Pat looked surprised at his declaration. “The play that just left Broadway?” she asked, waiting for a moment to let the warmth of the theater seep in while she stood on the rich, red carpet in the lobby.
Blaise nodded, pulling off his camel-colored gloves as he fished in his breast pocket for the tickets to hand to the usher. “A lot of touring companies pass through here,” he said. “I thought you might like to see a musical again.”
Again. He knew she liked musicals. They were her favorite form of play and she hadn’t seen one since, oh, six months before Roger had died. She had gone with Sara. The last bit of mother-daughter fun they had shared before the flare-up, Pat thought with a pang.
Her brown eyes looked up into Blaise’s rugged face, which now looked tender and solicitous. “Ready?” he asked. “The curtain’s about to go up.”
She nodded, and for the next two hours everything melted away into songs and laughter. It felt wonderful.
“You should do things like that more often,” Blaise said over his drink at the Faces nightclub.
Despite the din, it felt very intimate right now. Must be the drink, Pat thought. He should have taken her to dinner first, then a drink, she thought, feeling a bit fuzzy.
“I haven’t the time,” she said vaguely, although in her mind she agreed with him.
“You should take the time to enjoy life,” he said. “It doesn’t wait for you to catch up. A year and a half is a long time to stay away from the theater when you enjoy it so much.”
Pat put down her drink and tried to focus on his eyes in the dim light. “I’m beginning to think you’ve had a little man stashed under my bed, watching my every move.”
He laughed and she heard every delicious note despite the wall of noise around them. “If I had, it would have been me and I wouldn’t have been under your bed, I would have been in it,” he said, his eyes caressing her, sliding down slowly from her face to her rounded cleavage, which strained against the chiffon.
Pat cast her eyes down. “Yes, well—Blaise, about the sleeping arrangements—“ she began almost nervously, her mind annoyed with her wavering attitude. Either accept it like an adult, or tell him no like an adult. Why hem and haw like a bewildered schoolgirl?
Blaise put his finger to her lips. “Shh. Things have a way of working themselves out,” he said. “C’mon, it’s time to feed you,” he said with a gentle laugh, and she found herself on her feet, being cocooned in her ermine coat and almost carried out into the cold night.
Snowflakes were beginning to fall again.
Half an hour later, she was in his arms, dancing to dreamy music provided by a large orchestra at the Canadian Grill. She felt as if she could be molded against his body forever, floating along, being taken care of. . . . No, that’s not what she wanted anymore. She was finally master of her own destiny. But her will ran into a lot of opposition provided by the wine and by the wonderful, seductive atmosphere of the club.
Pat barely remembered eating, although the fare was delicious, her faraway taste buds told her. The lobster was perfect, and Blaise had made some sort of smiling remark about not thinking he was overstepping his boundaries by cracking it for her and making dinner a little less messy.
When the waitress provided the bib that went with the lobster dinner, Blaise had risen to tie it around Pat’s neck, somehow managing to touch her throat, his sure fingers gliding down on the pretext of straightening out the bib. An overwhelming ache sprang up within her, yearning for his touch to go on.
And he sensed it. She could see by the light in his eyes that he knew. And she was helpless to change anything.
“Why are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked, for a bottle of champagne had been left at their table and Blaise made sure that her glass was never empty.
“I’m trying to make sure you relax,” he said lightly.
“If I was any more relaxed,” she murmured, “my bones would be liquid.”
He laughed and Pat smiled at her own words, but then Blaise shook his head. “No, Lady Pat, you’re still watching me, expecting me to pounce on you, expecting—I’m not sure what.”
“You’re imagining things,” she replied, averting her face. Was she that transparent? Well, the C.I.A. would never call on her to do their counterintelligence work, she thought.
“I hope so,” he said, putting his finger under her chin and bringing her eyes back to meet his. “Would you like to go upstairs now?” he asked.
No, no. Let’s stay here, she thought she said in panic. But her lips weren’t moving. Instead, her legs were. Somehow, she was walking in front of him, going toward the elevator, then toward the door of their room. Their room. It was going to happen again. One more time paradise would open up to her. There was no Prime Minister. No government contract. No loan. No, think about it later. Later. Right now, he wants you, her mind echoed almost outside of her brain as the carpet moved beneath her feet, bringing her ever closer to the bedroom.
Blaise’s strong hands seemed to burn through the airy chiffon around her arms, caressing her, pulling her soul out to meet him. He turned her around to face him and removed the clips from her hair, then ran his fingers through the silky mane.
Pat wondered if he felt her tremble beneath his touch and realized that of course he did. He was well versed in this sort of thing, knowing just which button to press to cause a woman to fall helplessly into his arms. And she was no different, no different at all, she thought with despair— and with mounting desire.
He brought his lips to her neck, leaving a gentle trail of kisses from there to her low decolletage.
Pat put her arms around his neck and felt herself raised off the floor with a gesture so effortless that it seemed as if she weighed nothing at all. Her clothes seemed to melt away magically.
