by Sandra Hill
Had Elmer really zapped them with a spell, and would the love they now shared fade with the waning of the mystical ties?
Did she want to lose this marvelous love?
Was she truly married? To a prince?
How did her “husband” feel about all this? Was it an amusing lark to him? Or a deliberately planned scam, as she suspected?
Regardless, would her life ever be the same?
As if sensing her inner turmoil, Ferrama abruptly opened the cab door for her, pulled her out and tucked her close to his side, kissing the top of her head with unsettling gentleness. “Everything will work out, querida,” he assured her. “Trust me.”
As much as she yearned to lean on him, she pushed him away. She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes, but she couldn’t stop herself. Self-reliance was the safer route.
Where does he see our relationship going from here? Cynthia wondered. She was afraid to ask.
More important, if I were to offer to drop my lawsuit, would he drop me like the Prince-ess of Fools’?
Too many questions. Too few answers.
She craved time alone…to sleep and think and regain her old objectivity, if that was possible. “Go back to your own apartment, Ferrama,” she said tiredly. “I’m okay now.”
He slanted her a disbelieving look as he finished paying the taxi driver. “No, you’re not okay. And neither am I.”
She tilted her head to get a better view of him. The man had to be as bone weary as she was, and still he looked gorgeous. Darn it!
“Your grandma’s been talking to me in my head,” he admitted with a wry grimace.
“You’re kidding!”
He shrugged. “It’s either that or my conscience has an Irish accent.” A little half-smile tugged at his lips. “She likes me, by the way.”
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, my God!” a female voice echoed behind her.
Cynthia jumped with surprise and turned to see Naomi gaping at the Dakota as if she’d fallen down Alice in Wonderland’s garden hole and landed in a magic kingdom. “It’s…spectacular.”
Cynthia hadn’t noticed Naomi’s arrival, so fuzzy was her brain with exhaustion and the chaos of her bewildered thoughts. The two agents accompanying her walked off and took up almost invisible posts in the building’s shadowy alcoves.
That was another thing bothering Cynthia. The FBI had recommended that Naomi lay low and find a good hiding place till they’d apprehended Sammy Caputo and his Mafia cohorts. Naomi had declined the federal agents’ offer of a safe house, pleading instead for Cynthia, presumably an unknown to the bad guys, to shelter her temporarily.
Decline would be too soft a word to describe how Naomi had reacted to Alvarez’s offer that she stay with him. It could be because the slick lawyer’s offer had been accompanied by a wink and what had to be the wickedest grin on the face of the earth. Oddly, Alvarez did a lot of that wicked grinning around Naomi.
To her astonishment, Cynthia had found herself consenting to harbor her own kidnapper. The FBI guaranteed that agents would be guarding her apartment ’round the clock.
Alvarez had been given the honor of playing host to Elmer and Ruth, though he’d advised them that the hounds would be in a kennel come morning. “And no Elvis music!” Alvarez had ordered. He preferred highbrow classical jazz. Luckily, Jake had shown up and agreed to take the animals to his mother’s house in Long Island. “Don’t Be Cruel” had been blaring from Alvarez’s state-of-the-art stereo system by that time. So much for the lawyer’s admonitions!
Cynthia couldn’t wait to see if Ruth would give the shifty rogue a makeover…not that he needed one, physically anyhow.
“Let’s go inside,” Ferrama suggested, now that Naomi had arrived.
“Miss Sullivan, it’s good to have you back with us again.” The words came from the stone-faced doorman standing before the Dakota’s arched gateway entrance, once used by carriages depositing their passengers in the inner courtyard. The doorman waved her and her companions through. A single blink of his widened eyes was the only sign that he’d noticed their bizarre appearance, even after a darting perusal of their bare feet.
Heck, he must have seen lots worse over the years, considering the eccentric inhabitants of this landmark dwelling. In fact, Aretha Franklin and an entourage of loudly chattering musicians, carrying instrument cases, were exiting now…all dressed in garish theatrical attire.
