"Any color preference? Or era?"
Surprise flashed in his big brown eyes. He shook his head. "No. I'll take whatever you have in stock. I've been to six different antique dealers. You're my last hope."
"I have two here," she said, her pride evident. "Does your mother prefer blown glass or etched?"
"I'm not sure." He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Why don't I buy both?"
"Excellent choice." In the center of the store, Julia climbed a gray step stool and rooted around a shelf for the desired items. A few seconds later, the tinkling of the doorbell sounded again. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled warmly when she saw who had arrived. "Good morning, Mrs. Danberry."
"Morning, dear." Mrs. Danberry, a regular customer of Julia's Treasures, gave her quintessential "old woman" curls a pat. Immediately the springy silver bob bounced back into place. "I came to see if you have anything new."
"Yesterday I acquired a corncob pipe that I know you'll love. I'll have it ready for viewing in a few days."
"Oh, wonderful. I'm still going to have a look around, though. I might've missed something the last time I came in."
"Of course." Still grinning, Julia returned her attention to the shelf. When she found what she needed, she lifted the donkeys from their perches and eased to the floor. "Here you go," she told the man, bequeathing him both items. "Are these what you had in mind?"
He palmed each one in a different hand. After studying them, he blew out a satisfied breath. "Yes, they are. They're perfect, actually."
"The first is a seventeenth-century model made from--"
"No need to explain," he interjected. "I'm already sold on them. You just saved me a lecture about a son's responsibility to his family."
A chuckle tickled her throat. "Glad I could be of assistance."
He tilted his chin and gave her a lingering once-over. He cleared his throat. "You know, you have very pretty eyes."
His words, though innocent, caused her tongue to thicken, a familiar sensation whenever she spoke with the male species about, well, anything remotely flirtatious. She quickly lost her good humor. "Uh, I--uh--thanks. You, too." After that, speech became impossible. She tried anyway, managing another "uh" and two grunts.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
Her cheeks warmed. She nodded, though what she really wanted to do was slink away and hide. The admiration slowly faded from his expression. He gave her a strange perusal, paid for his donkeys and left without another word.
"You really should work on your technique, dear," Mrs. Danberry said, strolling to the cash register. "He might have asked you on a date."
Julia squeezed her eyes shut and let her head sink into her upraised hands. Was it too much to ask for God to strike her down with a bolt of lightning?
THAT NIGHT, Julia lay underneath a downy comforter, tossing and turning. When she actually slept, she once again dreamed of Mr. Half-Naked touching her. Kissing her. Their naked, sweaty bodies tangled together in passion. She'd lost count of how many "Oh, Gods" she'd uttered.
Why did her dream lover refuse to leave her mind? And why was she still lying in bed, allowing him to slide those phantom hands over her nipples, down her stomach and slip inside her panties? Circling, grazing, sinking deeply into her. After two more "Oh Gods," Julia scowled and lumbered wearily to her feet, sweeping aside the gauzy, cream-colored canopy that enclosed her bed. She needed something to do, something that was totally and completely unpleasurable.
Her taxes! Yes, that was it. She marched into her office, grabbed her books and carried them to the kitchen, where there was more room to work. She plopped into the nearest chair, an eighteenth-century brocade bench she'd acquired at an estate sale several years ago.
Five minutes later, she shoved the books aside with a growl. She was tired, cranky--okay, she was still aroused--and the numbers were blurring together. She needed something else to do.
Since her newest acquisitions were still strewn across the table, she picked up the jewelry box. She'd never discovered what lay inside, had she? She tried to depress the lid's latch, but her finger shook and refused to make contact. Brow puckered, she tried again. Once more, the shaking stopped her. What was the problem? It wasn't like Mr. Half-Naked and his sword would reappear.
You're thinking about him again, her mind tsked.
"For God's sake," she muttered, jabbing the button. "This is ridiculous."
