by Sandra Hill
“Screw the company.”
“See. I knew I was right to take matters into my own hands. You used to put the company interests first. Now you’ve become soft…an easy mark for every bit of fluff that crosses your testosterone radar.”
He gritted his teeth and willed himself to speak softly, with a patience that had run out days before. “Naomi, this has nothing to do with business tactics or my reputed overinterest in women. The police are probably on your tail, as we speak. You’ve committed an ass-backwards felony here.”
“Felony, smellony!” She waved her gun in the air dismissively. He wished she wouldn’t do that. “You can fix the police business.”
“Me?” You did the crime, you pay the time, sister dear. Not me.
“Yeah, charm the pants off the woman. You’ve been doing it to women forever; you should have the technique down pat by now.”
“Forever?”
“Remember Brenda ‘Breasts “R” Us’ Bicarro.”
He groaned. Well, he’d stepped into that one. “Brenda Bicarro. Brenda Bicarro. How many times are you going to remind me about her? I was fourteen years old, for God’s sake!”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying. You’ve had eighteen years of practice. Seducing Cynthia Sullivan over to our side should be a piece of cake.”
Our side? Which side would that be? The loony bin side? The criminal side? The fairy tale side? “Since when is seduction the answer to everything? Mierda, you and Dick have like minds.”
Naomi’s face went beet red. “Dick and I have nothing in common, and don’t you dare say that we do.”
P.T. lifted a brow at the vehemence of her response. Normally, he would have taken great pleasure in teasing her about her longtime crush on Dick, but he decided to back off this time. Naomi under normal circumstances had been known to whack him on the head when riled. Naomi with a pistol, under volatile circumstances, was an unknown. “You are aware that Dick will hightail it up here by tomorrow if I haven’t returned?”
“No, he won’t.” Naomi flashed him a triumphant smile.
“Why?” he asked hesitantly. The fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck.
“Because I called him from the cell phone in your truck.”
His neck hairs went ramrod stiff with intuitive warning. “And?”
“And I told him you took Ms. Sullivan to your hideaway in the Poconos, where you intend to nail her.”
“Nail her?” he inquired dumbly. “In the legal sense?” He was stalling for time while his benumbed brain assimilated the consequences of Naomi’s actions.
“Nail her, in the sexual sense, you moron. Criminey, when did you get so stupid?”
“When did you get so vicious?”
“You never knew me at all, P.T.” She sliced each word out with icy contempt.
Maldito! There was a whole lot going on here besides money and a stock offering. “Naomi, put down the gun and unlock my chain. I can unravel this whole mess. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Trust you? I’d rather trust…a snake.”
Did she mean Sammy “The Snake” Caputo? “At least give us some clothes. This is…indecent.”
She snickered.
Wringing her neck was becoming more and more appealing.
“Where’s your renowned royal ego, Prince Ferrama? Don’t you have as much self-confidence in your macho abilities without all the princely trappings?” she taunted. “And by the way, Sleeping Beauty doesn’t know you’re not a real prince. You can thank me for that later. I’d suggest you keep up the charade. Work the Prince Charming bit for all its worth.”
Somehow the persona, and the seduction, sounded sordid when they came from Naomi’s lips.
“It’s just not right, Naomi.”
“Well, big fat deal! Was it right that Daddy married your mother and doted on you like a real son instead of giving all his attention to his daughters? Was it right that he trained you to run the factory? Was it right that his will split the estate three ways, giving you sixty percent and me and Ruth only twenty percent each? Was it right for you to give up ten percent of your shares to split between Enrique and Jake, without asking us? Was it right for Daddy to make you trustee of our money, forcing us to beg each month for what’s rightfully ours? Was it right that you changed the name of Daddy’s company to your name?”
Good Lord! P.T. had never realized that Naomi’s grievances had been festering for so long, or so deeply. And some of them were legitimate gripes.
“Naomi, I’m perfectly willing to sit down with you and go over each of your concerns. Maybe we can come to a mutually satisfactory solution. But this isn’t the time for such a discussion. We have more urgent problems.”
