Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  Soft strains of music drifted around her. The orchestra was playing something she recognized from her mother's collection of Perry Como albums, a seductive old ballad called "I've Got You Under My Skin." Her mutinous brain envisioned Tarrant holding Eden on the dance floor. More than once she'd chanced to snag his glance, and he'd scowled at her, making no effort to hide his annoyance. She shook her head, trying to crush out all thoughts of him.

  The manicured lawn was damp against her bare toes, and it felt good, clean, lifting her spirits. Throwing cau­tion to the wind, she leaned down and slipped off her high-heeled sandals. Enjoying the damp of the lawn, she shuf­fled happily out to the oak. She ran her fingers along the rough bark of a low branch as she ducked under the shel­tering limbs. Reaching the trunk, she hoisted herself into a waist-high fork, allowing her bare feet to swing free in the cool night breeze.

  She smiled, reliving the innocence of childhood. Her silk gown glimmered in the moonlight, and she realized that, though she might feel like a little girl, she was dressed more like a movie star in a glitzy motion picture, maybe an old-fashioned musical. "Now would be the time for the hand­some leading man to take me in his arms and tell me how devastatingly beautiful I am," she mused aloud.

  "You're very lovely tonight," came a deep, disem­bodied voice.

  Angela's heart almost leapt from her chest. Before she could gather her wits enough to cut and run, Tarrant Seaton strolled from behind the massive trunk, looking even more imposing than usual. He seemed faintly lumi­nous in his white tux, leaving Angela oddly breathless. "I had no idea anyone was here!" she cried.

  He reached over his head and took hold of a branch with both hands, but his eyes were intent on her. "Are you try­ing to get me to believe you didn't follow me out here?" he asked.

  She jumped the short distance to the ground and glared up at him. "Oh, sure, I followed you! And I made that stupid little speech on purpose, to humiliate myself, be­cause I treasure these moments we share when you ridi­cule me!"

  He was standing indolently, one hip propped against the trunk. Softly he countered, "Do you consider a man say­ing you look lovely to be ridicule?"

  "I, well…" There was a painful shallowness to her breathing, and a tight ache in the pit of her stomach. She could sense tension between them, and was sure Tarrant felt it, too. Of all the places for a person to wander on this vast estate, how in the world had they both ended up here? She had the irrational thought that she'd been led to the tree by some power stronger than her own will. Ridicu­lous! Her mother's craziness must be rubbing off.

  Wishing to avoid his intense scrutiny, she tried to look away. But she couldn't. There was suddenly a hint of tor­ment in his eyes, and it pulled her, held her, touched her heart. She felt herself drawn to him, and stepped quickly back for fear she would do something stupid—like reach out for him. With her retreating step, she found herself caught against the tree trunk, as trapped as a rabbit in a hunter's sights.

  Angela heard a low curse and realized it came from Tarrant. Moving toward her, he took her into his arms and kissed her. As his lips devoured hers, Angela fought her desire for this totally inappropriate man. She refused to allow herself even to wonder how and when she'd fallen in love with him, though the insidious truth hovered in her brain. How could she be such an idiot? He was in love with Eden!

  Why, then, was he kissing her, holding her in his pow­erful embrace? He probably didn't believe her when she'd said she hadn't followed him, and he was humbling her, showing his contempt for her.

  Struggling to regain her sanity and her flagging self-respect, she strained away from him, crying breathlessly, "You love Eden! How dare you kiss me! You're not being fair to either of us!" The last came out on a broken sob, the feel of his lips still lingering cruelly on her mouth.

  His head snapped back as though he'd been slapped, and his eyes flashed with heated emotion. "Fair?" he scoffed. "You're a fine one to use that word. And love?" With a short, contemptuous laugh, he declared, "I don't believe in it. Rationality is the key to a solid relationship. Not some nebulous, fleeting emotion."

  Angela was stunned, unsure she'd heard him right. "Are… are you saying you don't love Eden?"

  "My reasons for marrying any woman are my business, Miss Meadows, not yours," he answered coldly. "If you'll recall, your maneuverings toward matrimony have been far less noble than anything either Eden or I could conceive."

  Angela was shocked that he saw her in such a villainous role. With nerves tattered beyond control, she let her arm fly, slapping him hard across the face. As she stumbled toward the house, dismay overwhelmed her, for her body still tingled from the impact of his careless, taunting kiss.

  Minny stuffed her curlers beneath her hair net and watched as Angela climbed into her twin bed and lay with her back to her mother.

  "Sweetie?" Minny asked. "You haven't said a word since we left the party. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  "You and Tarrant had a lovers' spat," she remarked judiciously.

