“For some, yes,” he agreed, “However, that is not my particular taste.”
“And what is your taste?” She asked.
She offered the question without a thought, but blushed immediately as she realized such words spouted from her lips. Realizing that his touch was having such an intense effect on her, she pulled back.
“Apologies. That is also something that is not my business,” she stated.
Tristan’s eyes roved up her body as he put his hands in his trouser pockets, and she wondered if he did so to stop himself from touching her again.
“I think it is best that I agree with you on that,” he replied, taking another step away as his eyes landed on hers.
“Right,” she murmured.
Though for some reason she now very much wanted to know what Tristan’s tastes were. She blushed at the thought, and turned back to her painting. She picked up her brush, intent on getting back to work, but then before she could help it, she turned back around.
“Tristan,” she began, and then a knock came at his office door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Put this on and go back to your painting,” Tristan demanded.
Ophelia had no chance to reach for her mask. Tristan had grabbed it the moment he heard the knocking and was placing it back on her face as he gave the demand. This time she did not argue with his demanding overbearing nature, and turned right back to her painting. Now that she was going to be looking for a husband, she had to protect her identity now more than ever.
“What is it?” She heard Tristan demand through his own mask when he opened the door.
“There is a problem, my lord,” Ophelia heard the guard answer, “One of the angels was assaulted, and the man responsible is causing a scene. We cannot get him to calm down and he refuses to leave.”
A feral growl erupted from Tristan’s chest; the sound sending another shot of that strange excitement through Ophelia’s veins.
“I’ll be right there,” Tristan stated, then shut the door.
Ophelia pretended to keep painting as Tristan came around his desk and forced open a drawer, but she couldn’t hold back her shock as she saw him draw out a black leather whip.
“What is that for?” She asked.
“Stay here,” he commanded, ignoring her question as he walked back around her and toward the door.
“Oh, that is certainly not happening,” she murmured to herself as she put her paint brush back down. She waited a few seconds after Tristan slammed the door shut, then made her way down hall, and peeked through the mirrored door.
The usual clusters of people gathered together throughout the room were now standing far off to either sides, watching the struggle in the center of the room with rapt attention. The music had paused, as had the erotic aura that usually filled the club, and tension seemed to ebb from everyone as three three guards struggled to take down a masked man. On the left of the struggle, two masked men and a woman were coddling another masked woman that was crying.
Tristan strode toward the man fighting his guards and without even slowing down, lifted his leg and delivered a powerful kick tothe man’s chest. Ophelia’s mouth dropped open as she watched the man stop fighting and drop to his knees like a heavy sack of flour. Tristan didn’t give the man time to catch his breath or recover before he unfurled his whip and lashed it out, the thing snaking tightly around the man’s neck.
A strange tingling formed in Ophelia’s lower belly as Tristan gave the whip a sharp tug that brought the man went down to all fours, and a wet warmth splashed over her inner thighs. She’d always pictured Lord Perfect as a bit of a dandy. A man so polite that he would never truly deign to dirty his hands- but in that moment Ophelia realized she had beenverywrong.
She watched, her curiosity growing, as Tristan moved down to one knee, grabbed the man by the back of his hair, and whispered something into his ear. She moved a little out of the doorway, straining to hear what he might have said to the man that caused the disruption, but it was in vain.
Then suddenly Tristan shouted, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” So loudly that everyone, including his guards, jumped, and the man on his hands and knees quivered as he nodded his head.
“I understand,” The man gasped loudly. “I understand.”
Ophelia watched as Tristan then shot up to his feet. He flicked the wrist of the hand that held the whip, and the tight leather rope unraveled itself from the man’s neck. Tristan coiled it back up as two guards forced the masked man to stand. He sagged between their hold, and walked with dragging steps as they began to lead him away.
Tristan then went to the sobbing woman and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. The moment he touched her, the woman threw her arms around his neck as if they were lovers, and Tristan held her tightly.
The sight sent a surprising shock of possessiveness through Ophelia, and she frowned at the feelings was suddenly tormented with.
It was Tristan! What did it matter that he had a lover? Why should she care?
