Teresa Medeiros (30 page)

She relinquished his face to gather his hands in hers. Hands that had once been stained with a friend’s blood. She pressed a fervent kiss to each of his palms, then kissed each finger in turn before resting her cheek against his knee. Tristan reached to stroke her bowed head, then hesitated, gazing at his trembling hand as if it belonged to someone else.

A lance of pain stabbed his chest, but this time he recognized the crushing ache for what it was. He was surprised Arian couldn’t hear the crack of his heart breaking wide open to free all the love he’d been hoarding for a lifetime. A love that mocked his cynicism and dared him to believe in happily-ever-after and till-death-do-us-part.

She made a soft sound of protest when he gently disengaged himself from her embrace and moved to the table. He rescued the prenuptial agreement from the scattered papers and methodically ripped it into bits.

Arian nibbled on her lower lip as she watched him, her eyes dark and tremulous. She was petrified, Tristan realized, but no less willing to welcome him into her arms.

He thought his heart might stop altogether when she rose to her feet, drew the engagement ring from her slender finger and held it out to him. “Here. I won’t be needing this.”

He frowned down at it, having forgotten that he’d told his personal shopper to pick out the most expensive, most ostentatious ring in all of Tiffany’s. It was even more hideous than he had anticipated—a garish mockery of the pledge it represented. But he supposed it would have to do.

He took the ring, closing his fist around it. “I wanted to believe you were
nothing
but a heartless gold digger, that you were only marrying me for my money. Well, I was wrong.” Her expression brightened, then dimmed when he added, “My money’s not enough for you.”

Arian took a step away from him, as if to brace herself for a coming blow.

He ruthlessly closed the distance between them. “You’re nothing but a greedy little witch who isn’t going to be satisfied until you’ve stolen my heart, my soul … and my love. And now that you’ve succeeded, you have no choice but to marry me and make me miserable for the rest of my life.”

Arian opened and closed her mouth with a reply that was half squeak, half squawk.

Tristan grinned and slipped the ring back on her finger. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“But the p-p-prenuptial agreement,” she sputtered. “You destroyed it.”

“Damn right I did. And if you dare to divorce me, I’ll take you for everything you’re worth.” He cupped her cheek, the breathtaking intensity of his gaze warning her he wasn’t entirely joking. “If you break my heart, Arian Whitewood, you’ll find yourself wandering the streets penniless, wondering where your next dish of caviar is going to come from.”

“Bully,” Arian whispered before flinging her arms around him with a cry of pure joy.

Clucking with mock dismay, Tristan threaded his fingers through her curls and gently tipped her head back. “You simply must make an effort to restrain your
passions, Miss Whitewood. How else am I to cling to my virtue until you’ve made an honest man out of me?”

Her shining eyes blinked up at him. “But I thought you wanted—”

Backing her against the wall, he indulged her mouth with hot, wet, deep kisses until she thought the red Chanel suit just might burst into flames and sizzle right off her body.

“What I want,” he finally muttered into her hair while she was struggling to catch her breath, “is for tomorrow night to hurry up and get here.”

The exquisitely wrapped package arrived at the penthouse while Arian was still struggling into her wedding gown. Sven was already tipping and dismissing the messenger when she stumbled into the living room with the lacy waterfall of her train slung haphazardly over one arm.

“That lying wretch! He promised me he wouldn’t buy me any more extravagant gifts.” Arian heaved an exasperated sigh, but discovered it was impossible to even pretend to be angry at Tristan with the memory of his kisses still tingling on her lips.

She snatched the enticing box from Sven’s hand. Perhaps Tristan had made good on his vow to replace her engagement ring with something half a dozen carats or so less obnoxious.

“That’s odd,” she said, examining the box from all sides. “It seems to have holes in it. Do you think the messenger dropped it?” She lifted it to her ear, giving it a tentative shake. Her eyes widened as she met
Sven’s bewildered gaze. “That’s even odder. It’s rumbling at me.”