Lights flickered throughout her house. Purple mist drifted upward. An intoxicating scent of masculinity surrounded her. This time, Julia didn't jump up, didn't drop the box atop her hard-carved tabletop. She simply bit her bottom lip, staring wide-eyed as Mr. Half-Naked did, indeed, appear. He was still half-dressed--and he still carried a sword.
"Omigod." And not a good, this-feels-so-wonderful omigod, the kind that had filled her dreams. But a bad, what-the-hell-is-happening omigod. Julia gulped. "I'm having a nightmare. That's all it is."
She rubbed a palm down her face, blinked her eyes and shook her head, thinking such a gorgeous creature would vanish by the time she refocused.
His extraordinary image never even wavered.
He isn't real, she mentally chanted, slowly rising to her feet. He isn't real, he isn't real, he isn't real. Step by agonizing step, she approached the wildly savage apparition. He wore a let's-get-this-over-with expression...and not much else. Those pants. That sword. Slowly, shakily, she reached out and poked his chest once, twice. The heat of his skin singed her both times, and she finally jerked back, jaw slack.
This wasn't her imagination. This wasn't a dream.
What kind of man could appear and vanish in less than a single breath? Man...was he even human? Could he be a genie? Yesterday he had vowed to fulfill her every wish and desire.
No, she thought. That wasn't possible. Genies were a myth.
But what if genies did, in fact, exist? The thought continued to tease her mind, battering against her beliefs. Didn't her sister, a highly respected archaeologist, often say there was a bit of truth to every tale?
There was only one way to find out.
"Leave," she whispered to him. "Leave right now."
His scowling countenance disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
Three minutes passed, then four. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, and each tap pounded in her ears like a war drum. When she felt enough time had elapsed, she sucked in a deep breath, reached out and jabbed the button again. Just like before, the lights flickered. Purple mist erupted. Mr. Half-Naked's clean, unique fragrance invaded her nostrils.
Then, suddenly, he was frowning down at her, his swirling violet eyes alight with irritation. "What is it you wish now, little dragon? This coming-and-going nonsense must cease."
A genie, she thought, awed. She couldn't deny his existence and wasn't even sure why she'd wanted to. He was an exquisite specimen of manhood. So exquisite, in fact, she wouldn't be surprised if he had "grade A one-hundred-percent pure beef" stamped on his butt.
Gathering her courage, she spoke. "Welcome to my home, genie."
His brows knit together in confusion, and for the moment, he didn't appear quite so menacing. "I am a man. A warrior."
She paused. "But you have magic powers."
"Only in the art of seduction."
"So you don't grant wishes?"
"Nay. I do not."
"Oh." Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. "What exactly do you do?"
"This I have told you once before. I entertain, converse and protect. But most importantly, I supply the female body--your body--with untold bliss."
He could have been filing his fingernails for all the excitement in his voice. Still, the man flat out admitted he wanted to...wanted to...Her tongue began to feel heavy, preventing speech. This man, this nongenie, wasn't hitting on her, she reminded herself. He wasn't asking her out on a date. More than likely, such a dangerously handsome male found her unattractive. Repulsive, even. That thought eased her discomfort, making her tongue
feel normal again, but a hollow ache sparked to life in her chest.
She studied him. He looked capable of anything, anything at all, and she found herself wondering what his limitations were. "So you're saying that if I want you to clean my toilets, you will?"
"Toilets?"
"Lavatory. Chamber pot. Powder room."
"Aye, I have cleaned many of those."
She wanted to laugh at his disgruntled expression, but the sword strapped to his waist kept her quiet. Surely he didn't have to obey her every whim. "What if I want you to crawl on your hands and knees to polish my floor? Or what if I want you to dust every single one of my antiques with your tongue? Or...eat a mud pie because I spent an hour baking it?"
"Would those things bring you enjoyment," he said, a feral glint entering his mystical eyes, "they would be mine to do."
His words surprised her and should have made her happy, but suddenly Julia was overwhelmed with pity for him, to always be reliant on someone else's pleasure. Other men probably dreamed of being caught in just such a circumstance. A sexual object. Not this man. He was tense and edgy, and self-loathing radiated from the hard stance of his body.
