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“Right.” He watches me for another moment, then takes a step closer. “So... you and Liam, then?”
The blush intensifies even more, and I duck my head. “That’s, uh, kind of a big question.” When Tristan doesn’t immediately respond, I shrink back a little. “Look, I’m trying not to step on any toes here. If that’s a problem—”
“It’s not,” he cuts me off, his expression burning with something I can’t identify.
“Well, ah, good. I guess.” I rub the back of my neck. “This is... Sorry. Clearly I don’t know how to talk about my private life.”
Tristan shrugs and looks away, and there’s a flicker of something in those blue eyes—doubt, maybe? No, it’s something stronger than that, but it vanishes before I can identify it. “They call it a private life for a reason, Mrs. Emmerico.”
I give a dry chuckle. “I guess I might as well just quit telling you to call me by my first name, huh?”
Tristan’s eyes find mine again. “You’re married,” he points out. That strange look reappears on his face for another moment.
“To a man who shot me, yeah,” I agree. “Not exactly the foundation for a loving marriage.”
That actually startles a smile out of him, and for some strange reason, my heart skips a beat when I see the boyish way it lights up his face. “You ought to smile more often,” I say without thinking.
Tristan raises an eyebrow at me, his smile vanishing.
“I mean, uh...” I flounder. “It suits you. That’s all.”
Tristan’s eyes narrow, a trace of his familiar scowl now back on his face. It’s sharp enough to cut stone. “I’ll keep that in mind... Mrs. Emmerico.”
He’s doing it on purpose, I realize with a huff of frustration. I sigh, draining my coffee and setting the cup on the counter. “Fine,” I mutter. “I give up.”
“On?”
“Trying to break the ice. Either I’m not good at it, or you’re just determined to stay crabby all the time. Regardless, I’m running out of ideas, so let’s just, I don’t know, call it a draw. You don’t have to like me if you don’t want to, Tristan. But I’ve got too much on my plate to keep beating my head against the wall.”
Tristan blinks, as if startled by my vehemence. His blue gaze sweeps over me, and I feel like I’m standing in an ice-cold wind... so why do I suddenly feel hot? He watches me like that for several long moments, his eyes darkening with conflicting emotions, and when he speaks, his voice is astonishingly quiet. “I don’t…”
That’s all he manages to get out before one of his men speaks up from the parlor, his voice drawn and agitated. “Boss? You might want to come see this.”
Tristan’s brow furrows, and the look on his face is as startled as the one that must be on mine as he turns and hurries into the sitting room. I drift along behind him, curiosity piqued, our exchange momentarily forgotten.
A couple of Tristan’s guys are clustered around the coffee table, where a laptop is sitting open. There’s a video playing on the screen, but one of them—the one who called for Tristan—pauses it when we enter, craning his neck to glance back at us. The look on his face stops me dead in my tracks, and on some subconscious level, I know that this is about to hit a little too close to home, even before he speaks.
“This morning’s news,” he tells Tristan, his eyes darting briefly but noticeably to me, and my heart rate picks up.
Tristan glances at me, and I can tell by the way his mouth is tight that he’s just as uncomfortable about where this is going as I am. “Go on,” he says, his voice like steel.
His man rewinds to the beginning of the video and presses play. An instant later, the crisp tones of a local news reporter fill the silent room:
“Our main story today concerns an assault that happened early this morning at an art gallery in London’s Mayfair neighborhood. According to authorities, two unknown assailants entered the renowned Sterling Gallery on Berkeley Street shortly before eight A.M. and brutally attacked an employee before fleeing in an unmarked car. Although security footage was obtained, it’s still unclear if the aggressors were professionals. Regardless, authorities are hoping that the public can be of assistance in tracking them down. The assailants have not been identified, and the victim, one Callie Burns, age twenty-two, has been brought to St. Thomas Hospital.”
My stomach drops, my blood runs cold, and for a moment, I can’t hear the report over the sound of ringing in my ears. Without even realizing I’m doing it, I grab hold of Tristan’s arm, as much to keep myself from falling over as to steady myself. I’m vaguely aware of him tensing under me, but his gaze remains fixed to the computer, his jaw set.
“Ms. Burns was found by a maintenance worker not long after the assailants left and was rushed to the hospital, where she remains in stable but serious condition. The gallery’s owner, Craig Sterling, a prominent figure in the London art scene, could not be reached for comment. According to our sources, police have not ruled out the possibility of a targeted attack. Curiously, no art was found to be missing from the gallery, leading some to speculate that this incident may have been a personal vendetta rather than a simple robbery. Police did not comment on whether this assault is connected to the recent spate of organized crime in Central London, although questions remain as to whether…”
“Turn it off,” Tristan orders shortly, his jaw taut.
His guy glances up at him, but the grim set of Tristan’s face doesn’t change, and he obeys, turning off the computer. I can feel my knees shaking, and my hands are clammy. I still have hold of Tristan’s arm, but I can’t even bring myself to look at him. I swallow past the lump in my throat and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe, but the reprieve is short-lived; in my mind’s eye, all I can see is Callie’s face. I try to speak, but the only sound that comes out is a choked sob. I sound like a child, and I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it.
My knees buckle, and Tristan catches me before I can fall. I don’t even have time to thank him for it; I’m already sliding toward the floor, sick with fear and guilt, and just like that, all the terror of the last night’s attack comes flooding back. I’m shaking so badly I can barely stand up, but Tristan’s strong arms are under mine, holding me up.
“She...” I manage. “She… Callie…”
Tristan gets his arm more fully under my shoulders, and I have time to register how sturdy it is, how warm, before I feel the intensity of his gaze on me and am flooded by a different kind of emotion.
