Sandra Hill

by Love Me Tender

  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.

  She moved to the next wall and studied a photograph of three men smiling widely at the camera. All were in shirtsleeves and loosened ties, standing outside a factory—the prince in the center with Alvarez and Beaunare on either side, arms looped over each other’s shoulders. The plaque under the picture read: FERRAMA, INC., THE DREAM BEGINS, 1993. Cynthia squinted to see better. Even though it was only five years ago, they all seemed much younger. And hopeful. Hmmm. Ferrama didn’t look at all like a prince. He was much too relaxed and casual…one of the guys.

  “You’re smiling.”

  Cynthia jerked around to see Ferrama closing the door behind him with an ominous click. He walked slowly toward her, and it took all her resolve to stand her ground and not bolt in the opposite direction. Not that she could do much bolting with her sore foot. “I was smiling because you all looked so innocent then,” she responded. Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears.

  His shoulder brushed hers as he moved closer and glanced first at the picture, then at her. “As compared to…?”

  He’d taken off his suit jacket and was wearing only the black T-shirt tucked into the pleated gray pants. The small gold hoop in his right ear and the Rolex watch at his wrist caught her attention, but only briefly. He was so darn gorgeous…no, he was so darn compelling. For a second, she forgot that he’d posed a question. When she pulled herself together, somewhat, she answered, “…as compared to the slick, devious trio you’ve become now.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” he murmured. “Appearances are sometimes deceptive.” Then he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand trembled slightly before he pulled it back with seeming alarm.

  Her heart skipped a beat, then thundered wildly against her ribs. The feathery brush of his fingertips across her cheek was a clear intrusion into her zone of privacy. A virtual stranger, he violated her personal space with such an intimate gesture. It was almost as if he was giving her notice…a predatory animal marking his chosen mate.

  Where did I get such an outlandish idea?

  Why can’t I find my voice to protest?

  And that trembling of his fingertips…a good touch, that. Ferrama was either a consummate actor, trying to charm her into financial capitulation, or he was equally as rattled as she.

  Is this a role he’s playing to soften me up for the kill? Or is that smoldering look in his eyes real? And why should it matter? Blue-blooded princes don’t get involved with red-blooded commoners.

  I have no time for this. My job and my future are on the line. Get a grip, Cynthia. One slip and you could lose it all.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked in a grainy voice, holding her eyes.

  Yep, the man is pure temptation. That voice alone could make an intelligent woman’s I.Q. slam dunk about twenty points.

  “What are we going to do?” he repeated.

  She couldn’t have averted her face if her life depended on it. But it was a simple enough question—one she could easily answer. “We’ll either settle this dispute now or in court. It’s up to you.” She gave herself a mental pat on the back for replying in a level tone, and not a squeak.

  He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he whispered.

  “Wh-what?” She did squeak this time.

  “This is the worst time for this,” he said on a groan. His creased forehead bespoke genuine distress, but Cynthia was still wary.

  He stood a respectable distance from her, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t try to touch her again. His words, though confusing, couldn’t be construed as objectionable. Still, his dark, smoldering eyes swept her like a forbidden caress.

  “I…I don’t understand,” she stammered.

  “What are we going to do about us?” he rasped out.

  Chapter Three

  P.T. Ferrama had three looks that made women melt. The vulnerable look. The smoldering look. The arrogant I-could-take-you-or-leave-you look.

  The key to all of the looks was subtlety. It was all in the attitude. In his not so humble opinion, he had subtlety and attitude down to an art form.

  He’d had lots of years to practice, of course, since the days he was a street-savvy shoeshine kid in Puerto Rico, hustling tourists outside their hotels. The services he’d offered had run the gamut from effusive compliments (“Lady, your face ees so pretty, you mus’ be a move-hee star.”) to errands (“Hey, meester, you want I should buy you some condoms?”) to tours (“Cheapest rum on the island, I can show you, damn right.”). P.T. had learned that a quick smile and a cheeky charisma, adapted to each situation, won over even the toughest target.

