Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  "You think so?" he asked, sarcasm staining his voice.

  She seemed incredulous. "Why, of course. Any bride would be delighted to see her groom." She smiled again, her eyes shining. "When I had my dream, I had no idea you'd be so handsome, son."

  "You're too kind, Mrs. Meadows." Withdrawing his hand from hers, he added dryly, "It would be my plea­sure to join your daughter for lunch. I believe we do have… more to discuss." His polite smile had gone hard. "If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Meadows?"

  "Oh," she said with a giggle, "call me Minny. I mean, after all—"

  "How generous of you, Minny," he interrupted, effec­tively cutting her off.

  As he began to move away, Minny grabbed his sleeve again. "Son," she said, her features growing sober, "did you know you have a muscle jumping in your jaw? Is ev­erything all right? You seem a little tense." She reached up to indicate the jerking muscle, but he stepped aside, avoiding her touch.

  "I can't imagine why I'd be tense, Mrs. Meadows. Happily engaged as I am."

  Her smile returned, but she made a tsking sound at him. "Minny, remember? Call me Minny, son. And you might want to invest in a good memory class. You're a tiny bit forgetful."

  "I'll keep it in mind." With a curt nod toward the small woman who resembled a mutant butterfly, he stalked over toward the lunch line.

  "Oh, look who's coming," a pretty redhead whispered loudly to her companion, pulling off her hair net and stuffing it into her smock pocket. Angela glanced up from her sandwich and caught the redhead gesturing toward someone behind Angela's back. "Mr. Seaton!"

  The other woman, plump and freckle-faced, looked up, squeaking, "Oh, gracious! He's coming right here!" She'd already removed her hair net, and was attempting to tame her flyaway blond hair.

  Angela felt the peanut butter become a barricade in her throat. She tried to swallow, but it refused to budge. Here? Lord help her! Please! Not so soon after the "horse's be­hind" remark. What could possibly have possessed her to blurt out something that rude? And to the company's president, yet! Rarely did she completely lose her temper, but there was just something about Tarrant Seaton that brought out her stubborn hotheaded side. She regretted her unflattering retort, but there was little she could do about it now—except stay out of his way.

  She took a swig of her tea, now tepid, forcing the pea­nut butter down.

  "Hello, ladies."

  She heard the smooth deep voice she recognized as Tarrant's, and hunched low in her seat, taking an undue in­terest in how Twinkies were sealed into their packages. She carefully scrutinized every crease and fold, praying fer­vently that he would pass her table by.

  "May I join you?" he queried pleasantly, dashing An­gela's hopes.

  Giggles met his request. "Sure, Tarr—er, Mr. Seaton," the freckle-faced woman replied.

  Unfortunately, he took the empty seat beside Angela, and even more unfortunately, he noticed her. "Well, hello there, Miss Meadows. This is a coincidence."

  She pressed her lips together and tore into her Twin­kies.

  "What?" he asked as he settled into his chair, his close­ness irksome, his cologne hypnotic. "I didn't quite catch that."

  She gave up. Apparently he was going to insist that she acknowledge him, so she darted a sidelong look in the vi­cinity of his square-cut chin, with its much photographed cleft. It surprised her that she recalled that chin so vividly from scratchy newspaper photos, and she berated herself for cluttering her mind with such frivolous trivia. Avert­ing her gaze, she mumbled, "Hello—"

  The redhead broke in. "Mr. Seaton, I love the new Honey Bundles. They're awesome."

  Tarrant graced her with a rakish flash of teeth that made her blush. "Thank you… Marty, is it?"

  Marty fairly glowed with delight. "Yes, sir. Marty Rainwater. Caramel-nut section."

  "Well, thank you, Marty. The Honey Bundles are the result of our employee idea program. Karen Mergunson got a five-hundred-dollar bonus for making the sugges­tion that led to their development."

  "Wow! Karen's lucky," Marty exclaimed with melo­dramatic relish, clasping her hands to her ample bosom.

  Tarrant's deep chuckle irritated Angela. "You could win, too, Marty," he went on. "It just takes a good idea."

  "Oh, I've got lots of awesome ideas… sir."

