by Sandra Hill
“It’s great,” Cynthia lied.
Ruth let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Maybe tomorrow we can do our nails again. I have Mango Madness and Red Hot Flame. Oooh, oooh, oooh, I know. Let’s use the glow-in-the-dark Pink Passion.”
“Super.” Cynthia took another look at herself in the mirror. I look like a Forty-second Street hooker. And now I’m going to glow, too. What next?
From the open window, she heard a car door slam and Elmer’s voice raised in song, as usual. “Someday her prince will come,” he was belting out, off-key, to the background accompaniment of six hounds a-wailing, a thousand birds achirping and Naomi a-cursing. The only thing missing was the rattle of a pumpkin coach coming over the moat.
Did Cinderella have to put up with this crap? Cynthia wondered hysterically. Then she sighed in surrender. Oh, hell, let the ball begin.
Chapter Five
“Naomi and Ruth did what?” P.T. roared.
Jake and Dick cringed, their eyes darting around Lutèce as diners’ heads turned like dominoes in their direction. The two men had rushed into the popular restaurant moments before, interrupting his late-night engagement…a last minute tête-à-tête arranged in the futile hope of obliterating his concerns about the upcoming stock offering. Not to mention his annoying and escalating sexual fantasies about the missing Cynthia Sullivan.
When his mind had drifted this afternoon in the midst of an important conference call with his European distributors to visions of Cynthia Sullivan wearing an apron and nothing else, he’d known he had to find some way to divert his misdirected testosterone. An apron, for God’s sake! The woman probably didn’t even own an apron. Hell, he didn’t even know if aprons existed outside the world of Andy Griffith’s Aunt Bea.
“Go get laid,” had been Dick’s advice.
“That woman is spamming your circuits,” Jake had agreed. “Yep, your hard drive needs a tune-up. Take care of your joystick, man.”
As a result, he’d made a date with a model who had one of those single-word appellations that escaped his mind at the moment…Crystelle, that was it.
“P.T.,” Dick said with an exasperated exhalation, jarring him back to the present. “Where the hell’s your concentration?”
“In his joystick, would be my guess,” Jake said with a grin.
“Joystick?” Crystelle stopped picking at her foie gras en brioche and blinked her hundred-thousand-dollar eyelashes at P.T. He knew the amount they were insured for because she’d told him so, repeatedly. He also suspected, though not yet from personal experience, that she would be an expert in handling a joystick.
The effect of the eyelid fluttering, intended to be alluring, was lost on his libido, which had an annoying habit—even facing the certain prospect of his hard drive being booted up by the end of the evening—of lingering on the fantasy of a pair of million-dollar Rockette legs. Dusted with flour. She would be baking him a cake. Chocolate, he hoped. Nude baking…now that had possibilities. Well, not really nude. There was that apron…
But he couldn’t think about that now. Liz Smith, seated at a conspicuous table in the tiny restaurant, was among those glancing in their direction. The woman flipped open her notebook with the speed of a carnivorous, gossip-smelling newsmonger.
All this P.T. noticed in that split second that his befuddled brain registered the alarming news Jake and Dick had just delivered.
“Your stepsisters kidnapped the shark and are keeping her at the castle,” Dick repeated in a hushed undertone.
“And Elmer Presley drove them there in our stolen limo,” Jake added with indignation. Somehow, Jake had developed a personal attachment to the hunk of pretentious metal.
“I think they used my Bolgheri ties in the caper,” Dick said, seething, as he shifted from foot to foot. “I swear, I’m going to wring Naomi’s neck if there’s even one wrinkle in them.”
“Forget the ties,” P.T. snapped.
“Easy for you to say,” Dick grumbled.
“Elvis Presley stole a shark and is keeping it in a castle?” Crystelle made a little twittering sound as she asked her question, but her eyes sharpened with alertness. Crystelle was one bright cookie, despite her brainless bimbo affectation.
“No, no, no, cara,” P.T. corrected, recognizing the danger. He couldn’t take a chance that the publicity-hungry model would sell the story to the nearest tabloid. “Dick and Jake were just telling me that my stepsisters are trying out our new sharkskin shoes…the Elvis Presley blue suede shade. Against my orders, I might add. Jake accidentally left the designer samples in the limo last night.”
