"She's hoping to teach someday, be a professor," Tristan cut in, then froze. He'd spoken so naturally, as though he'd been settling into the pleasant atmosphere of the dinner. But he'd forgotten one thing: He wasn't supposed to know anything about her. Not her hopes and dreams, just as she wasn't supposed to know his.
We must be polite strangers. Not people whose souls have touched.
Kat swallowed the lump of panic in her throat. "Er … yes. I was telling Tristan during the tour that I'd love to be a college professor and teach history classes."
Her father and Lizzy shared bemused looks before Tristan's mother spoke. "Well, I'm so glad you two have had a chance to get to know each other. London is full of history. Have you had a chance to take in the sights?"
"She hasn't." Her father cut in and winked not-so-subtly at Lizzy. "Wouldn't it be nice if someone showed her around while she's here for the holidays?"
"Yes!" Lizzy's exclamation was a little too eager as she replied to Clayton. "Tristan thought he might have a chance to show Kat around since you and I will be busy with wedding arrangements." She turned to Kat, beaming. "You two can get better acquainted."
"Yes, I'd be delighted to take Kat around London." He turned his focus her way. His body emanated a subtle heat, reminding her just how close they were. "Well, what do you say? A bit of tourism to appease the parents?" His tone was light, teasing, but damned if his eyes weren't burning hot in a way that made her flush all over.
She'd once been afraid of their fire, of the way their passion sparked things, dark delicious things inside her. Now she missed it, craved it like she'd never craved anything else. He was keeping his distance, though, because she was terrified of getting her heart broken.
"I'm in." Kat's voice was strong and clear as she met his gaze with her own.
It was all so frustrating and confusing. She was crazy for holding him at arm's length but still wanting to be around him. She knew it would only end badly. Kat refused to be the only one suffering from repressing whatever it was that kept sparking between them. He was torturing her with those lingering glances, and the gentle, familiar caresses, as though he wanted to drive her mad with the memories of how wonderful it had been between them.
He's killing me with his tempting sweetness.
The little devil that perched on her shoulder whispered an irresistible suggestion. "Show him you can play the game, too."
Dropping one of her hands beneath the table, she brushed the tips of her fingers against his upper thigh and then placed her palm against his leg.
Clink!
Tristan's fork struck the china plate, and his entire body went rigid. She pulled her hand away, pretending to fiddle with her thick cloth napkin. After several deep breaths, he picked up his fork again, not looking at her.
"Tristan, everything all right?" her father asked.
"Yes," he ground out, his voice slightly rough. Her father's brows rose, and he shared a concerned glance with Lizzy.
"So, Kat, any dashing young men at Cambridge catch your attention?" Lizzy asked.
With a sputtered cough, Kat swallowed her bite of tikka masala. She lunged for her water glass, desperate to wash down her dinner so she could catch her breath. A faint, muffled snicker came from her left. She could practically hear Tristan's rich, accented voice in her head, teasing her.
"Well done, Kitty-Kat, can you make it any more obvious?"
She shot him a vengeful look, her heart beating wildly. In an attempt to pay him back for that snicker, she reached for his leg again, but had to stifle a gasp when he caught her hand and placed it high up on his inner thigh, moving it slowly toward his groin. An explosion of heat made her face feel as though it were on fire. He wouldn't let go of her hand.
"Kat?" Her father was staring at her, frowning.
She hadn't answered Lizzy. Swallowing again, she cleared her throat. "I'm not dating anyone, but there was someone … " She paused, choosing her words carefully. Under the table, Tristan still clasped her hand against his thigh. The initial bruising hold softened, and his thumb began to rub in a slow smoothing motion against the rapidly beating pulse point on her inner wrist. An ache settled deep in her chest at that gentle reminder of his ability to affect her.
"Someone?" Her father straightened in his chair, his eyes filled with curiosity.
"Hmmm?" She met her dad's gaze but tried to control her reaction.
Was it hot in here?
She couldn't breathe. She wasn't good at deception or lying. And even if she had been, her father was overprotective. It wouldn't matter if she were sixteen or nineteen; he would still be watchful over her with any man she dated. If he knew she was talking about Tristan, he'd probably post himself outside her door, a shotgun slung loose over one arm, ready to use it on any sexy British playboy that might attempt to sneak into her bedroom under the cover of darkness.
"Just make sure that you're finding time to study."
With a slow, precise movement of defiance, she set her fork down and glared at her father. "It doesn't matter. It was over before it began."
And just like that, Tristan's hand was gone. Her skin instantly cooled without his warm touch. She moved her hand back to her lap. For a second she thought her father would respond, but he held his tongue and took a sip of his wine.
"What about you, Tristan? Are you planning on seeing anyone over the holidays, say Brianna Wolverton?" Lizzy asked.
Kat tried not to react, but she couldn't help shooting a glance at Tristan. She did her best to look only mildly interested, like a new stepsister would-not like the girl Tristan had made love to a few days ago, before everything had gone to hell. Her heart pounded hard against her rib cage, and it made everything in her chest hurt.
"Alas, no, Mum. I've been focused on my studies, which must take precedence over romance." His tone was teasing and light, but Kat didn't miss the way his jaw clenched after he'd spoken.
"I thought that you and Brianna might be back together after what I saw in the Daily Mail," Lizzy observed. "I wish they wouldn't put your picture in those terrible newspapers just to make a fuss whenever your father is vocal in Parliament." Shame and embarrassment mixed with anger seemed to pulse off Lizzy, and her porcelain skin grew pink. Her fingers flipped a napkin about, twiddling it on the table until Kat's father leaned over and put a hand over Lizzy's, stilling her.
"Don't let it bother you, sweetheart. The paparazzi follow Tristan because it's the best way to upset his father's political involvement. You can't let it get to you."
"I know," she whispered. "But it isn't fair that they target Tristan."
While this entire exchange went on, Kat kept sneaking glances at Tristan. He was stone-faced and silent, his hand curled into a menacing fist by his plate. A tic worked in his jaw as he stared straight ahead at something she couldn't see.
"Pardon me." He suddenly shoved his chair back from the table. "I've lost my appetite." Just like that, without another word, he stalked from the room.
"Trist-" Lizzy started to say, but Kat's father cut her off.
"Let him go, sweetheart. It must be tough for him to deal with his father, the tabloids, and now us."
Lizzy nodded shakily, but managed a brave smile. "I know. We knew this would be hard, and I wish there was a way to make it all easier."
Watching her father and Tristan's mother holding hands, comforting each other, made Kat's chest squeeze. She needed a minute alone, herself, and she felt she ought to give the parents a moment alone, too. She didn't bother to excuse herself; she just dashed from the dining room.
Fleeing up the first set of stairs, she paused at the top of the landing. The media room door was ajar. It had a large, black L-shaped sofa facing a massive flat-screen TV and bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling on either side of it. Kat tiptoed up to the door and peered inside. Tristan stood by the TV, turning on a music station with a small remote. A composer's name came up on the screen, a name she recognized. Rachmaninoff. Her favorite composer. With a little twinge of guilt, she lingered there, out of sight, watching him as he turned on the music.
I should walk away, leave him alone. Logically, that's what she should do, but she couldn't. The music swelled out of the speakers in a powerful, emotional sound wave that drew her into the room. Tristan braced his hands on the ledge of a bookshelf and dropped his head, his shoulders sagging. He looked so … tired.