by Reinke, Sara
“Not many ‘hobbyists’ have their own NASDAQ symbol,” Tristan said, and Karen blinked again, this time in genuine surprise. “He’s one of the principals at Triumvera Trust.”
“Triumvirate,” Mason corrected mildly. “It’s a modest investment firm specializing in full-service and luxury hotels in the U.S. and abroad.”
“With more than eight billion dollars in assets,” Tristan added.
“Is the Trésor one of them?” Karen asked Mason, and when he nodded, she could have sworn he was blushing.
He’d shown her a picture of the resort on the plane, a conceptual rendering that had depicted a pair of towers that faced one another, with an expansive shopping plaza between them. He’d explained that several hotels would be housed within the nearly six-million-square-foot facility, as well as three permanent stage shows, eleven restaurants, six swimming pools, a conference center, and retail facilities.
In the painting, the towers had been shown at night, with gold-accented, cream-colored facades standing out in stark contrast to the dark sky. As they approached, Karen could see that in the bright, full light of the afternoon sun, however, the buildings gleamed like they’d been electroplated in gold, dazzling and stunning complements to the backdrop of mountains visible in the distance beyond the city’s limits.
“Oh, Mason,” she breathed, eyes wide, mouth agape. The top of the car had been fitted with a retractable moonroof, and with the press of a button, Mason had opened it so that she could crane her head back and gawk.
“You like it?” he asked, sounding hesitant, hopeful even, like a little boy showing a new toy to a playmate.
Tristan uttered a low whistle, and a sideways glance proved he was as visibly impressed as she felt. “C’est magnifique,” he said. It’s magnificent.
Although Mason and Michel would sometimes lapse in and out of French with oblivious ease, Tristan seldom, if ever, followed suit. To hear him speak it now, with perfect dialect, raised the hairs along her nape, turning her on as instantly and powerfully as if he’d offered this within intimidate proximity of her ear. All at once the second step in her plan—fall out of love with Tristan Morin—so simple in the conception, seemed impossible.
Not if he keeps speaking French, at any rate, she thought.
****
The Trésor was indeed grand, even by the usually high standards of opulence an investment by Mason’s trust company demanded, enough so that even Tristan, who’d seen nearly every one of his uncle’s properties, was dutifully impressed at the sight of it.
To that moment, his proximity to Karen, and the bloodlust this would usually provoke, had remained dormant in him, but all at once, he had a jolt of telepathic sensation from her. Like the bloodlust, his telepathy had been quiet and quelled during the trip to that point, and this sudden burst of awareness was fleeting but strong. It was the French that had done it, his speaking it aloud. She’d reacted to it, and in return, his body reacted to hers.
Fuck, he thought in bright, sudden alarm, because that was what he wanted to do—suddenly, urgently enough to feel an immediate, uncomfortable strain against the fly of his jeans when he looked at her. Her heart had raced, just for a moment in visceral, reflexive response to his voice, but it had been enough to send a cocktail of adrenaline and epinephrine surging through her.
Fuck, he thought again, because he could feel his gums tingling, a dim ache as his canine teeth inched forward. All at once, the dazzling glow of reflected sunlight off the tower facade seemed even more blinding—his pupils had begun to dilate.
The pills. He’d stuffed them into his traveling bag, which was now stowed away in the trunk of the Bentley.
“Here,” he heard Mason say, then a quick snap of his seat belt as he unbuckled it. “Trade me sides.” Reaching up, he pressed another button on the moonroof control panel, and the tinted glass retracted, letting in a rush of warm air. “You can stand up, look outside.”
He wasn’t speaking to Tristan, he realized dimly as he watched Karen likewise unfasten her own seat belt.
No, he thought, stricken, pressing himself back into his seat. No, no, don’t do that.
Karen was oblivious, excited as she and Mason shifted positions, squirming to switch places on the seat bench. She’d taken off her coat at the airport, and when she stood, the hem of her sweater pulled up. Less than two feet away from him—well within biting distance—he could see a taunting glimpse of exposed skin at her lower back, and the upper edge of her panties.
