by Sandra Hill
Ferrama’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, ethnic sayings abound in my country, too. In fact, I just thought of an appropriate Spanish proverb. ‘There is nothing sharper than a woman’s tongue.’”
“Never reach your hand farther than you can withdraw it,” she tossed back.
“Don’t show your teeth till you can bite.” He smiled with obvious relish at their verbal sparring.
“Beware of the bull’s horns, the dog’s teeth and the rogue’s smile.”
The rogue smiled wider.
This is ridiculous. How did I allow myself to get caught up in word games? I guess it’s the Irish spirit in me. There’s nothing an Irishman—or Irishwoman—loves more than a good argument. Cynthia took a deep breath to control her roiling emotions. “Let’s cut the song-and-dance routine, Ferrama. Your tab is increasing by the minute, and insults are a rather pricey luxury you can’t afford.”
“Are you threatening me, Ms. Sullivan?”
“If the shoe fits…”
Her inadvertent pun drew three simultaneous moans.
“Listen, Prince—”
“Call me P.T.”
“Call me Ms. Sullivan, or call me your worst nightmare,” she snarled. “Just know this, Ferrama: You need to make me happy more than I need to make you happy.”
“Oh, really?” Ferrama replied with a slow, devastating smile that said in ancient masculine language that he would like nothing more than to make her happy.
She didn’t think he had a financial settlement in mind.
“How do you say “sexual harassment” in Spanish?” she inquired sweetly.
“Dios mío!” Alvarez groaned.
Undaunted, Ferrama continued to smile. “Hey, I didn’t say a word. And I certainly didn’t touch you.” The twinkle in his eye said he’d like to, though. Touch her, that is.
Cynthia homed in on the word touch, and all kinds of enticing images floated through her brain. Enough! she admonished herself, and prayed for self-control. Then, inclining her head toward the prospectus on the desk, she explained, “What I meant about the need for you to please me is this: Now that I know your corporation is about to raise ten million dollars with an issue of two million shares of common stock at five dollars per unit, representing seventeen per cent of the company’s capitalization…well, golly gee, that puts a whole new light on things.”
All three sets of eyebrows arched at her regurgitating the salient figures, verbatim, from the complicated data she’d just read. A near photographic memory for numbers did come in handy sometimes. Ferrama was the first to recover.
“So you know that my firm is going public. Big deal, as you Americans say. That doesn’t make your claim of damages any less frivolous. Unless, of course”—Ferrama crinkled his nose with distaste—“you are considering blackmail.”
“Blackmail? Whoa! Back up a step. God, men are like bagpipes. No sound comes out till they’re full of wind.”
“Grandma again?” Ferrama asked.
Sinking down into the other wing-back chair, she inhaled deeply for patience. “Listen, the most basic rule of negotiation is to establish the areas of agreement, not disagreement. A good beginning is half the work. Now, the first given should be the fact that injuries were sustained—”
“Are we negotiating?” Ferrama drawled in a low, amused voice that had probably charmed the chastity belts off princesses in three or four continents. Good thing she wasn’t a princess.
“You’d better hope we’re negotiating; otherwise, you’re going to find your ass in a legal sling.” Her retort sounded crass, even to her, but the guy had an unnerving effect on her.
He regarded her with an odd disappointment, and that irritated the hell out of her. He had no right to be disappointed in her salty language.
And, damn, damn, damn, she had no right to be disappointed that he was disappointed. Yep, my brain is in major hormone meltdown. If he offered me a kiss for a settlement, I’d probably hop right onto his froggie lap.
“Cynthia…” he started, even though she’d specifically told him to call her Ms. Sullivan. “Cyn-thi-a…” He repeated her name with soft chastisement, rolling the syllables on his tongue as if he was doing something sexual to her.
He was.
“Get to the point,” she snapped.
“Put your leg on my lap.” He raised his behind slightly and dragged his chair closer to hers till they were almost knee to knee.
Put my leg on his lap? Oh, my goodness! Did I speak my fantasies aloud? “Are you crazy?”
“How can I ascertain the extent of your injury if you don’t bare yourself for inspection?” he explained breezily. “Your toes, I mean.”
