by Reinke, Sara
When Tristan turned, walking back to the cart, he didn’t miss the way Jaime’s eyes cut up from that general vicinity to fix on his face, the corner of his mouth curling up in a wry sort of smile. “Just beautiful,” he murmured again.
“It’s getting dark.” Forcing a smile, Tristan shoved his club back into the bag. “How about we call it a game?”
Let’s get the hell back to the hotel, he wanted to add but bit back.
Mason looked puzzled. “We haven’t played through yet.”
“I’m at what? Ninety-two?” Tristan asked, fighting the urge to either cover his crotch with his hands or punch Jaime in the nose, because he could feel the other man’s gaze crawling along his torso, working its way south. “You’re eighty.”
Mason looked down at the score card, then squinted to read his handwriting in the fading daylight. “Eighty-three. Jaime’s around a hundred.” He cut a glance at Jaime. “You really suck at this.”
“And a lot of other things,” Jaime replied, and they both laughed out loud. He was by far more flaming than any of Mason’s former companions that Tristan had ever met, that was for sure. And he brought out in Mason a degree of flamboyance that Tristan was wholly unaccustomed to, if not somewhat unnerved by.
“Okay, then,” he said loudly enough to interrupt. “Didn’t you say we had dinner reservations at eight?”
“Eight-thirty,” Mason said, and when Jaime looked wounded—obviously not invited—he patted him kindly on the leg. “Here, now. I’ll join you later for cocktails in the penthouse lounge. How does that sound?”
Back at the resort, feeling surly, if not somewhat violated, Tristan tromped ahead of his uncle to the elevators.
“What did you think of Jaime?” Mason asked, cheerfully oblivious on the way up to their floor.
Tristan arched his brow. “He kept checking out my ass.”
“And well he should,” Mason replied primly, “as he has exemplary taste in these things.”
“What the hell are you doing with a guy like that?” Tristan asked.
“Like what?” Mason said. “Oh, come on now. I know he may seem a little over the top…”
“A little?”
“But he makes me feel young again,” Mason said.
Tristan folded his arms. “You were never not young to being with.”
The elevator chimed just as Mason opened his mouth to reply. The doors rumbled open, and Tristan was instantly aware of a tingling sensation, light and electrical inside of his mind, raising the hairs against the nape of his neck. Mason obviously felt it too, because his smile abruptly faltered.
Someone’s out there, Tristan realized. Someone like us.
A group of young women, all dressed in glittering, sequined cocktail dresses and high-heeled shoes, pushed aboard, giggling together, conflicting scents of their perfumes filling in the elevator cab in a sudden, suffocating cloud. Laughing together, jockeying for space, and teetering on their stilettos, they bumped into Tristan, making him stumble sideways and avert his gaze before he could get a clear look beyond them. When he glanced back, the doors had just slid closed again, and the elevator was underway.
“Oh no,” one of the women lamented. “We’re going up!”
They all moaned together, but Tristan ignored them, looking toward his uncle, all at once damning the side effects of the Wellbutrin that had dimmed his telepathic abilities to nonexistent.
“Did you sense that?” Once he and Mason had stepped off the elevator on their floor, Tristan caught him by the sleeve.
“Yes,” Mason said grimly. “Someone must have bathed in Chanel No. 5.” With melodramatic gestures, he flapped the front of his shirt, as if airing it out. “A little goes a long way with the classics, mes chéris,” he called to the closed elevator doors, the girls who were now long gone.
“What?” Tristan frowned, then chased after him, hooking him by the arm again as he started to walk away. “No, I mean back there. On the eleventh floor.” He blinked at his uncle in visible bewilderment. “You didn’t sense another one of us?”
Mason chuckled. “That’s not possible. There are no other Brethren here.”
“But I felt it,” Tristan protested.
“You were sensing me. Sometimes, in a crowd of humans, our awareness of each other is momentarily heightened. Especially with overwhelming sensory input—like that perfume—to stimulate us.”