“Yeah, like how fast you can charm a shark.”
P.T. crossed his eyes and counted to ten. “Okay, Naomi, let’s cut through the bullshit. Exactly what will it take for you to release Cynthia…and me?”
“A legal document signed by her stating that her corn and subsequent injuries weren’t caused by our company. A promise not to sue the company, or any of its individual parties for any matter whatsoever, including her…uh, kidnapping.”
“I already offered her a substantial settlement to do just that. She refused.”
“Well, golly, P.T., no one said it would be easy. It’s going to take a lot of work on your part to convince her to sign. That’s where the charm part comes in. Have you kicked on your charm generator yet?” She smirked at him.
“Is that all?” he asked, seething.
“Hell no! Do you take me for a fool?”
Fool is too mild a word.
“That Wall Street witch would sign anything to escape. You would, too, for that matter. Nope, her signature alone would mean nothing.”
“So?”
“I’ve been talking to Elmer, and we’ve come up with a plan. A safety net.”
Uh-oh!
“We think there’s one thing that will ensure that she’s on our side,” Naomi said, “besides your boinking her a few dozen times.”
Boinking? When had Naomi developed such an earthy vocabulary? Maybe she was right. He didn’t know her very well.
Her eyes refused to make direct contact with his.
Make that two uh-ohs. “And that one thing would be…?”
“Marriage,” Naomi announced airily.
That was the last thing P.T. had expected to hear. His jaw dropped and his eyes almost bugged out. “Marriage? To whom?”
“You.”
P.T. was too stunned to speak.
“Now don’t say no before you think the idea through. It’s a perfect plan. We’ll have the ceremony here. Elmer can supply the music. Ruth says she could make the wedding feast—a blend of Irish and Spanish foods.”
“Have you seen a psychiatrist lately?”
“And guess what?” Naomi continued enthusiastically, as if he hadn’t even spoken. “Elmer is an ordained minister in some denomination I’ve never heard of—Church of the Latter Day Goofballs, or some such thing. He says it would be legal in New York State, but I doubt that. The important thing is that Cynthia buy its legality. Later you could get an annulment or divorce. It’s a perfect plan, P.T. Just think about it.”
He put his face in his hands and whimpered. He was thinking about it, all right. And the conclusion he came up with was, I’ve fallen into a freakin’ fairy tale nightmare. And they expect me, Prince Charming, to play stud to a bloomin’ Cinderella.
Even worse, he realized with alarm, raising his head to glance over at said sleeping Cinderella, I like the plan.
A lot.
After Naomi left, P.T. slung his chain over his shoulder and climbed up the steps to the massive bed. Why would anyone feel the need to put a bed on a platform? Talk about delusions of grandeur! A guy could get a nosebleed up here.
He gazed down at the delectable Goldilocks dozing away. Am I gonna be the bad old bear who takes advantage of poor ol’ Goldy? Or am I gonna be the weenie bear who gets suckered in by
Goldy? In other words, can I actually set out deliberately to seduce this woman?
Damn straight! I’ve done it before.
But that was in fun, when I was younger.
Hah! How about Countess Ariana? That was just last week.
That was different. Ariana is sophisticated. She knows the rules of the game. She was probably out to scam me, too.
Cynthia Sullivan is sophisticated. She knows the rules of the game. Hell, she’s probably the biggest high-roller scam artist of them all.
But I like her.
No, no, no. I have no time for “like.” My company’s about to go down the tubes. Forget “like.”
But I want her.
Forget lust, too.
I don’t want to hurt her.
Jeesh! I really am a weenie. What makes me think I won’t be the one hurt?
Good point!
This is actually a noble thing I’d be doing.
Even he had to snicker at that one. Philanthropic sex.
Seriously, instead of feeling guilty, I should be feeling good.
Give me a break!