She picked up her shoulder bag from the floor and whipped out some photographs. “That’s a picture of the corn. And that’s a picture of the broken toes.”
“Very nice,” Ferrama pronounced, examining each of the pictures carefully before passing them on to Alvarez and Beaunare. “But how do we know those are even your toes?”
“Puh-leeze! How many women do you know who carry around photographs of their toes?”
“Hmmm,” he said, tapping his chin.
Was he seriously pondering her question? The pervert!
“I think it’s interesting that she’s been documenting her alleged injuries for some time,” Alvarez told his boss.
Ferrama nodded.
“Ambilinear bipolarity,” Beaunare interjected.
All eyes riveted on the chauffeur/designer.
“Her toes are perfect examples of ambilinear bipolarity,” Beaunare elaborated, jabbing a forefinger at the pictures. “See the length and strut of the pinky toe.”
Cynthia felt a blush creep up her neck. It felt as if they were discussing some intimate body part…and deeming it deformed.
“Aha!” Alvarez hooted in his best I-rest-my-case voice. “Then the corn was caused by a malformation of her foot, and not a defect in our product.”
“Actually, that’s incorrect,” Ferrama declared, rubbing his bristly jaw and staring at her foot. “I believe all our shoe designs, including ‘The Vamp’ should accommodate an ambilinear bipolarity. Isn’t that right, Jake?”
“Uh-huh,” Beaunare muttered distractedly and walked over to the computer, where he proceeded to scan one of the photographs onto the screen and overlay various shoe designs on the images of her foot.
“I think I know what the problem is,” Ferrama concluded, still studying her foot and a whole lot of her bare leg, as well. “Like most women, you buy your shoes too small.”
“Yep,” Alvarez and Beaunare concurred.
“Now wait a minute—”
“Let’s see. You wear about a size nine,” Ferrama guessed.
“I do not. I wear a size seven and a half, and I have since I was twelve years old,” she maintained indignantly. “Don’t think you can lay the blame on me. Oh, why am I surprised? The losing horse always blames the saddle.”
Ferrama mumbled something incoherent under his breath about horses and saddles…probably a sexual reference. But then he spoke aloud, “Don’t be counting me as a loser yet, Ms. Irish Paragon.”
“A person’s shoe size changes not only over the years, but hour to hour,” Beaunare commented over his shoulder. “Most people make the mistake of buying shoes early in the day when their muscles haven’t yet expanded.”
“I bought your blasted high-heeled pump on a Friday night, thirty-seven days ago. It was a gift—”
“Who purchased the gift for you? Was it your…husband?” Ferrama asked with undue curiosity.
She gave the prince a critical scrutiny. Criminey, his brain must be splintering apart, too, to ask such a personal, irrelevant question. “It was a gift for myself in honor of my thirtieth birthday. Two-hundred-and-fifty lousy dollars, they cost. On sale. Some gift! I lost my seven-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year job—”
“Seven hundred thousand!” Alvarez exclaimed.
“Wow!” Beaunare sighed. “Does that include bonuses?”
<
br /> “Happy birthday,” Ferrama said.
“Aaargh! Would you guys stop interrupting?”
“Have you put on a few pounds lately? A weight gain can throw the whole foot equation askew,” the nerd said. “And cheap hosiery can also be a contributing factor. Causes the fabric at the toes to bunch.”
“It always amazes me how women can drop a couple hundred on a pair of shoes, then buy a discount panty hose special,” Alvarez observed.
“Do you buy discount stockings, Cynthia?” the prince insinuated. He said discount as if it were a dirty word.
“Forget the pathetic blame game, boys. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Not only did I get an indefinite layoff from my very lucrative position, where I incidentally work on commission, but my physician says I won’t be able to return to my regular work on the exchange floor for at least three months. I have no idea how I’ll keep up the mortgage on the new apartment I just bought at the Dakota; it took my life savings for the down payment.” She paused and wondered whether she was wasting her time trying to drum some sense into these three thick-headed musketeers.
Ferrama flicked his fingers imperiously, encouraging her to go on.
“This is the deal, boys. Ferrama, Inc., is going to pay the price for all my pain and inconvenience. Or suffer the consequences.”
