“Does your voice always get this high when you are upset?” Tristan goaded, ignoring her question entirely. “Are you a eunuch under that garb of loose clothing?”
“Tr-Sir!Ineedthis commission,” Ophelia countered, ignoring his barb.
‘Then you should have tried to harder to impress me,” he retorted, toying with his left cuff, looking completely unbothered.
“Oh, you want me to impress you?” She asked sarcastically.
“I am afraid you must,” he said with another shrug.
“By way of art, or knowledge?” She countered.
He let out a deep, loud laugh.
“Why do I care what you know,boy?” He asked, still chuckling.
“Give me the commission, or I will be forced to tell you exactly that,” Ophelia warned.
“I am waiting,” he chuckled, still not not taking her seriously.
“Give me the commission,” she stated, giving him one last time to stop her.
“No.”
“Give me the commission,” she demanded again, “Or I will tell everyone Who. You. Are.”
Tristan stopped laughing; the sudden silence blaring with danger. His blue eyes darkened so quickly as he moved with surprising speed to stand right in front of her, that for a moment, she wondered if it was actually him at all. She swallowed loudly, suddenly regretting resorting to threats. What if it wasn’t him? Tristan would not hurt her. No matter how mad he was. He was many things, yes, but a danger to women? No. Another man, though? A man she’d mistaken for Tristan? In a position of such high power?
She took a step backward, trying to put distance between them, but he kept coming toward her. Then in the blink of an eye his hand was around her throat and he was in her personal space. Ophelia gasped at his quickness, at the tightness of his hold…at the way her body reacted with excitement. Not fear.
She had always loathed being touched by men. Even just the simple touch of her hand or a tap of her shoulder made her bristle in discomfort.
Yet Tristan’s hand wrapped around her throat, pressing just tightly enough to force her gaze up to his? She felt something she never experienced before explode to life within her. Something that made every nerve in her body stand up and pay attention.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes nearly darkening to black as he asked, “You dare to threaten me, boy?”
Despite the obvious danger of possibly being strangled, Ophelia smirked. She had the upper hand and she could not help but revel in it.
“You want better? I can give you better. I can do better if you let me try again,” she offered, trying to placate that predatory look in his eye. “But I am not losing this project,” she said with a quiet authority. “Ireallyneed this commission.”
“No.”
Ophelia groaned, losing her night-long battle with her temper and exclaimed in her normal voice:
, and the fear that it might not it be Tristan.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lord Perfect! Would you please stop being so priggish!” She exclaimed, gripping at her newsboy cap with both hands.
Tristan stopped in his tracks as his mouth fell open
Tristan’s hand instantly fell away from Ophelia’s throat as he stumbled back. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as he leaned forward once more and studied her mask.
“You?” He whispered.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You?”
Tristan looked the young man up and down, suddenly realizing thathe wasn’t a man after all. He’d been wondering about it all night, actually. As the host of theDevil’s Masquerade,he had grown accustomed to the unchecked energies of both the feminine and the masculine, and this painter before him had radiated with pure feminine energy despite the shabby masculine clothing. His voice had also been questionable, and been reaching higher tones as they night had worn on. Still, even if he’d suspected that they were a woman in disguise, he never would have guessed that wasOphelia.