Really. The new stockholders would thank me for saving the company’s financial butt. The three hundred Ferrama employees would thank me for saving their jobs. Naomi would thank me for saving her castle. Ruth would thank me for saving her rock ‘n’ roll fairy’s career. He thought for a moment, glanced down at shamrock city, and smiled. Peter would thank me, too.
Peter swelled his thankfulness.
Hmpfh! At least someone—rather, something—appreciates me.
P.T. eased himself onto the mattress, on the opposite side from Cynthia. Carefully, he slid himself closer. But not too close. Best to let sleeping sharks lie. No making waves. Don’t rock the boat. Man, this is gonna be a piece of cake. Who says we city boys don’t know how to fish? God! Cynthia’s wacky proverbs must be contagious.
It wouldn’t do for his prickly fish to awaken yet, though. He had a lot of thinking to do. And planning.
Suddenly Cynthia made a soft snuffling sound, rolled over onto her back, threw her arms over her head on the pillow, and kept on sleeping.
P.T. froze…and not just because he didn’t want Sleeping Beauty to awaken yet.
He’d suspected before, but now he knew for sure: Cynthia “The Shark” Sullivan was an absolute babe. With her inadvertently wanton pose, partially clothed as she was, she could be a Playboy centerfold any month. Or year. Or century. A twenty on a scale of ten. In his book, anyway.
In sleep, her face lost its customary cynical expression. Her mouth pouted, soft and rose-colored. He’d never noticed before, but she had Marilyn Monroe lips. Now that he’d noticed, he couldn’t stop noticing.
He yearned to lean forward and press his mouth to hers. Soft at first, testing, shaping. Then harder.
Would she taste like berries, or minty toothpaste, or have her own distinctive flavor? He’d discovered over the years that every woman had a unique taste. Cynthia Sullivan’s would no doubt be tart, he decided with a silent chuckle.
He shook his head to clear it of such impossible fantasies. This was a serious inventory he was taking. Casing the joint, so to speak. At least, that’s what he told himself. But, Lordy, her joints were mighty fine. In fact, he was developing an appreciation for a whole lot of her…inventory.
That first day in his office, she’d commented on the thickness of his eyelashes. Well, hers were thick, too, but light. The same strawberry blond as her hair. No bottle blonde here.
She was tall, long-waisted and long-limbed, at least five-eight or so. A good height to match his six-foot-one.
Good for what? he asked himself.
Good for you-know-damn-well what, he answered himself.
Peter gave him another nod of thanks. Son of a gun! What a talented fellow!
She’d been right in describing herself as soft. No en vogue thinness of Kate Moss here, or hard-bodied toning of Naomi Campbell. But she was a fool, as was the whole fashion industry, in not realizing that men prefer women with a curve or two in the right places.
P.T. couldn’t resist touching her, but he limited himself to a feather-light pass of his fingertips down the creamy expanse of bare skin from her upper arm to her wrist. Goosebumps followed in his wake, and she arched her upper body slightly in the sensuous motion of a petted cat. In that brief nanosecond when her chest elevated, then relaxed, he watched as her breasts bloomed with hard, budlike nipples.
Blood drained from his head, then began churning to all the erotic spots in his body…about two thousand of them.
Peter went ballistic.
And Cynthia slept on.
He bit his bottom lip to stifle a moan and clenched his fists to keep from grabbing for her. Carefully, he lay back on the pillow, eyes closed, and counted to fifty. Then he added another fifty for good measure.
When he was calm again—well, relatively calm, with his heart still knocking out about a hundred beats per minute—P.T. decided that he needed to handle Cynthia Sullivan like any other challenge in his past, business or personal. Study the problem thoroughly. Know everything about his adversary…background, likes, dislikes, dreams, disappointments, family, relationships, strong points, weaknesses.
He’d have to lure her into talking about herself. Hell, that shouldn’t be too hard. They had nothing else to do…nothing she would countenance at this stage, anyway. When he knew everything about Cynthia Sullivan—the child, the woman, the stock trader—he would have a better idea how to approach his seduction campaign.
It was a simple, age-old philosophy: Know thine enemy.
