Her Immortal Love (6 page)

“Sorry to hear that. This is Lydia….” Tristan stopped and looked at her.

She realized she hadn’t yet told him her last name. “March. Lydia March.”

“Afternoon, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said.

“Hope the wife feels better.” Tristan led her over to the elevators. “If she doesn’t soon improve, let me know. I might be able to suggest something.”

“Thanks, Mr. Drake. I’ll do that.”

The elevator doors slid open. She and Tristan entered it, and for the first time since she'd met him, they were alone.

Chapter Four

“Are you a doctor?”

Lydia had been so mesmerized by him at the coffee shop she’d completely forgotten to ask what he did for a living.

“No.” The elevator doors opened on the seventeenth floor. Tristan led her down the carpeted hall. “Why do you ask?”

“You told that man downstairs you could suggest something for his wife's illness.”

He stopped at the last door at the end of the hall. “Nope, not a doctor. I own a pharmaceutical company.”

A pharmaceutical company. Well, that explained the expensive digs. But he was so young. Maybe he’d inherited it.

He opened the door and gestured for her to precede him.

She hesitated. She hadn't been alone with a man other than Douglas in a long time. But here she was about to enter the residence of a man she'd just met. She looked up at him.

“If you'd rather just go home,” he said, “I'll totally understand. I can call you a cab and if it makes you feel safer, you can wait downstairs in the lobby why I do so.”

She didn’t need a cab. Her car was in one of the city parking lots. From where she was, she’d only have to walk a few blocks.

She looked deeply into Tristan’s eyes. In another time she would have thought herself crazy to enter the home of a man she’d just met. But there was something about him she couldn’t quite explain. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but there was a poise and composure about him she’d never experienced with anyone. Much less someone as young as he was.

Douglas had never been one for intuition. He didn’t believe in it. But Lydia did. Her intuition had told her for weeks that her husband was cheating on her, even when he vehemently denied it and accused her of imagining things.

Her intuition was telling her now she could trust Tristan.

“No,” she said. “I won’t need a cab.”

She moved past him and entered the condo. She walked down a short hallway then entered the living room. Floor to ceiling windows made up one side of the wall, which looked out upon a breathtaking view of the city. The clouds had thickened even more. That usually meant rain or, if it was cold enough, snow.

As for the rest of the condo, it was tastefully decorated and as neat as a pin. Lydia's ex, for all his anal-retentive ways, had been something of a slob. He had left socks, underwear, newspapers, magazines and whatnot lying about their house in expectation of Lydia picking up after him. Which she had done. Her lips twisted cynically as she recalled what a dutiful little wife she’d been all those years.

Forcing herself to forget about Douglas, she glanced to her right. On the wall opposite the windows hung a number of huge paintings, an assortment of object d'art and what looked like ancient weaponry. That gave her pause, but it looked more decorative than anything. A large bookshelf of leather-bound books covered the remaining wall and, nestled in a corner next to the bookshelf, was a baby grand piano.

She turned towards Tristan. “It's very nice.”

He shrugged but pleasure glittered in his dark blue eyes. “Let me take your jacket.”

She took it off and handed it to him.

“Do you play the piano?” She couldn’t play any instrument and was impressed by those who could.

He hung her jacket in a nearby closet. “A bit. Are you hungry? Or thirsty?”

“I'm not hungry but I'd love something to drink.”

“Coffee?” he asked with a teasing smile.

She glanced down at her soiled clothing and laughed. “No, I believe I've had enough for the day.”

He also laughed. “I've got water, juice, both apple and orange, beer and some wine. Water even.”

“A glass of wine sounds nice.”

She hoped that asking for wine didn’t make her come off as brazen. It had been so long since she’d socialized with men, she’d forgotten all the niceties.

“Red or white?”

“White, please.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady. But first let me get you something to wear.” He left the living room and headed toward the back of the condo.

She blinked then realized he meant while her clothes were being washed.

He returned holding a plaid woolen shirt. “I’ve only worn it once. Too tight across the shoulders. I’ve also got some sweatpants but I think this will be long enough on you to be decent.”