That’s not it, Tristan thought. That’s not what happened.
“What about that Davenant guy, Jean Luc, you said Naima and Michel fought with last night in the woods?” he pressed. “What if it’s him or someone else from their family?”
Mason looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. “Tristan,” he said gently. “The odds of Jean Luc Davenant following us all of the way from Lake Tahoe to Las Vegas—with us airbound, no less—would be one in ten thousand. At least. And the odds of another Davenant stumbling upon us at this exact resort on this exact date are probably closer to one in a million.”
“But…” Tristan began.
Mason pressed his fingertips against his mouth. “I’m sorry Jaime upset you,” he said quietly, his brows lifting, his eyes mournful. “I shouldn’t have invited him along. He didn’t mean any harm, but I know he can seem a bit…uninhibited.”
“That’s not…” Tristan said, but Mason shook his head.
“Listen to me,” he said in a low but firm voice. “There are no other Brethren here. I would never, ever risk putting you or Karen in harm’s way. I promise.”
As his hand slipped away, Tristan managed a scowl. “I can handle myself, Mason. I’m not a child.”
“Yes, but you’re the closest I’ve got,” Mason replied, smiling again. “And I love you, silly boy. So humor me anyway and let it lie. We’ll be late for dinner otherwise.”
CHAPTER NINE
Consider me your fairy godfather.
Truer words had never been spoken, Karen figured, as she stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her room, marveling at her reflection. Because I sure feel like Cinderella right about now.
The necklace she’d selected was simple yet lovely, a slim filigree chain of white gold adorned with a modest scattering of diamond-encrusted rosettes. She’d deliberately chosen the least opulent piece from among the resort’s proffered selection but had still nearly choked when she’d found out the price—forty-six thousand dollars.
“Holy shit,” Karen had said, her stomach twisting into an anxious knot. “He—Dr. Morin can’t possibly mean for me to keep this.”
“Oh no,” the young woman from Cartier had told her with a reassuring smile. “It’s on loan for the night at his personal request.” Because she must have seen the apprehension still obvious in Karen’s eyes, she’d added, “It’s fully insured. Catherine Zeta-Jones wore this very same piece last season to the Oscars.”
“Holy shit.”
The shoes fit her perfectly, as did the dress, and beneath, she wore the prettiest—although skimpiest—black satin bustier, panties, and garter belt she’d ever seen. The stylists had touched up the highlights in her hair to give her a sun-kissed look, while her makeup was expertly applied, with dusky shades around her eyes and crimson on her lips.
“I feel like a princess,” she’d whispered before the women had left, blinking at herself in stupefied amazement, her eyes brimming with tears.
“You look like a goddess,” Andi had replied, giving her hair one final fluff and spray. Laughing, she’d leaned in to buss Karen’s cheek. “Don’t cry now. You’ll muss your mascara. And you’ll make us cry too.”
Mason had left word that he would come to get her at quarter past eight, for dinner reservations at eight thirty. It was now almost ten after, and she’d been alone for the better part of twenty minutes, pacing restlessly back and forth, letting her feet adjust to the new shoes and the unfamiliar height of the spindly heels.
At a knock on her door, she hurried to answer, grinning broadly, excited to show Mason his handiwork. To
her surprise, when she swung the door open wide, she found a young concierge holding a long white box between his hands.
“Miss Pierce?” he asked, and when she nodded, dumbfounded, he offered the box to her. Inside, she heard something rustle slightly, the contents shifting. “These are for you.”
“Me?” Lifting the lid, she saw green tissue inside and caught a fragrant whiff of roses. A dozen perfectly formed blooms rested in a nest of green paper, their long, spindly stems bound together with a satin bow. “How beautiful.” She gasped, looking up at the concierge. “Who are they from?”
She wondered if Mason had sent them, or—with a thrill of excitement and hope—Tristan.
