She was thumbing through a bulging book of satin swatches one morning when she stumbled onto the one area where she would not be allowed to have her own way.
She inspected the pristine samples, unable to restrain a dubious sniff. "I really don't care for white. It dirties so easily. Don't you have anything in a nice sensible black?"
The impeccably coiffed woman who had introduced herself as a "professional bridal consultant" favored Arian with a patronizing smile. "We do have some lovely peaches-and-creams in our fall collection, but I'm afraid Mr. Lennox insisted on white. He said to remind you it was a symbol of purity." The woman punctuated the statement with a suggestive wink.
Arian blinked back at her, wondering if she was being mocked, but before she could press, the elevator spilled forth another torrent of fawning attendants.
Arian began to wonder if the genteel assault hadn't been deliberately choreographed to distract her from the fact that she hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of her fiance since he'd announced to the entire world on national television that she was to be his bride.
Perhaps it was only a quaint custom of this century to separate bride and groom before the wedding. But that did not explain Copperfield's inexplicable absence from her life or Sven's pensive mood.
She even braved the telephone late one night only to have a disembodied voice inform her that Mr. Lennox was no longer in residence in the Tower, but had booked a suite of rooms at the Carlyle. She replaced the phone in its cradle, her unease growing as a vivid image of Tristan entangled in Cherie's arms shadowed her memory. She forced herself to shake off the ridiculous fancy. After all, he wasn't marrying Cherie. He was marrying her.
She'd managed to dismiss the more unpleasant aspects of that fateful night, shoving the tiny gold purse with its million-dollar bank draft and crumpled photograph of a shackled Tristan into the bottom of a drawer. The past was no longer of any import, she reminded herself sternly, only the future.
The gifts began to arrive the following week – shoes, scarves, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and box after box of garments in every fabric and hue of the rainbow. Most of them were suited for the coming winter, cut from rich wool or heavy linen in vibrant shades of pumpkin and crimson. Each item Arian tried on was a flawless fit for her petite form. She spent hours surveying herself in the bathroom mirror, turning this way and that as she tried to imagine herself on Tristan's arm. But the image kept melting to mist before fully crystallized.
One morning Sven delivered a tasteful gold box labeled Victoria's Secret. Arian drew off the lid to find a diaphanous gown nestled in a bed of silver foil.
"How beautiful!" she cried, holding it to her chest an instant before realizing the garment was utterly sheer.
She lowered it, swallowing nervously, then bent to fish a provocative scrap of fabric from the bottom of the box. She poked her fingers through a slit in the silk and wiggled them at Sven. "What do you suppose this is? Some sort of veil?"
The stoic Norwegian blushed to the roots of his tinted hair before padding over to whisper something in her ear.
Arian turned an even darker shade of pink. "Oh, my!" she breathed, eyeing the naughty undergarment with a mixture of apprehension and appreciation. "No wonder Victoria kept it a secret!"
Arian dutifully reminded herself this was the happiest time of her life and she ought to be savoring every second. Not only had she escaped the grim shadow of her past forever, but she was free to forge a bright future in the arms of the man she loved. Yet as each day passed without so much as a curt message from Tristan, her foreboding deepened until it lay like a dead weight in the pit of her stomach.
The flood of gifts climaxed on a rainy Monday with the arrival of her engagement ring. A pair of uniformed guards hung back at a respectful distance as the somber-faced Tiffany's executive snapped open his leather case to reveal a thick gold band crowned by a diamond the size of a small egg.
"It's… um…" Arian swallowed a grimace of distaste before choking out, "Lovely."
She had never seen anything so vulgar. She had to suppress a shudder when the gentleman pushed the glittering rock onto her finger. It seemed to weight her entire hand, shackling her to her flourishing sense of dread with an invisible chain.
