Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  Angela recrossed her legs and tugged nervously at the hem of her pleated navy skirt. She was fuming. Tarrant Seaton had kept her waiting—stewing—in his outer office for nearly an hour. She'd turned down three offers of cof­fee from his efficient, bookish secretary, avoiding eye contact with a vengeance.

  She'd decided it would be cowardly to call and cancel her appointment, for if there was one thing a Meadows was not, it was cowardly. She didn't like to think what people called some of the Meadowses, although nuts came to mind. Of course, Minny was completely good-hearted, and like it or not, her dream readings, as she called them— predicting futures, loves and financial well-being for her handful of loyal clients—had helped out with Angela's college tuition. For this, Angela was grateful and fero­ciously protective.

  There had been those who'd called her father lazy and good-for-nothing. However, Angela preferred to remem­ber him as a warm generous romantic who'd loved his wife and daughter, but perhaps wasn't the greatest farmer in the world. Dan Meadows had died young and poor, and An­gela and Minny still mourned his passing.

  That had been when Angela was eighteen. Now, after six years of part-time jobs and college classes, Angela had her degree, and by heaven, she planned to succeed at the busi­ness she'd started! She'd won the Wichita State Universi­ty's Young Entrepreneur award for her idea of a store consisting exclusively of sturdy, colorful, space-saving and space-expanding containers. Inner Space, as she'd dubbed it, had been judged the "best plan for a new company."

  She'd been in her shop for six months. It had taken all their money and all Angela's time. For what seemed like years, she'd had no social life, no clothes, not even much sleep. And now, she was about to be lambasted by a snob­bish, wealthy playboy whose brains—if the tabloids were to be believed—resided primarily in his trousers. Life, to use a cliché, wasn't fair!

  Angela recrossed her legs again and nervously fiddled with the lapel of her blue jacket. She had a horrible urge to run to the ladies' room to reassure herself that she hadn't chewed off all her lipstick, but she couldn't risk being gone when Mr. Heaven's Gift to Chocolate Eaters freed up some time to rake her over the coals. Why she even cared if she had lipstick on was beyond her. No doubt it was her fierce pride, the same pride that insisted she come here to be personally fired rather than quietly slink away into the night, forever remembered by Tarrant Seaton as "one of those two weirdos in The Plethora."

  "Miss Meadows?"

  Angela's gaze flew to the woman behind the wide oak desk, a desk suspiciously clear of work. Angela had to wonder if Tarrant was really anything but a carousing fig­urehead for Delila's Delights. "Yes?" she said at last, her voice a little tight.

  "Mr. Seaton will see you now."

  Angela was puzzled. She'd heard no intercom buzz the message. Getting to her feet and retrieving her briefcase, she headed across the tawny carpeting toward the double mahogany doors. She couldn't help but think that this waiting game had been planned. Her nagging distrust didn't make her feel any kindlier toward the man on the other side of those intimidating doors.

  For such big heavy doors, they opened with ease as her hands barely grazed the brass knobs. When they'd swung wide, she found herself standing in the entrance of a very masculine inner sanctum that oozed wealth. The floor was inlaid wood, reflecting the sunshine streaming through a bank of high arched windows a good forty feet away. An antique Sarouk rug of maroon, cobalt blue and wine swathed the center of the room. The marble fireplace to her left was large enough to stand in. Above it hung a striking collection of Western American watercolors. On her right, the wood-paneled wall was filled with glass-fronted bookshelves, overflowing with books. This sur­prised Angela; she never thought of the Prince of De­lights as a man with a contemplative, literary side. Probably just his decorator's idea for detailing the room, she decided.

  Tarrant Seaton, her immediate problem, was sitting be­hind a huge carved cherry desk. He'd removed his coat and loosened his tie. He was on the phone, his wide brow bee­tled in either thought or exasperation. As she closed the door, he glanced up, his shadowed eyes stabbing her for one annoyed second before he looked back down at the file folder lying open on his desk. "Harry, I realize that the mistake wasn't all your fault, but your Detroit operation has to start meeting deadlines. Don't apologize—just do it. And I need those latest cost figures—" he gave his wrist an irritated jerk so that he could see his watch, which An­gela guessed was solid gold "—by eleven. All right, talk to you later."