“How much?” Ferrama asked bluntly.
“Two million.”
He made a scoffing sound of curt dismissal, and Alvarez objected, “It was one million an hour ago.”
“That was before I had to endure this humiliating meeting.”
“No, Cynthia, dear,” the prince corrected, “it was before you found out that Ferrama is in the delicate stage of offering its stock on the open market.”
“That, too,” she agreed with a sugary smile. “Before you speak so carelessly in the future, Prince, dear, you might want to consider this: ‘In spite of the fox’s cunning, his skin is often sold.’”
“Another Irish saying?” Beaunare inquired.
“Nah. I read that on a greeting card.”
Beaunare grinned at her, ignoring the glares he got from Ferrama and Alvarez.
“But you fail to realize, my dear,” Ferrama added smoothly, “that if the cunning fox waits long enough at the henhouse door, eventually he will trap the chicken.”
“Not if the chick knows another way out,” she retorted with dry humor.
“Do you really think a mere corn, whether gained from our product or not, merits two million dollars?” Ferrama asked coolly. It was obvious from his tight jaw and clenched fists that he was angry now. “The courts are becoming increasingly intolerant of frivolous lawsuits. Perhaps you ought to rethink your claim.”
“Perhaps you ought to consider placating me real soon, before my frivolous claim hits the legal system.” She locked eyes with Ferrama, hoping to intimidate him, but to no avail. He stared back, unwavering. “I thought a prince would have more diplomatic skills. Grandma always said that a true diplomat has the ability to tell a man to go to hell so he’d look forward to the trip. Instead, you’re pissing me off with all these subtle and not so subtle threats.”
“You know what’s pissing me off?” Ferrama shot back. “All these grandma proverbs that are nothing more than veiled insults.”
“Did I mention that my lawyer is Marcia Connor?”
That got their attention. Even though Ferrama didn’t move a muscle or say a word, she saw the quick look he shared with Alvarez and Beaunare.
Marcia Connor was the number one civil lawyer in the country. The year before she had won a ten-million-dollar settlement for a Las Vegas showgirl who’d been abused for years by her celebrity boyfriend.
“Marcia tells me that my claim could be a landmark case for modern women,” she informed them. “Maybe even a class action suit.”
“How so?” Ferrama snickered.
That snicker was going to cost him.
“For ages men have been subjugating women by controlling the fashion industry and the appearance of the female form. Consider Chinese footbinding. Then corsets. And dare I mention Wonder Bras? Don’t deny for one minute that men think a woman’s leg looks sexy in high heels. If men had their way, we’d still be wearing garter belts and seamed stockings.”
Ferrama barely suppressed a grin at her mention of those unmentionables.
That grin was going to cost him.
“You’d create a worldwide female uproar, all over a corn?” Alvarez roared.
“Just watch me,” she fumed, “and, by the way, do you know the difference between a lawyer and a vulture?”
Alvarez’s lips turned down with disgust. “You already hit me with that one…his wing tips.”
Ferrama laughed and offered, “Vultures don’t get Frequent Flyer miles?”
“No, the vulture eventually lets go.” Cynthia turned to Ferrama. “Are you ready to talk real money now?”
“Twenty thousand,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I already offered her fifty,” Alvarez pointed out.
Ferrama cast his lawyer a disbelieving scowl. “You did?”
“And I declined,” she noted.
“I know what the problem is,” Beaunare erupted with glee, continuing to enter figures into the computer keyboard.
What problem? She sensed that Ferrama had been about to up his offer, thus allowing her to avoid a lengthy court battle, not to mention a hefty attorney fee. It had been hard as hell to pass muster with the rigid co-op board at the Dakota; any whiff of scandal and she’d be booted out on her rear. Nope, she didn’t need to hear about any problems.
“I betcha dollars to donuts she took the arch insert out of the shoe,” Beaunare said. “That’s what put pressure on her toes, rather than the ball of the foot. Remember what I was telling you earlier, P.T., about the Pythagorean theorem and the arch of the foot? Yep, she removed the insert.”
All eyes bored into Cynthia, whose traitorous face heated with guilt. “I’m not admitting anything. Besides, most women remove inserts. They’re uncomfortable…and unnecessary.”