“They’re compliments of Mr. David Donnelly,” the concierge said. Obviously, he’d expected this name to have some meaning to her, because when she simply blinked at him, still at a loss, his bright smile faltered. “Mr. Donnelly is our guest for the grand-opening gala this evening. He owns one of the largest enterprise software companies in the world and designed the resort’s reservation system. He said you met earlier. After your spa visit.”
“Oh!” Her eyes flew wide in realization as she remembered the man on the elevator.
“Mr. Donnelly said that he hopes you’ll consider his earlier offer standing,” the concierge said.
I’m more of a baccarat fan myself. I’d be glad to teach you if you have the time.
“That, uh, that’s very nice of him,” she stammered.
“Yes, ma’am.” The valet nodded once.
“Uh, okay then. Thank you.” Stepping quickly back, Karen slammed the door shut. She clutched the box of roses for a long, bewildered moment. She didn’t know if the concierge had expected her to offer some sort of reply through him—like something out of a romantic comedy movie—and peeked once through the spy hole to make sure he’d left.
What could I say? she thought, carrying the roses to the bedroom. Please tell Mr. Donnelly that Miss Pierce says thank you for the flowers. She’d really like to take him up on his invitation, since he’s probably a multi-gazillionaire and all, but she’s currently rebounding from a one-night stand with a vampire. One impossible relationship at a time, please.
She burst out laughing.
Another knock at the door, and this time, when she opened it, Mason stood waiting for her. Immaculately dressed in a crisp tailored suit, his dark hair swept back from his brow, he smiled to see her, his brows raising appreciatively as his gaze swept down the length of her form.
“What do you think?” she asked, nervous but eager, blushing brightly as she glanced down at herself.
“Beautiful,” she heard someone say, but it wasn’t Mason, and she looked up in surprise to find Tristan standing behind his uncle, his eyes enormous, fixed on her.
The heat in her cheeks blazed even more brightly as his attention remained riveted, unflinching and marveling. He looked startled—no, better yet, stunned—as if the idea of her cleaning up so well had never occurred to him, or as if he saw her—really saw her—for the first time.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered at length.
“Thank you, Tristan,” she whispered back, blushing all the more. If the truth be told, he looked pretty amazing himself—a charcoal gray jacket worn open over a darker gray shirt and slacks, everything tailored perfectly to fit his tall, lean form. He’d showered and shaved, combed his hair, applied a hint of cologne, something spicy and faint but pleasantly discernable. The flowers on her bed, and the man who’d sent them, were all but forgotten.
“Are you hungry?” Mason asked as she continued staring at Tristan, seized with the thought that if she were to catch him by the front of his shirt and pull him in stumbling tow across her threshold, she doubted he’d protest. The look in his eyes had shifted from surprise to appreciation and then to something else more visceral and needful.
She wanted to steel herself against him, against wanting him in return, to remind herself of how callously he’d treated her all day, how coldly he’d been toward Mason upon their arrival. She wanted to think, Fuck you, Tristan—more than anything, she wanted to laugh in his face and tell him, You had your chance. You blew it, pal.
But she kept thinking of the strains of Für Elise she’d heard from his room, and that uncanny sensation that he’d come to stand opposite her at his door, his heart aching as badly as her own.
“Karen?” With a bemused smile, Mason cocked his head to glean her attention.
Laughing, she forced herself to look away from Tristan. “I’m sorry. What? Hungry, yes. I’m starving.”
And considering she was wearing a loaner necklace that netted forty grand retail, thanks to him, she had no doubt that dinner would be nothing less than spectacular.
She was right.
The restaurant looked more like a nightclub than anything else, with contemporary furnishings trimmed in neon and chrome. Seating arrangements were separated from each other into cozy, semiprivate alcoves by floor-to-ceiling panels of frosted glass between which water flowed in rippling, shimmering, multicolored falls. Beneath these, the floor was translucent, and the water continued to surge in winding, illuminated paths beneath patrons’ feet and seats.
