Sandra Hill

by Love Me Tender

“That was supposed to be you, Cynthia. Move, dammit, before I explode.” He tried to grasp her hips and make her begin the strokes that would bring him release.

  She knocked his hands aside. “I already begged…hours ago. Now it’s your turn.” Meanwhile, she was doing something really interesting with a strand of her hair, brushing it back and forth across one of his nipples. He wasn’t usually sensitive there, but now he swore there was a direct electrical current to the pulsing rod imbedded in her circuit walls.

  Wrapping her fingers around his forearms, she extended her arms so that her upper body bowed backward, then spread her legs flat, parallel to his, and let herself spasm around him. He couldn’t tell if she was climaxing or making her inner muscles work. Either way, he was impressed.

  Her posture gave him access to her breasts, which she probably didn’t realize. He raised his head and took one nipple into his mouth. It was big and hard and incredibly sweet. With his first suckle, she let out a primitive, needy wail. Now she was climaxing, and he was trying to buck up against her to begin the strokes that would start his climax, too. But the stubborn witch wrapped her legs around his and refused to move, even when she was unraveling around him.

  “Sonofabitch!” he growled in surrender. “Please. I’m begging. Please, please, please, please, please!”

  Only then, with sobs and panting noises, did she begin to move on him, a slow, unsteady lifting and easing down. Too slow, too damn slow! He flipped her over on her back, still inside her, and laced his fingers with hers. Then he began the long, hard, pummeling strokes that were essential to ease this building firestorm. He had no idea what words he was uttering as he kissed her lips, laved her nipples, nibbled at her ears…the whole time pummeling her against the mattress. She bent her knees to cradle his hips, but he was out of control. Long strokes became shorter and rougher and still he was like a piston, driving, driving, driving toward…

  Finally, with a roar of exultation, he reached his climax, shooting his semen into her wildly convulsing sheath.

  When his heart slowed down from its heart attack speed and blood no longer roared in his ears, he raised his head to look down at his amazing wife.

  She smiled up at him shyly. How can she look shy after practically blowing my head off? “My prince!” She sighed.

  He rolled over on his side, taking her with him, and began to laugh with pure, soul-swelling joy. “The ball has barely begun, princess.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cynthia’s fairy tale did come true…for the next week, at least.

  Although Naomi was always hovering in the background, she’d become engrossed in the Dakota’s history and was reading everything Cynthia had in her library. Plus, the lady next door, an architectural historian, had lent Naomi dozens of books on restoration supplies. Naomi was in Bob Vila heaven.

  P.T. was as devoted a husband as Cynthia could have wished for, although she still didn’t know if the marriage was legal. P.T. said they’d get married again if it wasn’t legit, and she’d agreed, without hesitation.

  P.T. had to go out on some of the road show presentations with Alvarez to the underwriting firms, but mostly he stayed with her and worked from the apartment. She was able to get caught up on her client calls when he was gone and had made arrangements with her boss to enter orders through another trader, who would share commissions.

  Life was good, and Cynthia was hopeful.

  The only problem was her husband’s increasing nervousness. Something was drastically wrong, and he wouldn’t discuss it with her. Sometimes when she’d glance up suddenly, she saw fear in his eyes. When she asked what was the matter, he always closed up and said, “We’ll discuss it when the stock offering is over.” And then he’d make her forget her questions with endless, inventive lovemaking. One time, though, he’d hugged her tightly and whispered urgently, “Don’t ever leave. No matter what, remember that I love you.”

  That “no matter what” kept niggling at Cynthia’s almost perfect euphoria.

  This morning they were in the kitchen having a cup of fresh ground coffee when the doorbell rang. It was nine o’clock and P.T. had nothing on his agenda for the day; they both looked up quizzically.

  “Stay here,” he commanded. Picking up Naomi’s pistol, he headed cautiously for the front door, wearing only a pair of old gray sweatpants.

  Her apartment was littered with his clothing and personal items, more and more of which arrived and stayed each time he went out and came back. She’d always been meticulous about the tidiness of her personal space, but she didn’t mind now. She was totally, gloriously, in love.