  He settled the receiver in its cradle with less rancor than she would have expected, considering his tone, then sat back and closed his eyes. He exhaled slowly, as though re­gaining his calm, before directing his attention to Angela. When he did, his expression darkened even further.

  "Miss Meadows." It wasn't a question.

  She drew back her shoulders in subconscious rebellion. The unruly urge to ask for a blindfold and a cigarette sped through her mind, and she was hard put not to voice it. No, an attempt to lighten the situation wouldn't do. He didn't appear to be a man of much humor—unless he was laughing at someone. She managed to clear her throat of the lump that had formed there. "Mr. Seaton," she re­turned as coolly as she could manage. It was not a ques­tion, either.

  He inclined his handsome head toward one of two rose­wood armchairs on her side of the desk. "Have a seat, Miss Meadows."

  She was taken aback. She'd figured he'd toss her out on her ear before she could get that far into the room. Hid­ing her trepidation, as well as her surprise, she crossed the glistening wood, her heels marking her passing with a rapid tap-tap-tap. When she reached the rug, the room fell into a palpable silence. Seating herself, she placed the brief­case on the floor, then folded her hands in her lap, resist­ing the desire to clench her fingers together to keep them from shaking.

  He'd scowled at her every step of the way. Now he stood up and retrieved his tan suitcoat—hand-stitched, Angela noticed, calculating that it had probably cost him more than her whole wardrobe. Maybe even more than her car.

  After he'd slipped it on, he ambled around his desk, no small feat in itself, and then, to her surprise, propped a lean hip on its edge. Slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he looked down at her. She had to admit he dressed with impressive taste, from his silk tie to his pre­cisely polished wing tips. She was terribly outclassed as far as money was concerned, but Angela refused to be intim­idated by either his good looks or the costly surroundings, although she was sure the great Tarrant Seaton was bank­ing on that.

  She met his challenge—narrowed gaze for narrowed gaze, dry smile for dry smile. Inwardly Angela cringed, recalling yesterday's fiasco. But when he hadn't said any­thing after a full minute, she finally decided she'd had enough of his silent browbeating. Stiff-lipped, she in­formed him, "I have a shop to run, Mr. Seaton. Our ap­pointment was for an hour ago. Rather than walk out on you, as I could have, I waited. It's your affair if you've chosen not to hire me, but I don't have time to play juve­nile games. Either fire me or let's get on with business."

  His dark eyes roamed over her for an instant more, his level gaze revealing nothing of what was going on in his mind. Then, with a ridiculing twist of his lip, he inquired, "My juvenile games, Miss Meadows?"

  Angela swallowed. His question dripped with sarcasm. But she forced herself to meet his stare as her pride butted up against her good sense. She'd planned to apologize for the incident at the restaurant, to tell him that most of the time Minny's predictions had merely been a matter of misinterpreting her muddled dreams, coming to nothing. But his superior attitude and grating sarcasm had made that impossible. The last thing in the world she planned to do now was make excuses for her mother's behavior to this… this insolent bully.

  "Then I'm fired?" she asked, careful not to let any of her feelings show.

  He gave her another long, contemptuous look, which she refused to squirm beneath. "Nothing would please me more, Miss Meadows," he finally admitted, his face dra
wn in uncompromising lines.

  Why did she feel a "but" coming? She held her breath.

  "But," he continued, "it was my mother's decision to hire you, and I don't intend to go against her wishes. She ran this company for over twenty years without my help, and I won't insult her business acumen by countermand­ing her orders. Though," he added with obvious acri­mony, "I believe, in this case, she was wrong."

  "You have a right to your opinion," Angela replied, her tone as chilly as his, though if the truth be known, she was dumbfounded. He wasn't firing her!

  "Just so we understand each other."

  "We do," she assured him, maintaining her outward calm. "So with that settled, perhaps you should have someone show me the plant."

  He nodded curtly, and his face betrayed little emotion. He was clearly unhappy about being stuck with her, and this revelation suddenly made Angela feel good, victori­ous even. Her expression grew dangerously close to smug. "It's been… nice meeting you, Mr. Seaton," she lied. "I'll try not to disturb you any more than necessary."

