Cynthia felt like crying.
After another bout of involuntary mental caresses had aroused them to fever pitch again, she’d thrown a pitcher of cold water on the fires, figuratively speaking, by inquiring whether he’d ever been in love. Where that question came from, she had no idea. She just thanked God that she hadn’t asked if he’d ever been in love before.
Then, a half hour or so later, in the midst of another round of carnal activity—Cynthia felt as if she was on a sexual roller coaster—Ferrama had been the one to stop the action with an out-of-the-blue declaration: “I don’t have any condoms. I wouldn’t feel right about not protecting you.” He’d looked as astonished as she’d felt by his sudden reservations.
These final countdown reversals seemed to pop into their heads, blocking their actions, forcing them to behave contrary to their raging hormones. Red flags from the beyond.
And now they were about to begin bout number five. It was enough to make a grown woman cry with frustration. A half hour ago, she’d thought the telekinetic sexual torture couldn’t get any worse.
She’d been wrong.
Ferrama was holding her hand, that’s all, and it was the most incredibly sensual thing she’d ever experienced. Fingers laced, palm to palm. No movement.
“Are we holding hands?” he asked softly from his side of the bed.
She nodded.
“I thought so.”
She didn’t want to talk now. The strange bond connecting them where their hands were joined was too special. A clear denial of his earlier rejection. A speaking gesture of warmth and caring and promises too precious to analyze.
This clasping of hands was more arousing to Cynthia than the blatant, raw mental foreplay she’d withstood thus far. Slowly, by degrees, she felt her temperature rising. Need billowed out from her constricted chest, sensitizing her skin, making her yearn for completion. And somehow she sensed that the completion she sought was not just of a physical nature.
Dangerous, dangerous thoughts for a woman to have about a business adversary.
Impossible dreams for a gritty stock trader and an upper-crust prince.
“I lied, you know,” the prince confessed. His pulse thrummed against hers as he spoke.
“You do that a lot.”
He pressed his fingers tight, then released. “I lied about not wanting you,” he elaborated. “I do want you. Desperately.”
“I know.” Cynthia startled herself with that response and realized that she had, in fact, known that he wanted her even without the telling twitch. They were both playing denial games with themselves.
“Let’s make love,” he entreated with a sigh of surrender.
Her heart beat madly against her chest walls, and excitement churned under her skin like a million fluttering hummingbirds. She could barely think. “It wouldn’t be love. Lust, pure and simple, that’s all it would be.”
He shrugged. “Semantics.”
“I’ve never had a meaningless sexual relationship in my life,” Cynthia said. She couldn’t believe she was putting up obstacles to an act she wanted with all her being. It didn’t even sound like her voice when she continued, “I’d never respect myself if I started down that road now.”
He nodded, to her surprise and disappointment. “It occurs to me that we’re like two players in one of those open-ended video games. You know, the ones where the ending keeps changing.”
“And the characters’ actions are determined by the person with the remote control,” she said, beginning to follow his train of thought.
“The game player wielding the clicker must have a bizarre sense of humor, though…or an unusual set of ethics.”
“It makes a weird kind of sense,” Cynthia agreed. “Hot foreplay is okay, but only of the nontactile type…and absolutely no consummation. Tantalizing torture.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “My touch tantalizes you?”
“Your touch tortures me.”
He smiled, choosing to put his own spin on her protest. “So you agree, it’s like there’s an invisible shield that keeps us from actually making love.”
“A shield. Hmmm. I don’t know about that. It’s not like a plexiglass screen shoots up between us on the mattress. It’s something much more ethereal.”
“Conscience,” he concluded.
She laughed.
“Think about it, Cynthia. Whoever’s directing this outrageous game is using our consciences against us.”
“Maybe,” she said hesitantly. “And the goal would be?”
“Marriage,” he said with disgust. “Elmer and Naomi have got it into their heads that we should be married. I told you that before.”
“Well, celestial matchmaking aside, I have no desire to marry you.”
“Likewise,” he retorted. Then, “How come?”