Silence permeated the room for a long while.
Julia didn't know what to say, didn't know what to tell him that could make the situation more bearable for him. She felt a bombardment of guilt for even suggesting he do those awful things for her. Well, no more. Really, what did she need a slave for? Nothing, that's what. She enjoyed cleaning her home, cooking her own meals--not mud pies--and she didn't like others handling her antiques, unless they planned to buy them.
She would not treat this man as a slave. He was a human being and deserved more. She'd treat him like the big brother she'd always wanted.
Just admit it, Julia. You simply don't have the courage to take him up on what he's really offering.
She gulped. "What's your name?"
"Most call me Pleasure Slave, or simply Slave."
Pleasure Slave? "I'm not calling you that." The name was too erotic, too sexual. "Do you have a name that doesn't have anything to do with the bedroom? Like John or Phil."
A pause, then, "Tristan."
"Tristan," she repeated, liking the sound. It suited him, being both sensual and unique. "That's what I'll call you."
"If that is your desire." He gave her a slow, leisurely smile that held a hint of genuine appreciation.
Her heart rate kicked into overtime, the impact of that take-no-prisoners grin leaving her reeling. Good Lord, the man belonged on the cover of GQ. Julia glanced at his sword. Okay, scratch GQ. He belonged on the front page of Hunky Barbarians.
"I will hear your name, little dragon."
Annoyance replaced her admiration and launched her quickly to her feet. "You can stop referring to me as a tiny fire-breathing lizard. I'm not that unattractive. And for your information, I'm not little. I'm normal. You just happen to be excessively tall."
His lips twitched, and his eyes went from lavender to the purest blue. "So I say again--I will hear your name."
"Call me Julia," she replied grudgingly. "Or Jules, if you must."
"I shall keep that in mind." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I am now ready to hear what you desire of me."
"I want nothing from you," she hastened to assure him. "Absolutely nothing."
Features tightening, he said, "Why did you summon me on three separate occasions if you wished not to make use of me?"
She shrugged. "The first time I thought you were an intruder."
"Ah." Like the flip of a switch, he lost his dark glower and his lips once again twitched with amusement. "And you thought to defend yourself from an Imperian warrior with this karate of yours?"
Bristling at his superior tone, she locked her fists on her hips and glared. "My hands are deadly weapons, you know. You would die if I karate-chopped your neck."
"I believe you," he said. "I am quite sure I would die of laughter."
Even as her heart accelerated at the sheer masculine beauty he represented, Julia fought a surge of anger. The man had a lot of nerve! First he scared the crap out of her. Then he called her a tiny dragon--did she really look like a lizard? Now he had the gall to insult her self-defense skills.
I would die of laughter, she silently mimicked.
A hidden part of her wanted to slap Tristan upside the head with a jackhammer. Since physical violence was against the law--and she didn't relish being locked inside a cell with a woman named Big Bertha--Julia opened her mouth to offer him a stinging retort. His next question stopped her, however.
"Where is your husband?" He uttered a low, rumbling chuckle that purred and soothed and probably sent women to their knees. "You did not kill him with karate, did you?"
Uh-oh. Caught. Julia's animosity toward Tristan drained as her sin surfaced. A piece of lint on the hem of her white tank top suddenly became fascinating.
"Did you kill him?" All traces of humor vanished from Tristan's voice. "By Elliea, you did! Where did you place the body?"
"Look," she said, twisting the sheer fabric in knots. "I'm not actually married."
Tristan blinked. "Then where is your man?"
"Technically, I don't have a man."
"Not a father? Brother? Protector?"
Jaw clenched, cheeks red, she shook her head.
"So you spoke an untruth." It was a statement, not a question, laced with puzzlement rather than ire.
"I thought you were an intruder, remember? What else was I supposed to say? We're all alone so don't worry about the neighbors hearing my screams while you kill me?"
"I am glad you do not have a man."
Julia gulped, not liking the sudden, possessive perusal he gave her. "Mind if I ask why?"
"Jealous husbands are a nuisance."
