Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  Angela sat back on the bed, looking confused. "I thought you…"

  Minny rummaged about in the confection box, search­ing for just the right piece of candy before she lifted her gaze back to her daughter's stricken face. "Sweetie. You and I both know that you're going to marry Tarrant Seaton on May twenty-third. I just decided I'd help Cu­pid along a little by giving you two some extra time to­gether. That's all."

  Angela started to speak, but she was so dumbfounded she couldn't find her voice. In an incredulous whisper, she finally managed, "Mother! That's… that's deceitful!"

  With an elfish smile, Minny popped a piece of candy into her mouth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Horrified, Angela bolted from the bed. "We can't stay here, Mother! I won't take the Seatons' hospitality under false pretenses!"

  Minny cautioned her daughter to be quiet, waving her to sit back down. "Now, now, sweetie. You know I can't leave tonight. Delila sent my jumpsuit to her seamstress. It won't be back until tomorrow morning."

  "But…" Angela faltered. Would it be any better to have to borrow clothes and make a hasty exit at this hour—al­most eleven o'clock? They'd only have to further disturb Delila, who had already retired to her room.

  Heaving a restrained sigh, Angela shook her head. "All right, Mother. We'll stay. But your subterfuge isn't going to work, because I saw Tarrant Seaton leave with Eden once they got the news that you were going to be fine." She paced toward the door, then returned to the bed. "I hope you're satisfied."

  Minny's smile had vanished. "Daughter, you can't think I set fire to myself on purpose. That was an accident. But when Tarrant was holding me and looking so upset, the idea just popped into my head."

  Angela sighed again. "Well, it's done now." Then she said dejectedly, "If you think you'll be okay, I'm going to my room."

  Minny fluffed the lace at the neckline of the silk gown Delila had lent her. She looked like some dowager queen, propped up on snow-white pillows with hand-crocheted edging, as she lounged in that massive bed with its ceiling-high, heirloom headboard.

  Minny cast her animated gaze about her and purred with satisfaction. "You know? I could get used to this bed­room."

  "Don't get too attached to it," Angela advised. "It wouldn't fit into our apartment. As a matter of fact, I think our apartment would fit in here."

  Minny giggled. "I do believe it would."

  Her emotions still in turmoil, Angela bent down and kissed her mother's cheek, murmuring, "Go right to sleep. And please, don't to anything like this again. If you do, I'll have a hard time convincing myself that Mr. Seaton is wrong in his accusations about us!"

  Minny suddenly appeared genuinely hurt. "Now, An­gela, you must remember that the fates are in complete control here. Your marriage to that wonderful, wonderful boy is destined. So never think negative thoughts about your wedding! I'm as certain it will happen as I am that Nancy Reagan will write a book about her life."

  "She already has, Mother."

  "There, you see?" Minny spread her arms in an if s-out-of-my-hands gesture. "The fates have spoken!"

  Angela grimaced and closed her eyes, hoping that counting to ten would help. After a minute, she said, "Good night, Mother. Sleep well."

  "I simply couldn't help sleeping well in this bed," Minny cooed as she settled back on the pillows.

  Angela flipped off the light and moved across the hall to her room. The pale blue-and-eggshell bedroom was also elegant, with a four-poster bed surrounded by airy lace curtains. Angela could hardly believe the opulence in which some people lived. For a long moment she merely turned in a slow circle, admiring everything from the quaint rolltop desk beside the bed to the carved and gilt mirror over the dressing table.

  It was a fairyland, and she felt like Cinderella. Unfor­tunately, the handsome prince was not only engaged to someone else, but he was a coldhearted cad. Besides, she reminded herself, she didn't even like him!

  Pushing all thoughts of Tarrant Seaton out of her mind, Angela decided to change into the delicate negligee that had been draped across the bedspread. Before she could unbutton her dress, she realized she was hungry. That didn't surprise her. She hadn't eaten much at dinner, and, since she'd skipped lunch, her stomach had every right to complain.

  She figured she probably wouldn't do the Seaton for­tune much damage by making herself a snack, so she headed down to the kitchen. Rummaging in the indus­trial-size refrigerator, Angela came up with the ingredi­ents for a hefty turkey sandwich.