The prince and Alvarez exchanged a look of relief. Alvarez even dared to say, “Case closed!”
“Not until the fat lady sings, F. Lee Sleazeball…in the jury, that is.”
Without warning, Ferrama stood. “Out!” he ordered Alvarez and Beaunare, motioning toward the door. “I’ll complete the negotiations with Ms. Sullivan in private.”
Uh-oh.
“Now, P.T., that is not a good idea,” Alvarez cautioned.
Right. Bad, bad idea. Me alone, with Prince Not-so-charming-but-I-can-have-you-with-a-look Ferrama? I’m not agreeing to a one-on-one meeting. That would be like the turkey voting for an early Thanksgiving. “Actually, I’m thinking the negotiations would be better handled with my lawyer.” She stood her crutches in front of her and pulled herself upright, preparing to leave.
Ferrama ignored her protests and stalked over to the door, holding it wide for Alvarez and Beaunare to exit. The latter appeared rather bemused, then brightened. “I think I’ll go get the limo and cruise around the block a few times.”
“No!” Ferrama and Alvarez shouted at the same time.
Ferrama was rudely shoving them forward when the lady in the green silk shirtwaist poked her head forward. The middle-aged secretary glowered at Alvarez, who was winking at her in the oddest way, before notifying Ferrama in an overwrought voice, “Charles called a few minutes ago and wants to know if you’ll be able to make his Ascot party.”
Charles? Could she mean Prince Charles? Holy moley!
Ferrama blinked at his secretary as if she spoke some foreign language and muttered something like, “Hell if I know!”
“You have the underwriters meeting at two-thirty. The factory in Lisbon is in a panic over a Brazilian leather shipment and needs you to call immediately. The buyer for Bloomingdale’s will be here at four. Wall Street Journal at five. And you have a dinner scheduled at the Algonquin at nine with Liz.” She took a deep
breath after her long-winded recitation.
Liz? Liz who? Liz the columnist? Liz Taylor? Elizabeth Hurley? Oh, geez, is Queen Elizabeth in town?
“Is that all, Maureen?” Ferrama said dryly.
“Hardly,” his secretary retorted. Apparently her job profile didn’t include kowtowing to a prince. “Your stepsisters have been here every day since you’ve been gone. I’m giving you notice right now, if I have to deal with one more complaint from Naomi and Ruth, I’m resigning.”
Ferrama rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’ll talk to them.”
“Darn right you will. They’re down in the executive dining room right now, waiting for you to finish your meeting. They have a list this long of bills they want you to pay.” Maureen stretched her arms wide to demonstrate.
“I’ll handle the situation,” Ferrama assured her in a tired voice as he started to back into his office.
“And another thing…” the secretary began.
He halted and tapped a foot impatiently.
Once again, Maureen and Alvarez exchanged a look, then the secretary went on. “Your masseur, Andre, wants to know if you’ll be keeping your six-thirty appointment. And should he arrange a pedicure and facial this time?”
Ferrama’s face bloomed a lovely shade of dusty rose, and his throat worked without any words coming out. He sliced a condemning glare at Alvarez before saying to his secretary, “Absolutely. But tell him I prefer the seaweed oil this time. That mud astringent he used last month irritated my skin.”
Cynthia turned away in disgust. If being a prince meant being such a namby-pamby, she could do without a prince. Not that any had been offered to her lately. Cynthia directed her attention away from the group outside the office and, instead, decided to study her surroundings.
Colored prints of various Ferrama shoes lined one wall. “The Vamp.” “Jezebel.” “Naughty Nights.” “Prim & Sexy.” “Snake Magic.” “Night & Day.” “Well-Heeled.” “Daddy’s Girl.” “Heavenly Toes.” “Oh, Baby!” “Black Beauty.” “Gotta Dance.” “Tippy-Toe.” “Ooh-la-la!”
She remembered when the first of the Ferrama shoes hit the stores about five years ago. Their biggest selling point had been that women could wear high heels and feel comfortable…that even working women could throw away sensible shoes and wear the same sexy pump from office to nightclub. It had something to do with their uniquely engineered design.