“Cynthia, you missed my party,” Aretha reprimanded with a wagging forefinger as she was about to pass by in a cloud of expensive perfume. Pausing only for a second, her quick glance also took in Ferrama and Naomi, then went back to Ferrama. She winked at Cynthia then. “You go, girl!”
They were already into the building’s corridor when Aretha called after them in a laughing voice, “Yo, Elvis! You ever need a job, just call me.”
Ferrama said a foul word and punched the elevator button for the eighth floor.
The usually tight-lipped Naomi was babbling on incessantly about each aspect of their surroundings. “Don’t you just love the mahogany woodwork and doors? P.T., look at those antique elevators. They’re just like our castle…. I swear I’ve seen side tables and gilt mirrors like these at Wintherthur…. Do you think there are craftsmen who could duplicate those carved plaster ceiling medallions? Oooh, oooh, oooh, I want some etched glass light fixtures like those.”
Cynthia was pleased at Naomi’s admiring comments, but it was Ferrama at whom she kept gazing. For some reason, she yearned for his approval of her good taste in picking the Dakota for her home.
He said nothing, just stared at her with a fierce, unreadable intensity.
Her heart sank with an ominous foreboding. She’d been right to be fearful, after all.
When they finally entered her apartment and Cynthia snapped on the soft lighting, she tried to see her home through his eyes. It was not a large apartment, nor was it luxurious by Dakota standards. Some units had up to eighteen rooms, an equal number of fireplaces and massive drawing rooms accented with Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Hers was only two bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a loft study, a kitchen and a pantry. But they were spectacular, in her opinion, especially with their floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. She wanted Ferrama to share her enthusiasm.
P.T. hated Cynthia’s apartment.
Oh, it was just as magnificent as Cynthia had declared it to be. And that view of Central Park had to be worth a million bucks in itself. But the living room—or drawing room, as it must once have been classified before being divided in half—had lofty, fifteen-foot ceilings decorated with fancy pastel-tinted medallions and cornices, like a birthday cake.
Why couldn’t there be cozy rafters and warm paneled walls?
The windows were framed with what appeared to be festoons of flowing silk in a trompe 1’oeil effect, Cynthia was explaining to Naomi. Actually they weren’t drapes at all, but hand-carved and painted wood.
Why can’t she have real curtains like ordinary people?
He berated himself for his irrational attitude, but her apartment was elegant, dammit. Elegant! The kind of place a prince and princess might buy for a little New York getaway flat, not too large that a permanent staff would be required, but not too small for sophisticated parties.
All day P.T. had sensed a distance growing between himself and Cynthia. He felt a desperate need to get her alone and do something to close the gap before it became a chasm.
This apartment just accentuated their problem. It represented everything he was trying to escape. If this apartment and Cynthia’s dreams were synonymous, then what chance did they have for a future together? Especially when Cynthia found out he wasn’t really a prince…a little tidbit of information he’d neglected to disclose to her yet.
“Naomi, why don’t you go to bed?” he suggested with the subtlety of a weedwhacker in a hair salon.
The two of them gaped at him as if he’d lost a few more screws, then turned their backs on him,
resuming their tour.
“Paul Segal, an architect who lived in the Dakota, came up with the idea of dividing some of the rooms horizontally. If a room had fifteen-foot ceilings, why not build a loft with stairs leading up at one end, thus creating another room? The historical preservation purists went nuts, but it didn’t stop Segal. Some people use them for sleeping lofts. Mine is a home office.”
“Do you have any Scotch?” he asked, ambling over to what appeared to be a fully stocked bar in an ornate niche near the fireplace. I could use a belt or two, or five.
“Yes. I think there’s some Dewars and Cutty,” Cynthia answered.
“I only drink Laphroaig. Straight up. Do you have that?” It had been a long time since he’d remembered to employ his prissy prince personality. He was in a surly enough mood to engage it now.
Cynthia stopped midway up the short flight of stairs leading to her study, where she was continuing her tour with Naomi. The blush that bloomed on her cheeks was a clear indication that he’d rattled her old insecurities. “No, I don’t have Laphroaig.”