  She wrapped a paper towel around her sandwich and began to munch as she walked out the kitchen door. She ambled down the steps to the moonlit grounds, giving in to her restlessness.

  Glancing about, she got her bearings. She'd emerged from the house at the edge of a small pine wood. Far off to one side, she could see the patio fountain sparkle with reflected moonlight. The temperature was noticeably cooler near the wood, so she chose to stroll through the trees. Even here, the lawn was clipped to golf-course per­fection, making walking among the pines a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

  The soft scent of roses and wild honeysuckle permeated the sharp tang of the pines. She wandered aimlessly, nib­bling occasionally on her snack and smiling up at the moon as it glowed placidly down through the still branches.

  As she turned back toward the mansion, feeling re­freshed and at long last composed, she was startled to see a bright ball of light jumping in the distance. It appeared to be getting closer. She stopped, her heart thumping. What was it? She'd heard of ball lightning, but she'd never seen it. Could this be that odd natural phenomenon?

  Suddenly, she heard a harsh, masculine shout. "Halt! Don't move! My dog is trained to attack anybody who runs."

  "Oh, my lord!" she mouthed soundlessly, going so still she didn't even dare breathe. Now she could see that the bouncing light was a flashlight carried by a man in some kind of uniform. The moon gave off enough light for her to discern the glint of knee-high boots and the bill of a hat—and the teeth of a huge, growling Doberman.

  "All right, lady," the uniformed man snarled as he reached her. "Why don't we just go back to where we came from? This is no place for you to be prowling." As he spoke, he tucked his flashlight into a slot on his belt, then none too gently took her by the arm and began pulling her toward the mansion.

  "What…what do you think you're doing?" Angela sputtered. "I… I was just out for a walk!"

  "Sure, sure," he snickered. "You dames are all alike. I never seen such a thing in my life. Once, twice a week, yet!"

  Angela was scared. She didn't like the look of the dog straining at his leash beside her captor. Though obviously well-trained, the animal was eyeing her—or maybe her turkey sandwich—greedily. A thought rushed through her mind. What if she tossed the sandwich into the darkness?

  It might deflect the dog's attention long enough for her to jerk free and make an escape.

  Then she envisioned the probable consequences of such a rash escape attempt. She saw herself pitched facedown in the grass, a snarling beast's fangs attached to her back­side. Squeezing her eyes shut to squelch the gruesome im­age, Angela discarded all thoughts of flight. Feeling thwarted, she protested her captivity with a yank of the man's hold. "Take your hands off me!" she demanded. "I don't know who you think you are, but I don't appreciate being called a dame!"

  The man laughed. "Yeah. Get huffy. They all do." He continued to drag her along as he talked. "I suppose you're going to tell me you're here at Mr. Seaton's invita­tion."

  She fixed him with a grim stare, retorting, "Of course I'm here at his invitation!"

  He chortled. "Honey, I think I'd drop over dead if one of you ever came up with a new one. Now, Mr. Seaton's orders is not to press charges, so where's your car? I'll just escort you to it and you can be on your way."

  Angela planted her feet, forgetting about the woman-eating hound. "I won't go. My mother's inside." To illus­trate, she waved her sandwich toward the mansion, insist­ing, "My mother and I are Mr.
Seaton's guests." Without her realizing, her voice was getting shrill and loud. She'd never been so ill-treated before. "How dare you suggest that I've done anything against the law!"

  "Trespassing's not exactly something you put on your resume, lady."

  "I'm not trespassing!" she persisted, shouting now. "Go inside and ask Delila Seaton! I'm a houseguest!"

  "Right. And I'm Prince Charles," he sneered.

  "What's going on out there, Bentley?" a baritone voice called from the patio. Angela knew right away that it was Tarrant, and though she didn't care to be in his debt, she yelled, "This lout is hauling me out to the street, Mr. Seaton!"

  There was silence for a minute, when Angela could not only hear the distant cry of an owl, but her own thumping heart.

  Finally Tarrant called, "Bring the culprit here, Bentley."

  "Well, sugar, you might just get lucky." The man turned to inspect Angela. His eyes were hidden in shadow by the bill of his hat, but his teeth flashed lewdly. "'Course, I can see why. You're a real looker."

  She sniffed, offended, and pulled out of his grip. "Do you mind? I can walk by myself."

