Free Teresa Medeiros by Breath of Magic Page A

The injustice of it infuriated him.
    “Of course it’s not raining! Are you out of your mind?” His bellow echoed off the tile walls, making her flinch.
    Clearly assuming his question was a rhetorical one, she cast the toilet a last wistful glance before sidling past him. “Remarkable plumbing. I had heard of such marvels being installed in the new palace at Versailles, of course, so you mustn’t think me an utter bumpkin.”
    A bumpkin was by far the most flattering description Tristan was entertaining at the moment. “They don’t have tanning booths
or
indoor plumbing in France?” he growled, snatching a towel from the warmer and stalking after her.
    She evaded his question by nearly colliding with a wide-eyed maid carrying a breakfast tray and several newspapers. It didn’t improve Tristan’s temper to realize the woman had overheard his uncharacteristic outburst.
    As Arian intercepted the tray with a husky moan of anticipation, the succulent aroma of bacon wafted to his nose. Sven must have ordered from the deli downstairs, Tristan thought, unconsciously licking his lips as he eyed the thick slabs of pork. He would never allow such artery-hardening slop in his private kitchens.
    “Thank you ever so much,” Arian said, tucking the newspapers beneath her arm as Tristan’s scowl sent the maid scurrying from the suite.
    Still glowering, he toweled the moisture from his hair while Arian settled herself cross-legged on the bed and began to shovel in forkfuls of fried egg as if she’d never heard of a fat gram. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman eat without berating herself for enjoying it.
    “Oh, Lord, I was ravenous,” she mumbled, tearing off a generous bite of the bacon. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in over three hundred”—she glanced up to meet his frosty gaze before swallowing with an audible gulp—“hours.”
    She drained a mug of hot chocolate, leaving Tristan to covet the enticing mustache of marshmallow foam adorning her upper lip.
    “Would you care for some?” she asked, proffering a plump cinnamon roll studded with raisins.
    “No, thank you,” he said stiffly, the wheat-germ waffle he’d choked down at five that morning lying like a brick in his stomach. “I’ve eaten.”
    He regretted his haste the moment Arian’s dainty coral tongue caressed a dab of icing from the pastry. Her moan of delight made his gut contract with longing. He wanted to snatch the roll from her and wolf it down in one gulp. Shocked by the outlandish impulse, he wadded the towel into a ball and hurled it into the corner.
    “I didn’t come here for breakfast, Miss Whitewood. I came to ask you a few pertinent questions.”
    “Then I hope you’ll be satisfied with my answers. I’ve always been told I’m frightfully impertinent.”
    He tore his gaze away from her winsome grin. “My technicians are presently combing the streets surrounding the Tower for debris from your crash. I was hoping you might save them some of their valuable time by explaining to me just how you came to be
soaring
past at the precise moment of the magic competition.”
    “I don’t remember.” She polished off the cinnamon roll and began licking each finger in turn like a fastidious little cat.
    Riveted by the innocent display of eroticism, Tristan suddenly had trouble remembering his original question. “You don’t remember what?” he repeated faintly.
    “I don’t remember how I came to be flying past. I’m afraid I hit my head when I crashed and have been afflicted with an unfortunate case of … manesia.” She set the tray aside, looking immensely pleased with herself.
    Tristan didn’t know whether to laugh or back away and call the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, mean ‘amnesia’?”
    He had to give her credit. She recovered with nothing more than a thoughtful blink. “That’s right. Amnesia. Sometimes when you have it, you can’t remember what it’s