“Why don’t you have a beer, P.T.?” Naomi interjected. “Better yet, why don’t you go to bed and sleep off this mean mood you’re in.”
He thought about telling Naomi what she should do, explicitly, but instead stomped off to the kitchen, where he leaned against the open refrigerator door. There wasn’t much there that wasn’t moldy or dried out. He took out the milk and sniffed to see if it was okay. Then, checking furtively to see if anyone was looking, he chugged down half a quart straight from the carton. Definitely un-princely. And supremely satisfying.
He tried to belch as an added touch but couldn’t. Too many years of savoir faire, he supposed with a rueful grin. Maybe later he’d scratch his armpits. Or watch professional wrestling, even though he hated it. Did this show-place even have a TV?
How had he made such a mess of his life? He felt his dreams crumbling around him, like that stupid castle in the Catskills, and he didn’t know what to do about rebuilding. It seemed a monumental, almost hopeless task.
A voice with an Irish lilt commented dryly in his head, “Handfuls make a load, boy.”
“Huh?”
“The only cure for spilled milk is to lick the pitcher.”
Suddenly inspired, he gave Grandma a mental high five, then set out a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, some cheddar, a half-used onion and the remaining milk. Next he checked the cabinets, where he found a small can of jalapeño peppers and a jar of salsa. When Cynthia and Naomi returned to the kitchen from their world tour, he had a bodacious Spanish omelet sizzling on the gas range, buttered toast in the warming oven and a pot of coffee brewing in a yuppie gourmet contraption. He was swigging down his second can of Bud Light, feeling mighty pleased with himself.
“You did this? By yourself?” Cynthia asked, slack-jawed with surprise.
“No, the maid bopped in.”
“You’re drinking beer? But I thought—”
“Well, sometimes when there’s no Laphroaig available, I don’t mind slumming with a beer. It makes me feel like one of the common folks.”
Naomi guffawed.
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Your eyebrow is twitching.”
With a laugh, he tweaked Cynthia’s chin, then took her by the shoulders, steering her to the table, where he proceeded to serve her a much-needed midnight meal.
Naomi just surveyed him with her usual all-knowing smirk. He ignored her. If she wasn’t going to bed, as he’d suggested, then he would pretend she wasn’t there. Undaunted, Naomi helped herself to a heaping plate of his omelet and plopped her butt down between him and Cynthia, who was savoring his offering as if it was a royal feast. The little sounds of appreciation she made were warming the cockles of his heart. And some other cockles, too.
Maybe things would turn out okay, after all.
Finally, finally, finally, Naomi went off for a bath and then beddie-bye.
He propped his chin on his cupped hands, his elbows braced on the table. He inhaled deeply, taking in the still lingering scent of strong coffee and the more seductive scent of his wife. “Can I tuck you in, Mrs. Ferrama?” he asked with a cute little bobble of his eyebrows. At least, he thought the affectation cute. It was one of his lesser looks, one he was still perfecting.
Her head jerked up from where she’d been studying her empty coffee mug. He wasn’t sure if her alarm was due to the reference to tucking or to her being Mrs. Ferrama. Whatever. He was in too good a mood to be daunted by trivialities.
Life was good. He had hope. He was about to get laid.
“I really think you should go home,” she said nervously. “It’s not a good idea for you to stay here.”
What? Where did that come from? He scooted his chair closer and took both her hands in his. “I’m not leaving you till this danger passes.”
“It’s Naomi who’s in danger, not me,” she argued.
“You might be, and I won’t take that risk. Besides, there’s a more important reason. Will you look at me, please?”
Her eyes had shifted, as if she was having difficulty facing his direct gaze. That was a good sign, in his opinion. When she raised her chin, he saw fear and insecurity in her misty blue eyes. Not such a good sign.
“I love you, Cynthia, and you love me. Isn’t that the most important thing?”
“But what if it’s only a spell?”
He squeezed her hand, trying to convey how strongly he felt. “I’m beginning to think there never was a spell…that Elmer just planted the idea in our heads and we ran away with it.”
