“You went to Cornell? I’m impressed, Naomi.”
“Why? Do you think you’re the only intelligent woman in the universe?”
“Ouch! That was warranted, I suppose. It’s just that you project this image of—” She waved a hand in the direction of Naomi’s coveralls.
“You’d think that a savvy stock trader would know better than to judge people by their exterior trappings.”
“Double ouch!” Cynthia was seeing Naomi with new eyes and finding her much more complex than she’d imagined. “What did you study?”
“Teaching,” she said with disgust. “Daddy insisted. But I took every architectural course I could fit in on the side.”
“Let’s backtrack a bit here. Your father was an Archie Bunker when it came to his view of feminism. And he tried to fix you up with some guy. What’s wrong with that? Successful women have been working around obstacles like that for centuries.” Cynthia was trying hard to find the link between this personal history and Naomi’s need for a castle.
“I suspect, but I’m not certain, that Daddy might have even offered Enrique money, like a dowry. The most mortifying thing is that he refused. Not that I didn’t refuse, too, but the louse refused first. I hate him, I really do.”
“Enrique? You mean Dick Alvarez?” Good grief! Naomi and the Hispanic stud lawyer?
“The one and only. After P.T. dropped out of college, they stayed friends. Then, when Enrique graduated from law school, he joined Friedman’s Wholesale Shoes, too. A little later they hired Jake. And the three of them conspired to steal the company.”
“P.T. stole your family business?” Now this was information Cynthia might be able to use in her lawsuit.
“Not legally, but in all other ways, yes. P.T. changed the name of Daddy’s company. He changed the whole product line. He gave it his stupid royal prince imprint. Never once did he consult me or Ruth. He…” Naomi’s words trailed off as she realized how much she was revealing with her angry tirade. Darting a quick glance at Cynthia, she straightened, and her face closed over.
“Let me get this straight. Your father bequeathed his entire company to his stepson and left his two blood daughters out of the will?”
“Of course not. Daddy gave us the house and a trust fund and twenty percent each of the company. The other sixty percent went to P.T., ten percent of which he later divvied between Enrique and Jake.”
“All because he thought a man would be better able to run a company,” she concluded for Naomi.
“Right.”
“Once again, what does this castle and your renovation plan have to do with all that?”
“When P.T. bought this castle five years ago—”
“He does take his royal duties seriously then,” she interjected with unwarranted enthusiasm. “Your stepbrother said his uncle was king, but he must have wanted to establish a palace for himself until the crown passes to him.”
Naomi just gaped at her.
“His mother must have been so pleased. And those banana trees…now I understand. They were added to remind him and his mother of their island homeland.”
Naomi’s gaping mouth clicked shut. “P.T.’s mother died when he was fifteen…of cancer.”
“Oh.” Her heart went out to P.T. then, when she thought of him as a young prince, alone in a foreign country. “All the more reason for him to be sentimental about having his very own palace. He told me there was no castle on his island, but I knew he had to be kidding.”
“Yeah. A great kidder, that P.T.” Naomi was looking at her as if she was two turrets short of a full castle.
“So, your stepbrother bought this place and started to renovate it. Why did he stop?”
Naomi shrugged. “It was costing too much money. He had his penthouse in the city. He was busy playing prince playboy. Taking the fashion industry by storm was much more fun. He had no vision of what this castle could be.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me,” Naomi agreed. “The minute I saw this place I was a goner. Oh, Cynthia, didn’t you ever dream when you were a little girl of a fairy-tale castle and Prince Charming and all those things that would fill your life with magic and love?”
“Nope,” Cynthia lied. This is too, too weird. Naomi the Terminator and I have way too much in common. “I prefer to live in my high-rise apartment building, thank you very much.”
“Do you live in Manhattan?”
“Uh-huh. Upper West Side. I just bought a coop apartment in the Dakota.”
“The Dakota!” Naomi hooted. “That’s as close to a castle as it gets in the city. You phony, you! You’re a dreamer just like me. You just hide it behind those shark teeth.”
