Lifestyles of the Witch & Famous (9 page)

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” he demanded instead. It came out sounding even angrier than intended. He winced inwardly at his own tone, then winced again at the vinegar in Molly’s.

“You didn’t ask.” She said it to the ceiling.

What she found so fascinating up there, Tyler wasn’t sure. He wanted her gaze on
him
, wanted to look into her eyes and see what was really going on in that beautiful head. Another bad sign because usually he did not want to know things like that. Women’s minds were weird places, in his experience. The less explored, the better.

“I didn’t realize I needed to,” he countered. “What kind of woman reaches thirty today without ever having sex?” Nuns were the only kind he could think of, and Molly was definitely no nun.

“The kind who’s spent
years
taking care of a man in a wheelchair.” Her eyes flashed to his, fully focused now, clear and cold as jewels. Blue-green ice. Whatever she’d been feeling before had been quickly masked by a layer of frost. The room’s temperature seemed to drop ten degrees with her stare.

So did Tyler’s. His own gaze froze at the double-edged cut of her words, not just defending herself, but also accusing him.

A low blow. He knew he should have been there, damn it.
He
should have been the one taking care of Steve. He didn’t need her to remind him.

“That was hitting below the belt, don’t you think?” He asked with grim calm, and got an equally calm response.

“Probably. But you deserved it.” Her gaze held his a moment longer, then shifted back to the ceiling, signaling the topic closed.

Good, because Tyler couldn’t handle thinking about her
and
Steve right now. One torture at a time.

He stayed propped up on his elbow, staring down at her, feeling his anger deflate and certain other sensations rising. The lady had spunk, he’d grant her that. Not that spunk was anything he’d ever found especially attractive in a female. They were difficult enough to manage without it. Carlotta had spunk in spades, and look how that had ended up. At least Molly wasn’t throwing things at him, wasn’t screaming, wasn’t even crying. Hell, if Tyler hadn’t already had undeniable proof of her gender, he’d wonder if she was really a woman.

A chill crept down his spine. Something spooky had just been added to the “tender-possessive” mix. Something he’d felt for few people, and none of them sexually arousing. Something that could almost be called… Respect?

Holy shit.

The bed undulated as Molly dragged up to a sitting position and smoothed her skirt down.
Aw, no.
Genuine angst gripped him at the sight, or rather the lack thereof. What utter sacrilege to cover those hips and legs. He wondered, suddenly, if respect would detract anything from their future bed-sports.

Molly spied her halter-top on the other side of him, and leaned across to grab it. Her breast brushed him in the process, and Tyler decided that if a little respect didn’t bother her, it wouldn’t create any major obstacles for him.

The tender feeling still irked him. A future with her still seemed risky – damn scary, in fact – but he was still willing to chance it. It shocked him how much he was willing to chance for this woman.

The tightness in his chest increased as he watched her trying to ignore him. Her hands trembled as she fumbled to retie her halter. She was making a mess of it. With a resigned sigh, he pushed up and knelt behind her.

“Here, let me. I’m the one who’s good with knots, remember?” Without waiting for permission, he swept her hair aside and secured the top at her neck and waist.

She didn’t thank him for it, but he hadn’t expected her to. Tyler did have some manners, even if he generally hated using them. The act was simple chivalry, a heroic gesture, considering that what he really wanted to do was rip her clothes off her. And speaking of ripping, there was something he’d better dispose of before it stuck fast, and his skin came off with it.

With her back still to him, he pulled off the condom and tossed it into a shiny brass antique spittoon on the floor by the bed. That’s what the dumb thing was there for, since he didn’t chew tobacco himself, and sincerely hoped none of his guests did – even if this was West Texas.

By the time he was through, Molly had spotted one of her slippers and was sliding away from him, reaching for it.

Sorry, babe, not yet.

Tyler reached, too, and slid her straight back, till her spine snugged up against his chest. An arm around her waist locked her in place. She stiffened in his hold, but he didn’t loosen it. The lady might not want his touch right now, but he wanted hers. Seeing her blood on the item he’d just tossed away had brought home the stark reality of what they’d just done. What
he’d
done. It seemed he ought to say something.

“I’m sorry.” Would she realize what those words cost him, how rarely he said them? “If I’d known this was your first time, I’d have done it a lot differently.”

“But you’d still have done it.”

A flat answer, and he noticed she didn’t phrase it as a question. Such perception deserved an honest reply.

“Yes. Very likely I’d still have done it. I’m not a nice person.”

“If you’re looking for an argument on that, I’m the wrong one to approach.”

Tyler felt a grin stealing onto his lips. Her kind of spunk was pretty cute actually. He wrapped both arms around her when she gave an experimental twist, testing the waters on breaking loose.

“I’m not looking for an argument,” he said, “just stating facts.”

“Fine. Consider them stated. We both agree you’re a louse. Will you let go of me now?”

He answered by tightening his hold. Why waste words when actions could be so much more eloquent? Besides, it was a wonderful excuse to hug her closer. “I also want to warn you that what I’ve done once, I intend to do a lot more.”

Molly went rigid. “Ah. I see. Now on that, I
will
give you an argument.”

“No you won’t.”

“That’s what you think.” She wasted several seconds and all her breath in a brief scrabble for freedom. Brief and futile.

Tyler kissed the top of her head when she collapsed against him, panting. “That’s what I
know
.” And he explained why. “Because you’re going to marry me.”

Chapter 6

This must be her Karma for blackmailing Ms. Patton. Molly had known that would come back to bite her in the butt.
What goes around, comes around.
She just hadn’t expected the payback to hit this hard. Or soon.