That evening Arian stood at the living room window, relishing a moment of precious solitude as she gazed through the veil of rain that had fallen steadily throughout the long, gray day. With its multitude of lights blurred by mist and the rain-slicked streets below deserted by all but the most intrepid travelers, the city resembled a desolate kingdom abandoned by its king.
Rain coursed like teardrops down the cheeks of her pensive reflection. Where was Tristan now? she wondered wistfully. Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him, dreaming of the day when he would become her husband?
"Husband," Arian whispered, the word more sweetly potent than any incantation.
But her engagement ring glittered like a chunk of ice on her finger, causing a cold splinter of doubt to pierce her heart.
Half-opened boxes littered the suite behind her, spilling their dazzling array of treasures across the settee and over the squat ottoman. As Arian turned to survey them, she realized precisely what was troubling her.
Tristan wasn't treating her like a cherished bride-to-be. He was treating her like a mistress.
Keeping her confined in this penthouse tower with servants to satisfy her every whim. Showering her with extravagant gifts. Ordering that her opinion be consulted on matters of little or no import. How many times had she seen her mother condescended to with just such a damning mixture of affection and contempt?
But when night fell and shadows crept across the rumpled sheets, her mother had been expected to provide something in return. Tristan had rewarded her with all the pleasures and privileges of being his courtesan, yet asked for nothing in exchange.
Yet.
Arian scooped the sheer negligee out of its box to finger the gauzy material. The delicate fabric snagged on her engagement ring. Were the sumptuous gown and garish diamond tokens of Tristan's devotion, she wondered, or simply payment in advance for services to be rendered on their wedding night?
In less than one week, Tristan was to become her husband. When the lavish wedding was over, the smoked caviar had all been eaten, and the guests had gone, would he come to her in love? Or would he seek her out to take his pleasure with icy hands and a stranger's eyes, making a mockery of their tender vows? Arian shivered, knowing she could not bear it if he did. A mistress might have the luxury of refusing her lover, but a wife renounced that right when she made her sacred oath before man and God.
Arian had hoped her love for her husband would be sufficient to make a marriage. Many women of her acquaintance, both in France and Gloucester, had settled for far less. But suddenly she realized that she could not take that oath without knowing if Tristan returned her love. Wadding the negligee into a careless ball, Arian tossed it at the hearth and strode for the elevator.
The corridors of Lennox Enterprises were deserted, the offices hushed and darkened. Arian padded through the gloom, encountering only a lone security guard who retreated with a deferent tip of his cap the moment he recognized her. At least Tristan hadn't ordered her shot on sight, she thought with a grim smile.
She pushed open the frosted-glass door leading to his inner offices, almost missing the cheerful chaos she had witnessed on her first visit. The phones hung mute in their cradles, their jangling voices silenced by the lateness of the hour. For all Arian knew, Tristan might have already retreated to his swank suite at the Carlyle.
But some tingling awareness tugged her onward, past the deserted desks and empty glass cubicles to his assistant's office. A thin sliver of light shone from beneath the mahogany doors guarding his office.
As Arian crept toward that lonely oasis of light, she wondered if this was how Tristan's mother felt when approaching her son's corporate throne each month – mouth dry and palms damp like some unworthy supplica
nt, fearful for her welcome. For the first time since their initial meeting, Arian felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman.
One of the doors was cracked ajar so it took only a gentle push to ease it open. Tristan sat behind his massive desk, studying a thick sheaf of papers. A brass desk lamp cast a golden glow over his inclined head. The pool of light only succeeded in deepening the hungry shadows that hovered around him.
Arian would have sworn she hadn't made a sound, but his head flew up as if she'd whispered his name. His hair was tousled from repeated finger-rakings and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched low on his nose. In that unguarded moment, Arian knew that he could never be a stranger to her. She knew him as well as she knew the rhythmic cadence of her own heart.
But that illusion was shattered when he drew off the spectacles and smoothed back his hair before glancing over at the calendar perched on the edge of his desk. "Good evening, Miss Whitewood. My assistant didn't make me aware that you'd scheduled an appointment."