  “Go back,” P.T. said in a hushed voice from the entryway when he noticed that she’d followed him. He directed his gaze meaningfully at the mid-thigh-length nightshirt she was wearing…a gift he’d bought for her on a whim yesterday when passing a novelty shop. Imprinted on the front was: MY PRINCE IS A FROG, BUT HE CAN RIBET ME ANY DAY.”

  “See who it is first,” she said, sotto voce, pointing to the peephole in the door.

  He glowered in exasperation at her defiance but did as she’d suggested anyway. “Damn!” he exclaimed. Setting the gun on a hall table, he began to undo the dead bolts. “There go my plans for the morning.”

  Cynthia already knew what those plans had been. She’d blushed when he’d told her a half hour ago in the shower, and she didn’t blush easily these days. So it wasn’t surprising that she echoed his expletive with a “Damn!” of her own.

  When he stepped back from the open door, Elmer, Ruth and Alvarez rushed in, all talking at once. Alvarez rolled his eyes at P.T. in a they-made-me-do-it silent message.

  It was the first she’d seen Ruth and Elmer since they’d arrived in Manhattan, and they hugged her warmly. Elmer was wearing his favorite aqua-sequinned jumpsuit with the blue suede boots. Naomi was a cotton candy confection in pale pink tank top with matching pencil-slim jeans and high heels. Both of their hairdos were so poufy they must have spent hours creating the effect, not to mention a gallon of hair spray.

  As they moved into the living room, Elmer and Ruth were ooh-ing and aah-ing over her apartment. Alvarez sauntered up to her, gave a meaningful smirk at her nightshirt and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Near her ear, he whispered, “You have a hickey on your neck. Looks great with the whisker burns on your legs.”

  She could feel her face turning hot. The jerk! “How are lawyers like sperm?” she asked coolly.

  Alvarez groaned, but P.T. grinned.

  “Only one in three ever works.”

  “Very funny!” Alvarez commented dryly. To P.T. he said, “Now I know where you’ve been getting all those hickeys you can’t hide under your shirt collar. She’s a bloodsucker.”

  “Chill out, Dick,” P.T. warned.

  They were all walking toward the kitchen, lured by the smell of coffee. P.T. put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. He probably thought she was offended by Alvarez, but she wasn’t. She knew Alvarez was only kidding.

  “Come on, darlin’,” Elmer encouraged Ruth. “Let’s make these folks a batch of good southern cookin’ for breakfast.”

  P.T. exchanged a resigned grimace with Cynthia. It appeared the gang was hunkering in for several hours.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” P.T. asked Alvarez.

  “I have some papers for you to sign. Besides, one more minute in my apartment with those two fruitcakes and I was going to slice my wrists with a guitar pick…or Naomi’s nail file. Did you know that women actually curl their eyelashes, P.T.? There’s this crazy contraption they slip their eyelashes into and then squeeze. And I’m starting to hear Elvis songs in my sleep. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but I now know all the lyrics to ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ Where’s Naomi? I haven’t had a good tease in ages. I think of her every time I trip over one of her blasted dining room chairs.”

  She and P.T. stared openmouthed at Alvarez’s long-winded diatribe.

  “Hey, this cabin fever is affecting me, too.�
��

  “Is it safe for you to have brought Elmer and Ruth here? The Mafia might be tailing Ruth for a clue to Naomi’s whereabouts.”

  Alvarez shrugged. “One of the two agents guarding my place came with us, and he took a really circuitous route. So far, the feds haven’t noticed any activity near my place or yours, though the house in Hoboken was trashed pretty bad a few days ago. Don’t worry, we’ve been careful. Guess I’ll go wake up Naomi. How do you figure she’d feel about my slipping into her bed, naked?”

  “Do you have a death wish, Dick?” Cynthia wondered aloud.

  A short time later, they sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, waiting for the biscuits to finish baking. A pig load of scrambled eggs, sausage, hotcakes, hash browns and various other cholesterol-laden items sat in the warming oven.

  Elmer beamed at the sight of her hand linked with P.T.’s on the table. “It looks like my work here is almost done.”

  “Almost?” P.T. arched an eyebrow with amusement.

  “Well, there is that old triad,” Elmer said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Uh-oh!

  “What’s a triad? Another of those Irish bullshit sayings?” Alvarez asked.

