by Renee Roszel
Delila was there, too, clad in a majestic high-necked robe. "Good morning, my dear," she said, beckoning Angela to a seat opposite Minny. Angela noted with relief that her mother was wearing her repaired jumpsuit. She didn't know if it was bad planning or simply bad luck, but she found herself sitting all too near Tarrant, who was taking up two spaces by propping a foot on the end chair.
"Good morning, Angela," he said, his expression polite, his undertone teasing. "Sleep well?"
"Like a rock," she lied with an equally polite smile. "I presume you've been pumping iron? Or maybe practising for the Boston marathon?"
"Neither. Just relaxing." He stretched languidly, looking suddenly far more lethal than cuddly. "Even chocolate maggots relax."
"You left out 'humorous,'" she reminded him with false sweetness.
"You flatter me, but thanks," he replied with a devilish flash of teeth, turning her planned slur into a compliment. "You're just in time, Angela. Minny was about to relate a dream she had last night."
Angela sent a distressed gaze toward her mother, who was drizzling honey onto a croissant.
"You had a dream, Mother?" Angela asked weakly.
"Oh, yes. Quite a confusing dream."
"Confusing?" Tarrant put in, a puzzled note in his voice. "For you, Mrs. Meadows? I find that hard to conceive."
Angela shot him a deadly look. He was ridiculing her mother! Unfortunately, she couldn't accuse him of it outright, for his face exhibited nothing but quiet interest.
Though Angela was fighting back her indignation, Minny had apparently missed the disguised censure. She giggled. "Aren't you sweet, son, but listen to it and I think you'll agree."
With an indulgent expression, Delila assured Minny, "I'm intrigued. What did you dream?"
Minny took a bite of her croissant, using the moment to heighten suspense. Angela cast a disheartened glance at her plate, where an artfully arranged half cantaloupe filled with strawberries sat beside a bran muffin and a croissant. It certainly looked like a breakfast one might have in a mansion. Bustling servants came and went, bringing in covered dishes and replenishing coffee. It was clear that the plate of fruit and pastries was only the beginning.
"Quite confusing," Minny repeated, blotting her lips with her napkin. "I dreamed of a sailor riding a lion into the sea, and he was singing a song. The only words of the song I can recall were, 'A dilly, a dilly adieu—'"
Delila gasped. She tipped the cup she was holding, sloshing coffee across her plate. As all eyes turned to her, she smiled feebly and murmured, "Forgive an old woman's clumsiness." When a maid hurried to clear her ruined breakfast and replace it with a fresh one, Delila prompted, "Please, Minny, go on."
"Well…" Minny sipped her coffee absently. "I've thought a lot about this and I believe I've come up with its meaning."
Angela chewed on a strawberry, watching her mother, and hoping this would soon be over with no damage done. She prayed inwardly that nothing—absolutely not one syllable—would be uttered about a marriage between Tarrant and her. After his accusation last night, she'd just die!
"You see, the lion in my dreams represents Leo, or actually the months of July and August, and the sailor most certainly symbolizes the ocean or water, which I've deduced represents rain. And the song, 'Dilly, dilly adieu,' tells me in no uncertain terms that the summer will be so rainy that cucumbers will not do well and the dill-pickle industry will suffer." She grinned broadly.
Tarrant coughed behind his napkin, and Delila sat back, the rigidity around her mouth softening. Angela remained motionless and worried.
"That is enlightening," Tarrant observed. "Perhaps I'd better sell my dill-pickle stock." He lifted a brow speculatively, adding, "I hope no one accuses me of insider trading."
That did it! Angela had endured enough of Tarrant's gibes and innuendoes, and—though she felt disloyal admitting it even to herself—her mother's antics had stretched her nerves to the breaking point. She simply couldn't take any more of this! Desperate, she abruptly stood, faced Delila and stated with all the sincerity she could muster, "It was wonderful of you to allow Mother to rest here last night. And the jumpsuit looks perfect." While she fabricated an excuse, Angela hurried around the table, urging her mother up from her chair. "And breakfast was delicious. But I simply have to get to the store. Expecting some shipments… you understand."