20
Arian forced herself to tread lightly, both toward Tristan's desk and around his invisible wall of wariness. "But we do have an appointment A very significant one. This Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon at Saint Paul's Chapel."
He leaned back in his chair, as if to put a few more valuable inches of space between them. "I'm well aware of that. I had to sacrifice one of the clerks from the mail room to address the invitations."
Arian could not resist widening her eyes in mocking disbelief. "I hope it wasn't too great an inconvenience."
"It was," he said shortly. "But I recovered. Now what can I do for you this evening? It's late and I've got some important reports to finish."
More important than you.
Arian heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. She stiffened, realizing that she could no more ask this aloof stranger if he harbored some small morsel of affection for her than she could implore a wolf to lick her hand without biting it off. Was this what their marriage was to be? she wondered. Tristan shut up in his office until the wee hours of morning while she tossed and turned in their lonely bed?
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, wishing desperately that she had contrived some other excuse for her visit. Tristan had already inclined his head and begun to scratch notes in the margins of his precious report.
"I was wondering if you preferred rose petals or orange blossoms?" she finally blurted out.
"Rose petals," he said without looking up. "I'm allergic to orange blossoms. They make me sneeze."
Arian made a spiteful mental note to call the florist and order orange blossoms. She circled behind his chair, wishing for the courage to touch him. To seek out some hint of the man who had stroked her to shivering ecstasy, then dried her tears of release with his kisses. But Tristan's back was rigid, his long, graceful fingers wrapped so tightly around the monogrammed pen that his knuckles were blanched.
She leaned over his shoulder, so near that if he turned his face a quarter of an inch, their lips would graze. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to caress the golden hint of beard that shadowed his jaw. "And where would you prefer to honeymoon? Aruba or Aspen?"
"Aspen. I prefer the cold."
Arian should have anticipated his answer. Coaxing a response from him was like trying to strike a spark off a block of ice. She straightened, her defeated sigh ruffling his hair.
With lightning speed, he swiveled the chair around to face her. "What's really bothering you, Arian? Is the credit limit on your American Express card not generous enough? The diamond in your engagement ring a tad small for your tastes?"
Arian might have jerked off that ring and thrown it in his smug face had she not recognized the same note of thinly veiled contempt he had hurled like a weapon toward his mother. It was the voice of a wounded boy lashing out at those he believed had wronged him.
She backed away from him a step, allowing a hint of her own anger to show. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Mr. Lennox. I just thought you might want to help me plan the ceremony. It is your wedding, too, you know."
He tapped the pen on his knee and surveyed her through narrowed eyes, his expression so ruthlessly pleasant it almost made her wish he still wore his apathetic mask. "Try not to think of it as a wedding, but as an acquisition or a business merger. When the echo of the church bells has faded and the last grain of rice has fallen, you'll have what you wanted." His voice softened to a smoky murmur. "And I'll get what I want."
For a tantalizing instant, the veil of frost dropped, giving Arian a glimpse of the embers that smoldered behind it, embers glowing hot enough to leap into flame at the slightest provocation. An answering flicker of triumph sprang to life in her own heart.
Tristan might have thought his financial analogy would elude her, but she hadn't been reading the Wall Street Journal from front to back every night for the past two weeks for nothing. "I'm looking forward to it, sir. Some mergers turn out to be very profitable. For both parties involved."
With an enigmatic smile that was a mocking twin of his own, she turned on her heel and stalked out, barely resisting the petty urge to slam the door behind her.
She had learned both less and more than she had sought tonight. Tristan might not love her, but he still wanted her. Badly.
And for now, that would just have to be enough.
Arian stepped off the penthouse elevator to the strident jangling of the bedroom phone. She rushed across the suite to answer it, entertaining the absurd hope that Tristan might have repented of his boorish behavior and was calling to beg her forgiveness.
"Hello!" When there was no response, she realized she was bellowing into the earpiece.
