Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  She started to backtrack and slammed directly into Tarrant's chest. The only thing that kept her from falling was his reflexive grab for her.

  With the impact of their collision, she saw a white flash of light, and she would have staggered blindly and crum­pled to the floor if he hadn't been holding her. Befuddled, she muttered, "May twenty-third… It is May twenty-third…."

  In the ensuing silence the kitchen clock ticked away the seconds as she watched his features grow rigid.

  "What about May twenty-third?" he asked at long last, the softness of his question at odds with the fierceness in his eyes.

  Her head throbbed mercilessly, but it wasn't the dull pounding that made her shrink back. It was his stormy expression. He looked angry enough to throw her bodily across the room. Pressing her hands against his chest, she protested, "Let me go."

  "What do you know about May twenty-third?" he de­manded.

  She blinked, not comprehending why she'd said that. "Just… let me go…."

  "Why?" he asked with a slow, ironic grin. "I'm enjoy­ing your little act. Go on, tell me about May twenty-third. Is that the day you've ordained for our wedding, by chance?" His voice was smooth, hard, unyielding. "What is the bottom line, here, Miss Meadows? Are you hoping for some sort of payoff? Will that get you off my back?"

  "I don't know why I said that," she confessed, her need to be away from him as great as her sudden, strange desire to remain in his arms.

  "I believe I'll hazard a guess as to why you said it, An­gela, my love," he whispered, his eyes harboring a dan­gerous light.

  "Don't bother," she squeaked, her heart racing with apprehension. Why did the mere fact that he had mur­mured her name make her feel weak? The reaction was absurd, insane… undeniable.

  "It's no bother," he assured her, his face drawing closer. "Could it be you said it because you're a calculating lit­tle…?"

  His voice had dropped to a husky register, and her heart hammered with a crazy mixture of anticipation and dread. She shook her head, denying his accusation, denying what she feared was about to happen, but neither the negative motion of her head nor the wretched whimper that es­caped her throat halted him. When his mouth was a hair's breadth above hers, he said perversely, "If we're to be married, don't you think I'm entitled to kiss my bride?"

  "Please…" She pushed away from him with all her might, but to no avail. She couldn't escape; his strength was far superior to hers.

  As she closed her eyes, prepared to endure the con­temptuous onslaught of his lips, she was startled to hear him curse. Abruptly, he let her go as though she'd become a red-hot poker.

  Flustered and bewildered, she stumbled away from him. "What… ? Why didn't you… ?" she began, her voice faltering. Some malcontented demon deep inside her was wailing and moaning because her lips were not, right this instant, being caressed by his.

  "You're wondering why I didn't kiss you, Miss Mead­ows?" An odd shadow flickered across his face, perhaps self-disgust, but it was gone too quickly for her to be sure. His angular features now tightly controlled, he said, "I didn't kiss you, because it wouldn't have been fair. I don't mean it wouldn't be fair to you—humbling you like that would have been all you deserved. But only a heel could do that to someone who looks as pitiful as you do right now." His Up curled in evident revulsion. "No matter what you may think, Miss Meadows, I am something of a gentle­man."

  She was struggling to pull her wits together, but she still felt too dazed to rebuke him, to defend herself, or to run screaming for her life. At this point she was too confused to even guess which might be the best move. She could only cower there, staring at him.

  When she said nothing, impatience sparked in his eyes. "Dammit! You're the most infuriating, scheming woman I've ever met." Retreating a few steps, he raked his fin­gers through his perfect hair, mussing it in a most intrigu­ing way. "I don't know how you pulled that date out of the air—and I don't care—but all your game playing won't change one inevitable fact."

  She gaped at him, unable to understand his meaning.

  "May the twenty-third is my wedding date, Miss Mead­ows." There was the merest pause, but time enough for his narrowed gaze to flash a distinct warning. "Mine…and Eden Leslie's."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Angela sidled into the tiny kitchenette, keeping her left side turned away from her mother, though Minny was oblivious to anything but her latest hobby—making jew­elry from household items. This morning, she was in the process of trimming away at a tomato can with tin snips.