She took the shirt and held it against her body. He was so much taller than her that it reached past her knees. “Thank you.”

He pointed to a door down the hallway. “You can change in there. I'll get your wine.”

Lydia went inside what she assumed was a guest bathroom. She closed the door behind her then took off her coffee-stained shirt and slacks. Fortunately, her bra and panties were not stained. She looked at her body in the mirror.

She’d never been a fanatic about exercising, but she did work out regularly. Mostly walking and running. She'd had to in order to keep up with the wives of Douglas’s colleagues, many of whom, she suspected, had been anorexic. She had never wanted to be that thin.

She turned and looked at her behind. It wasn’t bad. Not as tight as it had been when she was nineteen, but it wasn’t sagging. At least not yet. She examined the rest of her body. Her waist was small, her hips rounded but slim. Her breasts weren’t as big as Tiffany’s, especially after Douglas paid for them to be enlarged, but they weren’t flat either.

She sighed. But it still was just an ordinary body. Maybe a tad above average due to her working out and watching her diet but nothing special. Certainly not special enough, in her opinion, to warrant the attention of a gorgeous, younger man.

She put on Tristan's shirt. She kept on her socks but picked up the loafers she’d been wearing. She stepped out of the bathroom, her stained clothes bundled in her arms, her shoes on top, and went over to where he stood by the windows.

He turned, smiled and handed her a wine glass. “You take this and I'll take those.”

Lydia gave him her clothes, minus her shoes, which she placed on the floor next to the taupe-colored sofa.

“Be right back.” He went through a door on the other side of the living room. While she waited for him to return, she wandered about, sipping her wine. It was cool and delicious and she let the taste linger on her tongue.

She first went over to his bookshelf, which encompassed an entire wall. His interests appeared to be wide-ranging. Music, science, history, philosophy, art. He owned books on every subject imaginable.

One shelf, however, was full of thick, leather-bound books. She leaned closer as she read the titles.

Tyrocinium Chymicum
by John Beguinus.
Cheiragogia Heliana: A Manuduction To the Philosopher's Magical Gold
by Raphael Iconius Eglinus.
The Cure of Old Age, and Preservation of Youth
by Roger Bacon, A Franciscan Friar.
Fascilicus Chemicus
by Arthur Dee.

She took one of the books off the shelf and read the front piece.
Medicina instaurata
, or
A Brief Account of the True Grounds and Principles of the Art of Physick. With the Insufficiency of the Vulgar way of Preparing Medicines, and the Excellency of such as are made by Chymical Operation
by Edward Bolnest.

She paged through the book but none of what she read made any sense. She put it back on the shelf and wandered over to the paintings on another wall. Like Tristan's books, they reflected a variety of tastes, eras and styles, including Mannerism, Neo-classicism, and Primitivism. She recognized most of them from her brief time in college studying art history. They weren’t originals, of course, but nicely reproduced prints. Her mind ticked off the artist and the titles of the works.

Agnolo Bronzino’s
An Allegory of Cupid with Venus
. Jacques-Louis David’s
The Oath of the Horatti
. Pablo Picasso’s
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

Her eyes widened when they lit on the next painting. The last time she had seen it was in a college textbook. Even then, it had intrigued and fascinated her. But seeing it here now, in Tristan’s condo, sent a tingle of pleasure through her.

It was Max Ernst’s
Attirement of the Bride
.

She moved closer to the painting. The background was comprised of classical architecture. But Ernst had undermined the classicism in the painting by placing within its setting bizarre, erotic images.

A naked woman, masked and wearing a long, thick cloak of red feathers was escorted to her wedding by a green-winged birdman. It was one of her favorite paintings though she had to admit it disturbed her as much as it fascinated her.

She stared at it for a long moment, trying to fathom what kind of man would own such a painting. There was more to Tristan Drake, she realized, than met the eye. She looked around, wondering if he had any
shunga
prints displayed but didn’t see any.

