Tristan's Temptation (9 page)

His heart, his belly and his mood dropped sharply. “Tandy? You’ve got to be shitting me. We broke up years ago.” And it hadn’t gone well.

“It was nine months ago. She thought the date was a great idea.”

“Yeah,” Tristan muttered. “She would.”

It’d taken him forever to let her down easy. And now he had to start all over again. Convincing Tandy Larsen he wasn’t in the market for a girlfriend—at least one named Tandy Larsen—was the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight.

He wanted, very badly, to talk to Shannon and see how she was doing. Then maybe hold her again and kiss her again. And maybe try that thing with the peanut butter again. He’d really liked that. Really.

Apparently Shannon had a thing for peanut butter.

Damn. He probably wouldn’t get back from the party until ten or eleven. Or later, if Kat and Adam wanted to stay. Would that be too late to show up on Shannon’s doorstep?

He headed back to his office in a foul mood and punched her number into his cell but she didn’t answer. For some reason she still wasn’t picking up. For him. His dismal mood darkened even more.

After he left, Adam shot Kat a curious look. “Did any of that seem a little odd to you?”

She tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Apparently we picked the wrong woman as his date.”

Chapter Seven

Tristan didn’t see Shannon all weekend, even though he went by her place several times and banged on the door and called her on the phone and even reconnoitered her patio through binoculars like a pervert stalker.

Nothing. Not a glimpse. It was as though she’d disappeared from the face of the earth.

And all the while, he burned.

He could think of little other than her expression as he buried himself in her body, the way she’d felt wrapped around him. He wanted her with a passion he’d never experienced before. But it wasn’t only her body he desired. He missed her company as well. He’d have a thought and turn to share it with her but he’d be alone. Or he’d fix a meal and realize, for some reason, he’d made up two plates.

He was infatuated with Shannon. Everything about her haunted him—her mop of curls, her expressive eyes and her rosebud mouth. She talked a little in her sleep, he remembered, just little mumbles and moans, with the occasional “Tristan” thrown in. And she snorted when she laughed sometimes—a dainty little snort but endearing for all that.

This preoccupation with her should have annoyed him, would have annoyed him, say a week ago, but oddly it didn’t.

It felt…right.

His phone rang several times over the weekend and he rushed to answer it, only to find the person on the other end of the line was not someone he wanted to talk to. Not the gentleman with a wonderful offer from a Nigerian banker. Not Adam, who called to remind him to bring wine for their Sunday dinner with Mom. And certainly not Tandy Larsen, who called to announce she was ready to accept his apology for breaking up with her in the first place.

At one point in his life, Tristan had had the patience to deal with Tandy’s histrionics—he’d even thought her tantrums and scenes were cute—but not anymore. Not even the prospect of hot make-up sex could intrigue him. At least, not hot make-up sex with Tandy.

Their “date” had been miserable—although it had served to validate his decision to end it with her. She’d been clingy and flirty and had patently ignored his every gentle rebuff. And then, when he’d come right out and told her he just wasn’t interested, she’d dropped to the ground in a fit of the vapors.

In retrospect, he realized she’d probably expected him to catch her.

He remembered what a drama queen Tandy had been. How exhausting Tandy had been. And then he thought of Shannon—calm and prosaic, even when he’d announced there would be no more screwing around like horny little bunnies. She hadn’t accepted his decrees but there had been no tantrums, no tears, no fits of the vapors. She’d just calmly, quietly seduced him—again and again. And again. Using only her wits and an inscrutable feminine understanding of his deepest desires, she’d made him want her beyond reason.

And he wanted her still.

But she wasn’t around. Not at all.

By Monday he was in a certifiable snit.

He went in early because he wanted to be sitting there, in his office, when she arrived. He wanted to grab her right off the bat and interrogate her about where she’d been all weekend. Hell, she hadn’t come home at all. He’d spent two whole days vacillating between worry and anger. Oh yeah. And lust.

When she finally arrived, she brought protection. Smart girl. She probably knew how furious he’d be, so she walked into the office with her female posse—Kat and Jenny and Sara. They marched, in formation, through the front doors, down the hall and straight into the lunchroom.

