Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One

by Marie Ferrarella

  “None taken,” Pat said, a smile creeping across her lips.

  “Good, you’re smiling. I always liked your smile.”

  “When did you have time to notice it?” Pat asked in surprise. Since that time when she was eighteen, she had seen him only a handful of times, always at family gatherings, never for long. In a way, that had been merciful, for his presence had unsettled her, despite her so-called happy marriage. He seemed to carry the promise of excitement within him, awakening Pat’s nearly forgotten unfulfilled dreams.

  “You’d be surprised,” he said in a whisper, making her feel as if she were eavesdropping on a private conversation between Blaise and himself.

  “You’re being polite,” she said.

  “I’m being honest.”

  Pat shifted uncomfortably and was grateful that the waitress chose that instant to come by for their dessert order.

  But soon they were alone again, sitting at a table that was, for the moment, their own inviolate world. Two candles stood on either side of the tiny flower arrangement on the lace-covered table and their yellow flames flickered hypnotically.

  Into this mesmerizing moment floated Blaise’s voice. “If I have any regrets in my life,” he said softly, “it’s that I let a delightful eighteen-year-old pixie slip through my fingers.”

  Pat jerked her head up. Oh no, he wasn’t catching her with any well-rehearsed lines. If he thought he was descending on some love-starved widow who would fall into his lap at the sound of a few carefully chosen words, he was in for a rude awakening.

  “I was never in your fingers,” she said pointedly, her voice firm as she looked straight into his eyes. She was a big girl now, and not to be taken for a fool by anyone.

  “That’s because I didn’t try.” His candor took her totally aback.

  Pat’s eyes narrowed. “I was in love with Roger,” she said sharply.

  “Nobody was fonder of Roger than I was, but he wasn’t a romantic. He was a meat-and-potatoes man, and you, Lady Pat, deserved filet mignon and gypsy violins. You deserved someone who would pick flowers to tuck behind your ear.”

  She studied him coldly. “Well, you’re certainly not the shy, retiring type.”

  “You wouldn’t have liked me if I was,” he said simply.

  Her brows shot up. “Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I just know women,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  She pulled it back, annoyed. “Why, you egotist. You think you’re so special that—“

  “You tell me,” he said softly, touching the outline of her face with the back of his fingertips, gliding them sensuously along her cheek. “I know I could make you feel as special as you really are.”

  He did know how to turn a phrase against a person, Pat thought, annoyed with him yet strangely intrigued. She felt as if her wit had been yanked away as she searched for a reply. Eventually, almost grudgingly, she said, “You certainly don’t leave much room for argument.”

  “I never argue with a beautiful girl,” he corrected.

  “I told you before,” she said firmly, “I’m not a girl.”

  He leaned forward, and the flames from the candles danced in his eyes. “Inside every young girl is a woman and inside every woman is a young girl, yearning for romance and eternal love.”

  “Well, thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for your brilliant thesis, but all that I yearn for is to finish Roger’s project and begin to turn out those Eagles. As a matter of fact, with Mother Rose so staunchly against me, nothing in the world would give me greater pleasure,” she said, accepting the ice-cream sundae the waitress placed in front of her.

  “Oh, I think something else can,” Blaise told her with a smile, “but for now, on to your quest.”

  “Are you serious?” Pat studied him, her brown eyes revealing nothing of her anxiety. “About helping me with the project, I mean,” she clarified before he could read any other meaning into her words.

  “Really,” he said.

  And as she looked into his eyes, eyes that normally held the look of a mischievous boy, she saw that he was telling the truth. Either that, or he was an awfully good liar—which he probably was, she thought, considering the types of people he encountered in his work.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked, his hand slipping across the table to grasp hers. She had been the recipient of this friendly gesture countless times. But now it sent a shiver down her spine, a warm, tingling, delicious shiver that a woman her age and in her position had no business feeling, she told herself.