She reversed the receiver and tried again.
A raspy voice floated out at her, sending a prickle of foreboding down her spine. "I can see you've failed to heed my warning, young lady. What a pity."
"Mr. Lize, is that you?" Arian felt compelled to whisper, although there was no one to overhear her.
A petulant sniff confirmed the caller's identity. "How did you know it was me? I am a master of disguise."
"Why, of course you are." Arian sought to soothe the old man's ruffled vanity. "But how could I fail to recognize you when your kindness made such an impression on me at the Halloween reception?"
"Apparently, I'm not the only one who made an impression on you that night. I hear you're to become Mrs. Tristan Lennox on Saturday."
"And you're calling to offer your congratulations?"
"No, my condolences."
Arian fumbled for the bed behind her, her knees growing weak with dread. "Mr. Lize, if you've called to speak ill of my betrothed – "
He interrupted her, his voice crackling with urgency. "I must meet with you. Friday afternoon at three o'clock at the cafe on the corner."
Arian wavered, thinking that she really ought to summon Sven and let him deal with the tenacious meddler.
Wite Lize took advantage of her hesitation. "Lennox is a very powerful man. Once he has you in his clutches, he'll never allow you to speak to me." A tense pause. "Please, Arian…"
Arian squeezed the phone, her knuckles going white. Oddly enough, it was not the plea, but the use of her Christian name in this century of so many strangers that swayed her. "I'll consider it, but only if you'll tell me why you bear such a grudge toward my future husband."
All traces of pomp and bluster vanished from the old man's voice, leaving it dry and paper thin. "He murdered my son."
Arian had already started to shake when the line went dead with a hollow click.
21
Arian melted into the crowd streaming past the Tower by drawing the floppy brim of her hat over her pilfered pair of sunglasses, thankful that Tristan's tastes ran to the stylish and Sven's to the functional. She had escaped the penthouse with surprising ease, shooing away the last of the fretful caterers and exhausted dressmakers and informing Sven that she planned to spend the afternoon soaking in a steaming bubble bath in preparati
on for tomorrow's wedding.
A wedding that would never take place if the persistent Mr. Lize had anything to say about it.
Garbed in one of the smart little crimson suits Tristan had bought for her and a pair of white gloves, Arian marched down the teeming sidewalk. Marcus would have scolded her for wearing the devil's color, but Arian didn't care. If Wite Lize didn't stop spreading his malicious accusations, she was fully prepared to give him an earful of unholy hell.
Her host was disguised as a strolling Gypsy, which only made it that much easier for Arian to recognize him.
He rushed forward to lead her to a corner table, the drooping ends of his fake mustache quivering with eagerness. "Miss Whitewood! How kind of you to come! I knew you wouldn't be so heartless as to leave an old man stewing in his regrets. I took the liberty of ordering you some herbal tea."
Arian started to remove the sunglasses, then thought better of it. If her eyes betrayed so much as a flicker of doubt in Tristan, she did not want Wite Lize to use it as a weapon against her. She drew off her gloves instead. "I didn't come here to sip tea with you, sir. I came to defend my fiance's honor."
Wite Lize snorted. "Tristan Lennox doesn't know the meaning of the word."
Arian started to rise, but he seized her hand with such pathetic desperation that she hesitated. His rheumy blue eyes crinkled in plea. "Don't go. Please. Not until you've heard me out."
Arian sank back down in the chair and unfolded her napkin. "Have you always hated Tristan so bitterly?"
"Not always. Once I loved him like a son. Nearly as much as my own son."
"The son you claim Tristan murdered." Arian had thought saying the words aloud might rob them of their weight. She was wrong.
"Arthur," Wite Lize provided, smiling wistfully. "My sweet, brilliant boy."
Arian took a sip of the tea to hide a wince of empathy. She didn't want to picture this Arthur. Didn't want to evoke even a shadow of his memory.