“Number one, you’re not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
“Not a prince, that’s for sure.”
“And?”
“My career is too important to me right now. Maybe later. Marriage wouldn’t fit into my life at this point. No way.”
“Is that all?”
She cast him a sideways look of disbelief. “You’re my enemy. Not only are we on opposite sides of an upcoming legal battle, but you, or your family, kidnapped me. Not a good basis for marriage!” She watched him bite his bottom lip as he concentrated on her words. “What about you? Why wouldn’t you be interested in marrying? Are you a confirmed bachelor?”
He shook his head. “I want to get married someday and have a family, a big family, I hope, but the time isn’t right now. The company’s stock offering, the launching of some new products, just too many things that would detract from the time I would want to give a new wife.”
“Are you obliged to marry a princess?”
He favored her with a sudden arresting smile. “No, I’m not going to marry a princess. A royal chick wouldn’t fit into the coop I have planned.”
Cynthia hated the constriction she felt in her chest as he spoke about marriage to another woman. “Well, now that we know the purpose of the spell, or whatever it is, what do we do about it?”
“Hell if I know. I’m getting too old for sex games. Don’t you have one of those granny wisdoms that would apply here?”
“Too old, huh? How about, ‘The older the buck the harder the horn?’” she offered with a grin. Maybe the answer was to laugh at themselves. It was better than crying.
He grinned back at her. “Are you saying I’m horny?”
“No, I’m saying your horn is hard.”
He shook his head at her coarse humor. “How can you be so sweet one minute and prickly the next?”
She shrugged, and tossed out another of her grandma’s sayings. “Though honey is sweet, never lick it off a briar.”
“I’d brave your briars for a few good licks, honey.”
His quick retort drew an involuntary smile. Their hands were still linked and the warm feeling persisted. Not a roiling, whirling dervish of passion, but low-banked embers of arousal, just waiting to be stirred. “You don’t really want me. It’s just a momentary hunger.” She brightened as another Irish maxim came to her. “Eaten bread is soon forgotten.”
“Don’t be so quick to make judgments, cara mia…until you’ve experienced my eating.”
She groaned at the double entendre.
She felt as though he was lifting their clasped hands to his mouth and kissing the knuckles, one at a time. The whole time he held her eyes across the wide expanse of the bed. She felt the warmth of his breath and the nibbling bite of his firm lips, as if flesh was really meeting flesh.
“Tell me more, querida. Make me laugh, or get angry. Anything to forget the pain of my longing for you.”
Her brain went blank. She tried to remember all the reasons she shouldn’t care about this man. Just days ago she’d been carrying a picket sign proclaiming him a frog. She chuckled with inspiration. “Never pluck a frog,” she pronounced cheerily.
>
“Oh, Cynthia,” he said with a slow, wicked grin, “it’s not plucking I have in mind.”
Blushing, she watched him slide off the bed and stand. “Where are you going?”
“To take a bath…a cold one. Are there any ice cubes left?” He glanced toward the silver ice bucket on the chifforobe.
It was almost dawn—as if she needed reminding, about a million blasted birds were already beginning their wake-up routine—and the image of the prince, soaking in that seven-foot marvel of porcelain decadence, was enough to make her consider doing a swan dive into the frigid depths. Between the two of them, they’d probably set the world record for converting water into steam.
He started to stomp off toward the bathroom, dragging his chain behind him. But then he paused, as if sensing her prurient thoughts. “Wanna join me? I’ll let you use the last of Priscella’s Passion bath oil. And I promise I’ll behave.”
“Your eyebrow is twitching.”
“That’s not a twitch, that’s a waggle. Wanna see what else I can waggle? In fact…” His words trailed off and his eyes widened with accusation. “Cyn-thi-a!”
Before her very eyes, the waistband of his boxers pulled out and pinged back of its own accord.
She gave Elmer a mental high five.
Chapter Eleven
The prince had been in his royal bath for over an hour when Naomi arrived with breakfast.
And lunch.
And dinner.
And snacks.