  “You wouldn’t have an unlimited source of money, would you?” she asked laughing.

  He responded in kind. “No, not in my pocket— but if money is your problem, I know I can help.”

  “Money is only one of my problems, but we’re not talking five or ten thousand dollars, Blaise,” Pat said earnestly, the thought of the eventual hopelessness of the situation wearying her. She allowed herself to think of the venture only one step at a time. One test at a time. They worked on a tight, tight budget, with many of the workers taking a cut in pay, turning the project into a labor of love, risking their necks along with hers.

  “Madam, I never talk about five or ten thousand dollars. I stopped thinking that small a long time ago,” he said with a wink. Anyone else saying this would have sounded like a braggart, but Blaise was reporting the simple truth.

  “I need someone to finance this,” she said honestly.

  “What about Roger’s money?” he asked, taking a sip of his wine.

  “It has all been reinvested in the company,” she said. “I’ve sold nearly everything of value. The cars are all gone, except for Roger’s beloved Mercedes. I’d hate to sell the house, but ...” She let her voice trail off. If she had to, she would.

  Blaise patted her hand affectionately. “You hang on to that house, Lady Pat. A princess should always have a castle, even if it doesn’t have a moat.”

  “Before you jump into this, oh gallant knight,” she said dryly, “don’t you think you should know exactly what you’re championing? A lot of people who should know say this isn’t going to work.”

  He looked into her eyes, catching her off guard and making all her practical, careful words stick in her throat. His blue eyes smiled at her as they washed over her warmly. “What do you say?” he asked.

  “Roger knew everything there was to know about flying. He had faith that this thing would work. And I have faith in Roger,” she said simply but firmly.

  “So it shall be written, so it shall be done,” Blaise said with a flourish of his hand. “Yul Brynner, The Ten Commandments,” he added with a grin.

  “Does that mean that if the plane lands in the ocean, you’ll part the waters for me?”

  “That might require a little more money than I can raise quickly, but I’d give it my best shot,” he promised.

  “Well, don’t worry about it. That won’t be necessary.” Her tone was serious once again. “But I would appreciate any financial assistance on the Eagle’s behalf.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Lady Pat. Of course you’ve got a deal.” His level gaze held hers for a moment. Then a playful glint crept into his expression. “Well, now that we have that settled,” Blaise said, “how about going dancing with me?”

  “Oh no,” Pat protested, glancing at her watch. “I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you could,” he insisted. “All you do is mold your body to mine and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I’m sure you would,” she said, eyeing him, “but body molding is another thing I’m not into.”

  “Another thing?” he echoed. “What else aren’t you ‘into’?”

  “Dancing.”

  “As I remember, you dance very well,” he said.

  “But—“ Her strength to resist was beginning to fade. Perhaps it would be fun to be in his arms— safely dancing, of course.

  “I didn’t get where I am today by taking no for an answer,” Blaise said, rising and taking her han
d. “Waitress,” he called, “check, please.”

  Within minutes, Pat found herself whisked off to a popular night spot and enfolded in Blaise’s strong arms, the envy of every woman she drifted by.

  The song that floated around them suddenly made her smile: “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.” Yes, the memory of their first dance resembled a dream now. Blaise had indeed looked like a prince when he had swept her away from Roger, claiming a waltz with his cousin-to-be. There had been a strange, electric charge between them, which Pat had cautiously chalked up to the two glasses of wine she had drunk earlier in the evening.

  They had hardly spoken, or at least she hadn’t. He had murmured polite words, but his eyes—his eyes had said something entirely different, something terribly unsettling. She had felt more . . . intimate was the word, she supposed now, with Blaise in those three minutes than she had with Roger in the three years they had known each other.

  When the dance was over, she had been almost relieved to return to Roger’s side. But there had been a sense of disappointment as well. She had shrugged off the disturbing feeling, although she had been aware of Blaise’s eyes following her throughout the evening.