“Drop it!” Sven’s shout startled her into obeying. He caught the package before it could hit the rug and raced for the bathroom, holding the box at arm’s length.

Arian crept after him, utterly baffled by his behavior. At the sound of running water, she peeped around the bathroom door to discover that Sven had thrust the package into one of the sinks and turned on the faucet full force.

The wrapping paper and fragile cardboard disintegrated beneath the gushing water, revealing a sopping wet occupant who was no longer rumbling its satisfaction, but yowling at the top of its tiny lungs.

“Sven!” Arian cried, rushing in to scoop the bedraggled ball of fur into her cupped palms. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Tormenting an innocent creature in that manner! There, there, nice kitty,” she murmured, dabbing at its dripping whiskers with the tail of her train. The kitten sneezed and she shot Sven a reproachful look. “I won’t let the bad man hurt you.”

“I thought it was a bomb,” Sven confessed sheepishly, still eyeing the tiny termagant as if it might explode.

The kitten’s yowls had subsided to piteous mews. Arian bit back a wince of pain as it hooked its needle-sharp claws into the bodice of her dress and clambered toward her shoulder. A row of seed pearls popped off and bounced into the shower, but all was forgiven when the enchanting bit of ebony fluff began to nuzzle Arian’s ear.

Deafened by the kitten’s blissful purr, Arian reached past Sven and gingerly peeled the sodden gift card from the rim of the sink. The unmistakable scrawl was blurred, but still legible:
Every good witch should have a familiar. And you’re the best damn witch I know
.

A warmth that had both nothing and everything to do with the darling creature cuddled beneath her chin
spread through Arian’s veins like chocolate syrup. Tristan couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate wedding gift to celebrate their love. At first Arian thought the distant ringing was simply her heart caroling a joyous tune, but a shy cough from the direction of the living room warned her it had been the chime of the arriving elevator.

“Barrett here, ma’am. I’ve brought the limousine around to take you to the chapel.”

Arian’s head flew up. “Oh, my! The chapel! The wedding!” She thrust the kitten toward Sven. “Could you please find little Lucifer a basket? I want to take him with me.”

Sven backed toward the sunken whirlpool tub, shaking his head with renewed violence.

Arian sighed. “Don’t tell me a strapping fellow like you is afraid of a kitten.”

The bodyguard signed a cross on his burly chest. “Black cats are bad luck.”

“And Norwegians are overly superstitious and given to disagreeable bouts of gloom.” Ignoring the sputtered protests of both man and cat, she deposited the kitten in Sven’s mighty paw.

Tripping on her starched petticoat, Arian rushed from the bathroom, leaving Sven and Lucifer to eye each other with the wary suspicion of lifelong enemies.

Arian’s wedding ring was everything her engagement ring was not—exquisite, delicate, tasteful. As Tristan slid the band of beaten gold on her trembling finger at the priest’s command, he whispered that it was an antique, over seventy-five years old. Arian wondered what he would say if he knew his bride was even more of an antique, over three centuries old.

Someday she would tell him, she promised herself. Someday when they were lazing on the front porch of their Connecticut farmhouse, watching their grandchildren
romp through the autumn leaves. But today was a day for both of them to leave the past behind.

Arian was thankful Tristan had insisted she wear white to symbolize their fresh beginning. The puffed sleeves of the princess-cut bodice bared her shoulders to the golden glow of the Waterford chandeliers. Sven had helped her pile her hair high on her head, then secured the rebellious curls with a tiara woven from silk blossoms and baby’s breath. The emerald amulet provided a single teardrop of color against her snowy bosom.

Arian felt no need to invoke its magic. She could never have composed an incantation more enchanting than the priest’s “I now pronounce you man and wife.” As she turned up her face to seal their vows, Tristan’s tender kiss cast a spell that would last a lifetime.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the beaming priest intoned, turning them to face the packed pews. “It is my privilege to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Tristan Lennox.”

