A tiny gold hoop earring glittered in one ear. The effeminate European-style draping of his gray silk suit jacket was belied by a long, lean body that very nicely filled out a black T-shirt tucked into a pair of pleated gray silk slacks. Casual chic. It was probably the latest look in Paris. Or the royal polo circuit. Geez!
Exposed to all that debonair, born-to-the-manor elegance, Cynthia felt like a squirt of common yellow mustard in a sophisticated Grey Poupon world. No matter how far she’d come from the Chicago projects, no matter how much money she earned, no matter how designer-appropriate her clothing, no matter how proper her etiquette…there was a part of Cynthia that remained a poor little ghetto girl with her nose pressed against the glass window of upper society.
But Cynthia couldn’t dwell on that now. The prince was striding toward her. At the same time his right arm extended to shake her hand, his left hand removed his dark glasses.
And Cynthia’s mind went blank.
“Buenos días, Ms. Sullivan. Prince Perico Tomas de la Ferrama, at your service,” he said in a grainy bedroom-soft voice. His English was perfect, though heavily accented with the richness of his Spanish ancestry.
“Perico?” she squeaked out, and could have bitten her tongue. What a stupid thing to say!
“Peter,” he translated with a soft, I-can-melt-you-anytime-anywhere smile.
Get a grip, Cynthia. This is a business meeting. He is the enemy. I wonder if he likes to kiss. “Prince Peter?” she said with a laugh, trying to regain the upper hand in this initial encounter and failing miserably. Her brain appeared to have stalled in first gear.
“My friends call me P.T.”
“Huh? Prince Petie?”
“P.T., the initials,” he corrected her with a spark of irritation in his half-hooded eyes.
“Well, I’m sorry. Prince Peter sounds silly enough. I just can’t call a grown man Petie, even if they are initials.”
But then his long fingers closed over hers—was it a handshake or a caress?—and he turned her hand palm downward, raised it face level and kissed the air above her skin in the gallant Continental style. She felt the whisper of his hot breath all the way to her injured toes. The whole time, his sexy take-no-mercy eyes held hers captive. The sweeping lashes were so thick they must weigh down his lids. And the eyes—oh, God, the eyes!—they were so dark a blue that they appeared black. There were promises in those penetrating eyes…promises she couldn’t fathom…and pure, unadulterated temptation.
The world narrowed in those seconds to the faint scent of some expensive, woodsy cologne, the sound of his breathing—or was it hers?—and the delicious feel of his palm pressed against hers, now in a regular handshake. Cynthia had never, ever been affected by a man in this way, especially not on a first meeting.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señorita Sullivan,” he said with an intensity that implied meaning beyond the mere words.
“P.T….” Alvarez said in a warning tone.
A snicker could be heard on the other side of the room, where a computer was being booted up by the chauffeur.
Cynthia understood the alarm in Alvarez’s terse admonition, not to mention the nerd’s chuckle. They were a wake-up call to her, as well. This was a business meeting, not “The Love Connection.”
The prince came to his senses with a seeming jolt, glancing down with dismay at their still-clasped hands. He dropped her hand, and a remarkable slow-motion transformation rippled over his body.
His chin rose a noticeable notch with haughtiness. He adjusted his suit jacket over his shoulders and flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve with an impeccably manicured fingernail—Is that clear nail polish he’s wearing? Jeesh, I can’t remember the last time I splurged on that kind of nonproductive pampering. And the eyes that had been warmly attracted to her moments ago now gave her a cool assessment. The mirthless smile he bestowed on her was intended to be an intentional put-down—one of those chauvinistic I-know-you-want-me smirks.
Cynthia prided herself on her ability to judge people. Could she have been wrong in discerning a mutual lightning-bolt attraction between them? Could the prince be that good an actor? And why would he bother? She flinched inwardly as all her old insecurities rushed forth.
Still, she was not prepared for the mocking insult that followed.
“Your castle or mine, princess?”
Chapter Two
The woman…Cynthia Sullivan…recoiled, as if he’d slapped her. She still stood a short distance from him, stains of scarlet humiliation flooding her cheeks.