Suddenly, the bed was beneath her and he was above her, once again transporting her to another galaxy. She was insatiably hungry for the heady, wonderful world that only Blaise could give her. Her emotions swept her away, and she clung to Blaise, kissing him back over and over again. Material slid away from his body. They were swaddled then only in an overpowering need to love and be loved.
Heat was everywhere as Blaise took her, first fiercely, and later gently, feeding every need she had ever experienced. He cherished her and devoured her passion, mingling it with his own.
To be born sensually at forty was a nerve-shattering experience that had no equal, no name. A flood of gratitude filled Pat’s heart as she realized her discovery was something that was absent from many women’s lives. Before Blaise, she had not known the euphoria of surrendering to love. She was free from conscious thought, rejoicing on a plane closer to heaven than to earth.
Pat opened her eyes, her head resting against Blaise’s shoulder, her heart beating madly against his hard chest. She felt no embarrassment at her nudity or his.
“Is this the end of my evening’s entertainment?” she heard herself ask in a voice that strived to be light. Mustn’t let him know how deeply she cared, how much she craved him.
The smile on Blaise’s face made him look like the most charming devil anyone could have fashioned with an artist’s brush, she thought.
“If you’re up to it, Patti, this is only the beginning of your evening—your long evening,” he whispered into her hair as his fingers caressed the length of her body possessively, gently playing with the inside of her thigh, arousing her once again. Arousing himself again, she thought as she felt the hard contours of his body yearn for her once more.
Pat turned to him. “You’re incredible,” she said with a great deal of affection.
“What have I been telling you all along?” He pulled himself up on his elbow and looked down into her face. “I intend to be the most incredible man in your life. I should have been that a long, long time ago,” he murmured as his lips parted hers, seeking, discovering; and Pat felt the heat of his rugged body grow and grow, enveloping her in its passion.
She clung to him and the fragments
of his words as she felt his weight shift and roll onto her. Ecstasy beckoned once again and everything was set on fire—everything but his words, which managed to resound over and over again in her brain. Did it mean he actually cared? Or was that just for the benefit of the moment? She shouldn’t take the chance. . . .
Within moments, none of this mattered at all.
Pat watched him reach out for her as she stood at the foot of the bed, dressed and ready to meet the Prime Minister. She had tried to reach Sam earlier that morning, but there was no one to take her call, which confirmed her suspicions that all was definitely not well—that, plus the fact that the Prime Minister mysteriously could not meet with them.
Perhaps Blaise had misrepresented the Canadian government’s interest in the Eagle so that he could enjoy a brief fling with her here. Though he had already been fantastically helpful to her in generating funds, he had treated the project casually on several occasions, seeming not to understand the importance of her commitment.
But seeing Blaise sleeping there, in the bed they had shared last night, made her soul beg for a sign with which to believe in him. He looked totally guileless, lying there like that, only a small piece of the blue sheet covering his maleness. She felt herself becoming aroused again.
What was happening to her? Love was not supposed to be the most important part of her life anymore.
Pat walked over to Blaise, attempting to pull the cover over him a little more, when he suddenly opened his eyes and grabbed her wrist playfully. “Trying to sneak a peek while I sleep?” he asked mischievously. “For shame.”
Pat felt color rise to her cheeks beneath her makeup and her olive complexion. “You were kicking it off,” she said, trying not to sound embarrassed.
“Would that have been so bad?” he asked teasingly, sitting up.
“You’d better get dressed,” she said, her voice amused at his ploy. She hoped she sounded sufficiently detached. “It’s getting late.”
“Okay,” he said, getting up and moving like a well-trained athlete. Pat averted her eyes a moment later—not quite quickly enough not to see him. Blaise caught the motion. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night,” he commented, padding on bare feet to the shower.
“You have a way of constantly embarrassing me,” she called into the bathroom. “Do you enjoy it?”
“In a way,” he replied above the rush of the water. “But not nearly as much as I enjoy making love to you.”
“Do we have to talk about that now?” she asked, uncomfortable. She had thought of herself as a modern woman, but he had a way of changing all that. He had a way of giving the lie to all the things she thought she knew about herself.
“No,” he said, coming out as he toweled himself dry after an incredibly short shower. “We could be doing something about it instead,” he suggested.
“Get dressed,” she said, turning away and walking to the next room.
“Can’t trust yourself, eh?” he chuckled.
Pat did not answer.
Her suspicions grew as, over breakfast, a now suavely dressed Blaise informed her that the Prime Minister was entirely unavailable. Her gaze hardened. So it had been a sham, she thought as her appetite failed her.
“Then I guess we had better take the next plane home,” she said, putting down her coffee cup. “Unless you need to keep me here longer for some reason,” she said cuttingly, her voice cold. How could he have used her like this?
The light in Blaise’s shimmering blue eyes was annoyance, but he said nothing as he finished his coffee, then paused for a moment, as if to calm something inside. “If you take the plane now, the press here is going to be mighty annoyed with you. Not to mention those out-of-work Canadians.”
She looked at him blankly, trying to clear the fog out of her mind. “What are you talking about?” she asked as a waitress appeared to refill her coffee cup. Pat placed her hand over it to stop her, but the woman was far too engrossed with Blaise’s profile to take note and began to pour the hot liquid over Pat’s hand.