  "You realize you could get tetanus when that necklace rusts, don't you?" Angela warned, shaking her head at Minny.

  Minny looked up from her work, scattered over the Formica top of their rickety breakfast table. "Good morning, sweetie," she chirped at her daughter's profile. "Now, you mustn't be shortsighted where creativity is concerned. Remember the Pet Rock."

  Angela fished around in the refrigerator. "Well, I don't think a Pet Tetanus Necklace would have quite the same appeal."

  Minny laughed, stringing another bent piece of the can onto a length of nylon fishing line. "Actually, I'm work­ing on some ideas for my mother-of-the-bride outfit. What would you think if I made myself a hand-painted caftan to set off this piece? Oh, that reminds me, sweetie, what col­ors are your bridesmaids going to wear?"

  With that reminder of the Seaton-marriage ordeal, An­gela opted to forgo food. Her stomach had just taken a lurch for the worse. Straightening, she closed the door and edged to the coffeepot to pour herself a cup.

  After a sustaining sip, she took a seat at the table, bravely displaying her damaged face for her mother to see. Giving a tired sigh, she said, "Mother, Tarrant Seaton is engaged."

  Minny continued to snip irregular shapes from the can's lid. "Of course he is, sweetie. Didn't I tell him so my­self?"

  Reaching across the table, Angela put her hand over her mother's, halting her activity. "No, Mother. I mean he's really engaged—to someone else. That pretty blonde in The Plethora."

  Minny's face puckered with uncertainty. "Where did you hear such a thing?" She looked up at her daughter and her eyes widened. "Oh, my gracious! What have I told you about eating grape-jelly sandwiches in bed?"

  Angela couldn't stifle a weary smile. "Mother, I haven't done that since I was nine years old. My face is purple be­cause it's bruised. It happened at the Seaton mansion last night."

  Minny's mouth dropped open. "Did your young man strike you? Why, we'll have the law on him, that's what we'll do!" Her hands fluttered to her cheeks, and she ex­claimed, "Had I known what a ruffian he was, I would never had said those nice things about him to that woman from the National Tattler."

  Angela, who had been trying to explain that Tarrant had not beaten her, was shocked into silence by the last re­mark. "What—what woman from the National Tattler, Mother?" she finally managed, getting a very bad feeling in her stomach. She hoped it was just the effect of the re­heated day-old coffee.

  "Oh, she was a reporter who called to ask about my dream." Minny beamed at the memory. "She was so in­terested, sweetie. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a story about us in the Tattler very soon. Did you know that paper goes to every grocery store in the country?"

  Angela tightened her lips in chagrin. Tarrant had told her this might happen, but she hadn't thought her own mother would be a party to it. "Mother," she began as calmly as she could, "first, Tarrant Seaton didn't hit me. As a matter of fact, he helped me. Secondly, please don't talk to any more reporters about your dream. Mr. Seaton told me last night that he's engaged to that woman we saw him with in The Plethora. So that's the end of it." Jerk­ing up a hand to halt her mother's protest, she went on, "I beg you, just let this dream thing die a quiet death. Face it—it was a mistake, and now it's over."

  Minny's face grew stern. "Daughter, I'd hate to think you doubted my powers."

  Angela heaved a woebegone sigh. "It's not that I doubt your powers, Mother, but you have to admit you have m
ade a few mistakes."

  Minny harrumphed. "Name one."

  Angela cast her gaze down to the slivers of tin scattered about the table and toyed absently with her cup. "What about the time you dreamed a frozen-food truck was go­ing to have a terrible accident?"

  Minny thought about it for a minute. "Oh, yes. Three years ago. That was the night I had that awful frozen-fish entree. What about it?"

  "So, as we were driving down Kellogg the next day, you saw a frozen-food truck and insisted on braking immedi­ately so we could flag it down. Remember?"

  Minny nodded. "Certainly. And it did have an acci­dent. I was right."

  "Yes. You were right," Angela echoed tiredly. "But Mother, that truck rear-ended our car! Can't you see it wouldn't have had the accident if we hadn't stopped?"

  Minny wagged a warning finger at her daughter. "What makes you think that truck wouldn't have had a really ter­rible accident somewhere down the road if it hadn't been held up where we stopped it?"