  “Remember the first time we danced together?” Blaise asked, his words touching her hair. The feel of his closeness excited her.

  “My engagement party,” she said, once she was sure her voice would not betray her. Had he read her mind?

  “Yes, when that lucky son of a gun swept you away in front of all those approving people,” he said wryly.

  “You never liked the Hamilton family, did you?” Pat asked as he whirled her around the floor. Another song was playing now, its beat getting under her skin and making her feel wonderfully alive.

  She was enjoying herself, actually enjoying herself, without any worry lines tugging at her brow. It was delightful. She had heard that Blaise had this effect on women. For what it was worth, she was grateful. But as to any other effects he might have, well, she was too wise to be caught up in that! She tried not to stare at his dark head while she waited for him to reply.

  “Delia’s a sharp little lady. Wouldn’t want to match wits with her. And Roger was a good sort, but as for the rest,” his face clouded slightly, as if he was recounting hidden memories, “icebergs, all of them.”

  “Even your parents?” she asked, surprised at the bitterness of his words.

  “Worst offenders of all,” he said without emotion. “Hardly saw them long enough to learn their names.” Blaise’s shining eyes examined her more closely, and he cocked his head slightly. The gesture made him look even more appealing, if that was possible. “I often wondered how someone like you managed to find her way into the Ice Dynasty. Someone so warm and vibrant, so full of life.”

  “How could you possibly know all that?” she asked, allowing herself to go along with the game she was sure he was playing, wondering how far he intended to take it. “You were hardly around.”

  “Oh, Lady Pat,” he teased, “one doesn’t have to live in someone’s pocket to know all about them. There’s such a thing as feelings and instincts. Mine are very keen when it comes to the ladies.”

  “I know,” Pat said with an indulgent smile.

  “Oh, and how do you know?” he laughed, echoing her previous tone. He seemed to take delight in this little game.

  Pat found his company refreshing and charming, and she could easily see why he was such a favorite with women. While his looks were almost overwhelming, it was his charm that managed to disarm people.

  “I’ve read about you. All the big magazines at one time or another have mentioned your terribly important, hush-hush transactions . . . the beautiful women you’ve been involved with,” she added with a smile, waiting to hear his reply to that.

  “Ah, a fan,” he said easily. “So, you’ve been following my humble life. I’m flattered.”

  “Humble, huh! Anyone who can get an audience with those sheiks in the oil cartel just by appearing at their hotel while they’re squabbling over the price of oil and be invited back to all their countries as, I believe the term was, an ‘honored guest’ has left that ‘humble’ bit far behind,” she said. “Tell me, is it true that one of them offered you a harem girl of your very own?” She innocently looked up at his face.

  “No, not one of them,” Blaise said, then paused before he added, “three of them.”

  “Did you bring them along?” Pat teased.

  He shook his head solemnly. “They were dressed too draftily for this part of the country. I left them with the customs agent at the airport. I believe he’s still searching them for hidden contraband— and having the time of his life,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Pat laughed, feeling blissfully younger than she had in years. “You’ve never grown up, have you?” she asked.

  “What was there to grow up to?” he countered. “Wearing long faces like the others? No, I believe in grabbing everything life has to offer and enjoying it—or else, why grab?”

  The band had stopped playing and Pat suddenly realized that they were the only ones on the floor. She had gotten so caught up in Blaise that she had created her own music in her head. With a slight, embarrassed laugh, she nodded toward the table.

  “I think we’d better sit down before everyone starts staring.”

  “If they do, it’ll be at you,” he said simply, his voice silky. “Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?” he asked, holding the brocade chair for her.

  “No,” she answered, feeling the nervous flutter return. She was all right while they were bantering, but he kept turning the conversation and his wonderful eyes back to her and making her feel so unsure of herself. It was all such nonsense.

  “Well, then I must be slipping. Either that, or you’ve managed to dazzle me so much that you’ve made me forget my manners.”