She yelped in surprise and pain and the waitress jumped back in embarrassment. Blaise was quick to dip his handkerchief into the glass of ice water at his place and bathe Pat’s red fingers.
“Wounded without even firing a shot,” he said lightly, stroking her red fingers.
“Yes,” she said, not thinking of the coffee at all as their eyes met and held for a moment.
“Well, you were asking me about my statement,” Blaise said after a pause, his voice cutting through the electrically charged air. “The Prime Minister can’t meet with us, but some very able representatives of his in the House of Commons can,” he said. “Right after we hold a press conference.”
“Another press conference?” she asked in dismay as the frightened young waitress appeared with a bowl of ice cubes.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Blaise said, rising to help her on with her coat. “That’s not necessary,” he said to the waitress. “The lady has decided she’ll live.” He turned back to Pat. “Haven’t you?”
Pat smiled, relieved that he had not lied to her, had not brought her here on false pretenses.
“Yes, I’ve decided it’s definitely worthwhile. Even if I have to talk to the press,” Pat said cheerfully.
The conference was held in one of the Parliament buildings. The Parliament Hill complex stood on a promontory above the Ottawa River like a huge Gothic symbol of justice.
The press was marvelously receptive to her. There was no cynical hostility to face, only predominantly grateful reporters who wanted to know every detail that was available about the proposed factory and the plane itself. Here, Pat met a hope that matched her own. Back home the Eagle was looked on as a whimsical invention that might never take flight—or as a possible threat to the already existing plane-manufacturing industry. Here the Eagle was looked on as a hopeful source of employment. The atmosphere was much more relaxed.
And again, Blaise sat at her side, lending his silent support.
As they left the reporters behind them, Pat glanced at her watch, knowing that they had to be at the Centre Block, which housed the House of Commons and the Senate, within half an hour. She was to meet five of the dignitaries in the Parliamentary Library, where everything could be settled informally—as informally as possible with a battery of lawyers looking on.
Pat wondered where they would meet their own legal council, who, Blaise had assured her, possessed outstanding credentials. Then a man waved to them, and she felt a resurgence of gratitude to Blaise for using his connections on her behalf. But a devil’s advocate within her still wondered why he was going to such trouble.
“The press conference went very well,” Blaise said as they crossed the threshold of the huge library.
Pat felt overwhelmed by the hushed, awe-inspiring atmosphere. The row of neatly attired men, all in their late fifties, rose in unison to greet her. “I guess I’m getting pretty good at press conferences,” she whispered, drawing her courage around her like a protective cloak.
“That’s not all you’re getting good at,” Blaise whispered back. A smile traced itself over Pat’s lips and the row of men seemed to respond to it.
“Don’t forget to be charming,” Blaise advised, just before he made the appropriate introductions.
“I thought that was your department,” she said between lips that hardly moved.
“It’s your Eagle,” he reminded her.
Yes. It was her Eagle. And she was relieved to hear him say that. So, he apparently thought that in the final analysis, she would have to do her own persuading.
And that was what she did. Armed with an endless supply of answers that had been embedded deep into her brain over the last year, Pat found herself equal to all the questions asked.
At first, they had been polite and simple. But Pat soon proved herself quite capable in the men’s eyes. She noted that Blaise deliberately did not come to her rescue with answers when she paused. He let her pull herself out of her own traps
. And this above all else compelled the men to look upon her seriously. Not that there was any question that they were all set, as representatives of their government, to pledge financial backing in exchange for the rights to the factory, but they had indicated at the beginning of the meeting that they believed themselves to be dealing with Blaise.
Pat had changed their minds and infected them with her enthusiasm as she spoke about the dream that was now hers.
“Gentlemen, we are on the threshold of something that could revolutionize air travel as we know It today. Ten years down the road, all the planes that are used will be built according to the specifications that are being laid down right now, and I do thank you for your vote of confidence and your farsightedness. For all inventions, once upon a time, were only dreams in the minds of their inventors. What the dreams need are men of faith and vision to make them a reality. And you are those men,” Pat said as she beamed gratefully at them.
She sank back in her chair as the final arrangements were placed in the capable hands of the lawyers. She glanced at Blaise, who looked genuinely proud of her. “I told you she was something else,” he said in an audible whisper to the government representatives.
A shared laugh signaled an end to business discussion and they adjourned to another room, where they enjoyed a sumptuous luncheon, away from the watchful eye of the press.
Pat could not believe it had truly happened. Thirty million dollars and a factory where they could produce the Eagle. All arranged within an hour. What sort of magician was this Blaise Hamilton? she wondered, stealing a glance at him over the rim of her wine glass.
“Do you really think you can have the ‘bugs’ out of your plane before January first?” a nattily dressed, wide-jowled senator asked Pat.
“Well, we certainly will try,” Pat said with a smile. Then, after taking another sip, she looked into the man’s catlike eyes. “Besides, we have no alternative,” she said honestly. “We have to meet our deadline. The U.S. Cavalry always arrives in the nick of time.”
Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One Page 37