P.T. wished he could take back the suggestive remark, with its deliberately taunting edge. But he didn’t.
In that split second of insanity when his fingers had grasped hers and their eyes met, he’d briefly considered ditching the seduction scheme and all his deceits. With a mere handshake, the madness of the past five years had melted away, and his blood surged with inexplicable joy. He hadn’t been able to release her hand lest the wonderful, miraculous aura of rightness slip from his fingers.
Luckily, his tailspin lasted only a moment, and he’d soon been back in the driver’s seat. He would steer this meeting, not her. Nothing and no one was going to interfere with his plans. Women were a dime a dozen…even knockout brokers with born-to-be-kissed lips. A man got only one shot at the gold ring, and he wasn’t going to miss his big chance because he was distracted by a piece of tempting shark tail.
Thank God, Dick’s terse warning and Jake’s snicker had penetrated his trance, reminding him that this was a woman who could pull the rug out from under him and his company. Danger. She was a danger he couldn’t risk…not now.
Not that she hadn’t been equally assaulted by the same overwhelming sensations. He’d seen that in the widening of her eyes, in the parting of her naturally pink, way-too-enticing lips, in the pulse that leaped at the base of her slender neck. No question, she’d been just as stunned by the amazing chemistry flash-firing between them.
But not anymore.
Backing away from him a bit, she composed herself. Working in the male-dominated brokerage field and looking the way she did, she probably got hit on all the time. But she was a fighter; he could see that. And he suspected that she’d developed a talent, like him, for putting on a facade in self-defense. Before his eyes, she metamorphosed into a long, tall, no-nonsense wheeler-dealer.
She did have strawberry blond hair, as he’d observed earlier. It was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, but curly wisps had sprung free, framing a face of pure perfection…to him, at least. Creamy complexion, bright aquamarine eyes flashing blue fire, and that mouth…oh, Lord, that pouty I-dare-you mouth.
The conservatism of her pinstriped business suit was wiped out by a scoop-necked camisole of white lace, meant to draw a man’s eye and turn his brain to mush—and his was oatmeal already. The hem of the skirt ended at mid-thigh, leaving about a mile of sinfully sculpted bare leg.
Cynthia Sullivan was a bewildering combination of shark and sex kitten. And he thought…if the time and place were different…he’d love nothing more than to explore those beguiling inconsistencies.
“Sorry, Prince, but the drawbridge is up.”
“Wh-what?” He gave himself a mental shake. Bare seconds had passed since he’d made his outrageous comment, but it seemed like hours.
“You said, ‘Your castle or mine?’ And I’m telling you to take your lance and steed elsewhere. The only distress this damsel is suffering was caused by you. And, frankly, I’d never be able to get a glass slipper over this corn.” She stuck her injured foot out for emphasis.
Ouch, Well, I guess she told me.
“In other words: Drop dead!”
Okay. The battle lines are drawn now. “Does that mean you don’t want to come up to the palace and see my etchings?” he tried to joke.
She bared her teeth, and the result wasn’t a smile. “Which part of ‘drop dead’ didn’t you understand?”
God, I could love this woman. For a night or
two, anyhow. “You misunderstood, Ms. Sullivan. I was making a jest,” he prevaricated. “Perhaps my poor English caused the problem.” P.T. made sure he added just the right twist of a half-smile to disarm her…so she wouldn’t be certain whether he was sincere.
Leaning slightly against the desk, she regarded him with sweeping revulsion. All right, she’s more perceptive than I thought. Without words, she told him loud and clear that he was a worthless toad, not a prince. Not that he was a prince, anyhow. Damn!
And that was the problem. He had to continue the pretense, even with this woman. Especially with this woman. His company—all his efforts of the past years—were more important than any female. He would do anything, anything, to achieve his goals.
“Por favor, Señorita Sullivan. Please sit. I believe we have business to discuss,” he said in the cool, slightly condescending tone he’d perfected. He motioned toward the wing-back chair where her crutches were propped.
She arched a brow and waved her hand at the other chair. “After you.”
