Free Teresa Medeiros by Breath of Magic

for debris. Tomorrow morning, we’ll—”
    “Uh-um, excuse me, Mr. Lennox.” Sven’s shaggy blond head appeared in the crack between door and frame.
    “What is it, Sven?” Tristan demanded, unable to suppress a tiny thrill of alarm. He knew it would take nothing less than a bomb threat or a call-back audition for
Baywatch
to make his bashful bodyguard brave the corporate offices without his permission.
    Despite his agitated state, Sven could not help givingthe security camera mounted in the corner a come-hither look as he rounded the table. He cupped his massive hand around Tristan’s ear and whispered something.
    Tristan frowned, thinking he couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. Sven straightened and beckoned him toward the window. Nearly quivering with curiosity, Copperfield beat them both around the table to tug open the drapes, flooding the paneled gloom with sunlight.
    Exchanging baffled glances, the scientists lined up on either side of Tristan as he peered down into the courtyard thirteen stories below. At first glance, everything appeared to be as orderly as it should have been on a peaceful Sunday morning.
    “There, sir.” Sven pointed one of his beefy fingers. “The fountain.”
    Tristan narrowed his eyes, realizing that the majestic geyser designed to be the focal point of the courtyard had fizzled to a lethargic sputter. Even as he watched, it diminished to a trickle, then to a pathetic little dribble.
    Ever the pragmatic engineer, Gordon Montgomery clapped him on the shoulder. “Somethin’ seems to be bottomin’ out the water pressure, sir.”
    “Something,” Tristan concurred, knowing no amount of restraint in the world could hide his darkening expression. “Or someone.”
    As he turned on his heel and strode from the boardroom, Sven and Copperfield exchanged an apprehensive glance, forging an unspoken agreement that it would be wiser not to follow.

7

    When Tristan stepped off the penthouse elevator, he was bombarded by billowing clouds of steam. His irritation mounted as he felt his raw silk suit wilt against his frame like an overwatered daisy.
    After slamming the door of his private office to protect his computers from the humid assault, he headed for the bedroom, muttering dire imprecations beneath his breath. A thunder resembling that of Niagara Falls was rumbling from the open door of the bathroom.
    He plunged through the veil of mist, too angry to care if the idiotic Miss Whitewood was fully clothed or dressed in nothing but bubbles and a smile. Which didn’t explain his stab of disappointment at finding her still wearing her shabby shroud.
    Water poured from the brass faucets of the tub in steaming gouts. Both sinks were running full tilt as were the twin shower heads. Their roar muffled his arrival, leaving him free to observe his guest gleefully flipping the handle of the commode, then bouncing backward to admire the result. As soon as the tank stopped running,she would repeat the ritual—flushing, chortling with delight, then watching intently as the water drained from the sparkling basin.
    Tristan wrenched off the bathtub, then waited for a lull in the water pressure to lean into the shower. Just as he was giving its crystal knob a vicious twist, another shift in pressure sent a gush of warm water cascading over his head. The commode’s roar subsided to a trickle, leaving no sound in the room except the steady
plop, plop
of water dripping off the cuffs of his trousers to soak his newly installed Berber carpet.
    Arian slowly turned around. She eyed him from head to toe before bobbing a wary curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Lennox. Is it raining outside?”
    Her baffled blink left no doubt as to how ridiculous he must look with his painstakingly applied mousse dripping into his collar and his two-thousand-dollar Valentino suit plastered to his body. In contrast, the steam had coiled her hair into an enchanting halo of ringlets and made her skin look as dewy as the petals of a lily.