Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  As she pulled away, she could hear him shout after her, "You're welcome, Miss Meadows. It was my pleasure."

  Angela forced herself to ignore him, to disregard his parting gibe and the nagging feeling that this time she had been the insensitive snob.

  A week passed with embarrassing problems on the Seaton-Meadows Dream-Wedding gossip front. Not only had the National Tattler printed a degrading article, but she'd gotten a less-than-flattering mention in both He and She magazine and a national syndicated television-news show called "Hot Topics."

  Angela had been mortified, having to make frequent trips to the factory and endure teasing remarks from em­ployees—especially Marty Rainwater. Apparently the woman had an unrealistic crush on her boss and didn't like the idea of nationally publicized competition.

  Luckily, Angela hadn't had to face Tarrant again. The scuttlebutt was that he'd been called away to work out a problem at his Detroit plant. That was just peachy with Angela—although it was her private opinion that he was really basking in the sun at some exclusive tropical resort. She didn't believe that Tarrant Seaton could actually work out any problem concerning any plant—even if it merely involved watering the green, leafy kind. Not the pretty-boy figurehead she knew and loathed!

  Angela hadn't seen Delila, either. Maybe Delila had de­cided she didn't want to be around such a "mercenary, publicity-seeking gold digger," as she'd heard herself called by the terminally catty among Delila's Delights employees. At the mansion, Angela had either been left to take her measurements alone or in the nonjudgmental company of Alexander, whom she'd grown to like.

  However, business had been booming at the store. Or at least, there were a lot of browsers. It seemed that notori­ety bred not only contempt but some business. Surpris­ingly, she'd gotten a couple of new clients for custom work out of the fiasco. She wasn't happy about the way she'd gotten them. She only hoped that when this whole thing blew over, she'd earn a reputation by her good work, not her infamous past.

  Today, although the store was bustling, it looked as if things were about to go downhill fast. Delila had called, asking Angela to join "us" for dinner; afterward, they would discuss the contractors who were bidding on the job. Angela hoped "us" meant that she and Delila would share a casual dinner discussing contractors with Alexander and a few of the servants, or maybe even a table-trained house cat with an interest in closet space. Any "us" would be preferable to the "us" Angela feared—Delila and her son. Angela, recognizing a direct order when she heard one, however pleasantly phrased, had accepted. All day she'd looked forward to the hour of seven o'clock with abject dread.

  As her car sputtered and coughed along Havenhearth's meandering drive, that awful hour was upon her. Parking her junker, she noted with a heavy heart that there were no other cars there. Tarrant might still be in Detroit—or sun­bathing on some far-flung sun-drenched beach. Unfortu­nately, he could also be in the mansion, his car parked in one of the garages that stretched along the west wing of the house.

  As Angela reached the door, it opened, and Alexander greeted her with his usual officious scowl, which no longer intimidated her. She smiled up at him and handed him her cardigan. "Am I early?" she asked.

  "No, madam." He draped her sweater over his arm and directed her to the library. "May I get you anything, Miss Meadows?"

  She shook her head.

  "Very well. I will tell Mrs. Seaton that you have ar­rived." As the last word was uttered, the doors closed be­tween them. Angela wondered how he could time that so perfectly, then decided they probably taught Sentence Finishing While Door Closing in butler school some­where—somewhere far from Kansas, she concluded with a wry grin.

  "Ah, she smiles."

  The deep voice that seemed to come out of nowhere made her jump. Spinning in a circle, she demanded breathlessly, "Where are you?"

  Tarrant emerged from a high-backed chair in a shad­owy corner of the room. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I assumed you saw me."

  "Well, I didn't." She looked him up and down, decid­ing the dark gray trousers and matching pullover accen­tuated his allure to a point that was criminal. "When did you get back from… wherever?"

  Slipping his hands into his pockets with easy noncha­lance, he gave her the same direct once-over that she'd just given him. "This afternoon. I understand you're having dinner with us."

  She had an urge to smooth her skirt, positive that it was bunched up around her knees with static cling. She re­sisted. "I, uh, yes. But you needn't stay. Your mother and I can handle everything."