  Elmer frowned at him, wagging a finger. “I may have to make you my next assignment.”

  Everyone laughed at that, except Alvarez. “I think I’ll go wake up Naomi.”

  “No!” they all hollered.

  “What triad, Elmer?” she inquired. He’d said his work was almost done with her and P.T.

  “The three loveliest things to see are a garden of white potatoes, a ship under sail and a wife after giving birth.”

  A baby? Is he talking about a baby? And me? Cynthia went white with horror and P.T. began choking on his coffee. Alvarez was hooting with laughter.

  Elmer speared Alvarez with one of his I-could-turn-you-into-a-slug looks. “Beware of your misplaced mirth, boy. No man ever wore a tie as nice as his own child’s arms around his neck. You may be appreciating that fact sooner than any in this room.”

  “Huh? Me? No way!” Alvarez blustered, clearly disconcerted.

  “Perhaps you should go wake up Naomi, after all,” Elmer insinuated with a wily wink at the others seated at the table.

  “Naomi? Are you suggesting that Naomi and I…” He shook his head, hard, at the staggering notion.

  “If a cat sits long enough at the hole, she’ll catch the mouse.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, dammit,” Alvarez sputtered. “For your information, Naomi has never come sniffing around my cheese. She’d rather turn the mousetrap on me and spring the trap on one of my favorite body parts.”

  “Methinks you do protest too much,” Cynthia commented.

  “Are you serious?” P.T. asked her. “Naomi and Alvarez?”

  “Never!” Alvarez asserted, slamming his coffee mug on the table. It had to be the first time in his life that he’d blushed. “Since when did I become your target, Elmer? Seems to me you have all the work you can handle already. Leave me be.”

  “He that is born to be hanged shouldn’t fear water,” Elmer said. “There’s no fightin’ fate, boy.”

  “Screw fate. And if you think for one minute that I’m going to screw Naomi, you’ve got another think—”

  “Are you talking about me, Enrique?” Naomi asked icily.

  Everyone turned, their jaws dropping open.

  Naomi was leaning against the doorjamb, glaring at Alvarez. She wore an ankle-length robe of Cynthia’s of shimmery cream silk, belted at the waist. Her hair was a sleep-mussed mass of gold-highlighted chestnut tangles. Most surprising was her knock-me-dead Raquel Welch figure, revealed by the clinging garment. Who knew? Who knew?

  Alvarez was the first to speak. “Will you marry me, Naomi?” He immediately turned shocked eyes on Elmer. “I didn’t say those words. Did you put those words in my head?”

  “Who me?” Elmer batted his eyes with mock innocence.

  “Yes,” Naomi said, to everyone’s amazement. Especially her own. “I didn’t say that. Honest, I didn’t even speak. That wasn’t me speaking. Stop it, Elmer, stop it right now.” Tears welled in her eyes and she fled from the room.

  “What the hell is going on?” Alvarez moaned, face in hands. “Now I’m hearing voices in my head.”

  “Do they have an Irish accent?” P.T. smiled widely. He was probably pleased to have the fairy spirits directing their attention away from him.

  “Yes.” Alvarez peered at P.T. with alarm.

  “What do the voices say?” an awestruck Ruth wanted to know.

  “There never was a scabby sheep in a flock that didn’t like to have a comrade,” P.T. disclosed with another moan.

  “See,” Elmer said with a nod of satisfaction. “I was right.”

  “I assume you’re the scabby sheep,” Cynthia commented drolly to Alvarez.

  “What does it mean?” The dapper lawyer, who prided himself on his well-cultivated suntan, looked rather green. Elmer did have that effect sometimes.

  “It means you’re about to have your fleece sheared,” P.T. observed, grinning.

  “By Naomi?” Alvarez’s face went even more green.

  Alvarez never got his answer because a loud shot rang out, followed by two more. They came from the vicinity of the outside corridor…exactly where Naomi had fled a moment earlier.

  Oh, God, she wouldn’t attempt suicide at the prospect of a relationship with Alvarez, would she? Cynthia wondered.