"I do understand, my dear," Delila returned, too ladylike to become ruffled by Angela's impetuous rush to leave. "Tarrant, love, see our guests to the door."
He was already on his feet. "My pleasure, Mother," he murmured, his eyes narrowed with lazy humor. Folding Minny's arm over his, he escorted her to the mansion's front entrance, forcing Angela to trail behind them.
"I'll check into that pickle problem, Minny," Tarrant promised, no doubt to fuel Angela's anger.
"Do that, son. I'd hate to see your fortune go down the drain due to a bad cucumber harvest." At the door, she scurried outside toward their car.
When Tarrant stepped aside to allow Angela to follow her mother, his gaze caught hers. "Adieu, Angela," he taunted, his lips twisting in a flawless, tormenting grin.
His physical perfection forced Angela to take a self-protective step backward. He was so bold, so magnetic and so infuriating! "You think you're cute, I suppose?" she hissed.
He laughed; the rich sound of it was as intense and warm as the prairie sun. "Since you ask, Angela, I've been told I'm damned cute."
At the end of her emotional tether and too miserable to guard her words, she retorted, "Oh? Well, I've been told that some women will say anything to get a man's money!"
Like a lantern dashed to earth in the wind, the teasing fire in his eyes exploded and died.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Delila looked up as Tarrant reentered the sun room. She seemed somewhat bemused. "That was certainly a hasty exit. Did they get off safely?"
Taking his place at the table, Tarrant nodded, frowning. "Yes, but if you ask me, they've been 'off for quite some time."
Delila laughed at his joke. "I know, I really enjoy Minny. She's so completely devoid of guile. It's refreshing."
Tarrant eyed his mother skeptically. "So are you, darling."
With a surprised lift of her brows she asked, "So am I what? Devoid of guile or refreshing?"
His lips twitched, but without humor. "Both perhaps, because in my opinion, Minny and Angela are crafty females."
Delila's face clouded with distress as he went on, "That young one is so underhanded she appears completely honest." The irony of his own remark drew a reluctant grunt of amusement from him.
"You're wrong, Tarrant. She's sweet. Truly sweet. I don't think she's a thing like those other women who've tried to catch you with trickery."
Tarrant took a bite of his melon, then shifted his dark gaze back to meet his mother's. "Oh? And from what crystal ball did you come by that conclusion?"
Delila's expression grew contemplative. "No crystal ball, my love. Just the wisdom of many years." Laying aside her fork, she sat back and sighed. "Tarrant, you are my son and I love you above all else. And I can see that it has been your unfortunate fate to have a, well, rather masterful physical presence—"
"Mother, I doubt—"
With a wave of her hand she halted his attempted denial. "Hush, Tarrant, and let me speak. You can't think me so naive that I haven't noticed the effect you have on women." She paused. "I haven't always been an old woman, dear. I, too, have been affected by the magnetism of the opposite sex. I know very well that the drive to mate is strong."
"Mother, if you're about to tell me the facts of life—" Tarrant started to protest.
"I dare say you already know," she interjected with a raised eyebrow. "Don't distract me. As I was trying to explain, there are men that some women will do anything to obtain." She stopped, looked away and then met his eyes again. "I sincerely doubt Angela is one of those women. But whatever the case, I hope you can develop comp
assion for people—men or women—who possess less strength of character than you. You might be surprised…" She allowed the sentence to drift away before clearing her throat.
He watched her for a long, silent moment before he asked, "I might be surprised about what, Mother?"
Appearing uncharacteristically restless, she stood and brushed at an imaginary wrinkle in her satin robe. "Nothing. Never mind, dear. Just think about what I've said." With that, she hurried out and left Tarrant sitting alone in the sun room.
He scowled at the gardens extending beyond the window. After a protracted silence, he shoved his plate away, muttering to no one in particular, "What the hell did she say?"
Angela pulled to a grinding halt in the Delila's Delights employee parking lot. The Seatonville Herald's morning headline forced its way into her brain for the hundredth time: "Prince of Delights to Marry."