Thunderous applause rocked the elegant chapel. Arian gazed over the sea of smiling faces and squeezed Tristan’s hand, marveling at how love had turned a city full of strangers into friends.

Before she even had time to catch her breath, they were swept down the aisle and out the towering doors of the chapel. A shower of orange blossoms tossed by cheering well-wishers enveloped them in a fragrant cloud, eliciting a flurry of sneezes and a reproachful glance from her new husband. As Tristan followed her into the waiting limo, Arian barely noticed the lowering clouds or the chill bite of a wind that whispered of early winter.

As the majestic limo rolled toward the Carlyle Hotel where the reception was to be held, Arian settled in the crook of her husband’s arm, seized by an almost painful shyness. Tristan’s long, tanned fingers stroked the ivory skin of her forearm, evoking provocative memories of their last encounter in a limousine. She stole a
peek at his face. He was watching her with an irresistibly roguish smile that warned her he was thinking exactly the same thing.

If anyone awaiting their arrival at the Carlyle noticed that the limo circled the block six times or that the bride and groom emerged from the back seat rumpled and slightly dazed, they were too polite to do more than elbow one another knowingly and share an envious wink. Arian licked her puffy lips and managed a shaky smile for the flashing cameras, her cheeks aflame.

Even Sven and Lucifer seemed to have declared a truce in honor of their nuptials. When they reached the lavish banquet room where the reception was to be held, Arian discovered Sven ignoring the shocked stares of the society matrons to feed the kitten bits of smoked caviar from his plate. The women looked even more scandalized when Sven swiped a sprig of miniature roses from one of the centerpieces and began nibbling on it. Arian breathed a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t turned him into a man-eating tiger instead of a goat.

When the leader of the string quartet prodded Arian and Tristan into claiming the floor for the first dance, Lucifer bounded down from the white satin tablecloth and frisked around their feet, shamelessly trying to catch a ride on Arian’s train.

Drawing her as close as the orchestra’s chaste rendering of Aerosmith’s “Amazing” would allow, Tristan plucked a stray orange blossom from Arian’s hair. “Happy, Mrs. Lennox?” he murmured.

“Delirious, Mr. Lennox,” she replied, resting her cheek against his starched shirtfront and thinking how lovely it would be to wake up tomorrow morning with her cheek pressed to his bare chest.

As the second dance began, other couples swirled into motion around them, pointing and laughing at Lucifer’s antics.

“That’s strange,” Tristan said, watching a pony-tailed Native American who looked suspiciously like his
best man lead a statuesque auburn-haired beauty onto the dance floor. “I don’t remember inviting
her
to the wedding.”

Arian craned her neck to peer around his shoulder before smiling smugly. “You didn’t. But don’t they make a lovely couple?”

Copperfield spun Cherie into a dramatic dip, giving Arian a thumb’s-up sign as he did so. “Someone seems to think so,” Tristan replied, resting his chin on his wife’s upswept curls. “Is that how you spent your morning? Brewing love potions for all my old girlfriends?”

As the music soared and the wine flowed, Arian grew more and more distracted. She kept glancing toward the doors, searching each new flurry of arriving guests for a familiar face.

Tristan gave his bride a possessive squeeze, bemused by her mounting nervousness. “If you’ve changed your mind, it’s too late. I’ll never let you go now. Especially not before I …” He inclined his head, muffling the delicious details of his sensual promise against her ear.

Arian blushed prettily, but as she searched his face, her sober expression lingered. “I just hope you’ll like your wedding present as well as I like mine.”

Her back was to the door a few minutes later when Tristan muttered, “What the hell …?” Arian stiffened, but her guileless face betrayed nothing, not even when Tristan leveled a ferocious scowl at her. “Who the hell taught you to use the telephone?”

“You did,” she reminded him, smiling sweetly. “Go on,” she urged, giving him a slight shove toward the door. “Go play the gracious host. ’Tis your duty.”