  He kept very near, saying, "You run, sugar, and I'll let Lunatic chase you down. He loves to play chase."

  Angela swallowed, but tried not to let the horrid man see her trepidation. When she and Bentley reached the stairs leading up to the broad patio, Tarrant was standing on the top step, hands planted casually on his hips. He'd re­moved his sports coat and loosened his tie, but he was still dressed as he had been at dinner. Apparently he hadn't lingered with Eden.

  His expression was highly amused, and even in the dim­ness, she could see the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. "Why, hello there, Miss Meadows. Fancy meeting you here. What were you doing—looking for my balcony?"

  She halted, but was rammed from the rear by the ob­noxious Bentley. The impact almost knocked her to her knees.

  "I found another one of those women, boss," Bentley explained as he steadied her rather roughly.

  Angela jerked her arm from his hold, not sure which emotion was more inflamed—her fury or her embarrass­ment.

  Tarrant was coming down the steps toward them. When he reached Bentley, he petted the dog's big head and ad­dressed the guard. "You've done good work, Bentley, but I think you and Lunatic can leave this one to me."

  Angela shot a deadly glance at her host. He pursed his lips in an obvious attempt to mask his humor, but his eyes glistened with remorseless mirth at her expense.

  She blustered, "This man should be severely chastised! He… he manhandled me!"

  "Will that be all, boss?" Bentley asked, apparently far from panicked by her charge.

  "Yes." Tarrant nodded. "Keep up the vigilant work."

  The man about-faced and, along with the faithful Lu­natic, strode off. Angela watched him go, her mouth open. When the guard and his dog were out of earshot, she spun around and protested, "Does that brute work for you?"

  Tarrant crossed his arms and gave her a cool look. "That brute works for me, yes."

  "Well…well, how can you keep a beast like that on? I'll have you know he almost broke my arm!"

  Tarrant's expression became skeptical, but he asked, "Which arm?"

  She started to show him, then changed her mind. "You don't care! Why should I show you?"

  He flashed her a wry grin. "Be obstinate if you want. But I'd suggest you don't go wandering around the grounds after dark anymore. We don't have a security system for nothing."

  "If you ask me, you don't have a security system, you have a pack of dirty-minded baby-sitters. Where do you find your guards? The National Institute of Jerks? And Lunatic? A perfect name, I might add! That hound from hell wanted to kill me!"

  "That dog's a pussycat."

  "Well, somebody'd better tell him! He didn't act like he wanted to leap into my lap and purr!"

  With a casual nod of his head, he indicated the patio. "Why don't we go sit down? It's been a long day."

  She balked, her pride still bruised from her ordeal. "No, thank you, Mr. Seaton. I'm going to bed."

  "Why don't you call me Tarrant, Angela? After all we've been through together, I think we're past the formal stage."

  His radical change of subject caught her off guard. "I, uh…" She felt suddenly shy, awkward. Why? What was the problem with calling this man by his first name? Somehow it bothered her to hear him say hers. Not caring to face the possible reasons for this, she mumbled, "Whatever…"

  His low chuckle seemed loud in the night's quiet. "You're a strange case. I mean, with your mother's ploy to stay here overnight, I expected to see you, but I didn't expect to see you quite this way."

  Angela blanched. So he knew it was a ploy! How was she to defend herself? She stared down at her toes, know­ing how guilty she looked.

  "Well?" he prompted, making her jump.

  She squirmed. There was no way she could answer him. She certainly had no intention of blaming her mother. Even if she did, he'd just chastise her for trying to foist the blame onto someone else. He'd done it before, and this time the circumstances were much more damaging.

  Gathering her courage, she met his critical gaze, re­sponding defiantly, "My mother didn't set herself on fire on purpose."

  He lifted one eyebrow, but didn't respond. She wanted to stalk off, not caring to prolong her time under his cyn­ical scrutiny, but a question nagged at her. Finally her cu­riosity won out and she asked, "What did that security thug mean when he said he found 'another one of those women'?"

  A smile, fleeting and humorless, skipped across his mouth. "Women like you, bent on matrimony." His voice was cold. "Only the others didn't have the help of two in­terfering coconspirators—namely your mother and, un­intentionally, mine."

