Teresa Medeiros (31 page)

Tristan obeyed, but not before tugging the lapels of his gray morning coat straight and smoothing back his hair. Her heart stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat, Arian watched her gorgeous husband weave his way between the dancers to greet his mother.

Brenda hovered at the door, striking in a dark blue
dress adorned with a rhinestone stickpin. Arian didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she saw Tristan bend stiffly to accept his mother’s awkward hug, then flash a cautious smile at Brenda’s reticent entourage.

Forcing Lucifer to find a new target for his pouncing attacks, Arian scooped up her train and wended her own way through the crowd to her husband’s side, never more certain that she belonged there.

As she approached, Tristan drew her into their intimate circle. “I’d like all of you to meet Arian, my new wife. Arian, you’ve already met my mother.” Two lanky young men flanked Brenda, as if to protect her from some unforeseen assault. “This is Bill. And Danny.” The men, barely more than boys, greeted Arian with nods and bashful grins.

A plain girl clutching the arm of a boy even younger than Bill or Danny hung back behind them. Tristan drew her forward, handling her with a care that only made Arian adore him more. “Arian, this is Ellen.” His brief pause spoke volumes. “My sister.”

The girl’s face broke into a shy smile and Arian realized she would not be plain for long. Arian had seen that smile before—on a bright, lonely boy who had grown up to rule an empire and steal her heart.

Arian beamed at the girl. “Why, Ellen, you’re every bit as lovely as your mother! We’re so glad you could come.”

Arian’s warm welcome seemed to melt the girl’s shyness. “And I’m so glad Mr. Len—uh, Tristan—um, my brother”—this with a nervous glance at Tristan—“asked you to invite us. Mama nearly fainted after you called last night,” she confided with a giggle. “We couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. Then we realized she was laughing
and
crying. Oh,” she exclaimed, drawing her reluctant companion forward. “And this is Phil. We’re getting married in the spring, right after graduation.” Phil looked a trifle pasty and inclined to bolt, but Ellen’s possessive grip showed no sign of easing.
“We’re both starting at NYU next fall. I know it won’t be easy, but love has a way of making things work out, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” Tristan murmured, wrapping his arms around Arian’s waist. “But I’d still like to have a word with you,
son
, about your plans for my little sister.”

“Why don’t you dance with your mother first?” Arian suggested before her husband’s glower could send poor Phil sprinting for the door.

Arian watched Tristan offer his mother an arm through a haze of happiness, praying Brenda would have the decency not to ask for an advance on her allowance during the dance. She sighed. She supposed she would have to stop meddling and let them work things out the same way mothers and sons had been doing for countless generations.

Arian barely had time to dance with Copperfield and rescue Lucifer from the irate caterer’s clutches after he’d been caught licking the frosting from the wedding cake before she and Tristan were summoned to the front of the ballroom to share the toast that would signal dinner.

Tristan nuzzled her ear as if they’d been separated for hours instead of only minutes. “You’re going to regret inviting your mother-in-law to the wedding when she starts giving you cooking tips and insisting we name our first baby after my uncle Felix.”

“I didn’t know you had an uncle Felix.”

He gave his tie an irritable tug. “Neither did I.”

An expectant spell fell over the crowd as one of the waiters handed Tristan a goblet of red wine. He gazed down into Arian’s eyes with a sensual tenderness that stole her breath away.

His voice was smoky with the promise of pleasures to come as he lifted the goblet. “To my beautiful bride, who made me believe in the magic of true love.”

The delighted applause was interrupted by droll
laughter. “Is it the magic of love you salute, Lennox? Or the love of magic?”

Dread rooted Arian to the floor as the crowd parted to reveal Wite Lize standing in the doorway, dapper in a black tuxedo, top hat, and flowing cape.

“Another of your mystery guests, my dear?” Tristan murmured through clenched teeth.

“I should say not,” Arian replied, shooting him an offended glance.

As Wite Lize strode through the crowd, white cane in hand, Sven passed Lucifer off to Copperfield and bounded toward the front of the room, prepared to intercept the wedding crasher before he reached the bride and groom.

Arian placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “Please, Tristan,” she whispered. “He can’t hurt us anymore. Don’t let him spoil our day by provoking you into tossing him out on his ear. He’d like nothing more than to make you appear the ogre in front of our guests.”

She felt the ironbound muscles of Tristan’s forearm slowly relax. He spared her a rueful glance, as if bemused by the ease with which she coaxed his surrender. “As you wish. Anything for my bride.”

At Tristan’s signal, Sven went to lean against the wall behind them, but kept his brawny arms folded over
his chest in a threat that was impossible to misinterpret. Handing Lucifer off to Cherie, Copperfield rose to join him, adding his own warning to Sven’s.

As Wite Lize approached, Tristan even managed a terse smile. “I had hoped the Carlyle might provide a higher quality of entertainment,” he called out. “Yodeling, perhaps, or mimes trapped in invisible boxes.”

Wite Lize sketched his host a mocking bow. “I believe your guests will find my feats of illusion as diverting as your own charade.”

He swept off his top hat, sending a pair of snow-white doves fluttering toward the skylight to the appreciative “oohs” and “aahs” of the crowd. The guests broke into applause, obviously believing the caustic banter between Tristan and the magician was simply part of the show.