  His expression held perverse amusement as he saun­tered toward her. "You mean, of course, that I don't need to trouble my pretty little head with nasty business talk?"

  She didn't realize her low opinion of him showed. "Don't be silly," she lied.

  He laughed, drawing too close for comfort. "Don't worry about me, Miss Meadows, I'll try to keep up. Would you like a drink?"

  He indicated a tray filled with bottles.

  "No. I don't drink."

  As he headed for the liquor cart, Angela noted how tanned he was. He must have been lounging on the beach. You couldn't get a tan like that in an office in Detroit.

  "Miss Meadows?" he queried. "Did you hear me?"

  "Pardon?" she asked rather brusquely, wondering what her turn of mind had caused her to miss.

  "I asked if you'd like a glass of orange juice. I'm hav­ing tomato juice myself."

  She shook her head.

  He poured himself a glass of juice and suggested, "You might as well sit down. Mother is always late."

  Angela took a seat on the couch, allowing herself a long, despondent sigh. She hoped, just this once, that the fates would take pity on her, and Delila would appear quickly. She didn't like being here alone with this disturbing man.

  It surprised her when Tarrant joined her on the couch, since there were perfectly good places to sit farther away. Though she hadn't wanted anything, he handed her a glass of tomato juice. There was a spring of celery lolling in it, giving the drink an incongruous Christmassy feel.

  She took it and murmured a halfhearted thank-you.

  "Since we can't seem to agree on anything, I suppose you hate tomato juice," he remarked after he'd taken a sip.

  "No, it's not that. It's just that I… my stomach… I'm not very hungry."

  Removing the glass from her hand, he put it on the tray table in front of them. "Would you like some soda and bitters? Sometimes that helps settle the stomach."

  He was up before she could insist he not bother. And he had the drink mixed and poured and was back before she could even begin to marvel at his behavior. He was cer­tainly playing the role of good host to the hilt.

  "Thank you," she muttered, trying the drink. It tasted strange, but did seem to help.

  "I see your eye is better," he remarked, picking up his juice again.

  She nodded, sipping, keeping her gaze on the rim of her glass.

  "I also see that the fuss about our alleged wedding has died down."

  She choked, but got control of herself. "Yes."

  "How did you like being a celebrity for a week?"

  She slanted him a cheerless look. "Not much."

  He chuckled dryly. "I know the feeling."

  When her drink was half-finished, she put it on the ta­ble. Since he'd opened the subject, she decided to ask him something that had been bothering her all week. "How did Eden take all this?"

  He had just placed his glass beside hers. At her ques­tion he paused, his expression softening at the mention of his fiancée. "She took it extremely well. But then, Eden is quite a woman."

  For some reason, Angela felt a twinge of distress, though she couldn't fathom the reason. Why would it up­set her to know that Tarrant Seaton had nothing but good things to say about the woman he loved? Placing her hands in her lap and clenching them tightly, she declared, "You're a lucky man."

  He smiled, and that lone dimple in his left cheek sent an unwanted thrill up her sp
ine. "People make their own luck, Miss Meadows. I hope you won't be offended if I tell you that you have enough brains and gumption to be suc­cessful on your own. You don't have to catch a man to get what you want."

  Angela's expression clouded, and she found herself caught between feeling offended and feeling flattered. First of all, she knew she could make it on her own—had al­ways planned to make it on her own. Secondly, she'd never had any intention of catching any man! When the jumble of her emotions settled, she found herself more annoyed than flattered.

  Pride forced her to stand as she retorted, "I am of­fended. But I will say this, Mr. Seaton—I'm tickled pink that you've found a woman who's willing to take you on, because I, for one, wouldn't have you for all the…"

  "Money in the world?" he finished for her, a cynical edge to his voice.

  She was seething, her temper rolling over her good sense. She'd had all the sarcasm, humiliation and patron­izing she could stand! Unable to find words stinging enough, she swung out blindly with her hand.

  As he grabbed her wrist, he shot to his feet, suddenly towering over her, his face set in stern lines.

  She yanked, but it did no good. "Let go!"

  "Dammit, woman," he growled. "Can't we spend five minutes together without one of us blowing sky-high? I was trying to compliment you."