Oh, Christ, he thought, clapping his hand to his mouth to muffle a groan. When he glanced at Mason, he found his uncle watching him with a bemused sort of expression, one brow slightly arched above the other.
Because he did it on purpose, Tristan realized. If I could sense Karen’s reaction, then he could too—and mine, along with it. You son of a bitch, Mason.
The limousine jostled to an unexpected stop as they pulled into the valet area outside the resort. Karen lost her balance and stumbled sideways. Reacting out of instinct, Tristan caught her, his hands shooting out, clamping against her hips. Her sweater was still askew, and his fingers touched her waist. Her skin was silken, soft and warm, and in that moment, he remembered the night before—taking her from behind, locking his fingers through hers, feeling helpless against her, helpless without her.
She blinked down at him, wide-eyed, and he blinked back, snapping out of his reverie. Could she notice his eyes, the slight descent of his teeth? God, he hoped not; his humiliation would be complete.
“I…I’ve got you,” he said, his voice ragged and hoarse. He couldn’t remove his hands from her. He tried not to think about how easy it would be to hook his fingertips beneath the waistband of her jeans and peel them down, her panties too—pull her down against him right there in the limo, in front of Mason, the driver, in front of God and everybody, because God, he didn’t care.
“Uh…thanks,” she said, sounding strained and uncertain.
“All right, mes chéris.” Mason clapped once, his mouth stretched in a delighted Cheshire Cat grin again as he reached for the door handle. “We’ve arrived.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Let you get settled into your rooms a bit after check-in,” Mason was saying, as their uniformed chauffeur, along with a scurrying bevy of bellhops and valets swarmed the vehicle, collecting the meager assortment of bags from the trunk of the Bentley. With a glance at his watch, he said, “It’s shortly before five now. Why don’t we plan to rendezvous in the main lobby by the main waterfall at six o’clock sharp?”
“The main waterfall?” Karen asked, blinking owlishly. “You mean there’s more than one?”
“Oh yes, at least a dozen or so,” Mason replied cheerfully. “And a river too.” When her eyes widened all the more, he added, “It winds all through the resort complex, inside and out. You can take electric catamaran tours of it. I’ll arrange one, if you’d like.”
“I thought you said we weren’t supposed to be at this party of yours until ten,” Tristan said with a scowl.
Any good humor he might have managed—or Karen might have imagined—along the ride from the airport had abruptly faded. It had happened, she noticed, right about the time she’d nearly fallen into his lap while she’d stood to look out the sunroof. Tristan had caught her, helping to steady her without incident, but he’d been acting surly ever since, the proverbial cat that had been dunked in a toilet bowl.
Was it really so horrible for you to have to touch me? Funny. You didn’t seem to mind it too badly last night.
“The soiree, no,” Mason said. “But I’ve made arrangements that should keep us pretty well occupied in the meantime.” He chuckled, then draped one arm around Tristan’s shoulders, the other around Karen’s, steering them both toward the entrance. Here, another cluster of uniformed staff waited to open doors in greeting. “Tell me, how does a warm stone massage, seaweed thermal body wrap, mint pedicure, organic chamomile compress, and facial sound?”
“I just buried my
mother yesterday.” Tristan hooked his bag from the bellhop’s cart as it wheeled past. Shouldering his way past his uncle and Karen and tromping into the hotel, he added, “I doubt a bunch of seaweed’s going to make any difference.”
Karen had never heard Tristan speak so harshly to Mason before, and to judge by the way Mason sucked in a sharp, wounded breath, he hadn’t either. He stopped in midstep, bringing Karen to a stumbling halt along with him while Tristan went on ahead.
“He had no right to say that,” she said, because Mason looked like Tristan had just caught him with a sucker punch in the gut, leaving him breathless and dumbfounded and more than a little bruised. “In fact…”
Fuming, she shrugged away from Mason, meaning to follow Tristan into the hotel and confront him. What the hell’s your problem? she wanted to demand, not just about how he’d spoken to his uncle, but about everything—the night before, that morning, the limousine ride just now.
