The fact that the man she loved was in bed with another woman ceased to be important when Holly saw the blood. Her heart, which had been running on empty until she met Tristan, stuttered and stalled. Horror freeze-framed time—the shutter snaps of images flooding her brain almost audible. She couldn’t breathe or move, knew she hadn’t made a sound, but Tristan's head snapped up. Wild red eyes honed in on her. Blood smeared his mouth, drizzled from two wounds on his partner's throat. The woman he'd been screwing appeared deathly pale and deadly still.
She should run before he shouted, “What the hell are you doing here?” but fear had turned her to ice. Holly hadn't blinked but Tristan stood on his feet. Her heart tripped over a beat. No one could move that fast. He shook back his mane of black hair and, holding her prisoner in his burning gaze, glided toward her. The last rays of the dying sun bronzed his body.
How incredibly beautiful he was. How she loved him. How dare he do this to her?
She wanted to scream, “You S-O-B! Saturday you said you loved me. Monday you're banging another woman!”
Humiliation, jealousy, and grief burned like fire beneath her skin. She tried but failed to tear her gaze from his. Tristan's eyes were luminous azure not scarlet. The blood on his mouth had somehow disappeared, or, please God, maybe she'd imagined it. His naked body blocked Holly's view of the bed though she knew the woman still lay there. Why hadn't she said something, jumped up or grabbed her clothes and slammed the door? Blood.
Her head gave a dizzy spin. Maybe the woman was dead. Fear broke Holly's paralysis.
“I’d no right.” She folded her arms tight across her chest, holding herself together as she backed away, babbling, “I did knock. The door was open a little bit.” But there’d been no welcoming light only shadows. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I'm going now.”
Before I start crying.
“Hols,” Tristan whispered, his voice as lovely as the music he made. “Wait please. Allow me to explain.”
Hols. His pet name for me.
In one swift move that blurred her vision, he bent and the sheet materialized loosely knotted around his hips. Was he trying to be modest? They'd been sleeping together for a month. In that time, she’d lovingly memorized every contour of his slender, muscled physique. Holly's willful eyes traveled down him, catching on the long lump beneath the sheet. Memories teased her, desire pulsing above her pelvic bone.
Not modesty.
Covering his nakedness marked an end to intimacy, a prelude to goodbye. Her gaze fled from temptation.
Tristan manifested at her side. She clamped a hand to her mouth but a cry escaped. Velvet hands closed on her shoulders, and an electric thrill zinged through her. Holly's heart yearned to believe that she’d imagined the last five minutes, but the image of her Tristan tangled around another woman had been branded in her mind’s eye.
Damn him!
She’d chosen the green-and-white striped Ralph Lauren sheet riding low on his hips. He blinked as if she'd cursed him aloud, and his hands fell away. He gave her a wary smile.
Though she still felt the warmth of his touch, jealousy hardened her voice. “I'm going, Tristan. Sorry I didn't mean to—” Catch you in the act? “To interrupt.”
His smile faded and it seemed the world went dark. As if he could explain without speaking, he stared into her eyes and finally said, “It’s not what you think.”