  "You're not trying to tell me women sneak in here to… to get you to…" She was too stunned to finish. The picture this idea presented made her blush, and she was glad for the cover of darkness. "I don't believe that," she insisted stiffly, not sure if she was upset because he thought so little of her character, or because he had so much late-night feminine company!

  His narrowed eyes gauged her carefully for a long min­ute. His expression, rugged and rakish in the moonlight, was unreadable. Then he shoved his hands into his pock­ets. "You're good at playing the wide-eyed innocent, An­gela. I'll give you that," he said with disturbing candor.

  She started to object, but before she could say any­thing, he inquired, "Tell me, has Minny had any revela­tions about our honeymoon?"

  Taking a deep breath, Angela declared, "Let me put it this way, Tarrant—" the emphasis on his given name made it sound like blasphemy "—if I'm ever forced into such a revolting event, I hope you and I are on separate conti­nents at the time!" Eyeing him grudgingly, she asked, "Are you hungry?"

  He looked puzzled. "A little. Why?"

  "Because I've just lost my appetite, and I have a sand­wich." Thrusting it at him, she snapped, "Turkey!"

  Brushing past him, she hurried toward the mansion's patio entrance. After she'd gone a few steps, she heard him call, "Don't think you can sway me with sweet talk, An­gela." His voice was edged with ill-concealed laughter. She cursed him for his ceaseless penchant for mocking her.

  Morning seemed to take forever to come. Angela had tossed and turned and stared out the window until dawn. For some demented reason her mind insisted on recalling Tarrant's face—that deep-cleft chin, those sinful lashes and that hedonistic smile….

  She was restless and wanted to get up and walk off her frustrations, but she didn't care to chance running into Bentley again—or Lunatic. Finally, she busied herself showering, cleaning the bathroom, dressing, stripping the bed and then pacing, hoping the maid would come soon to tell her where clean sheets were kept so she could make the bed.

  After what felt like an eternity, there was a soft knock at the door. A frilly-frocked maid entered the room and was startled to see the bed ready for clean sheets. Though she didn't want Angela to make the bed, she fin
ally com­promised and allowed her to help. As they worked, the maid introduced herself as Peg, and proceeded to chatter away.

  "That Miss Eden is a lovely lady," Peg said, smoothing the sheet.

  "Yes, she is," Angela agreed.

  "Took her divorce hard, I understand," the maid of­fered, peering over at Angela.

  "Oh?"

  Peg nodded and spoke confidentially. "I understand there was another woman."

  Angela didn't care to gossip about Eden, so she changed the subject. "You need to pull the sheet your way a little. It's dragging the floor over here."

  The maid heaved a histrionic sigh at Angela's perfec­tionism and began tugging at the fabric. "Anyway, Miss Eden is in Mr. Tarrant's social circle, and she's rich as a movie star, so she's not after his fortune." As she ar­ranged the bedspread, Peg paused to give Angela a nar­row look. "Not like some women."

  Angela would have had to be unconscious to miss the accusation in Peg's remark. Still not accustomed to being thought of as a money-grubbing bimbo, she lowered her gaze, pretending to adjust the bedspread on her side. She hated being in this crazy situation. She wasn't that kind of woman at all! But she had too much pride to start an ar­gument with the maid. Instead, she stood, brushed an in­visible speck from her dress and smiled at the stiff-faced woman. "Well, that's done. I think I'll go down to break­fast."

  The maid offered a false smile.

  Unhappily, Angela knew that the maid would love to see her head served up on a platter, so she said honestly, "You're very loyal to Mr. Seaton. That's commendable for an employee."

  "Of course I am. He's a fine man," the maid coun­tered. "And he's too nice for his own good, I'd say."

  Angela frowned. Too nice? Tarrant Seaton? The terms seemed mutually exclusive. Shaking her head, she mur­mured, "You couldn't prove it by me," and walked away. Within the hour she'd be able to leave. She only hoped Tarrant would have the good grace to have his breakfast in his room.

  Her hopes were dashed the moment she reached the plant-filled sun room off the kitchen. There he was, re­splendent in, of all things, gray sweats. He looked so tou­sled and cuddly that the sight took her breath away. How in the world could a man in sweatpants, sweatshirt and a pair of running shoes do such brazen things to her heart? Especially a scoundrel with a wicked grin and a conde­scending wit.