The décor may have been modern, but the fare was classic. After settling into their seats in a far corner of the main dining area, their meal kicked off with appetizers—foie gras with walnut nougatine, truffle crème anglaise and perigord black truffle; short ribs with roasted cauliflower, five-spice applesauce and a nutmeg-hazelnut froth, and braised ostrich with empanada, ceviche, black-bean puree, and green coconut rice. For her entrée, Karen indulged in herb-crusted Norwegian salmon, confetti pearl barley, and parsley coulis. Each dish was paired with generous servings of complementary wines.
Most amazing was the fact that Tristan actually spoke to her again, as if the night before and the wretched morning that followed had never happened and everything was the way it had used to be between them—friendly and fun, relaxed and unforced. The wine, like the food, was rich and abundant, and by the time they reached the dessert—warm chocolate fondant with almond-mocha ice cream and amaretto caramel—they were all tipsy and jovial, laughing together.
“You wouldn’t last a day as a human,” Mason told Tristan with a broad grin as he tossed back the latest in a seemingly endless line of glasses of wine.
“What?” Tristan laughed.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you couldn’t use your telekinesis or telepathy,” Mason said. “That’s the problem with Michel keeping you and Naima cooped up at that compound. You forget there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your Brethren philosophies, to paraphrase the Bard. Look at me. Do you think I use my telepathy day in and day out with the kind of reckless—not to mention impolite—abandon your sister employs? Better yet, can you imagine the reaction I’d get in my operating suite if I starting tossing scalpels or forceps around using only my mind, like you? To be able to survive in the human world, we should appreciate what it means to be human.”
“I do appreciate it,” Tristan said, and Mason glanced at Karen dubiously, then laughed. “I do. I know what it’s like to be around humans on a regular basis. I’ve been working for more than a year now at a human clinic in Reno.” When both Karen and Mason turned to him in surprise, he settled back in his seat, folded his arms across his chest, and nodded once. “That’s right.”
“When?” Karen asked, because to the best of her knowledge, she and Tristan shared long shifts at the Lake Tahoe clinic, with him picking up most of the overnight hours, at least while Lisette had required around-the-clock care.
“At least three times a week. I pick up days there, so it doesn’t interfere with work at the compound.”
“Does Michel know?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?” It was Tristan’s turn to laugh. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“You have a point.” Undue though it seemed at times from her perspective as an impartial observer, Michel ha
d always been harder on Tristan than his other children or grandchildren when it came to independence and freedoms beyond the compound. She’d always thought it was due to Tristan’s relative youth and inexperience.
“I can handle an entire day as a human,” Tristan continued, speaking to Mason, lifting his wineglass in hand as if either offering a toast or extending a challenge, a friendly sort of wager. “No problem.”
“No powers,” Mason reminded with a wry smile.
“No problem,” Tristan said again. “Brandon Noble lived that way for years. And I’ve done it myself—today, in fact.”
“Quoi?” Mason’s good humor shifted to genuine surprise. What?
“Brandon told me about this crazy idea he had while he was living in Kentucky, to stop the bloodlust in him. He used medication to do it—buproprion.”
“You mean Wellbutrin?” Karen asked, puzzled. “But that’s an antidepressant.”
“A unique kind of antidepressant,” Mason remarked, looking thoughtful. “One of few that act primarily on dopamine, a neurotransmitter, in the brain. Michel’s conducted tests that indicate spikes in our dopamine levels when we feed. Dopamine triggers the pleasure centers in our brains. It feels good when it’s released—like during sex too—so we inherently seek to repeat those behaviors and activities that produce it. That’s why the bloodlust is so difficult to resist. The bupropion prevents the reuptake of dopamine in nerve endings, which decreases its effect and its influence on the brain.” Raising his brows, visibly impressed, he said, “Brandon Noble came up this?”
“He stumbled on it by accident,” Tristan replied. “But he told me it worked. I think it also must have side effects he was unaware of, though—the dampening of his powers. He told me he had trouble using telepathy when he lived in Kentucky. At the time, I assumed it was because Augustus was blocking him.”