  Everyone rushed toward the open front door, where two men lay on the floor with gunshot wounds to the shoulder and leg. Armed FBI agents and uniformed police were swarming all over them. A stunned Naomi stood terrified against a far wall, whimpering. Alvarez went to her without hesitation, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her away from the scene. She must have witnessed the whole thing. In fact, she’d probably run from the apartment after the incident in the kitchen and been attacked by Mafia guys, one of whom Cynthia recognized. An agent was holding a writhing snake by its tail with distaste…Sammy Caputo’s trademark.

  Ruth and Elmer’s visit to the Dakota turned out to be a deliberate ploy. The agents had allowed Alvarez to bring them there, knowing the Mafia would trail after them. But at least the danger was over now. Apparently, Sammy Caputo was a small-time Mafia rogue. With him in custody, the feds didn’t see any need for Naomi to stay in hiding any longer.

  It was only noon now…hard to believe so much had happened in the past three hours. Ruth and Elmer had already left for Hoboken to start tidying up the mess there. Alvarez was helping Naomi pack her things so he could take her to Hoboken, too.

  Cynthia and P.T. surveyed the mess in the kitchen…enough food to feed an army left uneaten. With a sigh, Cynthia walked over to turn off the warming oven. Slanting a sideways glance at her husband, she suggested, “What do you say we go back to bed?”

  “Have I told you lately that I love you?” was P.T.’s response.

  “Not enough. Not nearly enough.” She winked at him. “Maybe you’d better show me.”

  On the way, in an open bedroom door, they saw Alvarez and Naomi in a wicked embrace. Naomi was pinned against the wall by the lawyer’s insinuating body. Or was it Naomi who had Alvarez in a bear hug? They were kissing each other hungrily.

  Cynthia looked at P.T. He looked at her.

  “Amazing!” they both said at the same time.

  But Cynthia thought, as she had often during the past week, that fairy tales really could come true.

  “Congratulations, Prince Ferrama,” the president of Donaldson & Donaldson said, shaking P.T.’s hand warmly. ‘We certainly hit the street with a bang.”

  Feeling a slight buzz from the glass of champagne she’d drunk, Cynthia braced herself against a paneled wall of the boardroom at Ferrama, Inc., where a celebratory party was just breaking up. She watched with admiration as P.T. worked the room smoothly, all decked out in a sharp Ermenegildo Zegna black pinstriped suit with a crisp Ralph Lauren white shirt and red-patterned
Bolgheri tie, a gift from Alvarez. Yep, her husband was a born huckster with a promoter’s instinct. The man was so slick he could skin a louse and send the hide and fat to market before the louse realized it had even been snared. Not a bad attribute for surviving in the rat race of high finance, she had to admit.

  And, yes, it appeared the prince really was her husband. Elmer had surprised them all with a bona fide ministerial license. Cynthia had bagged herself an honest-to-God prince. But this was a day for acknowledging P.T.’s triumph, not hers.

  The stock offering had exploded onto the market with resounding success. Not only was the issue oversubscribed—more demand than shares available—but those who got in on the initial offering at five dollars saw it get an immediate two-dollar premium. The five-dollars-per-share stock was already worth seven dollars a share. All that translated into several million dollars more for the Ferrama and Friedman pockets, plus a sizable amount for Jake and Dick.

  Cynthia had a cashier’s check for a cool million in her own purse, P.T.’s settlement offer for all her pain and suffering. She wasn’t sure if she was going to accept it yet, but she might.

  P.T. caught her eye across the room, as he had throughout the evening, and she recognized the unspoken communication. Our celebration will be held in private. Soon. Cynthia couldn’t wait.

  She marveled at all that had happened to her in the past three weeks. How could she be so blessed? What lucky clover had she plucked to bring her this good fortune?

  Good luck comes in slender currents, misfortune comes in rolling torrents.

  Cynthia recoiled at the dire warning that had just flitted through her mind. Was it Grandma or instinct at work now? Or perhaps just the fear that if she was too happy she might make the gods jealous.

  “How’s it goin’, toots?” Alvarez drawled, coming up to lean against the wall beside her. He looked half-crocked, but he was probably only dazed, as he had been the past week, ever since Elmer had zapped him with a Naomi love potion. At least, that was how everyone chose to view the outlandish notion of the womanizing Alvarez head over heels in love with the overbearing Naomi.