  He smiled, too. But his was the same scornful smile he'd directed at her in the restaurant, not a reassuring look to say the least. "Miss Meadows, let's be clear on one thing." He stood, towering over her. "You won't disturb me, no matter how hard you try. I find your stratagem of using your mother to 'predict' a marriage between ourselves to be unique, but far from disturbing. I'm no babe in the woods, Miss Meadows. Women more worldly than you have tried tricking me into matrimony. None have suc­ceeded."

  Angela knew about his reputation with women. His picture was regularly emblazoned across the front pages of the tabloids. Not that she actually read the stories, just absently scanned them in grocery stores. The most recent photo display had shown him escorting one glamorous starlet after another during his recent California visit. And here he stood, blatantly implying that these women had made passes at him rather than the other way around!

  Angela bristled. What an overbearing, conceited oaf! Pushing up from a chair that had been every bit as cold and inhospitable as the man before her, she retorted, "I can only hope all those women who supposedly want to marry you realize their good fortune in not succeeding!" Bending to retrieve her briefcase, she added hotly, "And just for the record, I would never stoop so low to catch a man—especially one as arrogant and self-centered as you are, Mr. Seaton!"

  Turning abruptly, she'd planned to stride haughtily away from him, but as fate would have it, she caught her heel in the carpet and tumbled across the arm of the chair, up­ending herself. One hand slammed the floor; the other landed on her toppled briefcase.

  "Oh, jeez!" she cried, the blood rushing to her head. This was not the disdainful exit she'd envisioned. She heard Tarrant Seaton clear his throat, and she would have bet big money that the insufferable lout was smothering a laugh!

  "Miss Meadows," he asked from behind her. "Do you need any help?"

  "No!" She pushed herself backward until her feet were on the floor. "No, don't bother," she wheezed. "I'm… fine."

  Even with her breathless protest, she felt his hand en­circle her elbow, helping her balance until she was once again standing on her own. Their eyes met for the brief­est, most appalling second, and she murmured, "I'll just be going now."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him pick up her briefcase. "Here," he said, extending it toward her.

  She grabbed it and mumbled something. He would probably assume she was thanking him, but did it really matter what she said at this point? As she made a beeline for the exit, she was distressed to hear him call her name. She pretended not to hear, but when he repeated it for the third time, he also took hold of her arm. She really had no choice but to acknowledge his presence.

  "What is it?" she snapped, reluctantly facing him. Her cheeks were hot, and she was sure that not only was she a fiery red, but her hair had all the well-groomed allure of someone who'd wandered into a wind tunnel. "Really, Mr. Seaton, I'm in quite a hurry."

  "Haven't you forgotten something, Miss Meadows?" he asked coolly, his eyes betraying amusement at her ex­pense.

  "No. I think I've fallen over just about everything I care to."

  He seemed to struggle with a grin. "That's heartening news. I mean, don't you want to tour the plant?"

  She grimaced. She'd totally lost her wits, it appeared. Pushing back a shock of curls that rested across her nose, she nodded. "Of course. I—I was just about to remind you."

  "Oh? Forgive me for blundering in. I'll have my plant manager, Marge Collins, meet you in the employees' lounge." He'd begun to guide her toward the door when he added, "By the way, Miss Meadows…"

  When they'd reached the exit and he had said no more, she cautiously faced him again. Exasperated, she asked, "By the way what, Mr. Seaton?"

  "It's Tuesday, Miss Meadows, and your panties read Wednesday. If you're going to work for me, you'll need to show more attention to detail."

  She gaped at him, mortified. It would have been kinder if he'd just shot her! Trembling with rage, she gathered a measure of her poise and pinned him with a disgusted stare. "I would rather be a day ahead, Mr. Seaton, than… than a horse's behind!"

  The slamming of his elegant doors echoed, a testament to her burning indignation. As she fled, Angela couldn't help but recall him as he'd looked when she uttered her last words—very tall, very polished and very grim.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tarrant ran into Marge Collins on his way into the employee cafeteria and stopped to talk to her. "Marge. How did it go with that Meadows person this morning?"