Marriage. To a billionaire hunk. Some women would love to have that problem. Molly wasn’t one of them. Hunk rhymed with skunk, which seemed way too appropriate at the moment.

“I’ll give you one hour to come to your senses or suffer the consequences,”
he’d said, and not pleasantly.

It was obvious no one had ever refused him before – that he didn’t believe her “no” meant
no
– obvious he’d do whatever it took to get his way. And really obvious that she was caught fast now between a rock and a hard man. Very hard. And she didn’t mean that in a humorous way. It was gut-wrenching awful.

Her head pounded. So did her bare feet as she fled down the hall to the stairs. Between the throbbing in her temples and a worse pain somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, she never noticed the ballroom below was occupied. She was halfway down the sweeping staircase when a flash blinded her.

Gad…
One hand grabbed the banister while the other dropped the slipper she’d been clutching. A second flash went off, destroying whatever sight the first had left her, and a voice filled her ears. Deep, rich, musical, and exotically accented.

“
C’est magnifique
! I shall call it ‘Cinderella’s Escape’ and make it the centerpiece of my new exhibit!”

Footsteps sounded, hurrying up the stairs, and a warm, masculine grip closed over Molly’s arm, tugging her forward through a sea of dazzling stars.

“Come, come,
cherie
. You must sign for me a release form – a model release, no? But I pay you top New York rate and immortalize your image for all the world to see! Not a bad deal, eh, for two seconds’ work. Carlotta!” the voice boomed. “Find me a form and my checkbook!”

“What am I, your slave? Find them yourself,” answered a female voice, also rich and melodic but a little less heavy on the accent.

A brief argument raged between the two in what seemed to be a mixture of French, Spanish, Italian, and Greek, with a little Hungarian thrown in. Or was that Russian? Bulgarian, maybe?

Who
are
these people?

Molly stumbled off the bottom step, blinking the stars out of her eyes, straining to see. Whoever they were, their timing couldn’t be worse. All she wanted was to find a bathroom where she could clean up and think. And not the bath attached to that gag-me-with-gilt bordello boudoir. How could she think with
him
lurking nearby? How could she…

Goddess, what
could
she do?

The photographer released her, and Molly stumbled again, only to be steadied by a firm but feminine hand on her shoulder.

“Gently, gently,” the man admonished. “Do not damage my new model. Her face I shall make more famous than the Mona Lisa’s!”

“Oh, leave the poor girl alone, André.” The hand gave her a comforting pat. “Can’t you see she’s been Tylered?”

Tylered?
What an expression. Sort of said it all, didn’t it?

Molly blanched. Was her condition that obvious?

How would this woman know anyway? She sounded like she spoke from personal experience, like someone who’d been “Tylered” herself. What was her name? Carlotta?

Hell, she must be that fashionista, Carlotta Diego, the publisher of
La Femme Fantastique
magazine.

And one of Tyler’s ex-wives.

The ache in Molly’s head increased. Oddly enough, so did the ache in her chest. She swallowed as her vision cleared and the two people came into focus: André, short and stocky; Carlotta, tall and svelte, with extravagant red hair (dyed, probably) and wearing an ultra-chic ivory silk pantsuit with an elaborately beaded emerald green camisole sparkling beneath it. Matching green pumps with stiletto heels and large emerald earrings completed the ensemble. She was an eyeful, all right.

So was André who sported a long dark ponytail and a Van Dyke beard, faded jeans, a white tuxedo jacket over a purple T-shirt, and… Molly looked twice… Hot pink cowboy boots. Very artistic.

She swallowed again. It didn’t help. Her voice stuck in her throat. Not a big problem, apparently, since Carlotta and André seemed quite content to talk around her as though she were part of the room’s fixtures.

“Tylered?” André waved his arms in the air in a broad, flourishing gesture. “What is this
tylered
?”

Carlotta shot him a sideways glance. “André
mi amor
, don’t be dim.”

And the two of them launched into another multi-language argument, lavishly embellished with more of André’s arm flourishes.

Molly could only imagine what they said – like she really needed the reminder right now. Talk about embarrassing. Her blanche quickly rose up the color scale to crimson. Not that she could see this, of course, but she felt it – felt a lot actually. Too much.

Damn.

The emotional stress was bad enough, but there was a physical matter that required speedy attention. She glanced about for the nearest door. What were her chances of making a discreet exit while—

“Enough!” André cut off the debate with a sharp slashing motion. “Forget the release form. Find my saber!” His arm swept out like a lasso around Molly’s shoulders, roping her in close to his side before she knew what hit her. His other hand gripped her chin in furious passion.

Emotional, wasn’t he?

“This face –
this
face has inspired what shall be my greatest creation!” he cried. “That makes this woman like a member of my family – like a mother, a sister, a daughter to me! No one shall toy with her while André D’Leon lives. I claim the right to defend her honor. Bring me a sword! I challenge Tyler James to a duel!”

“I know you wouldn’t guess it to look at him, but André is quite the traditionalist,” Carlotta said, gazing blandly into Molly’s eyes.

Which were popping at the moment, and not just from André’s clutch. His action had jostled things a bit and started another action that tickled the inside of her leg. A moving tickle, traveling south. Carlotta must have read the silent panic in her expression. Call it women’s intuition.

Her gaze traveled down Molly’s body to where the tickle had ended at her exposed ankles. The woman’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Please tell me it’s that time of the month.”

Molly coughed. “Um—”

“Time of the month? What time of what month?” André released her to wave his arms in the air.