“Like you?” Cynthia arched a brow. But what she was thinking was, No, no, no! It can’t be true. I’m not a dreamer at all. I purchased that apartment because it was a good investment. It had nothing to do with its palatial exterior. Oh, God! It can’t be true. I can’t have subconsciously bought into the fairy-tale fantasy. Surely I left those unrealistic yearnings behind me long ago.
Naomi was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Time to change the subject…turn it back to Naomi and her foolish dreams. Not my foolish dreams…not that I have any dreams. Uh-uh! “Forget about me. There’s something missing in your fairy tale, Naomi. This castle is a dump, and there’s not a charming prince in sight.”
“Hah! Who needs a prince? I’m disappointed that a money maven like you doesn’t see the possibilities.”
“Possibilities?” Cynthia repeated.
“Yep. I’m gonna open the biggest, poshest bed-and-breakfast in the world. The Castle.”
“A bed-and-breakfast? In a palace?” Cynthia laughed, but not with derision. “You might just have an idea there. Sort of a Mira Lago of the North, sans Donald Trump. Sky-high prices. Exclusive clientele.”
“There you go!” Naomi smiled at her warmly…well with as much warmth as Naomi was capable of showing.
“The only thing missing in this equation is the capital to finance the venture. I don’t want to be unkind, Naomi, but the million-dollar cut you expect to get from the stock transfer won’t be nearly enough. Not that you yahoos are going to have all that much profit after I’m done dragging you through the courts. And I sincerely doubt whether you’ll be able to dip into a trust fund for the added cash.”
“I’m not a total dunce, you know. I have my own plans.” Naomi’s face took on a crafty, secretive expression. “Besides, do you have any idea what the furniture in this place is worth?”
The price of hauling it away?
“Millions.”
“Naomi! Most of it’s damaged junk.”
Naomi shook her head vehemently. “Even with the deplorable damage, these are valuable antiques. There are Philadelphia Queen Anne chairs in the dining room that would bring a hundred thousand each at Christie’s.”
Cynthia straightened with interest.
“Some of the paintings were done by world-famous artists. Do you know, there’s even a Winslow Homer landscape in the billiard room?” Naomi preened with pride on imparting that information.
Cynthia wondered why Naomi would tell her these things when she knew a law-suit was pending. Because she doesn’t believe it will ever happen. She really thinks I’ll marry her stepbrother and drop all my complaints. All-in-the-family logic. Not in a million years would she marry Ferrama, not even to gain a fairy-tale prince. But no need to rile Naomi with that news now.
“Have you brought in appraisers?” Cynthia inquired.
Naomi nodded. “But I’ve only shown them a few pieces. I wouldn’t ever consider selling off all the furnishings. That would destroy the historical character of the castle. But a few items wouldn’t hurt.”
“Oh, is that who those men were yesterday? Appraisers? You told your stepbrother they were businessmen who’d lost their way, but I’ll bet you didn’t want to alert him to these hidden treasures. Good idea.”
A rosy tint crept up Naomi’s neck.
“Yeah, that’s what they were…appraisers.” Standing abruptly, she announced, “Well, I’ve got to go.” Instead of leaving, though, she shifted from foot to foot. “There is one thing I wanted to ask you…a bit of professional advice.”
“About stocks?” Now that was a surprise. A kidnapper seeking hot stock tips from the kidnapee.
“I just had a general kind of question. It involves a friend of mine.”
Yeah, right.
“If a person was selling off a large block of stock, would the other members of the corporation know about it ahead of time?”
Little alarm bells went off in Cynthia’s head. What was Naomi up to now? The devious glint was back in her hazel eyes.
“Well, Rule 144 of the SEC might apply here. Are you on the board of directors of Ferrama?”
“No.”
“Do you have a position of influence in the corporation? By that I mean, do you have a say in important decision-making procedures?”
