Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Alistair, are you certain that was not him?” Tristan demanded.
It was late. They had all left the ball hours ago.
Tristan had returned to the new location of the Devil’s Masquerade to help set up, but he left before he could finished, too bothered about too many things.
He’d left the new location more frustrated than when he’d arrived, and found himself at Alistair and Theo’s.
Presently he and Alistair stood in Alistair’s office, the man looking as if he was on the verge of wringing Tristan’s neck.
“You interrupted my sleep for this? I told you at the ball, yes, I am certain it was not Perley,” Alistair insisted. “Besides, you heard him! He just arrived in London last week from the Americas. He is not our man, Tristan.”
Tristan grit his teeth, everything in his body telling him otherwise.
“What is this really about, Tristan?” Alistair, all but flopping into his office chair.
Tristan’s brows furrowed as he took in Alistair’s exhausted and annoyed expression.
“What do you mean what is this about? I am certain I have made myself plain!”
“Watch ye tone, friend,” Alistair warned, raising a wary brow.
“Ye and I may have settled our differences from the past, but I’m weary enough right now to ignore that and thump ye.
Now ye know what I mean because I saw ye and Ophelia on the dance floor and I let me assure ye, that look ye were giving one another?
That twas not the usual hatred you glare at one another. That was something else.”
Tristan lowered his hands to Alistair’s desk, meeting his warning glare with his own.
“Are you saying I am jealous of Weavington?” He asked.
“Nay,” Alistair said, shaking his head once as he held Tristan’s stare. “But ye just did with that reaction.”
Tristan let out a growl as he shoved away from the desk.
“I forgot how devilishly perceptive you were,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“The devil is in the details,” Alistair retorted calmly, steepling his fingertips. “So what is going on with ye and Ophelia?”
“Nothing,” Tristan lied, forcing himself to be calm, “She just caught how I reacted to Weavington. She teased me about being jealous and it got under my skin. I decided to make her squirm a little.”
Guilt poured through Tristan as he told the lie. Not for the fact that he was lying to Alistair, but that he was lying about Ophelia.
He looked back at Alistair, and was relieved when they large Scotsman appeared to believe him.
“Well, like I said, Perley is not Weavington,” Alistair repeated, getting up from his chair, “Ye need to step away from this, Tristan.”
Tristan brows flew up as his friend put a hand on his shoulder.
“I beg your pardon?” He demanded.
“I am speaking to ye as a friend here,” Alistair answered calmly, “Ye losing ye wits over this situation. Ye need to step back. Not forever. Just a few days. I have never seen ye this agitated and I need ye mind right so we can find the real Perley and get to the bottom of all of this.”
Tristan scowled at the floor, but said nothing.
“Go home, Tristan,” Alistair insisted. “Get some rest. Ye clearly need it. We both do. I will meet with the fellas in the morning, let them know ye are going to step away for a few days. They will understand.”
Tristan gave a stiff nod, his thoughts rampantly shifting from Weavington to Perley, to Ophelia.
“Something is not right with him,” Tristan said, trying one last attempt to speak with Alistair about Weavington. “He might not be Perley, but I can feel it in my bones. That man is no good.”
Alistair gave a helpless shrug as he tiredly shook his head.
“Aye. Ye may be right. But there is nothing we can do about that right now. Please, Tristan. Go get some sleep.”
Tristan drew in a deep breath and held it as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I am sorry I interrupted your night,” he apologized, “You are right. I just need some sleep.”
“Forgiven, brother,” Alistair replied, clapping Tristan on the shoulder.
At his own home, Tristan undressed, not bothering to put on his usual night clothes, and slipped under his covers naked.
He closed his eyes, trying to push the rapidly moving thoughts from his head.
Then, as the memory of his kiss with Ophelia flickered by, he stopped it, held it in the forefront of his mind.
His body relaxed as he replayed the memory in slow motion; recalling every breath, every touch, and every taste. His tense muscles finally melted into his bed, and as he finally found sleep in the memory of Ophelia’s lips.