She saw again the two large photos—one, a familiar publicity shot of Tarrant, smiling that devilish grin, the second, of sweet pale Eden Leslie. At last the announcement of their engagement was public knowledge.
Feeling a strange twinge not unlike regret, she reminded herself this was for the best. But she wondered if her mother would ever let it go. Minny had ranted all through breakfast as though Tarrant had left Angela standing at the church!
With a hearty shove, she opened her car door and stepped out onto the blacktop. Minny's dream about their marriage had been crazy. Another good example of the idiocy of Minny's predictions had been that screwy tale about the sailor riding a lion into the ocean. The truth was that both she and Minny had made fools of themselves— more than once—in front of Tarrant Seaton. She blushed as all the painful memories flooded back.
"Well, well, if it isn't Mrs. Tarrant Seaton!" a voice scoffed behind Angela. She'd expected some ribbing at the factory today, but she'd assumed she'd at least get inside the building before it started.
As she turned she accidentally bumped into Marty, knocking her notebook and lunch to the ground, along with Marty's smock and several things she'd been carrying.
"Look what you've done, Miss Clumsy," Marty rebuked. "Doesn't seem like you can do anything right, does it?"
Not wanting a confrontation, Angela bent to retrieve the fallen belongings as the redhead prompted with a sneer, "So, how does it feel to get dumped?"
Fumbling to balance two lunch sacks, a smock, a notebook, two purses and Marty's half-eaten Danish, Angela stood and whispered, "Please, let's not do this. Leave it be."
Marty laughed. "You thought you were so high and mighty. Thought you were going to catch the really big fish."
Angela didn't want to get involved in a shouting match. Glancing around, she could see that Marty's shrill accusations were attracting a crowd.
"Give me my things," the redhead spat, grabbing at Angela's jumbled collection. With a defiant jerk of her head, she declared, "You know, Tarrant's been engaged before."
Marty's suddenly strained tone stopped Angela from what she'd been about to say. It was clear that Marty had fixated on the idea that the Prince of Delights would someday, somehow, notice her and sweep her away on his white charger. Angela was stunned to realize that Marty had actually deluded herself into believing that romantic notion. Feeling helpless, she tried, "I know the tabloids make a point of reporting his wild flings, Marty, but this time, with Eden—"
"Oh, shut up! Just because he dumped you, you don't have to rain on my parade!" Snatching the sack lunch Angela was holding, Marty dropped it to the pavement and stomped gleefully on it, crowing, "There! What superior, brilliant remark do you have to make now, Miss Smarty-Pants?"
Angela stared openmouthed at the mushy mess before she met Marty's smug expression. Clearing her throat, she said, "I don't know what to say, Marty, except, maybe… bon appétit?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" Marty snapped.
Halfheartedly, Angela held up a bag that had been hidden behind her notebook, murmuring, "Unfortunately, it means… that was your lunch."
The redhead's face hardened with fury, but the titter of laughter around her seemed to prevent her from pursuing her argument. With a low growl, she slunk away.
Angela clutched her notebook and lunch to her chest and headed into the building. Glimpsing herself in the chrome of the elevator door, she noticed that her cheeks had gone name red with indignation and she felt a surge of irritation. Because of Tarrant Seaton, she'd been caused more than her share of grief for one day.
Angela had been at work for more than eight hours without a break. She'd struggled through dank unused storage areas, measuring, moving crates full of outdated files, digging into stale recesses, sketching, sneezing and becoming coated with dust.
At long last, unable to straighten up without groaning, she decided it was time to finish for the day. She stepped out of the last of the seven storage areas that were to be remodeled and took the elevator to the main level, surprised to notice it was dark outside.
With a tired sigh, she looked down at herself. She'd started out that morning looking neat in a pair of navy slacks and a matching cotton shirt. Now, however, the slacks were streaked with dust, cobwebs dangled from her shirt, and she felt grimy.