He’d forgotten that she was a woman comfortable in the business world and that she would want a level playing field, even down to the power positioning of bodies during a meeting. She would be fluent in the body language of high finance, knowing the disadvantage of having to peer up at an opponent when negotiating. Smart lady! In fact, he usually sat behind his desk, using the barrier as a sign of his superior placement in a room.
He tilted his head in compliance and was about to sit when he noticed Dick leaning against the far wall, arms folded over his chest, watching them with amusement. And concern.
Jake, in his own high-tech world, was pounding away at some graphics on the computer, no doubt working up a new shoe design.
“I believe you’ve met my lawyer, Ms. Sullivan. Enrique Alvarez.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve met Dick,” she said with a snideness that made him wonder what had transpired before his arrival. He put that thought aside for now.
“And may I present my head designer, Jacob Beaunare. Jake designed ‘The Vamp,’ the high-heeled pump that allegedly caused your…ah, la problema.” He purposely settled his gaze on her right foot, where three bruised toes peeked out from a thick-soled orthopedic-type sandal, then pursed his lips into a moue of disdain. “That’s why I invited Jake to this meeting. Perhaps he can analyze the shape of your foot and tell us why you had a…ah, la problema.”
I am pitiful. I’m stuttering here when I should be concentrating on my Spanish accent. Next I’ll be reverting to my lower-class Spanish, pronouncing my y sounds as j sounds, instead of the pure Castilian Spanish I’ve worked so hard to master. And savoir faire. I’m supposed to be a suave, jet-setting prince, not a salivating, stammering, sex-crazed idiot. Sex? Where did sex come from? Oh, hell! I want to have sex with her. I do. Now.
Jake nodded toward her in acknowledgment of the introduction and flashed a gap-toothed grin at P.T., who realized, to his chagrin, that he was blushing. Dick was shaking his head with disbelief at the apparent crack in his veneer of regal civility.
Civility. I want to lay a Wall Street trader across my desk and raise her personal Dow Jones about two zillion points. Or maybe on the chair. That would be good, all that straddling and stuff. Better yet, against the wall. Yeah, a real knee-trembler…a wallbanger for a Wall Streeter. Oh, God!
“Your head designer is a chauffeur?” she asked scornfully. They were still standing, several feet apart, in modified battle stances.
He shrugged, not about to explain that they could barely afford the blast of air conditioning that cooled his office, let alone the expense of another employee to drive the leased limo on the few occasions it was used. He made a mental note to tell his secretary, Maureen, to turn the air conditioning down, even though his body felt unnaturally hot.
He’d read an article in an airline magazine recently that claimed men thought about sex every ten seconds, even in the midst of the most serious business meetings. The author had written that men could be aroused by something as innocuous as the curve of a woman’s shoulder. He’d laughed skeptically at the time.
He wasn’t laughing now.
Not that he was so easily aroused. Uh-uh. Just in case, though, he picked up a large pamphlet from the desk, casually holding it against his lower body.
“What is that?” She was gawking at his midsection.
He groaned silently and tried for an I-have-no-idea-what-you-mean look.
“That’s a red herring,” she accused.
“A red herring?” he choked out.
“Yeah. I know a red herring when I see one.”
Well, I never heard it called by that name. Peter, my own pet name, yes. But red herring? Nope. The only animal terms I ever heard before were Crimson Bird, One-Eyed Trouser Trout, Snake in the Grass, Goose Neck…yikes, I’m losin’ my mind here. Thinking of euphemisms for the word penis in the midst of a business meeting!
“Sonofabitch!” Dick swore.
Before he could react, Cynthia stretched an arm toward him and Dick sprang forward, both grabbing for it. Holy cow! He’d thought earlier that Dick was going too far, telling him how to dress, but snatching at his genitals crossed the line. And, as for Ms. Hot Financier, he wouldn’t mind her touching him there, but even he insisted on privacy.
Too late, he realized that it was the crimson-bordered brochure he was holding that drew their attention, not his traitorous body part. And he remembered through his fuzzy brain that red herring was the nickname given to a preliminary prospectus for an upcoming stock offering, its hallmark being the two red borders of type down the left side and across the top.