She moved on, taking sips from her glass of wine. She was starting to feel quite nice, her body warming, her nervousness dissolving. She stopped in front of the wall upon which the weapons were displayed. She didn’t know much about weaponry but all of them seemed to be from times long past.

There were a few swords of varying lengths, most of which had ornately designed pommels and grips. Her gaze lighted on an elegant rapier with finely wrought metalwork on its cup-hilt. She couldn’t help imagining Tristan with his dashing good looks wielding such a beautiful weapon in defense of a lady. As he’d done that night at the club.

A Japanese samurai sword in a gold-lacquered scabbard dominated the display. Alongside it hung two flintlock pistols. The rest of the weapons also appeared to be not only from centuries past but also from other cultures.

There was nothing strange about collecting ancient weapons, but as she stared at them she noted that although they were obviously well cared for, they also looked used. She didn’t think they were replicas and, if they weren’t, they had to have cost a pretty penny. Her mother was into antiques and it was quite an expensive hobby.

She finally wandered over to the piano. The sheet music on it was a jazz composition by someone named Art Tatum. She stared at the notes, wishing she had not only learned to read music but to play as well. Next to the piano was a display case. On a middle shelf, tucked between a red and gold Chinese vase and the figurine of an Egyptian pharaoh, was a black and white photograph in a silver frame.

She moved closer. It was a photograph of a couple dressed in clothing from the 1930's. They stood in front of what looked like a medieval church. The man wore a light-colored, fitted suit, his fedora in hand. He was tall, dark-haired and handsome. He was smiling at the camera. His arm was about a woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She wore a sundress and sandals. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and fashioned in the style of that time. She wasn't smiling but her head was nestled snugly against the man's shoulder.

As Lydia stared at the photo, her eyes widened.

The man looked exactly like Tristan. The same cleft in the chin and deep dimples alongside the mouth. The hair was different, as it was cut in a manner befitting the times, but he could have been Tristan. Or a twin. But that was impossible. The man in this photo, if he was still alive, would have to be near to or over a hundred years old. He had to be Tristan’s grandfather or possibly his great-grandfather.

When Lydia was seventeen her mother had shown her a picture of her maternal grandmother as a young woman. For a moment Lydia had thought she was looking at herself, she had looked so much like her grandmother.

Tristan moved up behind her. “Your clothes are in the wash. It shouldn't take long.”

“Thank you.” She picked up the photograph. “Is that your grandfather?”

“Great-grandfather actually.”

“That’s amazing. You look exactly like him.”

“Everyone says that.”

“And is she your great-grandmother?”

He shook his head. “Just a woman my great-grandfather loved.”

“She was beautiful.”

Tristan slowly nodded. “Yes, she was. Very beautiful.”

“I would imagine he’s not still alive, is he?”

“No.”

“And her?”

Tristan didn’t answer at first. “I don’t know,” he finally said, but he looked uncomfortable as he said it.

A family scandal?
“They look very much in love,” she said.

“They were. Very much. They had a lifetime of love.”

A lifetime of love.

She and Douglas had made it to nearly twenty years together, but as time had gone on their marriage had become more of a soap opera with her acting the role of the dutiful, gullible wife.

She bit her lip and turned away as tears stung her eyes.

Tristan took her gently by the arms. “Lydia, what's wrong?”

She shook her head, forcing a smile. “Nothing. I'm fine. Where was the photo taken?”

“At the Saint Antimo Abbey in Tuscany near the town of Montalcino. Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded then carefully placed the photo back on the shelf. She could not help but envy them. A lifetime of love. Was such a thing even possible anymore?

She looked back at Tristan. A slow smile spread across his face.

“What?”

Now his smile was a wide grin. “Do you have any idea how incredibly sexy you look?”

She glanced down. The edge of his shirt was just below her knees. She looked back up at him.

He reached up and gently cupped her face. “You have the most kissable lips. Did you know that?”

She silently shook her head. She wasn’t able to speak because her heart was thumping so hard it hurt. Tristan’s touch was more than just electrifying. It felt more as if the breath had been kicked out of her body.