by Diana Castle
She looked deeply into Tristan’s eyes. In another time she would have thought herself crazy to enter the home of a man she’d just met. But there was something about him she couldn’t quite explain. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but there was a poise and composure about him she’d never experienced with anyone. Much less someone as young as he was.
Douglas had never been one for intuition. He didn’t believe in it. But Lydia did. Her intuition had told her for weeks that her husband was cheating on her, even when he vehemently denied it and accused her of imagining things.
Her intuition was telling her now she could trust Tristan.
“No,” she said. “I won’t need a cab.”
She moved past him and entered the condo. She walked down a short hallway then entered the living room. Floor to ceiling windows made up one side of the wall, which looked out upon a breathtaking view of the city. The clouds had thickened even more. That usually meant rain or, if it was cold enough, snow.
As for the rest of the condo, it was tastefully decorated and as neat as a pin. Lydia's ex, for all his anal-retentive ways, had been something of a slob. He had left socks, underwear, newspapers, magazines and whatnot lying about their house in expectation of Lydia picking up after him. Which she had done. Her lips twisted cynically as she recalled what a dutiful little wife she’d been all those years.
Forcing herself to forget about Douglas, she glanced to her right. On the wall opposite the windows hung a number of huge paintings, an assortment of object d'art and what looked like ancient weaponry. That gave her pause, but it looked more decorative than anything. A large bookshelf of leather-bound books covered the remaining wall and, nestled in a corner next to the bookshelf, was a baby grand piano.
She turned towards Tristan. “It's very nice.”
He shrugged but pleasure glittered in his dark blue eyes. “Let me take your jacket.”
She took it off and handed it to him.
“Do you play the piano?” She couldn’t play any instrument and was impressed by those who could.
He hung her jacket in a nearby closet. “A bit. Are you hungry? Or thirsty?”
“I'm not hungry but I'd love something to drink.”
“Coffee?” he asked with a teasing smile.
She glanced down at her soiled clothing and laughed. “No, I believe I've had enough for the day.”
He also laughed. “I've got water, juice, both apple and orange, beer and some wine. Water even.”
“A glass of wine sounds nice.”
She hoped that asking for wine didn’t make her come off as brazen. It had been so long since she’d socialized with men, she’d forgotten all the niceties.
“Red or white?”
“White, please.”
“Your wish is my command, my lady. But first let me get you something to wear.” He left the living room and headed toward the back of the condo.
She blinked then realized he meant while her clothes were being washed.
He returned holding a plaid woolen shirt. “I’ve only worn it once. Too tight across the shoulders. I’ve also got some sweatpants but I think this will be long enough on you to be decent.”
She took the shirt and held it against her body. He was so much taller than her that it reached past her knees. “Thank you.”
He pointed to a door down the hallway. “You can change in there. I'll get your wine.”
Lydia went inside what she assumed was a guest bathroom. She closed the door behind her then took off her coffee-stained shirt and slacks. Fortunately, her bra and panties were not stained. She looked at her body in the mirror.
She’d never been a fanatic about exercising, but she did work out regularly. Mostly walking and running. She'd had to in order to keep up with the wives of Douglas’s colleagues, many of whom, she suspected, had been anorexic. She had never wanted to be that thin.
She turned and looked at her behind. It wasn’t bad. Not as tight as it had been when she was nineteen, but it wasn’t sagging. At least not yet. She examined the rest of her body. Her waist was small, her hips rounded but slim. Her breasts weren’t as big as Tiffany’s, especially after Douglas paid for them to be enlarged, but they weren’t flat either.
She sighed. But it still was just an ordinary body. Maybe a tad above average due to her working out and watching her diet but nothing special. Certainly not special enough, in her opinion, to warrant the attention of a gorgeous, younger man.
She put on Tristan's shirt. She kept on her socks but picked up the loafers she’d been wearing. She stepped out of the bathroom, her stained clothes bundled in her arms, her shoes on top, and went over to where he stood by the windows.
He turned, smiled and handed her a wine glass. “You take this and I'll take those.”
Lydia gave him her clothes, minus her shoes, which she placed on the floor next to the taupe-colored sofa.
“Be right back.” He went through a door on the other side of the living room. While she waited for him to return, she wandered about, sipping her wine. It was cool and delicious and she let the taste linger on her tongue.
She first went over to his bookshelf, which encompassed an entire wall. His interests appeared to be wide-ranging. Music, science, history, philosophy, art. He owned books on every subject imaginable.
One shelf, however, was full of thick, leather-bound books. She leaned closer as she read the titles.
Tyrocinium Chymicum by John Beguinus. Cheiragogia Heliana: A Manuduction To the Philosopher's Magical Gold by Raphael Iconius Eglinus. The Cure of Old Age, and Preservation of Youth by Roger Bacon, A Franciscan Friar. Fascilicus Chemicus by Arthur Dee.
She took one of the books off the shelf and read the front piece. Medicina instaurata, or A Brief Account of the True Grounds and Principles of the Art of Physick. With the Insufficiency of the Vulgar way of Preparing Medicines, and the Excellency of such as are made by Chymical Operation by Edward Bolnest.