“Oh.”
He put his fingertips to his lips, as if he’d revealed something he shouldn’t have. “Of course, this is all top secret, sweetheart. Hush-hush. We wouldn’t want the competition to steal our ideas.” He flashed her an imploring look. Hey, two could play the eyelash batting game. Even Cynthia Sullivan had admired his eyelashes, he recalled with disturbing irrelevance.
“Of course, darling.” Crystelle smiled sweetly at him.
P.T. would lay odds he would read all about this conversation in the fashion dailies tomorrow.
Suddenly, she straightened and threw back her overblown hair with dramatic effect, having just spotted Liz and a possible publicity op.
Oh, hell!
Dick made eye contact with him, motioning with a jerk of his head that he should slip away from his date. Crystelle’s attention was divided now between her attempts to understand the nonverbal communication going on at her table and an attempt to gain the interest of the celebrity reporter.
One mention in Liz’s column could up a model’s asking price by thousands.
Or destroy a company. Especially when two of its major stockholders were engaged in a felony of monumental proportions.
“Por favor, would you excuse me for a moment, querida?” he inquired smoothly, pinning her with a smoldering expression that promised he would make it up to her later. A promise he now had no intention of honoring.
Crystelle practically swooned.
Hmpfh! At least with this babe his looks still worked. There was some balm to his bruised pride in knowing that.
As he followed Jake and Dick to the bar, he saw Liz rise from her seat and make her way toward his table. Now Liz and Crystelle were exchanging little air-kissing gestures on each of their cheeks in greeting. Women were so predictable.
Except for his wicked stepsisters.
It was four A.M. before P.T. was ready to leave for the Catskills.
P.T. had put Crystelle in a cab with promises he’d call her the next day. Then he had gone to his penthouse apartment—another showcase prop he would unload with his prince persona in a few short months. There, Dick and Jake had brought him up to date on the developments they’d uncovered in the past few hours.
Apparently, Naomi and Ruth had learned of Cynthia Sullivan’s threats to sue Ferrama. Fearing that their windfall was going to fall through the cracks, they’d taken matters into their own imbecile hands and kidnapped the woman. Santo Infierno! Why the two dingbats didn’t trust him to handle the situation himself he didn’t know. He’d been taking care of their interests very well since Mort’s death more than ten years earlier. Not only had he tripled the company’s assets, but he’d upped his stepsisters’ income significantly. But it was never enough.
“I should be back by this afternoon,” P.T. said, having decided not to pack an overnight bag. “I want you two to carry on as usual.”
Both men nodded.
“Dick, you’ve been handling most of the road shows anyhow, but in case I don’t get back in time, you can pick up the presentation at Merrill Lynch, right?”
“Sure thing.”
“Jake, you’ll go over to the plant in Jersey and check on the patterns for the new design? It’s important that Snake Magic be ready to hit the distribution outlets the same day our stock goes public. A double whammy to boost sales.”
“Right. The foreman said the cutters are hav
ing a problem with the ankle strap, but I’m sure the machines just need to be recalibrated for those Brazilian leathers.”
“And, Dick, I want you to take over my other appointments. The ad agency will be here at ten to pitch the new print campaign. We need all the good ink we can get from the press conference to be held on the twentieth. Make sure Claudia Vasquez, that new assistant in our promotions department, sits in on the meeting. I was really impressed with her ideas for the MTV market.”
Dick smiled.
“Don’t even think of hitting on Claudia. She’s married.”
Dick’s smile melted. “What a spoilsport!”
“Also, Dick, that animal rights group will be here at one. They’re concerned about the ostrich leather we’re using on Sassy. Make sure you emphasize that Ferrama has a policy of adhering to endangered species laws, and that the only ostrich skins we use are from animals that have died of natural causes. That’s why that shoe model is so rare and highly priced. We could sell a ton of those high heels if we were exploiting the animals.”