Actually, what she brought was two heavily laden Sheffield trays of not-so-gourmet foods, which she set on an inlaid rosewood desk by the door. “This should do you two for the rest of the day,” Naomi grumbled. “I’m priming the walls in the second parlor today and I can’t stop once I start.”
Cynthia hobbled over, discovering to her surprise that her toes barely hurt now. All that exposure to the air, she supposed, not to mention having no reason to put weight on her foot, had hastened the healing process.
“My goodness!” she said, barely stifling a giggle when she got closer to the trays. The feast included a loaf of white bread, jars of peanut butter and jelly, a huge carafe of hot coffee, several packets of sugar, a quart of two-percent milk and a six-pack of diet soda (at least Naomi was watching out for their weight), a box of Lucky Krisps cereal (who knew they had corn flakes in the shape of four-leaf clovers?), a gallon-size zip-lock Baggie of ice cubes to fill their bucket, a basket of fruit and an assortment of potato chips and pretzels. Not a caviar egg or pretentious bottled water in sight!
The only utensils provided were of the plastic picnic variety, presumably so they wouldn’t be able to use a butter knife or fork for a weapon. There were also cups, saucers and soup bowls of what appeared to be fine Meissen china. The irony of disposable flatware combined with museum-quality dinnerware didn’t escape her.
Most important, there was a folded newspaper. Cynthia couldn’t wait to get at the stock pages. The market might very well have collapsed in the past three days, for all she knew.
“I’m off then,” Naomi announced, blushing brightly. Cynthia wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed over her food offering or the kidnapping itself.
“Wait! Stay and have a cup of coffee with me,” she urged hastily. “I suspect your stepbrother has fallen asleep in the tub, and I’d like the company.” Cynthia wasn’t surprised at Ferrama dozing off. Now that the effects of Elmer’s spell appeared to have worn off, she felt drained of energy, too. She didn’t believe it was a spell, though. More like some illegal drug. “Come on, just for a minute. I can sit over there, out of reach.” She pointed to a nearby banquette—a long upholstered sofa with one roll-over arm.
“Well,” Naomi said hesitantly, “I suppose I could have one cup.”
Quickly, before she changed her mind, Cynthia poured them each a cup of black coffee, taking note of Naomi’s halting hand when she was about to reach for sugar and milk. Cynthia backed up and sat down gingerly, making sure she didn’t trip over her chain.
Naomi plopped down into a straight-backed chair and, with a long sigh, idly examined the watermarks and worm holes on the inlay of the desktop. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back and tucked under a painter’s cap. She wore a clean pair of paint-spattered coveralls over a white tank shirt. Cynthia realized as the woman crossed one leg over a knee and leaned back that she had a nice shape. In fact, her fresh-scrubbed face, marked by clear skin and straight features, and smelling faintly of Ivory soap, was really very attractive. When she wasn’t frowning, that is.
Ivory soap. I haven’t thought of that in years. It was Grandma’s favorite…mainly because it was the cheapest brand on the market. Cynthia decided to buy some Ivory soap when she got home.
“Why’re you smiling? Do you think I’m funny?”
Cynthia jolted to attention and saw that Naomi was back to frowning again. “No, it was the smell of your Ivory soap.”
“What’s wrong with Ivory soap? Not every woman feels the need to pamper herself with overpriced personal products. I have better things to do with my money.” She sniffed, affronted.
Boy, talk about a chip on the shoulder! “Naomi, my grandma always used Ivory soap. I was smiling because your scent reminded me of…of someone I loved very much.” Her voice cracked with emotion. Really, during the last few days her emotional control had developed more fractures than a linebacker’s knee. Not a good thing for a stock trader.
“Oh. Sorry if I sniped at you. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
So, Naomi was a woman who guarded her emotions well, too. And she was stressed out by their situation, just as Cynthia was. It was not a comfortable realization, recognizing that she and Naomi were alike in some ways.
“No problem,” Cynthia conceded and sipped at her coffee. A companionable silence settled between them. Finally, she remarked, “This is a monumental task you’ve taken on…the castle renovations, I mean.”
