last summer, in a yellow bikini with black trim and nothing else, but long legs and a flat stomach that my tongue had traced. Passionately. She had a photospread in Vanity Fair and Vogue during the winter months, in high-heeled boots and short fur jackets with nothing else underneath, but a peek of skin between her breasts that I had kissed. Possessively. I knew every inch of her intimately, and so did all of America, the world probably, for that fact. The one thing I didn’t know was her true name. She looked familiar to me because I had seen her splashed on billboards, television commercials, and magazines for the last year.

  She finally turned in my direction and blinked. Her blue eyes where bright. She had to have been able to read, on my face, the betrayal I felt at her never disclosing who she was. My face shifted as my eyes glanced to Mark. The betrayal had to have compared to the paleness of death. My death.

  “Mark,” I stuck out my hand to shake my uncle’s. “What are you doing here?”

  Mark wrapped an arm around Ireland’s shoulders. Isolde. Ireland. My brain couldn’t reconcile the two as one. I watched as Mark pulled her into his side, smiling at her, before he looked back at me.

  “I came to pick up my girlfriend.” He kissed Ireland on the side of her head in an awkward, perfunctory manner. My stomach clenched like it had been punched. I must have groaned out loud at the sensation because my uncle stared at me, quizzically.

  “What are you doing here?” Mark addressed me.

  “I’m returning…I’m returning from a vacation.” My eyes flipped to Ireland before coming back to my uncle’s face. I didn’t offer more information. Mark had to have seen Ireland and I holding hands. My throat was dry a
nd I couldn’t form more words in my mouth. It felt full of pebbles that threatened to choke me, at any moment.

  “Are you headed home? We could give you a ride,” Mark offered, as I watched my uncle’s hand rub up and down Ireland’s shoulder. He continued to tug her into his side, holding onto her in a manner that bordered on possessive. She seemed stiff as she leaned against Mark, but not into him. She hadn’t spoken yet.

  “No,” I answered more forceful than I expected. “I…I have a car waiting. As a matter of fact, I think Kaye might be picking me up.” I bent to pick up my guitar, that I placed at my feet, hiking my computer satchel over my shoulder as I also reached for the portable amp. I didn’t glance at Ireland as I stood up. I couldn’t look at her.

  Mark was addressing her when I began to walk away.

  “How did you get here, sweetheart? I only saw one plane land.” I recognized the tone of Mark’s voice: accusatory. It would build in anger if Ireland didn’t answer him correctly.

  “I hitched a ride with her,” I stated, as I stopped to the side of my uncle, still refusing to look in Ireland’s direction. “I was in the Caymans trying to get a flight home when I noticed her with the private jet. I asked her if I could catch a ride. Kaye will reimburse her for the travel expense.”

  Mark seemed to buy the story and he nodded once in understanding.

  “Well, don’t be a stranger. Come visit me soon. Let’s have dinner. Isolde’s birthday is soon. We can celebrate together.”

  I didn’t respond other than to snort my acceptance and walk away. I hadn’t gone five feet when I heard my name in a strangled female voice that would haunt my dreams.

  “Tristan,” she called. I couldn’t look at her. I refused to turn around. I waited a beat, and she didn’t speak again. I finally gave in, only turning my head slightly over my shoulder. I saw her in my peripheral vision.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed to me.

  I walked away without further acknowledgement.

  Kaye wasn’t waiting for me, but a black sedan was. I threw myself onto the backseat and practically crumbled against the cushioned leather as I wiped a hand over my face. I blinked several times and leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees as the car pulled away from the curb. My eyes shifted down to the floor as I slid my fingers into my hair and tugged gently before running them to the back of my neck. Blinking several times again, I sat back and leaned my head on the headrest. My eyes closed, but all I could see were visions of Ireland.

  Ireland. Isolde. I didn’t know who she was anymore. I knew a girl named Ireland, but she wasn’t Isolde. She was naturally beautiful with freckles on her face. I didn’t know the girl I’d seen on billboards with make-up that made her look years older. I had known soft kissable lips and sweet small breasts. I didn’t know the girl who posed with a pouty mouth and trussed up breasts, who stood scantily clothed. I had known a passionate disposition to learning the art of sex. I didn’t know the girl who was a sex goddess to men across America.

  The betrayal. The hurt. It almost matched the pain of Arturo’s loss, but it surpassed it. It surpassed everything I ever felt. I was reminded again that love was painful. I loved a girl who didn’t exist. I loved a girl who was engaged to my uncle. My uncle, my brain screamed.

  I groaned as I racked my brain for any clue that Mark Cornwall had been her fiancé. She’d mentioned his name once. Mark. That’s all she said. There had to be hundreds of thousands of men with that name. How could I have even guessed Mark Cornwall was the man. The man I betrayed by sleeping with his betrothed. His future wife. She would marry him. There was nothing I could do about that arrangement. I could not take from my uncle. In a sense, I already had, but I realized that I would never have Ireland again. It had been an indiscretion, like she called it. A distraction, I called it. I had learned my lesson, despite being her teacher. I choked at the thought of instructing her in ways that she would use to please Mark. Bile literally rose in my mouth. I sucked in air, gripping the edge of the car seat. I’d never breathe right again without her.