She paged through the book but none of what she read made any sense. She put it back on the shelf and wandered over to the paintings on another wall. Like Tristan's books, they reflected a variety of tastes, eras and styles, including Mannerism, Neo-classicism, and Primitivism. She recognized most of them from her brief time in college studying art history. They weren’t originals, of course, but nicely reproduced prints. Her mind ticked off the artist and the titles of the works.
Agnolo Bronzino’s An Allegory of Cupid with Venus. Jacques-Louis David’s The Oath of the Horatti. Pablo Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Her eyes widened when they lit on the next painting. The last time she had seen it was in a college textbook. Even then, it had intrigued and fascinated her. But seeing it here now, in Tristan’s condo, sent a tingle of pleasure through her.
It was Max Ernst’s Attirement of the Bride.
She moved closer to the painting. The background was comprised of classical architecture. But Ernst had undermined the classicism in the painting by placing within its setting bizarre, erotic images.
A naked woman, masked and wearing a long, thick cloak of red feathers was escorted to her wedding by a green-winged birdman. It was one of her favorite paintings though she had to admit it disturbed her as much as it fascinated her.
She stared at it for a long moment, trying to fathom what kind of man would own such a painting. There was more to Tristan Drake, she realized, than met the eye. She looked around, wondering if he had any shunga prints displayed but didn’t see any.
She moved on, taking sips from her glass of wine. She was starting to feel quite nice, her body warming, her nervousness dissolving. She stopped in front of the wall upon which the weapons were displayed. She didn’t know much about weaponry but all of them seemed to be from times long past.
There were a few swords of varying lengths, most of which had ornately designed pommels and grips. Her gaze lighted on an elegant rapier with finely wrought metalwork on its cup-hilt. She couldn’t help imagining Tristan with his dashing
good looks wielding such a beautiful weapon in defense of a lady. As he’d done that night at the club.
A Japanese samurai sword in a gold-lacquered scabbard dominated the display. Alongside it hung two flintlock pistols. The rest of the weapons also appeared to be not only from centuries past but also from other cultures.
There was nothing strange about collecting ancient weapons, but as she stared at them she noted that although they were obviously well cared for, they also looked used. She didn’t think they were replicas and, if they weren’t, they had to have cost a pretty penny. Her mother was into antiques and it was quite an expensive hobby.
She finally wandered over to the piano. The sheet music on it was a jazz composition by someone named Art Tatum. She stared at the notes, wishing she had not only learned to read music but to play as well. Next to the piano was a display case. On a middle shelf, tucked between a red and gold Chinese vase and the figurine of an Egyptian pharaoh, was a black and white photograph in a silver frame.
She moved closer. It was a photograph of a couple dressed in clothing from the 1930's. They stood in front of what looked like a medieval church. The man wore a light-colored, fitted suit, his fedora in hand. He was tall, dark-haired and handsome. He was smiling at the camera. His arm was about a woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She wore a sundress and sandals. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and fashioned in the style of that time. She wasn't smiling but her head was nestled snugly against the man's shoulder.
As Lydia stared at the photo, her eyes widened.
The man looked exactly like Tristan. The same cleft in the chin and deep dimples alongside the mouth. The hair was different, as it was cut in a manner befitting the times, but he could have been Tristan. Or a twin. But that was impossible. The man in this photo, if he was still alive, would have to be near to or over a hundred years old. He had to be Tristan’s grandfather or possibly his great-grandfather.
When Lydia was seventeen her mother had shown her a picture of her maternal grandmother as a young woman. For a moment Lydia had thought she was looking at herself, she had looked so much like her grandmother.
Tristan moved up behind her. “Your clothes are in the wash. It shouldn't take long.”
“Thank you.” She picked up the photograph. “Is that your grandfather?”
“Great-grandfather actually.”
“That’s amazing. You look exactly like him.”
“Everyone says that.”
“And is she your great-grandmother?”
He shook his head. “Just a woman my great-grandfather loved.”
“She was beautiful.”
Tristan slowly nodded. “Yes, she was. Very beautiful.”
“I would imagine he’s not still alive, is he?”
“No.”
“And her?”
Tristan didn’t answer at first. “I don’t know,” he finally said, but he looked uncomfortable as he said it.
A family scandal? “They look very much in love,” she said.
“They were. Very much. They had a lifetime of love.”
A lifetime of love.
She and Douglas had made it to nearly twenty years together, but as time had gone on their marriage had become more of a soap opera with her acting the role of the dutiful, gullible wife.
She bit her lip and turned away as tears stung her eyes.
Tristan took her gently by the arms. “Lydia, what's wrong?”
She shook her head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. I'm fine. Where was the photo taken?”
“At the Saint Antimo Abbey in Tuscany near the town of Montalcino. Are you sure you’re all right?”
She nodded then carefully placed the photo back on the shelf. She could not help but envy them. A lifetime of love. Was such a thing even possible anymore?
She looked back at Tristan. A slow smile spread across his face.
“What?”
Now his smile was a wide grin. “Do you have any idea how incredibly sexy you look?”
She glanced down. The edge of his shirt was just below her knees. She looked back up at him.
