“Are you saying I am jealous of Weavington?” He asked.
“Nay,” Alistair said, shaking his head once as he held Tristan’s stare. “But ye just did with that reaction.”
Tristan let out a growl as he shoved away from the desk.
“I forgot how devilishly perceptive you were,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“The devil is in the details,” Alistair retorted calmly, steepling his fingertips. “So what is going on with ye and Ophelia?”
“Nothing,” Tristan lied, forcing himself to be calm, “She just caught how I reacted to Weavington. She teased me about being jealous and it got under my skin. I decided to make her squirm a little.”
Guilt poured through Tristan as he told the lie. Not for the fact that he was lying to Alistair, but that he was lying about Ophelia.
He looked back at Alistair, and was relieved when they large Scotsman appeared to believe him.
“Well, like I said, Perley is not Weavington,” Alistair repeated, getting up from his chair, “Ye need to step away from this, Tristan.”
Tristan brows flew up as his friend put a hand on his shoulder.
“I beg your pardon?” He demanded.
“I am speaking to ye as a friend here,” Alistair answered calmly, “Ye losing ye wits over this situation. Ye need to step back. Not forever. Just a few days. I have never seen ye this agitated and I need ye mind right so we can find the real Perley and get to the bottom of all of this.”
Tristan scowled at the floor, but said nothing.
“Go home, Tristan,” Alistair insisted. “Get some rest. Ye clearly need it. We both do. I will meet with the fellas in the morning, let them know ye are going to step away for a few days. They will understand.”
Tristan gave a stiff nod, his thoughts rampantly shifting from Weavington to Perley, to Ophelia.
“Something is not right with him,” Tristan said, trying one last attempt to speak with Alistair about Weavington. “He might not be Perley, but I can feel it in my bones. That man is no good.”
Alistair gave a helpless shrug as he tiredly shook his head.
“Aye. Ye may be right. But there is nothing we can do about that right now. Please, Tristan. Go get some sleep.”
Tristan drew in a deep breath and held it as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I am sorry I interrupted your night,” he apologized, “You are right. I just need some sleep.”
“Forgiven, brother,” Alistair replied, clapping Tristan on the shoulder.
At his own home, Tristan undressed, not bothering to put on his usual night clothes, and slipped under his covers naked. He closed his eyes, trying to push the rapidly moving thoughts fromhis head. Then, as the memory of his kiss with Ophelia flickered by, he stopped it, held it in the forefront of his mind.
His body relaxed as he replayed the memory in slow motion; recalling every breath, every touch, and every taste. His tense muscles finally melted into his bed, and as he finally found sleep in the memory of Ophelia’s lips.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What do you think?”
Tingles traveled through Ophelia’s body as Tristan whispered the question into her ear. They both stood near the entrance of the main room of the new location of the secret club. Even though it was a new place- this one further out of Mayfair- Tristan had still been there to gather her the moment she stepped through the door.
Ophelia took in the now-familiar massive black and red silk draperies that masked the walls from the ceiling all the way to the high-polished floors. There were no mirrors this time, which Ophelia thought was a pity, but there was three bed-sized swings hung from the ceilings scattered between the chaise lounges. They were already laden with naked men and women, all of them writhing and moaning in ecstasy as the momentum of the large swings seem to do all of the work for them.
“I think the swings look rather interesting,” she confessed.
Tristan hummed in agreement as he slid the warm palm of his hand over the nape of her neck. The soft touch made her tremble, and she bit her lip in excitement. Between her tasks of managing her father’s care and organizing his office, thoughts of what to expect at her next visit to theDevil’s Masqueradehad poured through her mind. She wanted to know more. About the club. About the members and what they did there; and particularly, about Tristan and what he liked.
“Come along,” he insisted, gently guiding her by the back of her neck, “I will take you to my new office. We have some work to accomplish before we play.”