Her car was at the other side of the factory. She began the trek down the long hall trying not to think about how much her feet hurt. Her shoes echoed hollowly, giving her an eerie feeling. It was odd to be so utterly alone in such a vast building.
As she trudged along, Angela became aware that other footsteps were approaching. She looked behind her. The hall wasn't brightly lit, and she saw nothing.
Nor was there anyone ahead. She stopped, listening. The other footfalls continued—clipped, heavier than hers, and growing louder.
It was no more than a few seconds before a shadowy figure turned a corner, almost colliding with her. The apparition came to an abrupt halt, and she bit down hard on her Up when she realized who it was.
The Prince of Delights towered there, dressed with understated elegance in a charcoal-gray suit, the trim pleated trousers accentuating his considerable height. His matching suede shoes were lush and classic. His shirt was white washed silk, his patterned tie silk crepe. From his shoulders billowed a long black raincoat, and tucked under one arm, he carried a black umbrella. All in all, the ensemble shouted tasteful extravagance.
When he recognized her, his expression suddenly darkened, then just as suddenly, his lips lifted in a wry grin. "Angela, I don't believe I've ever seen you look more… charming."
His sarcasm stung. And she was too tired to put up with anymore. "You're a very clever man, Tarrant. You should teach a class—sarcasm 101. His laughter rankled. "There must be something to reverse psychology. I could swear from the look on your face that you despise me, and blast it, that's intriguing."
Before she could fathom his intentions, he had taken her briefcase and set it on the floor beside his umbrella. Then, with determined authority, he gathered her into his arms and brought his mouth down on hers.
Bewildered, she blinked in shock as his lips slid seductively across hers. He was kissing her—actually kissing her. An engaged man! His kiss was demanding, reproachful, taunting, and she pressed against his chest, moaning out her distress. How could he treat her so shabbily?
"Please, no…" she choked out a broken whisper, but he was having none of it. His arms held her securely to him, and he seemed not to hear her tormented cry. Though caught in the grip of guilt and remorse, Angela noticed a subtle change in his manner, as if something in their shared kiss had taken him by surprise.
Lifting his lips for the briefest second, he chided, "You play the game very well, Angela." His tone, husky and edged with passion, sent a frightened shiver along her spine. He was so attractive, so eloquent in his lovemaking, that resisting him was a feat of monumental difficulty. She doubted that many women had succeeded in denying him anything he wanted.
When his mouth took possession of hers again, her lashes fluttered
closed. Tears of regret trailed down her face, and she damned herself inwardly for her weakness. Still trying to resist, she found herself unable to struggle any longer. He nipped gently at her lower lip, and she groaned with unwanted pleasure. Without permission, her hands slid beneath his jacket, her fingers skimmed along the sleekness of his shirt, making her acutely aware of a virile body beneath the rich fabric.
She had never expected to know Tarrant's kiss, and she had never imagined that the experience would affect her in such a crazy way. She felt dizzy, and her body tingled with strange sensations that were foreign yet exciting.
Instinctively, she moved her mouth lower to kiss his jaw. A thrill of delight ran through her as he explored the tender skin along the edge of her ear.
Their impetuous kiss suddenly seemed so natural, so glorious, so wildly right! Unthinking, uncaring, Angela smiled inwardly as her lips moved again to meet Tarrant's, which were now softly caressing, showing a tenderness she'd never suspected.
Then, abruptly, he let her go, growling a curse. All she could do was stagger backward, wide-eyed and feeling bereft, disoriented.
In a harsh voice he demanded, "Everyone knew I'd be working late, Miss Meadows. By showing up here and melting into my arms with just the right amount of ladylike unwillingness, am I to understand that there can be side benefits for me when you're working for my mother?"
Still muddled and breathless, Angela was confused by his biting remark. "What do you…" Before she could get the question out, she realized he was suggesting that she wanted a sleazy affair with him! Thunderstruck that he would make such a cruel remark at her expense, she said tightly, "The next time you want to be humorous, Mr. Seaton, put on a red nose and big floppy shoes. You might get more laughs!"