“Let it go.” Mason caught her by the hand.
“He had no right to say that,” she said again, brows narrowed.
Mason smiled at her with more sorrow than humor. “Yes, he did.”
****
Stepping foot into her suite was enough to make Karen forget her ire with Tristan, at least for a little while. Larger than her lakefront house back in Tahoe, the suite stood in elegant contrast to the glittering, somewhat garish skyline of the city beyond its windows. Freshly cut white roses and calla lilies had been arranged in vases throughout the suite, lending the room a sweet, delicate fragrance. The furnishings—cherry wood with alternating cornflower blue and cream-colored upholstery—were delicate and decorative, nearly Baroque in design. Lush drapes fell in sweeping ivory folds from the towering windows while the king-sized bed had been piled high with down-filled blankets and pillows, a skillfully arranged and wondrously inviting mountain of them.
“I hope it’s to your liking, ma’am,” the valet who had escorted her said as he walked ahead of her across the expansive breadth of the great room, snapping open drapes to let the waning afternoon sun spill across the floor.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, hating to feel like that stereotypical small-town girl from Kansas, all round eyes and agape as she looked around, but helpless to stop herself.
“This is our Queen Anne suite,” the valet continued. “Many of the furnishings are authentic pieces from the early eighteenth century, when Anne of the House of Stuart served simultaneously as Queen of Britain, Ireland, and France.”
She and Mason had parted company upon check-in. She’d lost track of Tristan at that point, although she’d still been pissed enough with him to not bother keeping much of an eye out for him anymore.
“About the party tonight…” Karen had said to Mason, with a gnawing anxiety in her voice. “You told me to pack lightly, so I did. I don’t…I mean, I didn’t bring anything to wear.”
Not that she’d have had anything in her meager wardrobe, anyway. A red-carpet event, that’s what Mason had called it. She’d seen enough awards programs and premiers on TV to understand what that meant.
“We have a shopping galleria here at the resort,” Mason had told her with a reassuring smile.
But even with the generous salary Michel paid her, she doubted she’d be able to afford anything red-carpet worthy. Either this had been obvious in her crestfallen expression, or Mason had read her mind; either way, he’d chuckled and given her cheek a quick kiss.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said. “It’s on me.”
“But I…I…” she’d stammered, and he’d dropped a wink.
“Consider me your fairy godfather.”
“Dr. Morin had a bottle of wine delivered already,” the valet told her, and she followed his gaze to a small table where, beside an overflowing spray of white flowers, a bottle had been left uncorked to breathe. A pair of glasses flanked either side, and in front of it, a platter of colorful fresh fruits and sliced cheeses awaited.
“The wine is a 1996 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild Pauillac,” the valet said as he went to the table and poured a dollop of the dark burgundy wine into the basin of one of the glasses. Swirling it gracefully, he presented it to her. “This Bordeaux vintage has been called ‘the King’s wine,’ as it was once favored by Louis the Fifteenth of France. You’ll find its texture silken, with lingering flavors of black currant and mint, with a strong tannin finish.”
“Oh,” she said, because she didn’t know jack-shit about wine. Accepting the glass, she swished it around as she’d seen the valet do, then, because he continued watching her with a patient sort of expectation, she took a sip. “It’s good.”
“It costs an average of two thousand dollars a bottle,” the valet told her helpfully, at which point, she nearly spit all over his crisply pressed slacks and well-polished shoes.
“It’s very good,” she amended weakly, once able to choke down a mouthful and speak. “Would you like a glass?”
The young man chuckled. “No, thank you, ma’am.” He nodded once, politely, and when she fumbled to find some money to give him, a tip he wouldn’t consider insulting, he’d shaken his head. “There’s no need, ma’am. Dr. Morin has seen to all of the arrangements. Shall I return shortly before six to escort you to the lobby?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding stupidly, still holding her wineglass. She had no idea what tannins were, but the kid had been right. The wine had a lingering aftertaste to it. She suspected it was called money. “Thank you. That…that would be nice.”