  Survival had been the name of the game then. Survival…of a different sort…was the name of the game now.

  Oh, it hadn’t been that he was alone. His father had skipped the nest before he was born, later dying of an alcohol-soaked kidney, but his mother, Eva Ferrama, had worked long hours as a baccarat dealer in the island casinos, leaving her feisty, independent son to fend for himself.

  All that had changed when P.T. was ten and his mother had married a mainland widower, Morton Friedman, who already had two children of his own, the eleven-and twelve-year-old girls, Ruth and Naomi, who would turn into the plagues of his life. The kindly Mort—the only father figure P.T. would ever know—had owned a Hoboken, New Jersey, cut-rate shoe factory, and he’d been eager to teach his new son the ropes. Then P.T.’s hustling had proved just as effective as he entered a new, more professional arena.

  Five years ago, he and the new company lawyer, Enrique Alvarez, had come up with a plan to jump-start the ailing shoe business by giving it an upscale face-lift, complete with the prince persona. P.T. had met Dick at Rutgers nine years before that, at freshman orientation. Before the end of the year, P.T. had been forced to drop out of college and take over the shoe factory, following Mort’s sudden death.

  Hiring Jake fresh out of M.I.T. had been one of the smartest moves they’d ever made, though shoe industry colleagues had scoffed at the time, “Who ever heard of an engineer designing shoes?”

  All his life, despite the change in circumstance, P.T. had felt like a picaro—a person with no home or money…always hungry…always having to earn a living by his wits. So, any means to stay above water were legitimate in his book, as long as no one got hurt.

  And some tactics had universal, timeless appeal, including the looks. It didn’t matter if he was an eight-year-old gremlin hawking shoe polish with a teary eye or an eighteen-year-old shoe rep trying to break into the Wal-Mart chain with a teary eye or a thirty-two-year-old prince fighting for his company with a teary eye.

  Right now, his mark was the corn princess, and he was laying on the vulnerability. The hooded, half-mast lids. The softened mouth. The needy tic in his jaw, which had taken days in front of a mirror to perfect. Sometimes, in especially tough circumstances, he even added a trembling hand.

  Cynthia Sullivan didn’t stand a chance.

  Yep, she was staring at him as if he’d just stormed her castle and was about to whisk her up on his high horse. Her gaping mouth was a sure indicator of how overwhelm
ed she was. He’d lay odds that any minute now she would sigh. That would be the clincher.

  Sometimes he surprised himself with his talent for this Prince Charming routine. Who would have thought a street kid from Puerto Rico could be so…princely? But then, women were gullible when it came to that everlasting fantasy of a perfect man to fulfill their dreams.

  Cynthia Sullivan was no exception. She might be a shark in her business dealings but she undoubtedly shared womankind’s basic yearning for a knight in shining armor. Why else would she have bought an overpriced apartment in the Dakota—the only building in Manhattan that resembled a castle? Yep, she pined for a prince to rescue her from her humdrum life.

  And, violà, P.T. was a prince.

  When he wanted to be.

  All these thoughts passed through P.T.’s mind in the brief seconds after he’d whispered his tantalizing suggestion. They were still standing face-to-face, an arm’s length apart, in front of the wall of Ferrama pictures.

  Pausing an additional moment, just long enough for her to register the full impact of his look, he repeated his husky question. “What are we going to do about us?” (Women melted when he made his voice husky, especially if he threw in a Spanish endearment or two. He decided a Spanish endearment at this point would be overkill.)

  Her mouth clicked shut, and she started to laugh.

  Uh-oh. Why is she laughing? Laughter was not the usual reaction to his vulnerable look. She’s probably just nervous. That’s why she’s laughing. Whew, that’s a relief. My ego can live with that. But it’s damn disconcerting.

