“I took a chance last night… Man, I knew that leaving the reception with you was a bad idea, but I was only thinking about what you might think when you saw me naked.”
Tristan drew back and tipped her head up toward his. “What I might think when you were naked?”
“Yeah, you know, stuff like, ‘she’s a lot flabbier than the women I’m used to….’”
“Ma petite, you were perfection in my arms last night.”
“You don’t have to lay it on that thick, Tristan. I look in the mirror every day and what I see staring back at me isn’t perfection.”
“Your mirror is not the best. Otherwise you’d never leave your flat in the clothes you wear.”
“Um…are you trying to make me feel better?” she asked.
He gave her a quick pat on the backside and stepped away. “I was, smart-ass.”
“So how are we going to deal with this?”
“We are not. I am.”
She shook her head. No way was she going to leave everything to Tristan. Thus far he hadn’t exactly been successful in getting the paparazzi off his own tail. And she wasn’t like him. She couldn’t afford a security detail, or a chauffeur. She took the subway to work and walked seven blocks from the station to her office.
“Tristan—”
“Enough. I said I will deal with it. Trust me.”
Tristan wasn’t surprised by the flash of temper in Sheri’s eyes. But he was surprised that she backed down. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he saw tears gleaming in her pretty brown eyes.
He was angry. At himself for not anticipating that photographers would be bold enough to take advantage of an intimate moment. At Sheri for looking up at him with wounded doe eyes that made him realize he had to fix this. She simply wasn’t as sophisticated as the heiresses and actresses he usually brought to his bed, and laughing off this kind of scandal was beyond her.
And mostly he was mad at the tabloid that had decided to print this picture. He suspected it was because the publisher, Gabrielle Damienne, was an ex-lover of his and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
“Sheri?”
“Yes.”
“Will you trust me?” he asked.
Distantly he heard the doorbell ring, but knew the housekeeper would answer it. He had the feeling that anyone who came to the door today he wasn’t going to want to see.
“I’m not sure.”
Was her trust really important to him? She was more than a one-night stand, she was a woman he cared for, but he wasn’t going to love her. So was trust really that important?
Yes, he thought. He wanted her to say she trusted him to handle this for her. He wanted to demand it. To make her admit that she would rely on him to handle this media mess.
“You seemed sure last night.”
She narrowed her eyes and then tipped her head to the side. “Last night was lust. Surely you knew that.”
He felt the burn of her words and that sickly sweet tone she used. He knew he’d been rushing her out the door until he’d seen the paper. He hadn’t really cared if she’d picked up on that fact earlier. But now, hearing those words come from her lips…he realized he already cared more for Sheri than was prudent.
She was dangerous because she made him feel way more than lust for her sexy little body, which she kept hidden under the ugliest clothing he’d ever seen on a woman.
Today, dressed in his sister Blanche’s blouse and trousers, she looked…almost beautiful. Actually, the only thing detracting from her beauty were those wounded eyes of hers. She was hurting, and a different man, a man who still had a romantic heart, would soothe her.
There was a rap on the door. “Mr. Sabina?”
“Please come in.”
Mrs. Thonnopulus opened the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but Count de Cuaron y Buatista de la Cruz is here to see you.”
Gui. He must have seen the paper this morning. And Tristan was glad to have his friend interrupt this situation with Sheri, which was going from bad to worse.
“Send him in.”
Less than a minute later Gui strode through the door. Wearing jeans and a designer one-of-a-kind shirt, Gui looked relaxed and casual. Not like the aristocrat he was, but more like the second son he also was.
“Ms. Donnelly, Tristan, please pardon my unscheduled visit. But I need a word with you, Tris.”
“About?”
“A sensitive matter,” Gui said.
“Does it involve the photos of us in the newspaper?” Sheri asked, all blunt American.
Tristan wanted to order her from the room so he could have a discussion with Gui without her sarcasm.
“Indeed. So you’ve already seen the papers.”
“Papers?”
“Reuters picked up the photo. It’s in every tabloid I’ve been able to put my hands on this morning,” Gui said.
Sheri started trembling. She turned her back on both men and dropped her head down to her chest. Tristan watched her, knowing she was dealing with the pain and unable to make himself walk across the room and comfort her.
He’d done enough of that this morning. He needed to keep a distance between them.
Gui arched one eyebrow at him and nodded toward Sheri. Tristan shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Gui rolled his eyes and went to Sheri’s side. He wrapped one arm around her shoulder and handed her a snowy-white handkerchief.
And Tristan saw red. It was that simple. He knew he’d just dismissed her, but he couldn’t stand to see Gui touching Sheri. She was his. His.
He was across the room before he realized he was moving. He nudged Gui aside and pulled Sheri into his arms. She put her head on his shoulder and he felt the warmth of her tears sinking through the cotton fabric of his shirt.
A wave of total helplessness swamped him. How was he going to fix this? He’d spent the last eight years since Cecile’s death moving forward, never stopping to answer questions or challenge the paparazzi that followed him and the scandals he wove effortlessly.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her the way he hadn’t held a woman in eight long years. He held her to give comfort. He felt the shackles he’d tried to wrap around his heart shift.
He lifted her face to his, aware that Gui had stepped out to the balcony to afford them some privacy