Tristan frowned and stood, barely biting back a growl. He didn’t want to wait for her to make coffee and small talk with the “girls”. He didn’t want to wait until they had shared all the details of their weekend, each minute facet of every TV show or movie they’d seen since Friday. He wanted to fuck Shannon right now. No.
Talk
to Shannon. He wanted to talk to Shannon right now.

He strode down the hall and poked his head into the lunchroom and said, very succinctly and with absolutely no preamble, “Shannon. My office. Now.” Without waiting for her response, he stormed back down the hall to his office, slamming the door in his wake.

She took her sweet time responding to his summons but at least she had the good sense to bring him coffee. She announced herself with a sharp rap and then opened the door without waiting. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Trillo?” She juggled two mugs in one hand and her steno pad in the other.

“Close the door.” He glared at her over his steepled fingers.

Her demeanor was bland and unreadable. She closed the door with her toe and placed his mug gingerly on the desk in front of him before sitting in the chair on the far side of his desk.

No steno pad tossed heedlessly to the floor, he noticed. No wild, passionate blowjob.

She took a sip of her coffee and cleared her throat. “Did you want something?”

Did he? Hell. He wanted her—bent over the conference table. The chair. The sofa. Pressed against the wall. The desk. The windows. Yeah. He wanted something, all right.

“Where were you this weekend?”

She recoiled at the question or perhaps at the vehemence with which the question was posed. “I beg your pardon?”

“This weekend. I tried to call you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Trillo. I went away this weekend. I wasn’t aware we had any projects pending.”

“I wasn’t calling about work, damn it.” He wished she wouldn’t be quite so prosaic. Wished she would show some shred of emotion. Quivering passion, perhaps. “I wanted to see you.”

She didn’t respond, other than to sip her coffee contemplatively. Finally, she murmured, “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t do that anymore.”

“I know,” he snapped. “But I just wanted to
see
you.”

She raised a brow, a delicate, elegant brow. It mocked him more than words ever could. It spoke to his inconsistency, his stubbornness and his weak, weak will. “I went away for the weekend.”

“Were you alone?” he hissed, beset with visions of Shannon and another man. He swallowed the acid surging into his mouth. It burned all the way to his gut.

“I was with my sister and some friends.”

Relief flooded him. Until her next words registered in his brain.

“Though you know, Tristan, if I was with another man, it would be none of your business. When I promise fidelity, I keep my word, but you and I have made no such promises. You’ve made the nature of our relationship very clear.”

He swallowed heavily. It was true. He had. Again and again. “Are you saying we’re finished?” How the words made it past his lips, he never knew. They were like sharp, jagged stones in his mouth.

“Of course not. You’re the one who insists our relationship can never work. I love being with you. I love every moment.”

Well, now. That was promising. He felt infinitely better.

“So can I see you tonight?” His mood plunged when she shook her head.

“Not tonight, Tristan.” She picked up her coffee mug and her steno pad and headed for the door. “Tonight I have a date. And you,” she said glancing at the clock, “have a meeting.”

She had a date.

Tristan stood back in the shadows and glared down at Shannon’s patio. He could hear the music floating on the night wind through the open doors and he clenched his fist.

She had a date.

He wished they’d come out onto the patio so he could get a good look at the bastard. He hoped he was dumpy. Bucktoothed. And bald.

And then they appeared. The two of them. They walked out onto the patio—
he
sauntered, the cocky prick—to take in the view. The beautiful, romantic view. Tristan fumed and glared at the view. Damn that view. Why couldn’t it be hideously repulsive?

And what was with her date?

He wasn’t dumpy. Not in the least. The guy probably lifted weights all day long to get a physique like that. And he certainly wasn’t bald. And—damn it all anyway—his teeth were perfect. They glinted in the moonlight when he smiled. Even from here. Hell.

His heart hitched as Shannon moved closer to the Adonis and slipped into his arms. Together, they twirled across the patio. Muted music wafted through the still night on an errant zephyr and he snarled. He slammed into his house and emerged a minute later with his binoculars. The guy had his hand on the small of her back, fingers splayed as they danced, and she looked happy. Happy, for Christ’s sake!