  "Oh!" she wailed. "If that's your idea of a compli­ment…"

  All the things that had happened to her since she'd met this man came back in a raging flood—every taunt, jeer and put-down of the past week. It was suddenly just too much! With a strangled cry, she lashed out at him with her left hand and found it caught as securely as her right.

  Obviously trying to gain better control over the woman who'd turned into a wildcat, Tarrant forced her arms around to her back until she was straining against him. His grip wasn't painful, but that didn't matter to Angela in her frustration and fury. She struggled, calling out, "You bully! Let me go!"

  She'd been about to stomp on his foot, but he thwarted her by shifting his weight and making her lose her bal­ance. In the process, he had to pull her closer to keep her from falling.

  Sudden tears blurred her vision. "Let go of me!" she pleaded, wanting to get away. She was so confused, so unhappy. "Don't touch me!"

  "That would be my pleasure," he declared with savage harshness. "But if you'll recall, you were trying to slap me."

  "Well, you've been so mean to me. You drove me—"

  "Drove you! If you want the truth, you're driving me—" He broke off roughly. When he abruptly let her go, she stumbled backward, trembling, her breathing ragged.

  By the time she'd gathered enough poise to meet his gaze, his expression had returned to one of indifference, except for a slight tenseness around the mouth. "Perhaps you're right, Miss Meadows," he stated evenly. "I think I'll leave you and Mother to have your business dinner alone."

  Without another word, he headed away from her, and it dismayed Angela to realize the ease with which he could dismiss what had just happened. Her humiliation had dearly meant nothing to him! Not a whisper of an apol­ogy, not a syllable of remorse for his brutish actions! She wondered if Eden was aware that she was getting an un­feeling beast for a husband.

  Just as he reached the door, it opened, and Delila Seaton appeared, looking elegant in draped green silk. "Hello, Tarrant. Hello, Angela, I—"

  "Why, here you are at last, Mother," Tarrant inter­rupted smoothly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "I won't be staying for dinner, after all. I've just remembered a pressing engagement in Wichita. Besides, Miss Meadows and I had a long talk, and we're both quite clear on… everything."

  Delila's smile faded slightly. "Oh? All right, dear…."

  With a casual arm, he encircled her shoulders. "By the way, Mother, you must try to be on time in the future. I'm afraid I wasn't very entertaining company for Miss Mead­ows."

  Squeezing his mother's shoulders, he addressed An­gela. "You'll never know how much I enjoyed seeing you again, Miss Meadows." His dark eyes glinted like cold steel, making his real message abundantly clear. Angela could leap off a cliff for all he cared!

  She swallowed. Her throat had gone dry as dust.

  He turned away and was gone, leaving Delila looking confused. She shook her head. "Goodness. He's in a rare mood." When she faced Angela, her expression changed to one of concern. "You look pale, dear. I hope Tarrant didn't upset you. It's that assertive nature of his. Some people are intimidated by it, but he truly doesn't mean to be unkind."

  Angela surreptitiously wiped away a tear, muttering under her breath, "That's a joke."

  "Forgive me, I didn't hear you," Delila said as she moved toward her guest.

  "Er, perfect host," Angela fabricated, her voice weak. "Mr. Seaton is always the perfect host." Feeling pecu­liarly trembly in the legs, she lowered herself to the couch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next day, Angela strolled about her colorful shop, paying scant attention to the browsers as her thoughts in­sisted on wandering back to Tarrant Seaton and the ca­lamitous events of the evening before.

  She fingered one of the wire baskets that could be stacked to go under kitchen counters or as extra shelves in closets, wishing she hadn't blown up the way she had. How unprofessional! Tarrant had been trying to be nice, after all. What was it about him that made her so touchy?

  She walked absentmindedly toward the back of her small, jam-packed shop, where the watertight, bright-hued plastic storage containers were aligned in rows. Without much interest, she noted that the large blue under-the-bed storage cartons were getting low, and made a mental note to reorder.

  "Excuse me, miss?"

  Angela was roused from her thoughts by a jeans-clad woman dragging a wailing preschooler. "Excuse me, miss?" she repeated, almost shouting over the shrieking child. "Where are your wire shelf makers? You know, the long mesh shelves with four legs that stack to make extra closet shelves?"