  "Well, of course, I can't say that—for sure," Angela admitted reluctantly.

  Minny's face brightened with a satisfied smirk. "I be­lieve I've made my point."

  Angela gave up and took a long drink of her bitter cof­fee. She decided not to remind her mother that the acci­dent had been their fault, that their car had been totaled, or that they'd had to pay for the trucker's grillwork, as well as his chiropractor's bills.

  "Don't worry about this so-called engagement to that blond woman, Angela," Minny offered amiably as she went back to her snipping. "Trust your mother. Oh—" she looked back up, her smile intact "—would you mind get­ting the paper? I think I heard Carl's truck go by."

  Angela nodded without interest. "Sure."

  Minutes later, Angela was staring at the Wichita Daily Press's gossip column, "Famous Folks." Its purpose was to keep locals informed about the private tribulations of people in the national spotlight. Not only was there a newspaper file photo of Tarrant Seaton in all his debonair elegance, but there was one of her—the one that had been taken when she'd accepted her WSU Entrepreneur award. Unfortunately, she'd had a tooth filled that morning, and her smile hadn't been quite straight. As she stared at their pictures, her stomach did a flip-flop. Minny couldn't have conjured up a more mismatched pair if she'd dreamed through the entire Ice Age!

  Tarrant was known to be dashing, well-bred, wealthy and worldly. Angela was, as the article pointed out, "a failed hog farmer's daughter." What it didn't say was that she had a mix-and-match wardrobe of marginal quality, and that a trip to Oklahoma City last summer had been her biggest claim to worldliness so far. And that had been to visit a sick aunt.

  As a matter of fact, it was on that fateful trip she'd picked up a dozen pairs of panties at a factory overrun sale—all the panties had said "Wednesday." She closed her eyes, recalling the embarrassment of yesterday's disaster in Tarrant Seaton's office. She hadn't thought things could get worse, but when she opened her eyes again, there they were—still side by side in the newspaper—the Prince of Delights and Hogetta Hayseed!

  Though the newspaper hadn't called her names, that was how Angela saw herself when compared to Tarrant Seaton. The headline read, "Engaged in her Dreams," and gave a tongue-in-cheek account of the purported engagement between Tarrant and herself. If anyone held any doubts that she was a money-grubbing bimbo before, the evi­dence presented here would erase them. But could she re­ally blame the reporter who'd actually heard her mother's announcement? It sounded like a sleazy scam even to her!

  "Oh, Mother," she groaned, handing Minny the paper. "I wonder how in the world they got this?"

  The older woman studied the pictures for a minute, smiling broadly. "What a cute couple you make." She looked over at her stricken daughter. "It mentions me, too!"

  "Mother," Angela repeated, her voice weak, "do you have any idea how they got my picture?"

  Minny seemed exceedingly pleased with herself. "Well, naturally, I gave it to the young man who came by the apartment yesterday. He was charming. Those newspaper people are so sweet."

  Angela balled her fists in her lap, appalled and furious that Minny had so little sense! "Mother! How could you do such a thing to me?" she protested. "This is terrible! What will people think?"

  Minny's face fell. "Why, daughter, I do believe you have missed the point here." She spread her arms. "Tarrant Seaton's marriage is big news. You should be proud."

  Angela felt ill. She knew her mother could never be convinced that what she'd done hadn't been in her daugh­ter's best interest. In some innocent, childlike corner of her brain, Minny always managed to cling to the bright side of a calamity, no matter how obscure or downright nonexis­tent that bright side was. Despondent, her fruitless anger fading, Angela pleaded, "Mother, please don't talk to any more newspaper people, and don't give them any more pictures."

  "But what would you have me say if they call? I won't be rude, Angela. I simply won't."

  "Just—" Angela shook her head in mortification "—just tell them your lawyer told you not to speak to anyone."

  "But we don't have a lawyer."

  Feeling beaten down, Angela buried her face in her hands, flinching at the pain when she touched the bruised eye. "If you keep dreaming," she groaned, "we may be forced to retain one."