Then the guy dipped her.
Dipped her.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed when she laughed up at her date as though she was enjoying this dance more than anything.

Hell. She’d enjoyed fucking him a damn sight more, he’d wager. She’d better have.

When they disappeared into the house, Tristan lost it. He trained the binoculars on the sliding glass doors but they didn’t reappear and the music became softer, more intimate. A new CD came on. Tristan had to strain to make out the slow, jazzy strains filtering out into the night, but to him it sounded like the perfect music for…

Hell.

He dragged his fingers through his hair, imagining all sorts of sleazy scenarios until, finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. Knowing he was acting like an immature ass but unable to help himself, he hopped into his car, sped down the hill to her house and laid on the doorbell.

The chime echoed through the house but no one answered the door. Where were they? And what were they doing?

Hell!

Tristan rang the bell again in a staccato fashion and was gratified to hear Bosco let out a series of barks and growls, his nails scratching against the door. That would bring them. Wouldn’t it?

And then he heard her voice—music to his ears. “Bos!” she called. “Stop that.” Tristan smiled as he noted a change in the tenor of her voice. She was coming closer.

The door opened and she was there, bending slightly to hold on to Bosco’s collar as he attempted to leap on the intruder. She was there and, thank God, fully dressed. He’d arrived in time to stop any illicit behavior. His feral grin widened.

“Hey, Shannon.”

“Tristan?” Her lovely brow quirked upward, the British form of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned against the jamb. “Just came by to see how you’re doing.”

“I have company,” she hissed, throwing a glance over her shoulder into the living room. Good. They were still in the living room.

“Great!” He pushed past her into the foyer, reaching down to scratch Bosco behind the ears. “Can’t wait to meet him.” Ignoring her frown, he strode down the hall. She sighed as she closed the front door and followed.

The scene before him was pleasing in the extreme. The man of the evening—Shannon’s date—was seated on the sofa studying a Scrabble board.

Scrabble.

They were playing Scrabble.

“Who was it, Shan?” her date said in a distracted voice. When he turned his head and saw Tristan, his nostrils flared.

Shannon caught up and stepped between them to make introductions. At least that’s what Tristan assumed. If she knew the extent of what was going on in his gut, she’d be stepping between them to keep Tristan from ripping someone’s way-too-handsome face off.

“Tristan, this is my friend Steve Olsen. Steve-o, this is Tristan Trillo.”

Steve—Steve-o—stood and Tristan was irritated that he was very tall, much taller than Tristan. He was also much, much prettier than Tristan, with long sweeping lashes and a thick shock of hair with a little Elvis curl right in front. From his great height, he gave Tristan an assessing look. But it wasn’t the assessing look of a man sizing up the competition. It was the look of a man sizing up a potential conquest.

Then Steve-o smiled.

“My heavenly God.” He fanned himself with one hand, apparently in raptures. “You aren’t
the
Tristan Trillo, are you? I’ve heard so much about you. Shannon practically gushes.”

“Is that so?” Tristan smiled at Shannon, a sly, knowing smile.

All right. It was a smirk.

She crossed her arms over her chest and muttered something under her breath.

“Totally.” Steve-o ignored this byplay. I’ve heard about it all. The late nights, the long projects.” He grinned and leaned in. “You’re quite the slave driver.” He laughed at his own private joke and picked up his wineglass to take a sip. “It’s poetic that you two are now an item.”

“We are not an item!” Shannon blurted, glaring at them both in turn.

“You’re a
something
,” Steve purred. “And it’s so romantic.”

“Brother.”

“I mean, she’s been crazy for you for—”

“Steve!” Shannon’s ejaculation halted the sentence much sooner than Tristan would have liked. Still, the prospect set his pulse racing. Shannon was crazy about him? And had been for…how long? As long as he’d been mooning over her?

Could it be that they’d been wrapped in a web of mutual lust for years, never knowing the other was sitting on the other side of a flimsy glass partition trying desperately to corral lustful urges?

Steve rolled his eyes. “You heteros,” he sniffed. “Everything has to be so furtive. So many games.”