  Forcing Tarrant's face from her mind, she offered the child one of the lollipops she kept in her jacket pocket for such occasions. "The Stretched Stackables are on special this week. They're up front beside the cash register." With a polite smile, she added, "The young man in the red vest will be happy to help you."

  The woman threw a harried glance over her shoulder, then, spotting the display, smiled bashfully. "Oh, for Pete's sake." She met Angela's gaze and nodded her thanks. "I walked right past them. I feel so stupid."

  Even in her unhappy state of mind, Angela had to laugh. "You're not alone. There are lots of days when I feel like the reigning queen of stupid," she replied honestly.

  With a giggle, the young mother hurried toward the front; her child, quiet now, licked her candy. As Angela turned back, she saw Minny enter from the rear, her vo­luminous jumpsuit billowing in her wake.

  "Hello, Mother," Angela said. "Something smells good. What are you cooking up there?"

  Minny waved a refuting hand. "I'm not cooking, sweetie. I'm experimenting with a special glaze. I just dipped some dog biscuits in it and I'm drying them in the oven."

  Angela grimaced. "Why in heaven's name are you glaz­ing dog biscuits?"

  Minny grinned impishly. "Why, I'm creating earrings, sweetie. Can't you see it? Dog-biscuit earrings. They'll be all the rage one day. Mark my words!"

  Angela wasn't even going to ask what went into the glaze, but she did say, "Mother, I hope your glaze is en­vironmentally safe."

  Minny snickered. "Of course it is, sweetie. As a matter of fact, we're having the leftover glaze as a sauce on our broccoli at dinner."

  Angela's eyes widened, but before she could question her mother about the wisdom of such an idea, Minny whis­pered excitedly, "My goodness! I do believe that cus­tomer who just came in is Delila of Delila's Delights herself. You didn't tell me she was coming by, sweetie. Do invite her to stay for dinner!"

  Angela tried to hide her horror at the idea of Delila Seaton consuming dog-biscuit varnish at her invitation. She patted her mother's arm a
s much in appeasement as affection. "I'm sure Mrs. Seaton is busy, Mother—"

  "Pish tosh!" Minny declared, undaunted. "We really should get to know each other, since you and dear Tar­rant are going to be married."

  The last was stated as Minny bustled toward the front of the store and Delila Seaton. It took Angela a moment to shake off her shock, so she was a bit tardy reaching De­lila. Minny was already proposing dinner and stating the reason they must get to know each other better—which was that they would "soon be related by marriage."

  Angela felt her blood seep out of her toes as Delila gazed down at Minny, the shorter of the two. "Why, Mrs. Meadows," she purred in that husky voice, "you are very kind to want to include me in your dinner plans. It does smell wonderful."

  "Thank you." Minny beamed. "But that's my dog bis—"

  "Mrs. Seaton," Angela interrupted, stepping between the women, hoping to save her mother from yet again be­ing labeled nutty. "I assume you've come to choose the wooden modules for the pantry and master bedroom?"

  Delila shifted her gaze from Minny to Angela and then back to Minny. "Dog bis?" she asked.

  "Dog-biscuit glaze. I'm creating a new craze in ear­rings," Minny revealed proudly. "You know, Delila, you're not the only savvy businesswoman in town. There's me—" she swept an expansive arm toward Angela "—and my baby, of course."

  Delila's expression softened from the frown of confu­sion to mild merriment. "I can see that. Dog-biscuit ear­rings. Who would have thought… ?"

  Angela winced at what Delila must be thinking. "Mother," she broke in, "Mrs. Seaton told me she only had half an hour to devote to our project this afternoon. Maybe you could discuss your jewelry creations some other time."

  "Yes," Delila agreed. "I know, why don't you and An­gela join me this Saturday evening for dinner, Mrs. Meadows? I'd love to discuss your jewelry then."

  Minny clasped her fluttery hands together. "Why, I'd be delighted, Delila. I'll even make you a gift of a pair of my newest design."

  Angela had a mental flash of Delila Seaton garbed in elegant evening wear, with a pair of dog biscuits dangling from her ears. Improbable to say the least!