  “I sincerely doubt that anyone could dazzle you to the extent that you’d forget anything,” Pat said, then put up her hand. “And I’m not fishing for another compliment, so you can relax. I’m an old family friend, remember?”

  “I’m not the one who’s tense,” he pointed out, and she shifted in her seat. “And you’re hardly old,” he said softly, his eyes seeming to take in every part of her.

  Pat had always taken care of herself, watched her weight, kept up with the latest styles. And she had done it for herself, not in order to parade before chattering women at a garden club or to play the femme fatale at the parties she and Roger had thrown. She had thought of herself as just a person, a capable, mature person, not as a feminine entity. Yet she saw the latter reflected in Blaise’s eyes, and the image almost . . . pleased her.

  “I’m nearly forty-one,” she said.

  Blaise clutched at his heart and looked at her wide-eyed. “And you made it here without your wheelchair?”

  Pat felt a giggle break loose and immediately fought to control it as a deep smile took possession of her lips. She hadn’t giggled in years.

  “You ninny, don’t you know that the best is yet to be?” he asked fondly, and he would have looked serious had it not been for the mischievous gleam in his eye.

  “You sound like a commercial,” she said. “I’ve been married, I’m widowed, my children are grown and, at the moment, against me, more engrossed in money, it seems, than in the ideals Roger and I tried to instill in them—“ She was about to say that the best part of her life was over, but Blaise didn’t let her.

  “Don’t you see, you’re a much more fascinating woman now than you were at your junior prom,” he insisted, taking her hand. The atmosphere had suddenly become very intimate. “And like the commercial, you’re not getting older, you’re getting better.”

  “At what?” she asked with a touch of bitterness, thinking of all the obstacles she faced. “At losing?”

  His finger gently traced the outline of her lips. “At a lot of things, I’d wager.”

  The candles on their table winked and blinked a bit brighter for a m
oment as Pat tried to free herself of the spell that was being cast. “I think it’s getting late,” she said with effort. “I do have to be up early tomorrow.”

  Blaise nodded and reached for his wallet. “Of course, Cinderella,” he said, glancing at his watch, “although we still have a few hours before the coach becomes a pumpkin.”

  “They don’t make pumpkins like they used to,” Pat said, rising. “This one’s got a shorter time limit on it.” He helped her on with her fur stole. “I suppose this isn’t what you’re used to,” she apologized, thinking of the glamorous women he squired about, sharing their company until the wee hours of the morning—the time she usually got up to start her day.

  “No,” he confessed with a warm smile, “it’s not. You’re unique.” He placed his hand against the small of her back as he guided her out to the car.

  She wasn’t sure how he meant that, and she suddenly realized that he would be coming home with her. The thought created a prickling sensation in her hands, which she tried to ignore.

  Blaise merely smiled at her as he ushered her into the back seat of his chauffeured limousine.

  Chapter Three

  Blaise must have sensed her uneasiness. All the way home he asked questions about her work and the problems she was encountering. Safely nestled in the subject that dominated her life, Pat became animated and clearly defined the predicament as it stood at the moment, tossing off technical terms that once would have boggled her mind. But she had thrown herself into the task that Roger had left, armed with tenacity and a huge willingness to learn.

  At Blaise’s insistence, she gave him a capsulized version of her life in the past twenty years, bringing him up to date just as they reached her front door.

  “You make it sound as if the plant and its products became Roger’s whole life,” Blaise commented, taking the key from her and opening the front door of her sprawling hacienda, which stood isolated on five acres.

  “They did,” Pat said honestly, going in and finding to her relief that Angelica had left the lights on in the spacious living room. Without thinking, Pat kicked off her shoes at the door, as was her custom, letting the thick pile of the freshly shampooed, cream-colored rug caress her tired feet. She looked up to find Blaise staring at her. She suddenly felt tiny next to him—and very, very vulnerable. It was just her imagination running away with her, she told herself. She was just tired, that was all.