He reached up and gently cupped her face. “You have the most kissable lips. Did you know that?”
She silently shook her head. She wasn’t able to speak because her heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Tristan’s touch was more than just electrifying. It felt more as if the breath had been kicked out of her body.
He leaned closer, the warmth of his body enveloping her. “I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I first saw you. May I?”
She stared up at him. He was the handsomest man she’d ever been alone with and the first man she’d been alone with since the divorce. She didn’t know him from Adam and what little she knew seemed to raise more questions than answers. He was unlike any man she’d ever met, and that in itself made her hesitant. She wanted to trust him. Needed to trust him. She couldn’t go through the rest of her life afraid to trust. Afraid to live.
She nodded, her stomach whirling like a blender on the liquefy setting. He lowered his head until his lips met hers. She hadn’t kissed a man since her marriage to Douglas ended. She initially stiffened, even as Tristan’s warm, firm mouth demanded a response from her.
Slowly, she slid her arms about his waist and pressed her body against his. He held her tighter, his kiss deepening. He grabbed the bottom of the shirt he’d given her to wear and slid it up her hips. He moved his hands over her rear, kneading and caressing the cheeks, his tongue easing slowly between her lips.
Lydia moaned. It had been a while since she’d felt the touch of a man's hands on her body. And his tongue! He pushed it lustfully into her mouth and rolled it around with a delectable agility that was downright sinful. Dipping his hands to the small of her back, his fingers lightly grazed the soft skin. Her pulse skyrocketed, her knees loosening like water. Only his strong arms around her kept her from falling to the floor.
Breaking their kiss, he quickly unbuttoned her shirt and slid his hands up her waist to her bra. He cupped her breasts and rasped his thumbs across her nipples. They swelled and tightened.
“You are so beautiful, Lydia,” he murmured. “So very beautiful.”
She wanted to believe him. But on that day she’d finally confronted Douglas with irrefutable evidence of his affair, he bluntly told her that the reason he’d started seeing a younger woman was because she no longer excited him sexually.
Despite the months that had passed since he’d flung those hurtful words at her and in spite of Saffron's repeated attempts to convince her otherwise, Lydia could not help but see herself as Douglas had.
Old.
Tristan must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “You don't believe me.”
She shook her head and looked down. He gently took hold of her chin and raised her face back to his. “Come with me.”
He took her by the hand and led her to the door he’d gone through earlier. It opened into a hallway. To the left she heard the whir and bump of a washing machine.
He guided her down the hall, past another bathroom and into a bedroom. A huge bed covered with a burgundy and gold bedspread dominated the room, which included a large-screen television that hung on the wall and a desk upon which sat a computer. There were paintings here also and another bookshelf, though not as large as the one in the front room.
He opened a huge walk-in closet. His clothes and shoes were neatly arranged on hangers and shelves. A far cry from the chaos that had been Douglas’s closet. A full-length mirror hung on the door.
He positioned her in front of it. “Look at yourself.”
She did. But she couldn’t help but wince.
He slid the shirt off her shoulders and tossed it on the floor. He undid her bra, his eyes on hers in the mirror. Moving his hands over her naked breasts, he caressed them, the tips of his fingers sliding over their smooth plumpness.
She stared, transfixed, at his hands as they roamed over her body; her shoulders and breasts and hips and thighs.
&
nbsp; He whispered in her ear. “I want so much to make love to you. Can't you feel how much I want you?” The bulge of his thick erection pressed against the curve of her buttocks.
Her heart pounded erratically and she gently pushed her ass against his groin. He smiled at her reflection. “The body of a goddess. To be worshipped and adored, to give pleasure and to be pleasured.”
He slid his hand around her hips and pressed it against the front of her panties. “Here is where life is nurtured.”
She bit her lip. He had no idea she was barren.
He moved his hands up her stomach and cupped her breasts. “And here is where that life draws its strength.’
His voice took on a lovely lilt, the words flowing from his mouth like a blessing. He moved his hands up to her shoulders then over to her face, caressing her lips and cheeks. “And here. The face of love itself.”
Tears stung her eyes. Love. She had loved Douglas and she thought he had loved her. Now she wasn’t sure if he had just fallen out of love with her or had never truly loved her at all.
“Lydia, what’s wrong?”
She looked at Tristan’s reflection in the mirror. “My husband left me. For a younger woman. He told me...” She stopped, her throat burning with the remembered pain. “He told me he didn’t want me anymore. That he didn’t find me sexually attractive anymore. That’s why he had an affair. That’s why he....” She stopped, unable to go on.
Tristan gently turned her around to face him. “I want you, Lydia. I’ve wanted you since that night I first saw you and not a day has gone by I haven’t thought about you. Ached for you. I looked for you everywhere I went, hoping and praying I’d see you again.” He traced her lower lip with the edge of his thumb. “Do you want me? Please, tell me that you do.”
She stared up at him. Was he joking? She had fantasized about him for weeks. “Yes, yes, I do. I want you.”
He lowered his head and kissed her again and their kiss deepened until Lydia thought she would faint from the dizzying sweetness of it.
He broke their kiss then, his eyes glittering roguishly, swept her up in his arms.
