Free Teresa Medeiros by Breath of Magic Page B

called.”
    Her guileless expression only intensified his desire to strangle her. He locked his hands behind his back to stifle the urge and began to pace at the foot of the bed. “Allow me to clarify your assertions. You hit your head. You have amnesia. But you do remember that your name is Arian Whitewood, you come from France, and you’d like very much for me to reward you a million dollars.”
    He pivoted on his heel to discover that instead of hanging on his every word as any one of his underlings would have done, her attention had strayed to the scattered newspapers. He wondered if it had been Copperfield’s idea of a joke to send up not only the Sunday-morning editions of the
Times
and the
Post
, but specialrush editions of the tabloids as well. Arian didn’t seem the least bit distressed by the
Prattler
’s depiction of her as a bug-eyed first cousin of E.T., but she was gazing intently at the cover of the
Global Inquirer
.
    “They’re saying I might be this man’s daughter,” she said, her expression oddly earnest. “He looks like a pleasant enough fellow. Do you see a resemblance?” She held the cover next to her face to reveal a sulky young Elvis in the prime of his prepolyester career.
    Tristan’s cynical laugh was curbed by the wistful note in her voice. He curled his upper lip in a sneer that rivaled Elvis’s to hide its jarring effect on him. “Let me guess. You’ve forgotten your father’s name as well.”
    She lowered the paper, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t believe I ever knew it.”
    Tristan would have found her confession less disturbing if it had been tainted by even a hint of his own bitterness. Eager to escape her large, liquid eyes, he strode over to the wall, his temper so feverish the automatic sensors sent the closet doors shooting open with a
whoosh
instead of a hiss.
    He snatched down the handsome Panama he’d bought to wear on the beach at Martinique during a vacation he’d never found the time to take, marched back across the room, and tossed it into Arian’s lap. “Pull a rabbit out of my hat.”
    Cradling the hat between her palms, she peeped over the brim, then indulged him with the sort of cautious smile one might reserve for an escaped lunatic. “Well, now, I can’t very well pull one out if you haven’t put one in.”
    He blinked at her, alarmed that her logic was starting to make sense to him. “I don’t want you to pull out a rabbit that’s already there. I want you to conjure one up out of thin air like bad magicians have been doing for centuries.” He nodded toward the hat. “Go on. Snap your fingers. Twitch your nose. Cross your arms and blink. I don’t give a damn how you do it, but if you can pull abunny out of that hat in the next five minutes, I’ll call and have Copperfield cut you a check for one million dollars.”
    Tristan was startled to realize he meant it. His carefully preserved peace of mind was worth more to him than a paltry million. He would forgo the satisfaction of proving this woman a fraud if he could just get her out of his life. And his bed.
    She glanced at him, then back at the hat as if she were warring with some powerful temptation. One of her hands fluttered toward her chest and that unusual necklace of hers before curling into a fist and falling back to her lap.
    “I won’t,” she whispered, bowing her head so that a curtain of hair fell around her features.
    She wasn’t getting off that easy. Tristan reached down and flipped back the dark veil, regretting the casual motion the instant he felt the silky stuff cling to his fingertips. An elusive ribbon of scent drifted to his nostrils, making them flare with primitive hunger. “Won’t or can’t?”
    “I don’t …” She faltered when her eyes met his.
    He leaned down until his lips were only a whisper away from hers and gently offered, “Remember?”
    She recoiled, her dark eyes snapping. “ ’Tis the truth, sir. Whether you choose to believe it or not. And