“Give that to me,” he demanded. Ms. Sullivan had won the skirmish for the prized brochure.
“When I’m done reading it,” she said, holding it out of reach. He wasn’t about to tackle her to recover the document, though he’d like to.
“Ms. Sullivan, this is a blatant invasion of privacy,” Dick asserted. “You have no legal right to—”
“Tell it to the judge, Dick,” she snapped back, already immersed in what she was reading on the first page.
“Maybe she can advise us on that one confusing point related to unfriendly takeovers that we were discussing earlier,” Jake suggested over his shoulder.
P.T. and Dick whimpered in unison. As if they would seek guidance from an adversary! Cynthia, who half-sat on the edge of the desk, didn’t even hear the remark, so engrossed was she in the document.
With a sigh of surrender, P.T. sank into the chair, making sure he didn’t clasp his hands or fidget with nervousness. He slumped and stretched out his long legs to indicate a blasé demeanor, just the opposite of his taut emotions.
And thus he waited for the explosion to come.
Cynthia could almost taste victory by the time she finished reading the prospectus. Three things were clear: Ferrama, Inc., was about to go public. The company couldn’t stand a breath of bad publicity. Most important, her lawsuit had to be settled very privately and very quickly.
By tomorrow, the news of Ferrama’s going public would be all over Wall Street. Even now they’d probably started damage control with the news media who’d witnessed her picketing down below in the street. She wouldn’t be surprised if they’d claimed it was all a joke, or that she was a publicity-hungry kook.
Still standing, she directed her attention first at the prince, who slouched nonchalantly in one of the wing-backs as he sipped Perrier—which she’d declined—from an etched crystal goblet. He even slouched with highborn elegance, darn it. The whole time he watched her with a disconcerting intensity…but he yawned behind the back of one hand with presumed boredom at least three times.
His attitude of lazy indifference was a ruse, she decided.
But maybe not.
Either way, the guy was a threat to her pride. His royal studliness had played her like a charm, turning her customary good sense to butter with just a clasp of his hot hands, and his hotter Spanish eyes. How he must be laughing inside! r />
“I feel like I’ve landed in a bad B-movie. Return of the Living Snake Oil Salesmen.”
Alvarez and the Phi Beta Chia Pet had pulled up straight-back chairs and were staring up at her, the only one still standing. They all shifted uncomfortably…a sure sign of guilt, to her mind. Suddenly she gave each of them a piercing assessment. “I just thought of something else…your names. It all fits.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ferrama responded with hoity-toity hauteur, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in his sleeve.
“Your names…Peter, Dick, Boner…they oughta call you the three shoe pricks.”
The men winced…whether at her accurate judgment or her crudity, she wasn’t sure. She often found it to her advantage in business meetings to disarm her male adversaries with an unfeminine choice of words.
Beaunare protested, “Hey, my name is pronounced bow-nare, not bow-ner.”
Ferrama set his drink aside and leaned forward, his aristocratic nostrils flaring with consternation. “Your vulgar tongue may impress your colleagues on Wall Street, but it cheapens you here. In my country only putas—women of the street—would speak thus. Take my advice: You don’t have to act as a man in order to deal with men.”
Cynthia cringed inwardly at his criticism, but only for a second. Then she took the offensive. “I’m sorry if my language offends your delicate sensibilities, but, frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’ve been getting along very well in a man’s world, vulgar tongue and all. As to your advice…here’s a little advice back at you: My dear Irish grandma—God bless her soul!—was a pishogue, a wise old woman to whom the village folk would come for charms and good counsel. She—”
“And what village might that be?” Alvarez interrupted snidely. “I thought you were from Chicago.”
“Chicago neighborhoods are just big villages,” Cynthia said, waving aside the lawyer’s remark. Then she directed her continuing explanation to the prince, who’d been the one to disparage her breeding. “As I was saying, Grandma was a great one for having the perfect adage for every occasion. In this case, Prince Ferrama, I think she’d have advised you thus: ‘Sure, and you must not let your tongue cut your own throat.’”