“Hah!”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Well, in that case, keeping your anonymity may be possible, but I’d have to know more details.”
“How about trust funds? Can they be broken?”
Cynthia shrugged. “Once again, it depends…whether they’re irrevocable, or not…whether all parties were agreeable to the conditions. There are lots of considerations. A good trust lawyer could address those points in a sec.”
Naomi seemed to be pondering her advice.
“You know, Naomi, if you’d release me, I could help you get the best deal for your stock, or give you the names of some reliable attorneys.”
“Hah! I’d rather trust the Mafia.”
“The Mafia?”
“It was just an expression. Geesh! You and P.T. have this Mafia fixation. Besides, I only wanted the information for my friend.”
Cynthia’s shoulders slumped as it became apparent that Naomi was not going to release her, under any circumstances.
“Did you really think I’d let you go just because we shared a coffee klatch?”
Cynthia sighed. “Naomi, it’s imperative that I get back to work. Let’s put our cards on the table here, woman to woman. What will it take for you to unlock this chain?”
“You already know the answer.” Naomi made busywork of adjusting some loose strands of hair under her cap. She must have left her pistol downstairs, but that didn’t matter, since she was out of Cynthia’s reach. “In a way, you’ve got the key.”
It took only a second for Cynthia to understand. “Marriage? Marriage is the key? Give me a break. You can’t possibly think I’d marry your stepbrother just to escape. And, besides, what’s to stop me from suing you once I’m free? Promises made under duress count for zip in the courts.”
“I figure a few nights of honeymooning with P.T. and you’ll agree to just about anything. Has he popped the big question yet?” She inclined her head, waiting for an answer. When none came, she whooped, “He has! I can tell by your blush.”
“Naomi, just think about how you felt when your father tried to force you into a marriage you didn’t want. How can you do the same thing to me?”
“This is different. I have better motives. Besides, you’ll enjoy being married to P.T. In fact, it looks like he worked you over pretty good already. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
Heat infused Cynthia’s face and, without thinking, she put the fingertips of one hand to her lips, which still felt bruised, deliciously so. Peering downward, she confirmed what she’d already suspected…the nipples of her stimulated breasts were clearly delineated by the spandex dress.
Folding her arms across her chest, she was about to deny Naomi’s allegation because, after all, none of that love play had actually taken place, but she gave up with a loud sigh of resignation. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m attracted to the jerk. I wouldn’t mind having him around my apartment for a day or two”—she rolled her eyes at a grinning Naomi—“or twenty. You know, a personal boy toy. Someone to do the laundry. Fetch me bonbons. Fresh-squeeze my orange juice. Serve my meals…”
“And other things,” Naomi finished for her.
“Yep.” She returned Naomi’s grin.
“In the buff?”
“Absolutely! My personal buff puff.”
Naomi let out a snort of laughter. “See? It’s not so bad. It’s like a modern-day fairy tale.”
“The X-rated version?”
“Triple X. But in this rendition, the princess could kick the prince out on his royal tush once he’s served his purpose. Hell, there are lots more knights in the palace pool, anxious to come forth with ready sword and shield…well, with ready sword, anyhow.”
“You are bad, Naomi.” Cynthia couldn’t help joining in Naomi’s laughter.
“Yeah, well, a wicked stepsister has got to do what she’s got to do. It’s a big bad world out there, Cinderella.”
“Well, this Cinderella is not going to marry the prince, no matter what.”
“Never say never, honey. Maybe this marriage is your destiny, like Elmer keeps saying.”
“I don’t care what kind of crazy crap you and Elmer pull. I can wait you out if I have to. I’ve got the patience of Job. As for destiny, my grandma always said, ‘Patience can conquer destiny.’”
“Ah, I do love those Irish proverbs of yours, Cynthia. But there’s an old Hebrew saying I like better.” Naomi flashed her a triumphant smirk. “By degrees are castles built.”
“There is not a tree in heaven higher than the tree of patience,” she countered with a humpfh of one-upmanship.