  “You are beyond belief,” she gasped out, laughing so hard that tears filled her eyes. “As my wise ol’ grandma used to say, ‘Sure and it’s true as God created blue skies and blue-eyed rogues…what’s got with guile will disappear with the wind.’”

  “Huh?”

  “In other words, don’t waste your breath on dead embers.”

  “Oh, your embers aren’t dead, querida. And never underestimate what a determined man can do with his mouth…uh, breath. Red-hot ashes are easily rekindled. Don’t doubt for one minute that I could blow your ash into a bonfire.”

  She persisted in chuckling, even as her eyes widened at his suggestive boast. “Tell the truth and shame the devil…are you even a real prince?”

  “Ciertemente,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster in the face of her continuing laughter. “I am Prince Perico Tomas de la Ferrama.”

  “Oh, geez!” She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, then walked over to get a tissue from her purse. “You’re more like the prince of Smarm—as in smarmy—than the prince of Charm,” she blathered on, dabbing at her eyes. “You and Alvarez cooked up a scheme for seducing me into dropping my claim, didn’t you?”

  “We did not,” he lied. Smarmy, huh? Calling me a liar, huh? You are too astute by far, babe.

  “If you’re depending on your irresistible charm to win me over, I’ve gotta tell you it’s the shakiest leg on your negotiating table.”

  “You’re not so charming yourself, Ms. Sullivan.”

  “Where is your magic kingdom anyhow? Disneyland? Ha, ha, ha.”

  “I find your comments extremely offensive, Ms. Sullivan. My principality is in the Canary Islands.”

  “Really?” She appeared a little more convinced now. “Do you have a castle? And a moat, and everything?”

  The Prince-Charming gleam of hope was in her eye. She was like all the other women, after all.

  “Of course,” he answered truthfully. Well, partially true. She didn’t need to know that his castle was a moldering palace built by a railroad baron in the Catskills at the turn of the century. Mira Lago, it was not. He would have been a fool to erect a majestic royal structure on the snake-ridden, vacant, volcanic island Dick had purchased for him in the Canary Islands near Tenerife, just in case reporters checked his claims of princeliness and an actual “realm.”

  All right. Time to shift strategies here. She’s still buying the prince garbage, but she knows I’m trying to charm her into a fast deal. He threw his hands up in mock surrender and walked over to the desk, where the nosy woman was perusing his stock prospectus again. “I admit that I hoped you would be so overwhelmed by my magnetic allure that you’d prove reasonable in the negotiations,” he told her and grabbed the pamphlet from her hands, placing it out of reach.

  “Be careful that the magnetism of your personality doesn’t whack out that hard drive over there,” she cautioned with an unattractive smirk, pointing to the still humming computer.

  “Another bit of Irish wisdom?” he asked testily.

  “No, that’s modern woman seeing through modern man. It doesn’t take a financial wizard to recognize when a woman’s being hustled.”

  Hustled? I’ve got news for you, babe, when I decide to hustle you, you won’t know what hit you. My looks are one thing; my hustle is invincible. You are going to be really surprised.

  And pleased.

  I hope.

  “In my own defense, it wasn’t hard at all trying to seduce you. I’ve always had a taste for…shark meat.” He bobbed his eyebrows at her.

  She made a tsk-ing sound of disbelief, then grinned. “And I’ve been known to devour creamed snake in exotic restaurants. Have you ever tried Crème de Cobra?”

  “Touché.” I’d like to cream something, and it’s not a reptile, honey. He smiled widely at the thought.

  “Aha! That’s the first honest thing you’ve done today.”

  “What? Admit I like to eat shark?” Dios, did I speak my thoughts aloud…that I’d like to cream her?

  “No, you dolt! Smile.”

  “Huh?”

  “That smile was the first genuine expression to cross your face today. I probably wouldn’t have noticed the difference until I saw that when you smile spontaneously, your eyes crinkle, the stress in your jaw relaxes and a tiny dimple emerges at the right side of your mouth.” A slight blush crept up her neck and over her face at her inadvertent revelation.

