Read Online Teresa Medeiros by Breath of Magic - Free Book Online Page A

Lennox sent me to see what you would like for breakfast. There is yogurt and fresh bagels with fat-free cream cheese, wheat-germ waffles, bran muffins, and always I can squeeze the fresh juice for you. Orange. Grape. Tomato. Pineapple. Peach nectar. Apple. Pear …”
    As he recited the vast array of beverages favored by his employer, the woman’s fragile complexion grew even pastier. When he reached “mango,” she began to sway. Alarmed, he rushed forward to steady her.
    She clutched his massive arm, her face crumpled in abject misery.
    “What is it, miss? Are you sick?”
    She studied his face, as if weighing whether or not she dared confide in him. Her pallor was replaced by a furious blush as she stood on tiptoe and whispered something in the general direction of his ear.
    He frowned down at her. “I am sorry, miss. My English is not so good. I know not of this pot.”
    Heaving an exasperated sigh, she dragged his ear down to her mouth to hiss something even more explicit.
    “Ah!” He felt a broad smile crack his stoic face. “I understand.”
    Thankful to have found a task he felt competent to execute, he tucked her small hand in the crook of his arm and led her to an expanse of wall textured with flocked paper. He punched a shiny black button, unable to resist a tiny flourish as he did so.
    The wall slid open, eliciting a gasp of pure astonishment from his companion. She drifted ahead of him into the spacious room.
    She glided past the Italian marble of the sunken whirlpool tub and matching pedestal sinks without a second glance. She paid little heed to the plush mauve carpet crushed beneath her feet or the twin brass shower heads wrapped in a frosted glass enclosure. Not even the thick burgundy towels draped over the electronic towel warmer were enticing enough to lure her rapt attention from the gleaming object perched beneath a tasteful Andrew Wyeth print.
    She drew her gaze away from it only long enough to flash Sven a grin of utter delight. “Why, ’tis the grandest chamber pot I’ve ever seen!”
    Tristan’s Gucci loafers didn’t make even a whisper of sound as they traversed the wide corridor to the boardroom of Lennox Enterprises. Since it was Sunday morning, the maze of offices flanking the hall had been deserted by all but his most conscientious employees. In defiance of superstition, Tristan had located his corporate headquarters on the thirteenth floor of the Tower.
    Copperfield marched at Tristan’s side, frantically shuffling a stack of manila files. “The press are clamoring for some answers about the girl. I’ve fielded interview requests from the
Times
, the
Post, People
magazine, and Jay Leno. What should I tell them?”
    “Tell them I have no comment at this time.”
    The rhythm of Copperfield’s steps faltered. “Let me clarify this. First you offer a million dollars to the first scam artist clever enough to con you. Then some woman dressed like the corpse from an Amish funeral flies in on a burning broom and crash-lands in your arms in front of a thousand witnesses and you have no comment?”
    “That’s correct. Until I have some concrete answers, I see no point in whetting their appetites. You know as well as I do that the scent of blood will only send them into a feeding frenzy.”
    Copperfield jotted a notation in a margin before slapping one of the files shut. “So what are you planning to do with her? Keep her prisoner in your penthouse tower like some princess in a medieval romance?”
    “She’s no prisoner,” Tristan replied, his bland expression costing him more effort than usual to maintain. “She can leave anytime she likes.”
    “Then I suppose it’s pure coincidence that her baby-sitter just happens to be a six-feet-four Norwegian armed with a Glock nine-mil and a Walther PPK he’s convinced once belonged to James Bond.”
    The perpetual sarcasm in Tristan’s voice ripened. “I confess. You’ve found me out. I gave Sven strict orders to shoot her in the