“I know all this stuff, P.T. Don’t worry,” Dick assured him. “You take care of Naomi and Ruth…and that Elmer Presley dude. Dios, where does Ruth pick up these characters?”
“I have no idea.” P.T. snorted with disgust. “She’s like a flake magnet. Do you know what Elmer told me one time? He said he’s my fairy godfather.”
Dick and Jake both chuckled.
“Fairy?” Dick remarked then. “Geez! Did you give him one of your looks?”
“Not that kind of fairy,” P.T. said huffily. “The other kind.”
“What other kind?” Jake asked. He was leaning back in a Biedermeier chair solving, over and over, one of those impossible to solve chain loop desk games.
“The Cinderella kind.”
“Huh? I thought that was a fairy godmother.” Dick raked his fingers through his hair and redid the rubber band at his nape. It had been a long day and night for them all.
“Fairy godmother. Fairy godfather. Big difference, I guess. Anyhow, Elmer has delusions that he was sent to help me find a perfect princess.”
Dick let out a hoot of derision. “It’s women who fantasize about Prince Charming. Not men. Have you ever heard a guy talk about wanting to find his Princess Charming?”
“More like Bimbo for a Night,” Jake offered.
They all concurred with that.
Or jackhammer sex on a flour-covered kitchen floor.
P.T. remembered something else. “When I scoffed at him, Elmer said something really weird. He gazed at me with those sad eyes of his and said, ‘Any man can lose his hat in a fairy wind.’”
“If you ask me, Elmer sounds like a psycho,” Dick continued.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Jake inquired.
P.T. shrugged. “I didn’t think so before, but, yeah, he’s dangerous. All three of them are. Kidnapping, for God’s sake! How will we ever undo this mess?”
“You’re going to have to convince the woman that it was a harmless joke,” Dick advised. “Then charm her like you’ve never charmed a woman before. Do you recall the Spanish heiress who refused to sell you that empty factory in Lisbon? She was one stubborn lady, but she came around. Even sold it to you at less than market value.”
P.T. smiled in recollection. Dolores Lopez had indeed been adamant about holding on to the family facility that had been critical in Ferrama’s European expansion plans. Damn, he had been good. But that was five years ago, and P.T. wondered if he still had the fire in his blood to pull off such a coup again. Especially with a Wall Street shark.
Well, he had to. There was no other recourse. Still, he resisted. “I told you, Dick, the looks don’t work with her.”
“Then try the touches. Hell, pull out all the stops and nail her upside down and sideways…till her teeth melt. I don’t care how you handle her. Just don’t come back till you’ve got her under control.”
P.T. groaned. Lack of confidence had never been one of his problems, but for the first time in his life he wondered if he had the talent for the chase. And for the first time in his life, he cared on a personal level about the outcome. That was probably what was weakening his self-assurance, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Are you two talking about seducing Cynthia Sullivan into being on our side?” Jake asked incredulously. At the sheepish look on their faces, Jake burst out laughing. “God, I’d like to be a fly on the wall when that happens. Or doesn’t happen.”
P.T. flashed a scowl at Jake, who continued to chortle. Really, he was getting damn sick of people—Naomi, Ruth and now Jake—not trusting in his talents. He’d show them all.
He hoped.
“Take my Beamer,” Dick said as they flicked off his apartment lights and moved toward the elevators. “It’ll be more comfortable on the long drive.”
“Nah, I’m taking the pickup,” P.T. insisted. “Those back roads are a killer on a low-riding vehicle.”
“I still say you’re crazy for buying a truck. Okay, so you’re tired of being a prince, but do you have to turn into a redneck? And orange…what ever possessed you to buy an orange truck?”
“It’s not orange. It’s Burnished Umber.”
“In other words…orange,” Jake stated.
Jake was getting a real smart mouth on him. He must be hanging around Dick too much.
“And that rustic cabin in the Poconos!” Dick continued. “Who are you kidding? Despite all your protests, you’re accustomed to the finer things in life, not outside toilets.” Dick pretended to shudder with horror.