  So, she’s attracted to me, after all. I knew it, I knew it. Not that I care.

  Yeah, right.

  He smiled again.

  “Nope. That one’s a fake smile. I’ve got your number now, Prince Ferrama; so save yourself the energy. Soft words and soft looks beguile a fool, but I’m no fool. Let’s get down to brass tacks. We’re two reasonable people. We should be able to come to an agreement. I’m not greedy. Really, I’m not. My grandma taught me well, ‘A ha’porth of ’taties and a farthing’s worth of fat will make a good dinner for an Irish Pat.’ I only want what’s fair.”

  “Oh, mierda! The grandma crap again!”

  She narrowed her eyes at his maligning her dear ol’ grandma, then glanced down at her watch. Slicing him a scowl, she said, “Listen, I’ve been here an hour and a half. Either make me a serious offer or I’m leaving.”

  The offer I have in mind would probably get me a slap on the face. “Fifty thousand dollars and all medical costs.”

  “No way! Five hundred thousand. And that’s a gift. Take it now or the offer is off the table.”

  P.T. shook his head. “Fifty thousand, all medical costs and your mortgage payments till you return to work, up to six months.”

  “Five hundred thousand,” she repeated.

  “That’s absurd, totally unrealistic.”

  She shrugged. “The devil dances in an empty pocket. And my pockets are empty, thanks to your shoe product. Five hundred thousand will settle the case. Take it or leave it,” she reiterated, then seemed to think of something else, “or…”

  “Or what?” he asked hesitantly as he followed her gaze to the stock prospectus.

  “…or twenty-five thousand shares of Ferrama stock.”

  P.T. clenched his fists to keep from leaping over the table and strangling the woman. “I’ll see you in hell before I give you an interest in my company.”

  “Put a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to hell,” she quipped saucily.

>   He told her graphically what she could do with her unwelcome Irish proverbs.

  “Tsk-tsk,” she tutted with an infuriating grin. “That wasn’t very princely of you.”

  He inhaled and exhaled several times, glaring at her the whole time.

  “So, do I get a piece of Ferrama?”

  Oh, you’re going to get a piece of me, Ms. Sullivan. When I’m ready. On my terms. “When sharks fly,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Now, now, Prince Peter,” she chastised, wagging a forefinger at him.

  “Don’t…call…me…Peter,” he gnashed out, his face reddening oddly with embarrassment.

  “Prince Peter, Prince Petie, Prince Ferrama, Prince Charming, Prince Not-so-Charming, whatever. Remember, when thy hand be in the shark’s mouth, laddie, withdraw it gently.”

  “And you remember this, lassie,” he countered icily, “even a shark can be devoured by a hungry wolf.”

  For emphasis, he made a low, growling sound of sexy menace.

  And damned if Cynthia Sullivan didn’t smile—a slow, lazy attack on his already eroticized senses—just before growling back at him.

  I think I’m in love. No, I think I’m in lust. No, I think I’m in love-lust. Oh, hell, I think I’m in trouble.

  “Did you hear that?” Naomi Friedman said to her sister Ruth as they eavesdropped unabashedly on the secretary’s intercom outside P.T.’s office. Maureen had gone down the hall to accounting to cut them their weekly expense checks. “First, that woman leads a picket; now she’s trying to steal our company.”

  “Do you think P.T. would let her do that to Daddy’s company?” Ruth asked, wringing her hands.

  “He’s probably more concerned with getting her into his bed…the horny toad! Our stepbrother is spoiled by all the women chasing after him. It’s always been that way. Remember that time in junior high when the janitor found him in the broom closet with Brenda ‘Breasts “R” Us’ Bicarro? Did he care about us then…how everyone was laughing? No. Well, we can’t let him ruin our lives again. Not now.”