He should feel guilty about these devious machinations, but he didn’t. As Cynthia’s grandma would have said if given the chance to comment on his moral dilemma, “If the fox runs into the hound’s embrace, who’s to blame?” To his amusement, P.T. had noticed that many of the same proverbs were claimed by numerous cultures. That fox hound proverb was one his mother used to quote all the time, except she’d been referring to the gamblers who hung out in the San Juan casinos.
And another thing—the only way he was going to be able to pull off this seduction scheme was to bank down his attraction to Cynthia. Detachment, that’s what he needed.
As to the marriage business, well, he didn’t know about that. He’d play it by ear.
So, that was the plan. Get to know the shark, lure her with his indifference, overwhelm her with the royalty role-playing, then snag her with his sexual charisma. Tie the knot with her to seal the bargain, if absolutely necessary.
More confident now, he opened his eyes and peeked over at his prey. He was cool. He was in control. He could handle this job. No problem!
Cynthia let out another one of those breathy snores. They probably taught it in shark school…a mating call.
Peter about popped his cork.
P.T. survived the assault, barely.
Within moments, employing a few mind exercises, which included crossing his eyes and thwapping his palm against the mindless Peter—ouch!—his body was soon humming with indifference.
Or was that humming noise coming from the small winged creature that flitted over them and out the window on a stream of sunlight? How did a butterfly get inside, and up this high?
And wasn’t it strange how the dust motes in the air resembled gold on the flickering sunbeam? Like fairy dust.
He could have sworn Peter grinned.
Cynthia slowly emerged from the deepest sleep she’d had in ages. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in the luxury of a nap in the middle of the day. Wasting time equated with wasting money in her supercharged schedule.
Eyes still closed, she stretched with feline satisfaction. Who knew there could be such pleasure in the little things of life, like a drawn-out, bone-crunching stretch or a lusty yawn?
A sudden image came to her of lazy summer afternoons sprawled on her cot in the one-bedroom project apartment, waiting for Grandma to come home from the factory.
She’
d been an obsessive reader then—fairy tales in the early years, followed by romance novels, especial medieval romances full of brave knights, beautiful ladies, wizards and happily-ever-after—a far cry from the hopeless, dangerous world outside her window. She would read for hours on end in those days, then stretch with a dreamy sigh, yearning for a future when such magic would enter her own dreary life.
Unfortunately—or fortunately—Cynthia soon learned there was no magic in this world. And happily-ever-after came only through hard work and ambition.
Funny that she should think of all that now. Drowsily, she ruminated over the cause. It was probably all this forced proximity to the sexiest man alive, and a prince to boot. “Beauty won’t make the pot boil,” Cynthia kept repeating to herself, but Grandma’s familiar admonition didn’t cut any ice this time. Cynthia’s pot was about to boil over.
Gradually, she recalled her circumstances and how she came to be sleeping in the middle of the afternoon. Reluctantly, her heavy eyelids fluttered open, then shot wide.
Ferrama was sitting cross-legged on the bed, within touching distance, watching her.
“Do you believe in magic?”
“What?” she squeaked. Oh, God! Now the jerk is reading my mind, too. And, no, I do not believe in magic. No, no, no!
He tilted his head in confusion, and she realized that the words had come from Elmer’s tape player sitting on the stand by the door. It had been the Lovin’ Spoonfuls on one of those rock ‘n’ roll classics records, not Ferrama, who had asked the disturbing question, “Do you believe in magic?”
Whew! For a minute there I was beginning to believe in all this fairy-tale nonsense Elmer spouts.
Meanwhile, the prince continued to stare at her. How long had he been watching her like this? In her sleep, for heaven’s sake! And why?
“What are you doing?” she demanded indignantly.
“Watching you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“Oh, yes you do,” he said with a strange rasp in his voice.
His wonderfully expressive eyes swept her body but kept coming back to her chest area, as if he couldn’t help himself. Once, he ran the tip of his tongue over his mouth, wetting his lips.