“Is that possible?” The tinge of hope in her voice was like a blast of adrenaline to his ego. Not to mention his cockles.
“Yes. Yes, I think it is. But even if there were some spell or something, who’s to say it isn’t like a seed? Once it germinates, does it matter how it got planted in the first place?” Man, am I on a roll. I oughtta start a new company and bottle this stuff.
A tiny smile tugged at her luscious lips. “You do have a way with words, Ferrama. But I have so many questions. You’re like a puzzle I can’t quite figure out. Some of the pieces are missing.”
“We both have questions and lots of unresolved issues, I agree, but I just don’t think now is the time to hash them out. There’s less than two weeks till the stock offering, and I was wondering…well, I have an idea for you and me. A sort of deal.”
“Uh-oh,” she said warily. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not that kind of deal. This is what I’m thinking. Since you can’t go back to work yet, and the feds want you to stay put with Naomi, why don’t you help me in the interim? Be my personal stock consultant.”
“Absolutely not. Legally, I’m not permitted to get involved in your stock operation. Besides, your underwriters would have a fit. And my boss would fire me on the spot…for good, this time. Not to mention losing my SEC license.”
“No, no, no. I meant advise me as a friend and wife and lover.” When she didn’t go all purple and ballistic over the lover bit, he went on. “After the stock goes public, I swear to you on my mother’s soul, we will make a financial settlement regarding your injury and the kidnapping that will be more than acceptable to you. I’ll work with you privately or through your lawyer, whatever you want. And as to the missing pieces of my puzzle, I’ll give all of those to you then, I promise. Just bear with me a little while longer, babe. Trust me.”
“Boy, that’s a lot of promises, Ferrama. And you’re asking for a tremendous leap of faith…to trust a rogue like you.”
“Well?” His heart was lodged in his throat as he waited for an answer.
“It’s a deal. Two weeks. Then all bets are off.”
He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss of thanks for her vote of confidence. “You won’t be sorry, querida.”
“Just don’t let me down, Ferrama. Trust doesn’t come easy for me, and I’m giving up my pride to cut you this slack.”
He tilted his head to the side, as if l
istening to a distant voice.
“What?”
“Your grandma just said to tell you that pride is a hook well lost to catch a salmon.”
“You lying fish you, that motto is on one of the Irish coffee mugs on that shelf above the sink,” she accused with a laugh.
“Well, I knew I heard it somewhere.” He grinned unabashedly.
“There’s just one condition to the deal. You get a two-week reprieve from full-puzzle disclosure, as long as you consent to…” She paused deliberately.
His body stiffened, and the fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck. “Conditions?”
She nodded, then smiled enigmatically. “No sex.”
“No sex?” He let out a hoot of laughter, figuring she must be kidding.
She didn’t return his laughter. In fact, she folded her arms across her chest and waited out his laughter with a solemn, stubborn expression on her face.
He frowned with puzzlement, trying to figure out her game.
This woman who made love with me all night long with uninhibited enthusiasm is saying “No sex?” This woman who echoed my refrain, “You are mine,” and meant it, is now saying “No sex?” This woman who is caught in the same love web as me is saying “No sex?”
“This is our honeymoon, in case you’ve forgotten, wife,” he pointed out with amusement and tried to pull her close for another kiss.
She resisted. “No sex or no deal.”
He tilted his head in question. “Why?”
“Sex muddies the waters. When we get involved again…if we do…I want to have no doubts at all.”
“I love you. Don’t think I take those words lightly when I say them, Cynthia. I thought you loved me, too.”
“I do. And believe me, I take the words a lot more seriously than you do. I’ve never said them to another man. Tell me truthfully, Ferrama, can you say the same?”
He felt his face heat and considered lying, but only briefly. His eyebrow would probably give him away anyhow. “No, but I never meant those words before.”
She threw her hands up in a “See!” attitude.
He thought for a moment. No way was he going to accept her terms, but he understood her caution. “How about a counteroffer? This is a bargaining table, right?” He pounded a fist on the kitchen table for emphasis.