  Angela glanced at the redhead, getting the distinct feel­ing that her remark had not been referring to the subject of candy. While Marty preened before Tarrant, Angela closed her eyes, flinching at having to witness such a bla­tant come-on. Maybe it was true. Maybe Tarrant Seaton did get propositions like this from women all the time. If so, no wonder he had an ego the size of a barn!

  Angela heard Tarrant shift in his seat. She felt a shiver rise from the base of her spine and knew he was looking at her. "What do you think of our new Honey Bundles, dar­ling?"

  The last word had been uttered in a sexy drawl. Ange­la's eyes flew open with shock, and the Twinkie she'd been about to bite into fell to her lunch tray.

  Tarrant chuckled devilishly, turning to face the other young women, who had grown still—as had another clus­ter of female employees farther down the table, hanging on their employer's every word. "Oh, didn't Angela tell you?" Tarrant asked by way of explanation. "Angela and I are to be married. I understand her mother dreamed it."

  Angela knew she must be imagining it, but all two-hundred-odd sets of eyes in the cafeteria seemed to be glued on her at this moment.

  Unrelenting, Tarrant want on, "I was surprised when I first heard. But now that I think about it, I'm flattered." Deliberately he lifted his coffee to his lips, allowing the uncomfortable pause to grow burdensome. The room fell deadly silent when he finally spoke again. "Wouldn't you be flattered, Marty, if some stranger came up and told you that you were going to marry her son?"

  It took the startled redhead a minute to find her voice. Then she blurted, "I—I don't think so. I think I'd be mad, Mr. Seaton." She glared at Angela. "I'd feel tricked and trapped is what I think."

  "Oh? Well, that's a thought." Tarrant sounded genu­inely surprised, managing to mask the churlishness An­gela was certain had prompted this whole conversation.

  Since Angela was well aware that his apparent approval of the idea of marrying her was an act, she had a rebel­lious urge to dump her tea in his lap. This was the vilest revenge he could have gotten on her. She had to work among these people for weeks! Now everyone would know about her mother's prediction. They'd poke fun at An­gela. Even if some of them meant only good-natured rib­bing, it would still hurt. She'd never hear the end of it, not at the factory, or even in Seatonville. Known as a bed­room community just north of Wichita, Seatonville wasn't that big a town. Angela was so humiliated she wanted to scream—and then just evaporate.

  "What do you think, Angela? Should I be flattered? Or angry?" His question held a barely detectable edge that made her wince.

  There was little to do but respond. Everybody within prodding distance was now all ears. She took a deep breath before turning to confront him. He eyed her steadily, the dark brilliance of his gaze throwing off challenging sparks that almost seared her flesh. But his thick black lashes shielded that inimical look from the others. He appeared the callow innocent here, and she, the big bad wolf! Her cheeks began to blaze, and it took a great deal of restraint to keep from slapping the manipulative, self-serving brute across his handsome face.

  He was being vastly unfair. Yet ironically, the unjust-ness of the situation became a sort of catalyst, bolstering her courage. She vowed silently that Tarrant Seaton would learn Angela Meadows was not one to take such tyranni­cal treatment lying down. Keeping her voice steady, she said, "You're quite the humorous maggot, aren't you?"

  "You mean 'magnate,'" he corrected with a sly crook of his lips.

  Lifting her tray, she rose and turned away, assuring him over her shoulder, "No, darling, I don't." It gave her some satisfaction to notice his smile waver.

  "So, you're gonna marry Mr. Seaton?" Marty chided malicious
ly when she ran into Angela in the ladies' room just outside the lunchroom.

  Angela went on washing her hands as Marty stuffed her red curls back under her hair net. "Didn't you hear me?" she persisted, turning to block Angela's path.

  Angela gave her a level look and held up her wet hands. "Do you mind? I need a towel."

  The redhead frowned, reluctantly moving aside, but she didn't let it go. "You know, honey, Mr. Seaton's pretty sharp. He'd never fall for a stupid trick like that— Dreams yet!" she chortled, shaking her head. "Some women amaze me. What gall!"

  Angela dropped her paper towel into the waste recepta­cle before responding to the woman's unkind remarks. With a carefully closed expression, Angela suggested, "Don't you mean awesome gall?"