Not exactly the answer she expected. In fact, she was offended for married men and women everywhere. Because of Tristan's profession, he probably didn't know much about relationships. To arm him with knowledge, she launched into a speech about vows, monogamy and the joys of commitment. Her sister often said Julia should have been a lawyer. Tristan's eyes soon glazed and a yawn hovered at the edges of his mouth. "Don't you believe in the sanctity of marriage?" she ended.
"Aye. Yet I must do as my guan ren commands." His steely tone scraped the very air around them.
She had to assume guan ren meant master. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping to soothe him. "Being a slave must be difficult at times."
"Such a life is not difficult," he grumbled. "Such a life is torture. Every minute of every day."
Lord, there had to be some way to help him. The prospect of owning another human being was beginning to make her queasy. "Is there any way I can free you?"
He didn't answer for a long time, his features changing expression like the click of a camera. Hope. Disappointment. Anger. Finally all emotion cleared and he said simply, "Nay, you cannot. What is required is impossible. I must find my one true love."
"Why is that so impossible?" Surely this man had loved, and been loved, by thousands. For people like him, gorgeous and self-assured, love acted as a magnetic force. He would have no problem finding his soul mate. If he were plain like her, however, she would understand his difficulty.
That muscle was ticking in his jaw again, and she could tell he didn't want to answer. Then, as if propelled by a force greater than himself, he spoke. "Love is an emotion I am unable to experience."
She blinked up at him. "You're joking, right?"
"Nay, I am not."
He was serious--deadly serious--and since he had a sword, she wasn't going to try to change his mind. Julia rubbed her temples. What am I going to do with this tall, dark and sinfully delicious pleasure slave?
She could panic.
No. That wouldn't do. Having grown up with extremely volatile parents, she preferred to calmly wade through her problems.
She could return the box to the flea market.
No again. The dealer's market only ran once a
month, and the vendors always changed. The previous owner might not be there and, more than likely, he wouldn't refund her money. Besides, she felt sorry for Tristan. No telling what another woman might force him to do. Kiss her, lick her, touch her...
Julia's back straightened and she squared her jaw. No question about it, she was keeping him.
"Look," she said. "I'll be honest. I'm not interested in having a slave, but I'd love a big-brother type." Ignoring his dubious expression, she continued. "Anyway, we need to talk, to iron out some details."
"Such as?" he asked, though his expression made it quite clear he was really thinking, Hush your mouth, wench.
"We need to discuss exactly what we expect from each other. Where you'll stay, what you'll do. That sort of thing." She motioned with a wave of her hand, indicating the chair directly across from her. "Please, have a seat."
Though the scowl he offered her said he'd rather skin her alive with his sword, he folded his long, gorgeous legs under the table. The chair creaked in protest.
Giving him a grateful smile, she sat down, as well. "Where to begin?" she muttered. She'd never been in this situation before, with a half-naked man across from her. Should she begin with the sleeping arrangements, or casually work her way around the subject?
A moment later, he grabbed the reins of the conversation himself. "Where am I?" he asked.
"America. Sante Fe, New Mexico, to be exact."
"Santa Fa? America." One dark brow arched, and confusion flittered in the crystalline pools of his eyes. "I do not know of these places."
Not know of the mighty U. S. of A.? "How long were you trapped inside that box?"
"I last emerged eighty-nine seasons ago."
"And before that?"
"I was blessed with twelve seasons alone, then emerged in Arcadia. Before that? I hardly recall."
Seasons must be years, Julia thought. She studied the smooth skin of his face. "Just how old are you, Tristan?"
"Almost one thousand and five hundred seasons, I think." He shrugged. "I stopped counting several centuries ago."
Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She hadn't expected that. He was a living, breathing antique, yet he looked so handsome, so virile. "Do you eat lots of bran or something?"
His chin tilted to the side. "I do not understand."
"It's just that you appear so young. Too young to be so old."
Bitterness hardened his features, like clay drying into pottery. "Once the binding spell was cast, I ceased aging. A courtesy of the black-haired sorceress, Zirra."