“Tsk-tsk, didn’t you ever hear the adage: ‘Time and patience would bring the snail to Jerusalem’?” She chalked an imaginary one in the air. “To my way of thinking, you could substitute shark for snail and the moral of the maxim would remain the same.”
“Arrggh! Read my lips, Naomi. There’ll be white blackbirds in a purple sky before I marry that shoe cobbler Casanova stepbrother of yours.”
“White blackbirds, huh? Never underestimate the power of genetic science. And who knows what’ll happen to the sky’s color when the ozone layer finally bites the dust?”
Cynthia made a face at Naomi’s back as she walked toward the door. Naomi was already in the corridor when she paused, then turned. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to give you another message from Elmer. He is the strangest fellow, don’t you think? For the life of me, I don’t know what Ruth sees in him, but—”
“Na-om-i! Get to the point. What message?”
“Beware the second phase.”
“I am not a boy,” P.T. asserted irritably when he reentered the bedroom a short time later, making reference to Cynthia’s boy-toy remark, which he’d overheard from the bathroom.
“Oh, boy!” she squealed from behind the newspaper she’d been reading. She was sitting on the other side of the room at the card table, eating a bowl of dried cereal and blueberries swimming in milk while she perused The New York Times.
“I’m a man.” He put his hands on his hips, feeling the need to set the woman straight, although his stomach growled with anticipation at the sight of food.
He put aside his hunger for the moment, though, and glared at the infuriating woman. She had some nerve, making sexist, demeaning comments about him while he was out of the room. Especially when he’d been chivalrous enough to remove himself from her torturous bed and immerse himself in a frigid bath till the spell wore off…and his you-know-what almost fell off, too. “I’m not a boy to be toyed with,” he repeated through gritted teeth. “I…am…a…man.”
“Man, oh, man!” She gaped at him over the newspaper, which she’d lowered only as far as her nose.
When he began to stomp toward her, dragging his blasted chain behind him, she stood with a gasp, dropping the newspaper to the floor. “Put some clothes on,” she demanded in a shrill, panicky voice.
Her words passed right over his poleaxed brain as he stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping. Between the frigid bath and now thi
s, P.T. wasn’t sure how much more his battered libido could take.
Standing before him, chin raised indignantly, eyes glittering with blue flames of fury, was a strawberry blond goddess. And she was strawberry blond all over. He knew that because the sputtering harridan was totally, gloriously naked.
Talk about a welcome party! And for breakfast, yet! It must be true what they say about breakfast being the most important meal of the day, he thought with immense appreciation.
Peter was appreciative, too.
Forget breakfast. I’ve got another repast in mind, babe.
I’m up for that, Peter concurred with silent, universal male body language.
“Put some clothes on right now, mister, or I’m going to cut off your royal scepter with a plastic butter knife.” She put her hands on her hips, mirroring his posture, and he grabbed for the bedpost to keep his suddenly rubbery legs from buckling.
“Wh-what?” He couldn’t stop staring. Not that he tried.
Cynthia had been right yesterday when she’d stated, self-consciously, that she had curves. She did. A lot of them. All alabaster slopes and swells of luminescent skin, not quite ivory and not quite cream, but an enticing mixture surely blended by the gods to drive a mortal man mad. In the midst of that visual feast were two large, raspberry-hued buds that ignited P.T.’s hunger into a raw, raging appetite.
In that instant he realized that he’d been ravenous for a long, long time.
But then her words filtered into his testosterone-flooded brain. “I do have clothes on,” he maintained, “but, believe me, I never would have bothered with these Elvis stripper pants if I’d known you were going to welcome me in your birthday suit.” He looked down pointedly at the neon red bell-bottoms he wore.
She made a small gurgling sound of disbelief, her eyes fixed on his lower extremities, where he was demonstrating with a little flourish of the hand that he was, indeed, clothed. Geesh, you’d think he was mooning her, or something equally objectionable, by the way she was practically hyperventilating.
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