Naomi nodded wearily, and Cynthia noticed the fine lines bracketing her eyes and lips. Was she exhausted because of her awesome restoration project, or because of her heinous role in a felony? Probably both.
“Why is it so important to you?”
Naomi sliced her a quick look, obviously suspicious of the motive behind her question. “Why do you want to know?”
She shrugged. “I understand strong women wanting…things. I entered a male dominated profession, after all. I’ve set unthinkable, unfeminine, short-term goals for myself—making money. Even worse, I aspire to a long-term goals that some would consider laughable for a former ghetto girl from Chicago.” She paused only for a second before confiding, “I want a seat on the New York Stock Exchange someday.” Now, why did I reveal that?
Naomi smiled with understanding. It was the first time she’d seen Naomi smile, Cynthia realized, and the wide grin made her genuinely attractive. A little makeup, a wardrobe change, and a personality overhaul would do wonders.
“Despite all that, I don’t grasp your vision here,” Cynthia said.
“My mother died when I was five years old and Ruth was four,” Naomi began. “Daddy hired one live-in housekeeper after another. They never stayed for long. I guess Ruth and I were a little, ah, difficult.” She grinned sheepishly at that last revelation. “The bottom line is that we never had much of a home. Oh, we always had a nice house, but not a home. Daddy was a workaholic, gone from early morning before we awakened to late at night after our bedtime. I remember one time, it was my ninth birthday…well, never mind.” She turned away from Cynthia and poured herself another cup of coffee.
“But didn’t that change when your father married Eva Ferrama? I know she came from a royal family and all that, but then you had a traditional home life, right?”
“Wrong.”
Cynthia’s head shot up.
“Eva was nice enough, but she was a flake. A beautiful, useless ornament. That’s where Ruth got all her warped ideas. I had to show Eva how to change a vacuum cleaner bag, sort laundry, close the
flue on the fireplace. If you’re picturing ‘The Brady Bunch,’ forget it. Eva didn’t even know how to bake a pie. Geesh! Besides, she and Daddy went out a lot…to the country club and stuff.”
Cynthia’s childhood had been nothing like Naomi’s, but she could empathize with the loneliness that permeated her words. And she supposed Eva’s lack of knowledge about such domestic matters was understandable. Being a queen, or former queen, Eva probably hadn’t been taught to do such plebeian tasks.
“Did Eva have a tiara?” Oh, gosh, where did that question come from? Darn, darn, darn! I know exactly where. In those fairy tales I devoured as a child, the queens and princesses always wore a diamond crown…a tiara. In fact, Cynthia suddenly remembered a dime-store rhinestone tiara her Grandma had bought her one Christmas. She used to float around their dingy apartment in her nightgown and tiara, dreaming impossible dreams. She wondered what had ever happened to that precious keepsake of her girlhood. But those were long-ago fancies. How stupid of me to imagine a queen in Hoboken, New Jersey, wearing a crown!
“Actually, yes,” Naomi said, to her surprise. “The silly twit wore it every New Year’s Eve to the Charity Ball.”
Cynthia put the fingertips of one hand to her furrowed brow and rubbed, thinking. “What does all this have to do with your renovation project?”
“Everything. Daddy loved me and Ruth, but he was old-fashioned. He treated us like dolls. Can you imagine me as a doll?”
How about a Martha Stewart Barbie?
“Daddy never talked business with us, even when we were growing up. Said that was man’s work. He believed it was all right for a woman to have a career, as a hobby, but just till she got married and had babies.”
“Incredible!”
“Yeah. He even tried to push me toward marrying one of P.T.’s friends who he brought home from Rutgers. An arranged marriage…can you imagine that?”
“Your stepbrother went to Rutgers?”
“Well, just for a year. Daddy died suddenly, and P.T. had to quit school and take over the company. I was a junior at Cornell then, and Ruth was in her second year of her first beauty school. Thanks to Daddy’s overprotection, we didn’t know a thing about manufacturing shoes.”
Sandra Hill Page 17