  The morning was much more pleasant than she ex­pected, considering the way it had begun. Leaving Rich­ard in charge of the store, she'd hurried back out to Havenhearth to finish touring the storage areas and was escorted, this time, by Alexander. She'd tried to camou­flage her injury by wearing an old sailor-type hat with its brim turned down. She'd tied a long scrap from one of her mother's tie-dye experiments around the brim. It matched, more or less, her navy-and-white-striped dress. Sun­glasses had helped a lot. But none of her precautions had really mattered. Alexander, obviously accustomed to minding his own business, didn't even blink when she'd removed her sunglasses to see in the relative darkness of the mansion's extensive attics.

  She'd been bounding down the wide front steps of Havenhearth precisely at noon, bent on getting back to her store to relieve Richard, when the ominous roar of a Lambourghini engine assaulted her ears. She quickened her pace toward her car. She was so embarrassed about last night she couldn't bear to face him.

  As she tugged her car door open, a gust of wind in­vaded her skirt and carried the hem up to brush her chin. She dropped her briefcase and pressed the fullness down. But with only two arms to corral the billowing fabric, her success was marginal.

  "Well, well," she heard a deep, amused voice remark behind her. "A flash of déjà vu."

  Stiffening with resentment, she sprung to remove her backside from his view, snagging up her briefcase in the process. She tossed the case into the front seat of her car and was about to follow it in, deciding not to dignify his remark with a response, when her hat flew off.

  Tarrant snagged it with surprising grace for a man of his size, and was about to hand it back when he caught a glimpse of her battered face. His teasing smile faded.

  "Good Lord! That looks worse than I remember. How are you feeling?"

  She was startled by his unexpected concern and didn't know how to react. The last thing Angela wanted was this man's sympathy. Still, she didn't think his remark merited the unfriendly exit she'd been about to execute. Gingerly replacing her hat so that it partially masked her injury, she murmured, "It doesn't hurt that much."

  Apparently unconvinced, he said, "Right. Do I look like a fool?"

  She had glanced away, but turned back, suggesting coolly, "Do yourself a favor and don't ask loaded ques­tions."

  When she was about to escape into the car, he said, "I imagine you saw the Press this morning."

  She nodded, forcing herself to meet his suddenly guarded gaze.

  "Was the coverage everything you hoped it would be?" he asked.

  Smarting at the suggestion that she and her mother ac­tually wanted such unsavory publicity, she protested, "I didn't have anything to do with that!
"

  "Sure," he chided with a malicious grin. "That would explain one thing, anyway."

  Eyeing him resentfully and angry that she had to ask, she demanded, "What would it explain?"

  "Why they used a photo that made you look like you'd been inhaling toxic fumes. No doubt the gossip-column thieves had to break in and grab it under cover of dark­ness, so they weren't able to see how bad a picture it was. The lengths those people go for a story."

  He made a tsking sound. Sarcasm. How she loathed it. And Tarrant Seaton seemed to be better at it than any man alive! Heaving a groan of blasphemous proportions, An­gela sputtered, "I… If you must know, my mother gave the reporter that picture. Mom's a little naive about some things. I told her not to talk to any more reporters. She promised she wouldn't."

  He lifted a reproachful brow. "It's cowardly to blame your mother. No one who's ever met her would believe she could mastermind such a convoluted scheme."

  A shaft of dismay shot through her, followed immedi­ately by righteous fury. "Oh…you're impossible! You wouldn't believe me if I took a blood oath!" Sliding into her car, she tugged the door shut, but it wouldn't quite close. Opening it wide, she tried again, but it remained obstinately ajar.

  Thoroughly frustrated, she muttered a harsh word, then found herself flushed with embarrassment. She hated the fact that Tarrant Seaton could make her so angry and then just stand there relishing her defeat.

  She heard the precise clip of his footsteps as he ap­proached, heard her door open and heard it slam shut. It stunned her that he'd bothered to close her door for her. He'd probably done it to get her to leave, she rational­ized. Agitated beyond words, she dug out her car keys, fumbled to insert them and, barely short of flooding the engine, brought the old car shuddering to life. The thing rattled and protested, backfiring twice before she could get adequate power to escape down the drive.