Arian clutched Tristan’s arm, wondering what black mischief the incorrigible illusionist was up to now. He must be terribly bitter that his scheme to poison her against Tristan had failed. Now that she and Tristan stood together, united as man and wife, he was powerless to hurt them. Wasn’t he?

Having won the delighted regard of the crowd by producing a bouquet of fresh lilacs from the top of his cane, Wite Lize pursed his lips thoughtfully. “For my next trick, I shall require a volunteer from the audience.”

He paced back and forth, his cape rippling behind him as he pretended to assess the crowd for potential celebrities. Ignoring the frantically waving hand of a little girl, he spun around and pointed a finger at Arian. “What better helpmeet could I choose than the blushing bride herself?”

Arian recoiled from his outstretched hand.

“No, thank you,” Tristan snapped, drawing her into the shelter of his side. “I’d rather not have my bride turned into a turtledove or sawn in half before the honeymoon.”

The crowd booed and hooted their disappointment.

Lize cocked his head to the side, his expression insufferably coy. “What’s wrong, Lennox? Afraid I’ll make her vanish right before your eyes?”

Tristan tensed, and Arian knew he was only a taunt away from smashing his fist into the magician’s smug face. She caressed the amulet, tempted to make the magician perform a disappearing act of his own.

“It’s all right, Tristan,” she said instead, her voice ringing high and clear in the taut silence. “I’ll help him with his silly old trick.”

“Arian, I really don’t think—”

But she had already stepped out of the protective circle of her husband’s embrace to face the magician.

“Ah!” Wite Lize exclaimed. “Brave as well as beautiful. Lennox is a lucky fellow, is he not?”

The guests dutifully applauded her boldness while Tristan gazed on in stormy disapproval, his knuckles blanched around the stem of the goblet.

“Follow the motions of my hands,” Wite Lize instructed the rapt crowd, wiggling his fingers in front of Arian’s face until her eyes crossed in annoyance, “and witness an amazing feat of prestidigitation. With my stunning sleight of hand, I shall create fire in the bosom of this lovely ice maiden.”

Crowning his motions with a dramatic flourish, Wite Lize pointed at Arian’s chest. A miniature lightning bolt crackled from his fingertip, provoking charmed applause and squeals of delight from the younger members of his audience.

Arian yawned. As lightning bolts went, it hadn’t been particularly impressive. Her hair wasn’t even standing on end.

Tristan looked more relieved than angry. “Your amateur pyrotechnics might be more impressive, old man, if you recharged that battery pack you’ve got stuck up your …”

His voice trailed off as the goblet slipped from his hand. Wine spattered like blood over the train of Arian’s gown.

“Why, Tristan! What on earth—?” Arian glanced up from the mess to find Tristan staring at her chest, his face ashen.

“Where did that come from?” he asked hoarsely. Copperfield appeared behind him, as still and dark as his shadow.

Arian recoiled as Tristan took a step toward her. “What is it, Tristan? Don’t stare at me so. You’re frightening me.”

Silence had fallen like a thunderclap over the banquet room and no one dared to stir. No one but Wite Lize, who was backing away from them with a look of grim triumph on his withered face.

“Where the hell did it come from?” Tristan repeated.

Arian shook her head mutely, afraid to even hazard a guess in answer to his cryptic demand.

He caught her by the shoulders, his hands as ruthless as they’d been gentle only minutes before. “The emerald! Where the hell did you get the emerald?”

Tears of wounded bewilderment flooded Arian’s eyes. “I told you where I got it. My mother gave it to me!”

Her breath escaped in a shuddering sob as Tristan seized the delicate chain, just as Linnet had once done, and wrenched the amulet from her neck. He studied it for a moment, his face inscrutable, then held it up to the light, allowing the gem to dangle in a graceful arc directly in front of Arian’s disbelieving eyes.

The emerald had cracked wide open beneath the shock of Lize’s counterfeit lightning to reveal a tangled maze of wires. Hope died as understanding dawned. Not her magic. Never her magic. Always his.

Tristan’s gaze traveled from the shattered gem to her face, his loving expression transformed by doubt.

Arian’s shoulders slumped as everything she’d ever believed in—magic, faith, love everlasting—crumbled to ashes beneath the renewed suspicion in her husband’s eyes.

Tristan dropped the amulet in his pocket, leaving her more utterly vulnerable to him than ever before. She was too numb with shock to even protest when he gave her a gentle push toward Sven and said, “I think you’d better get her out of here.”

“Do you now or have you ever had any contact with a man by the name of Arthur Finch?”

“No,” Arian croaked, hoarse from answering the same question for the thirtieth time in less than five hours.

“Was Finch the one who gave you the microprocessor and software program now being examined by my employer’s team of scientists?”

“No.”

“Then who gave it to you?”

“I told you a dozen times. I don’t know what you’re talking about. The necklace was a gift from my mother.”

Her interrogator lit another cigarette and paced around the table, a sad sigh wafting from his nicotine-laden lungs. Levinson was the best to be had and his was a sigh that had broken the spirit of many an embezzler caught dipping their greedy hands in the company till. The private detective had learned his trade by grilling suspected shoplifters at Saks and was currently listed on
the Lennox Enterprises payroll as a freelance interviewer. All tidy and perfectly legal.