When he’d left, she took a few moments to wander around the suite, staring in continued awe at the beauty of the room and all the elegant furnishings. Sinking onto the bed was like settling into a cloud; the mattress and bedding enveloped her, cradling her body, and she closed her eyes, releasing a long, heavy sigh. In that moment, it was all nearly worth it—the horrible, heartbreaking morning, the airplane flight from Reno, the bizarre and continuously tumultuous interactions with Tristan.
I could get used to this, she thought with a faint smile. But then, remembering her three-step plan, she forced herself to sit up, then return to the living room, where she fished her cell phone out of her travel bag.
To her immense relief, Michel’s phone rang over to voice mail. Leaving a message would be so much easier, she told herself. If I talk to him on the phone or try to tell him in person, he’ll talk me out of it somehow. Not by using his telepathy or tricking me, but just by the way he is. I know it.
Because that’s exactly how she’d wound up working for him in the first place. After Tristan’s two-year clinical rotation at the Sierra Nevada Medical Center had ended, he’d left and never returned. From Karen’s perspective, at least at the time, it had been a good thing, because she’d been hard-pressed to get anything done whenever he’d been around. For almost two years after that, she’d gone about her nursing duties there, until one evening, halfway through a twelve-hour shift, a tall man in a camel-colored coat with striking green eyes had asked to speak with her.
There’d been something familiar, uncannily so, in his appearance, but it hadn’t been until he’d introduced himself—Michel Morin—that she’d felt a shock of full, tremulous recognition.
Morin.
She hadn’t realized at the time that Michel was Tristan’s grandfather, because he hadn’t introduced himself as such. There was no way she’d have believed him anyway, no way she could have fathomed how a man who barely looked old enough to be Tristan’s father could be even older than this—much, much more so. Instead, Michel had told her he was a relative of Tristan’s, and when he’d broached the subject of her possibly coming to work with Tristan at an exclusive medical clinic funded by the Pharmaceaux International research company, she’d been excited.
Had Tristan specifically recommended her? Had he remembered her after all that time? While to that point, they’d done nothing except work together in a completely professional, clinical setting, there had always been that undeniable, irresistible attraction to him—one
she’d often felt certain he’d shared. The idea of seeing him again, working with him, being near him, had sent her heart racing with eager anticipation. The salary hadn’t mattered; Michel could have offered her a pittance and she’d have accepted gladly.
Anything for Tristan, she thought in her Las Vegas suite with a frown. That’s how it’s always been with me—anything for him. Well, not anymore.
“Hey, Michel,” she said, the note of good cheer in her voice not as forced as it might have otherwise been had she not just knocked back a glassful of the flavorful, ridiculously expensive wine Mason had bought her. “This is Karen. Listen, I really appreciate you letting me take some time off this weekend, but I have to tell you…I just don’t think this is working out. It’s been a year now, and I’m getting pretty homesick, and I’ve been thinking about just heading back east, back to Kansas for a while. I hate to leave you in a spot, but with things going so well lately with Eleanor’s treatments, and with Lisette…” Her voice faltered as Tristan’s words, angry and hurt, echoed in her mind.
I just buried my mother yesterday. I doubt a bunch of seaweed’s going to make any difference.
“I just think it’s best if I go,” she finished in a rush, then thumbed off the phone to disconnect the call before she could say anything stupid, like try to take back her resignation. Idiotically, she found herself blinking against the dim heat of tears, and with a miserable little cry, she threw the phone across the room.
I couldn’t live like this, she realized, looking around again, no longer seeing the room as something opulent, like out of a fairy tale, but rather imposing, like out of her league. This isn’t me. None of this is. This is Tristan’s life, the Morins’ life. Not mine.
Less than an hour later, as Karen left her room in the company of the young valet, who had returned as promised, she paused in the corridor outside her door, her attention caught by the unexpected sound of piano music, something low and sorrowful and achingly familiar.