Page 30 of Tristan’s Temptation

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?”