Still curious about his hostess, he journeyed up a creaking flight of stairs, down a hallway with two closed doors. He opened the first and cocked his head to the side, unsure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
The chamber was filled with old toys and a cradle. A tomblike silence greeted his ears. The walls were white, the floors unpolished. And the next chamber appeared exactly the same. Toys, a cradle, a crib. Cracked paint and splintered wood. Below, she had carefully arranged her trinkets and furnishings to reflect a certain ambiance. Here she had left the room in disarray, choking the life from the light. Why? And why all the baby things?
Did she have children? Or was she pregnant, expecting one? He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. She didn’t look pregnant, but maybe she was only a few weeks along. Who was the father? Or she simply wished to have children.
Some of the tension drained from him. Once, he’d eschewed the idea of marriage. And his many mistresses had not helped sell the idea of joining his life to another’s. But here, now, gazing at the makings of a nursery, he wondered how it would feel to have a happy wife at his side, their children running around their home.
The pang in his chest reignited, nearly ripping him in two.
A loud, shrill noise ruptured the silence, reminding him of a messenger of death on a battlefield, and he jolted. Forget his wants and wishes. Alert, ready for combat—anything to defend Julia’s home—Tristan raced down the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Every Part Of Your Body Belongs To Your Mistress
AT THE SUPERCENTER, Julia grabbed Tristan a bit of everything. Jeans, sweat pants, T-shirts, shoes and underwear in every style, all extra-extra-large, of course. She only prayed they fit. A man that big probably needed extra room to breathe.
On her way to check out, she passed the hunting and fishing section, where she spotted a display case of knives. One in particular drew and held her gaze, and she paused to study its intricately carved hilt. The metallic blade gleamed sharp and deadly.
She knew instinctively that Tristan would cherish the weapon. Was it smart to purchase a blade so easily hidden? No, probably not. Would that stop her? No, definitely not. She’d hurt him. No matter how valid her reasons, she wanted to make it up to him somehow.
“I want that one,” she told the clerk.
“Excellent choice, ma’am.” With a face smothered by freckles and bright, silver braces covering his teeth, he looked about twelve years old. The giant tattoo on his forearm—a squirrel eating a pair of nuts—upped his appearance to seventy. “The handle is a wicked work of art.”
“Wicked, you say?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally bitchin’.”
She’d have to remember to inform Tristan of that fact.
Julia paid for the rest of her purchases, spending over three hundred dollars. “You better appreciate this, Tristan,” she muttered, wheeling the basket to her car.
A ten-minute, uneventful drive later, she parked her sedan into her driveway. As she lifted the bags from the trunk, one of the handles tore, the purchases spilling out. “Argh! Tristan?” she called. No response. “Tristan?” Again, no response. Frowning, she gathered everything together as best she could and stumbled inside the house.
Tristan was perched on the living-room couch, his sword out of the box and resting on the woolen rug in front of him. He leaned over the coffee table, his fingers picking at her phone, which was now in more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle. Mouth agape, Julia dropped her purchases on the floor, a hard thump sounding.
“What have you done to my telephone?” she gasped out, anchoring her hands on her hips.
“I have conquered it,” he said, looking up at her with pride. Worse, his tone carried unspoken words: Bow to your knees and thank me for this great service.
At least he was no longer emotionless.
“I don’t have another landline,” she growled.
“Then my work here is done.”
She shook her head in bewilderment. What did I do to deserve this? She’d never kicked a puppy or kitten, had never run over a child who played in the streets. She’d lived an honest life and gave to her favorite charities every year.
Tone dry, she asked, “Um, what happened to the knowledge you gained from other worlds far surpassing mine?”
“That it does.” He leaned back, pressing against the pillowed chaise, his arm draped over the edge, curving his hand over the chair as if he caressed a lover. He locked his other arm behind his head and slanted her a glance between half-lowered lids. The pose was carnal, seductive, and her breath caught at the sheer magnificence of the man. “You were right, nixa. There is much you have to learn about seducing a man.”
Her cheeks heated. First of all, she thought she hated the nixa nickname most of all. Whatever it meant, he tone seemed to turn the word into a curse. Second of all, Tristan’s insult—wait. Were his eyes twinkling with mirth?
They were! They really were. He hadn’t insulted her ability to greet a man; he’d merely teased her. Had he forgiven her? “Destroying phones certainly puts you in a good mood.”
He hiked his shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. “Ready to begin your first lesson?”
Yes! No! Anytime she drew near him, inexplicable things happened to both her mind and her body, and she could never quite gain the upper hand. He had only to speak; heck, he had only to glance at her, and she craved the forbidden—she craved him.
Physically, he was faultless, majestic and regal, his wild fall of hair the perfect frame for his chiseled features. How easy it would be to go to him now, to straddle him and sink onto his length. To demand the pleasure he’d offered so willingly.
Her face