“I’ll adapt.” P.T. smiled at Dick and pressed the ground-floor elevator button. “I plan to take off for a month or two after the stock hoopla dies down. I need to step back and think about what I want to do next. I’ll do a little fishing. Relax. Regroup.”
“Do you even know how to fish?” Jake asked.
“What’s to know?” P.T. bristled. “Put a worm on a hook and toss the line in a stream. I bought a fishing video from L. L. Bean, and a whole bunch of equipment. I’m gonna be a regular guy…for once in my life.”
“Oh, God!” Dick exclaimed. “Next you’ll be scouting out a June Cleaver kind of wife and settling down in Beaver-Cleaver-picket-fence hometown America.”
“Maybe I will,” P.T. said defensively.
“I think I’m gonna puke.” Dick was staring at him with horror. “I’m off to Cancún myself. A little sun, sand and frolicking. That’s what you need, P.T., more frolicking in your life. Not this ‘finding yourself’ crap.”
“You’re not thinking about selling Ferrama, are you?” Jake’s voice rose with alarm.
“Nah. But we’ve all been working under tremendous pressure these past five years.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I want to do next.”
“You need a new challenge,” Dick concluded.
“Maybe,” P.T. said hesitantly. Thoughts of Cynthia Sullivan popped into his head. Now, why did he think of her in the same category as challenge? Then he breathed a sigh of relief. So, that was all she was to him…a challenge. Hey, he could handle that.
And another fantasy popped into his head, involving remote cabins and campfires. And nude fishing. Oh, yeah! Nude fishing with the slow stretch-and-reach motion of perfectly sculpted bodies, male and female, casting rod and reel onto smooth waters and—
“Make sure you bring back the limo,” Jake reminded him just before they entered the parking garage.
Sex in a limo. Nude bodies. Leather seats.
I’m losin’ it here…bigtime.
Even so, P.T. found himself wondering if Cynthia knew how to fish. No matter! They would watch the fishing videos together, in the nude. Then bop into the limo for a little…bopping.
“And my ties,” Dick added. “All twelve of them, especially the blue and yellow dragon one.”
P.T. shook his head at the two of them. And saw a picture in his head of a campfire and toasting marshmallows on long sticks and nude campers, a male and a female.
“P.T., where the hell are you?” Dick’s elbow nudged him back to the present.
“I have a sudden craving for marshmallows,” he blurted out.
“I’m really worried about you,” Dick said.
Seeing the concern in Dick’s eyes, P.T. pulled himself together and tossed out, “How many lawyers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“One,” Jake answered for Dick. “A lawyer will screw anything.”
Yeah, and maybe a prince shoemaker would, too.
P.T. was not in a good mood by the time he arrived at the castle five hours later. Not that his mood had been anything to write home about before that.
He’d barely left Manhattan when the pounding rains began. Twice, he’d been forced to pull off to the side of the interstate because of nonexistent visibility. Another time he’d stopped at a rest stop to take a short catnap. The metronomic click-click of the windshield wipers had been hypnotizing him to sleep. Finally, he’d reached the five-mile dirt road—now mud—which led up to the castle. His rear felt like ground beef from the poor shocks in the bouncing pickup truck.
Pulling to a stop, he waited for the rain to let up, staring morosely at the castle before him. Every time he saw the monstrosity—which wasn’t often—he shuddered with distaste.
Five years ago, when he’d decided to turn Morton Friedman’s cut-rate shoe empire into an upscale supplier to the rich and famous, he’d needed a palace as a backdrop for his royal persona. Dick had purchased the Spanish title for him, along with the deserted island “empire.” But no way was P.T. going to build even a bamboo hut on that volcanic paradise that resembled some sci-fi lunar landscape. On his one and only visit, P.T. had seen more snakes than any person should see in a lifetime. Some of them had made their way into Ferrama shoe creations.
But the news media had been, and still were, curious about the new prince of leather. P.T. had suggested to Dick that they rent some villa or mini-castle in Europe for a week or so and take some photographs of him in his supposed home. But Dick had nixed the idea, and rightly so, pointing out that the European papparazzi were vultures when it came to sniffing out the truth. Besides, they probably had pictures on file of every bloody castle ever created.