  For once, The Heartbreaker had his heart broken, I realized. And it hurt.

  Chapter 25

  [Ireland]

  When claws raked deep to the heart

  I had been whisked off to Mark’s penthouse in Manhattan, without my even realizing where I was being taken. I entered the large apartment, as if in a dream, and someone else was living my life. Liquid bones shook, as I felt disembodied from myself. I couldn’t seem to focus. I couldn’t seem to breathe.

  When I finally recognized that I stood in Mark’s living room, I spoke. My voice was rough as if I hadn’t used it in years.

  “Where is my mother?”

  “Isa and your father had a function to attend tonight. Your mother knew they couldn’t meet you at the airport. She asked me to pick you up, which I happily agreed to do.”

  I stared at him, recognizing he spoke, but having trouble connecting the words.

  “Is she coming to meet me?”

  “It’s late, Isolde. I believe she thought you would stay here tonight, and she will meet you in the morning.”

  I nodded once as if I agreed with this plan, when I didn’t. I understood what was happening, though. They didn’t trust me to be alone. They didn’t trust me not to run again.

  “I’m very tired,” I said softly, averting my eyes to the floor.

  Mark remained silent, for a moment, before he stepped closer to me. He used his hand to cup my chin, gripping firmly as he lifted my face, forcing me to look at him. He wasn’t a bad looking man, for someone almost twenty years older than me. He just wasn’t a man I was attracted to physically. His dark hair was graying in places. His gray eyes were cold. His physical presence was intimidating. His physical touch was firm and possessive.

  “We were very worried about you, sweetheart. Your uncle was beside himself with concern. Your mother was a wreck. You’ve upset many people, darling, including me.” He squeezed my chin slightly, emphasizing his point. “But I know, in time, you will make it up to me.” His words were telling. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.

  “I’ll show you to a room. Unless you care to join me? I’ve missed you.”

  “Mark,” I attempted to steady my voice. “I’m tired, like I said. I really think I need to speak with my mother. I would appreciate if you could show me to a room, though. Thank you.” I wasn’t asking. I was demanding.

  Mark released my chin and pointed in a direction for me to lead the way down a long hall. He walked closely beside me, guiding me to a bedroom at the end of the hallway. He reminded me, that he would be available should I need anything. I kissed his cheek softly before closing the door. I waited briefly for him to walk away before I locked it.

  I slid down the wood panel and placed my head on my knees, willing back the tears that threatened to fall. Once I released the first drop, the waterfall would be uncontrollable. The pain was already unbearable. With cloudy eyes, I held my phone before me, trying to focus on the list of contacts to find Tristan’s name. I clicked the message app and typed one word.

  Tristan?

  I held the phone, waiting as my vision clouded completely. The typed message blurred into a haze of black. I promised to answer if he ever called me, but he never promised to answer if I tried to contact him. I placed my head on my knees again, covering my mouth as the first sob escaped. He wouldn’t respond. I saw it in his face. The betrayal, that I never told him my full name. The hurt, as we discovered together, that my future fiancé was his uncle. Mark Cornwall was Tristan’s uncle, my brain screamed.

  How could the situation get any worse? There was no way out of my hell.

  I awoke the next morning to a soft knock on the bedroom door. My mother entered, regal and smiling with relief on her face. Isa Ireland was a beautiful woman. Even in her forties, she looked incredibly youthful with her jet-black soft curls and her blue eyes. She was a Northern Ireland beauty and spoke with a soft brogue, despite living in America all of her l
ife. She eyed me after hugging me tightly.

  “Isolde, darling, how could you do this to us?”

  I sighed.

  “What exactly did I do, Mother?”

  “Don’t be defensive. You ran away. I would expect this when you were thirteen, but not when you are almost twenty-two.” She smoothed back a piece of blonde hair, that I was certain was not out of place.

  “I didn’t run away exactly, Mother. I told you. I needed to think. I needed time to finish my class work before the next term begins, and I deserved a break before we shoot again.”

  I had a grueling schedule over the next few weeks. Shoots all over the city, as well as, a few scheduled in Upstate New York, where we hoped to make a fake autumn setting for the fall spread. I had just signed with Victoria’s Secret for their fall lingerie line. My swimsuit issue made me a desired marketing tool. I was getting familiar with being treated like a commodity. My mother shook her head as she grabbed my hands, which held the sheet over my bent knees.

  “Did you sleep well? Mark mentioned that you were tired.”

  “I’m fine, but I’d like to go home. Why am I here?”

  “Mark wanted to bring you to his home.” My mother smiled sheepishly. Somehow, I sensed my mother approved of his plan. She might have even encouraged the arrangement.

  “Where you even at a function last night? He said it was a fundraiser.”

  “Yes. School of the Arts Spring Fashion Show. Lots of excellent talent and dazzling style. You need to learn more of that side of the business, sweetheart. One day it will all be yours.”

  I didn’t care for my mother’s talk of inheriting Trinity Modeling Agency. I didn’t have a mind for business and marketing, like Isa. I wanted to study plants, but I didn’t dare mention it.

  “You got too much sun,” Isa said, as she swiped a finger down my nose. “I’m sorry Uncle Marshall frightened you.”