  As the redhead stared daggers at her, Angela forced herself to walk casually out of the room, positive the ha­rassing had only begun—thanks to one Pulitzer Prize-winning jerk!

  Angela was beat. She just wanted to crawl into a hot tub and soak for the rest of her natural life. But she had one more thing to do before she could divest herself of both the day's clothes and cares, though she doubted she'd be able to rid herself completely of the latter. She'd endured rib­bing all afternoon. Even the austere Mrs. Collins had eyed her strangely when they'd resumed their tour of the fac­tory.

  Angela sighed and turned her decrepit old clunker away from Seatonville. She'd promised to meet with Delila Seaton at five o'clock to have a look around the mansion. She'd been so excited about getting the job, she hadn't stopped to consider how much time checking the factory would take, let alone the mansion. She hoped she'd be able to get by with merely a discussion of Mrs. Seaton's re­modeling needs, and that she'd be allowed to put off the actual inspection of the sixty-four room residence until tomorrow.

  At the gate, the security guard waved her through, since she had an appointment. In her rearview mirror she watched as the twelve-foot-high iron portals swung shut. She switched her gaze ahead along the ribbon of pave­ment that wended its way among towering conifers—firs, pines and other rarer trees. It seemed as though the entire road was edged with flower beds and shrubs, dynamic in their arrangement. The delicate colors of the meandering beds were sharpened and artfully defined by the darker arboreal background. One hundred years ago, the place had been little more than flat dusty prairie, and Angela had to marvel at the primeval lushness of the Seaton fam­ily home, known as Havenhearth.

  She couldn't see the mansion yet, but she'd seen pho­tographs of it. The neo-Georgian-columned facade had been described in Architectural Digest as "the most leg­endary home in the Midwest."

  Angela might have been hired just to redesign storage space; still, it was a plum assignment and she knew it. As the story went, Noah Seaton, who had a penchant for as­sisting struggling new businesses, became enamored of the lovely young Delila Holmes and had given her a loan to begin her chocolate business. He had won her heart sev­eral years later.

  Delila Seaton carried on her husband's philanthropic inclinations. Though Noah had died ten years ago, An­gela passed him a silent thank-you. She didn't want to feel unkindly toward such a wonderful man's son, or such a wonderful woman's son, for that matter. But right now, unkind thoughts were the only sort she could conjure up for Tarrant Seaton. She desperately hoped she wouldn't run into him while she was here. She reassured herself that he'd probably remain at the office until at least six o'clock, so she'd try to be good and gone by then.

  Rounding a stand of bald cypress, she saw the great house, its whiteness glowing pearlescent in the late-afternoon sun. Stories about the lush landscaping had reached mythical proportions, but had been far from overstated. Hundreds of varieties of flowers and blossom­ing shrubs, a month away from full radiant bloom, em­braced the house and the terrace that led down to a small lake fronting the mansion. The calm water reflected the noble lines and elegant proportions of Havenhearth.

  Seven exquisite swans floated over the blue-green sur­face, lending a fantastical quality to the scene. Angela held her breath at the sedate charm of the place, once again re­alizing the magnitude of her good fortune in being se­lected to modernize the storage space here. She'd probably never even see Delila; instead, she'd be relegated to base­ments, attics and pantries. But then, she'd also be a com­fortable distance from the arrogant master of the mansion. As she maneuvered her old car into the circular driveway and pulled to a stop, she decided that not having to set eyes on Tarrant Seaton was, in itself, all the bonus she could hope for.

  Just as she stepped onto the pavement, the roar of a powerful engine caught her attention, and she almost gave way to a self-protective impulse to leap back into her car when a silver Lamborghini roared to a halt inches from her rear bumper. She clamped her jaws together tightly, hat­ing her bad timing. Everyone in Seatonville recognized that luxury sports car as belonging to the great and powerful Wizard of Oohs and Ahs, the so-called Prince of De­lights.

  She steeled herself for trouble as Tarrant climbed out of the car, looking much too fresh for five in the afternoon. He gave her a quick, rankling once-over, then settled his gaze on her car, a mechanical refugee from a junkyard. She eyed him narrowly, daring him to make a derisive re­mark. Irked by his silence, she accused, "You nearly hit me, you know."

  His glance flicked to her with a mixture of amusement and surprise. "I don't think so."