  Marge, a woman in her mid-fifties, wearing her plati­num hair pulled severely back and a gray suit that was equally severe, smiled, belying her tough facade. "That little thing?" she inquired huskily. "Why, when I saw her I couldn't believe she was old enough to have any ideas about how to dress herself, let alone organize this old barn." She shrugged. "No offense, Tarrant, but this fac­tory is a big, waste-making—"

  Tarrant waved off her apology, grinning. "I know all about the place, Marge. That's why Mother wants the storage space updated. So, what do you think of Miss Meadows?"

  Marge removed her silver-framed glasses and whipped a lacy handkerchief out of her sleeve to polish them. "She was quiet. Took lots of notes. Said she'd have some rec­ommendations by Monday. Asked good questions."

  "What's your gut feeling?"

  Marge replaced her glasses. "Like her." She nodded curtly. "I do, Tarrant. I think she's got what it takes."

  A reflective frown marred his clean-cut features.

  "Why? Don't you?"

  One well-defined brow lifted speculatively, but other than that Tarrant's expression gave away none of his thoughts. "If Mother wants to give her a chance, I won't interfere."

  Marge patted his arm. "Well, when you took over as marketing director for Delila's Delights nine years ago, I wasn't too sure about you, either. You were a brash young pup of twenty-three with nothing going for you but a shiny new MBA…."

  "And a mother who owned the company," he added with a grin.

  Marge cocked her head and eyed him critically. "I hope you're not still worried that people think you can't handle the job, that you just got it because you're Delila's only son. That silly notion has been proven wrong time and time again."

  He wagged a finger at her. "Still the mother hen, Marge?" The lazy nonchalance in his voice served to re­lax the woman's features.

  "Well, I think all our stockholders would have to admit that your mother was a smart cookie to hire you. Even so, when she gave you the presidency two years later, I thought Delila had gone mad, handing you a million-dollar busi­ness." She grinned up at him, her expression close to ma­ternal. "But look at you, Tarrant. Chief executive of what's now the second-largest gourmet-chocolate com­pany in the country, and it's still growing." She laughed wryly. "So, as far as Miss Meadows's abilities go, I'll say the same thing Delila said about you, 'Let's give the kid a shot."'

  A scowl touched his brows an
d he sighed. "I suppose having Miss Meadows draw up a few ideas can't bankrupt us."

  Marge smiled approvingly. "There's a good boy."

  "Marge," Tarrant warned, his expression softening. "Don't let the troops hear you call me that. They'll think I'm not the ogre I've built myself up to be."

  She looked around, then confided, "Yeah? Well, I hate to tell you, Tarrant, but if you want a reputation as an ogre, you'll have to quit eating lunch with the employees. It tends to raise morale, not strike terror in their hearts."

  He put an arm about her shoulders. "Speaking of lunch, have you eaten?"

  She shook her head. "I've got a date with a handsome Wichita lawyer."

  "Husbands. They steal all my fun."

  She laughed. "That's not what I've heard."

  Casting her a dubious look, he moved toward the lunchroom. "Don't believe everything you hear."

  Her laughter chased him into the cafeteria, where the din of clattering plates and people enjoying their lunch break surrounded him. As he started across the room, there was a tug on his sleeve. Turning, he saw the peculiar woman from The Plethora, the older one. She was dressed in a green-and-white caftan, and her black hair, streaked with gray, was piled on top of her head in a fanciful sculpture reminiscent of a swirled mound of ice cream.

  "Hello there, son." She smiled sweetly. "I hope you don't mind my calling you son. After all, it's only a mat­ter of time before you will be—my son, that is."

  "What are you doing here, Mrs. Meadows?" he asked curtly.

  Her fingers fluttered momentarily before they seemed to find their purpose. With one hand lifted high, she pointed. "I brought Angela her lunch. Her usual—Twinkies, crunchy peanut butter sandwich, herbal tea. See? She's right over there. Third table down, with those girls in white smocks." Taking one of his large hands into hers, she urged, "Why don't you go over and sit with her? She seemed a little down. I know seeing you would perk her right up."