  "Well, I do," she protested, annoyed that he was laughing at her again.

  His lips twisted in a grin. "This won't be the first time we've disagreed." He shut the door of his car, and Angela noticed it took practically no effort to do so—not like her car door, which needed a mighty shove accompanied by a very unladylike grunt. With vexation pumping adrenaline through her, she decided she could lift an elephant if she had to and gave her door a vigorous push. Still, without the usual grunt, she didn't quite accomplish her objective. "Rats," she muttered between tight lips.

  Shaking his head at her ineptness, he ambled over, opened the door, then reclosed it securely. In the process, one of her retreads went flat.

  "Oh, that's just fine," she moaned.

  "Nice car," he remarked dryly. "That tire-flattening option is a feature I hadn't heard of."

  "You're horribly funny."

  "I know. You've told me that before," he reminded her. "Remember me? The humorous maggot?"

  She ignored the remark, mumbling to herself, "What am I going to do?"

  "Junk it."

  She lifted her gaze from her deflated tire and exhaled tiredly. "We don't all have the resources to throw away something just because it isn't perfect anymore."

  His chuckle was sardonic. "That car might have been perfect once, but it was before you were born." He stooped to examine the tire. "I'll have this repaired for you before you leave."

  She frowned, not sure she wanted his charity. "I couldn't let you do that."

  He looked up at her, his expression set. "I closed the blasted door. I'll fix the blasted tire. Now, what are you doing here? And don't tell me it's to discuss the guest list for the wedding. I'm not in the mood for games."

  When he'd unfolded himself to his full menacing height, Angela squared her shoulders defensively. "Don't be in­sulting. I have an appointment with Mrs. Seaton—about reorganizing storage space in the mansion."

  He eyed her with misgiving, but didn't question her further. Nodding at the double entry, he said, "I'll show you where to find her."

  "Don't bother." Angela sped around the front of her disabled vehicle. "Don't you have to park your car in a garage or a vault or someplace?"

  "Chauncey will do it."

  She stopped and turned back. "Why? Is your aim so bad you can't get it in?"

  His lips twitched with wicked humor, and she knew why. Her innocent remark had come out sounding decidedly off-color.

  "Would you care to try that again?" he asked.

  She swallowed hard and spun on her heel, heading away from him. To her distress, he followed. At the door, she searched in va
in for either a knocker or a doorbell. Feel­ing stupid, she knocked. Her efforts were laughably inef­fectual, her bare hand making hardly a sound on the thick solid wood door. There was little hope that anybody in­side had heard it.

  After an agonizing few moments, while Tarrant stood right behind her, she finally had to give up. With grave re­luctance she faced him. "All right," she sighed, "how do I let someone know I'm here?"

  Tarrant stepped up and threw a switch cleverly dis­guised in the woodwork. "Alexander? I have a guest at the door."

  "Yes, sir," came the immediate reply.

  "It'll only be a minute," Tarrant explained, lounging against the wall looking as self-assured and handsome as ever. It galled her to realize he was enjoying himself im­mensely. "How was I supposed to know that was there?" she asked, indignant.

  He indicated a hidden camera up near the roof to their left. "Someone would have inquired, had I not been with you. Since I was here, Alexander knew I had matters in hand."

  "Oh, Alexander knew that, did he?" She fixed him with the glower usually reserved for stubborn shower-curtain mildew. "Then I have both you and Alexander to thank for my being late to see your mother."

  A moment later, the door opened, and a tall man dressed impeccably in black ushered them in.

  The foyer was at least twenty-five feet square, with a curving staircase, oak paneling and marble floors setting such a dramatic tone that the sight took Angela's breath away. A crystal chandelier hung low, accentuating the ar­tistic curve of the staircase. Within that curve, directly be­low the chandelier, sat an oaken drum table. It held a lavish arrangement of silk flowers and greenery, which emphasized the room's color scheme—the rich glowing wood, the warm ruby carpeting and the antique white of the floor and high-beamed ceiling.

  "Alexander, Miss Meadows says she had an appoint­ment with Mrs. Seaton. Pat her down for weapons and show her to the library."

  "Yes, sir." With a gloved hand Alexander indicated the way. "If you'll follow me, miss?"