  Angela turned over to look wearily at her mother. "We couldn't possibly have a lovers' spat. He hates me, and I'm… I don't like him, either."

  Minny sighed. "Did I or did I not see you come in from the garden only moments before Tarrant did? And did both of you not have the same long, stubborn faces?"

  Angela shrugged helplessly. "We had words, yes."

  "There, you see? I knew you two had had a spat," she stated with a confident nod. "Now, tell me what it was all about. I'm sure it's nothing."

  Lowering her eyes, fighting tears, she asked, "Noth­ing? Mother, Tarrant's getting married in a week—to a woman he doesn't even love. He says marriage should be a rational decision, not based on some… some nebulous emotion. Good Lord, he's marrying Eden the way he'd merge with another company."

  "That makes sense."

  Aghast, Angela jerked up on one elbow and stared. "Treating marriage like a merger makes sense?" she asked incredulously. "It's terrible! It's… it's cold-blooded."

  "Sweetie, you misunderstand me," Minny admon­ished. "I mean it makes sense when you consider the dream I had. Remember I told you I dreamed on Noah Seaton's watch?"

  Angela eyed heaven unhappily. "How could I forget that watch?"

  "Well, I wouldn't know that, daughter," her mother remarked with a concerned note in her voice. "Maybe if you squeeze your eyes closed really tight—"

  "Never mind." Harried and dejected, Angela prompted, "So, what did you dream, anyway?"

  "Oh, it was quite amazing, really. My dream revealed that Delila connived to marry Noah because she was preg­nant with another man's child." Minny looked at her daughter expectantly. "Tarrant Seaton isn't really Noah Seaton's son!"

  Angela's mouth fell open. "Mother, you must be wrong!"

  Minny shook her head so vehemently her curlers made a rattling sound. "I'm right. Delila, the dear, confided some of this to me. I can't recall quite what she said and what I dreamed, but that's not important, is it? Now where was I? Oh, yes, my dream told me that Noah knew about the baby, but he never told Delila he knew because he loved her so much it didn't matter. Now, that part about him loving her I deduced from what she told me—about how sweetly he treated her and, er, no, I definitely dreamed it. I think. Anyway, I'm sure Noah loved them both, and he always wished Delila had loved him in return. She really did love him, you know. I can see it in everything she says about him. But I'm not sure she realizes it herself. Poor dear. She's got so much money, yet she's so sad. So full of unnecessary guilt."

  Angela was thunderstruck as she listened to her moth­er's ramblings. Apparently Delila had told Minny things she hadn't told another soul. Why she had chosen her mother to confide in was a mystery, but it was obvious she had. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, it was also ob­vious that Minny was giving her dreams credence they didn't deserve. "Mother?" she asked. "When did Delila talk to you about all this?"

  "Oh, the first time was a week or two after I burned my jumpsuit
. Remember that dream I had about the lion and the dill pickles? Well, it seems I startled her with my pro­phetic abilities." She stopped and smiled smugly. "I did get a few of the facts a bit backward, though," she amended with an impish shrug. "It seems that the sailor riding the lion into the sea was actually a sailor named Jack Lyon, who'd fathered her child and then gone back to sea, leav­ing her pregnant and alone. Horrible man. And the dill pickle thing—" she stopped to chuckle "—well, I do feel a little silly about that mistake. You see, this Lyon person called Delila 'Dilly'—you know, like in dill pickles?" She eyed her daughter with haughty superiority. "Never doubt my powers again, daughter! I have so much power it frightens even me."

  "It's frightened me for years," Angela mumbled wryly.

  "What's that, sweetie?"

  "Nothing." She rubbed the back of her neck, baffled. "Let me see if I have this straight. Do you mean to tell me your dill-pickle dream actually has some basis in real­ity?"

  Minny harrumphed with disgust. "Haven't you been listening? A sailor named Jack Lyon was Tarrant's father. He called Delila Dilly and—"

  "My heavens!" Angela gasped as she realized the dream's implications. "And this Jack Lyon left Delila and went back to sea…." Angela could never forget how crazy her mother's dream had sounded—a sailor riding a lion into the sea, and the ludicrous bit about a poor pickle harvest. But oddly enough, there were some undeniable similarities between Delila's life and that nutty dream.

  Could it be that her mother did have minimal, if some­what twisted, second sight? Angela shook her head in amazement. Apparently Minny's semi-correct dream had opened up long-blocked floodgates for Delila, and once they were opened, she had chosen to confide the rest of the story to Minny. Life could certainly be strange. "My goodness, Mother, I simply can't believe it!" she breathed in awe.

  "At last, sweetie!" Minny exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "I think you've seen the cosmic wonder of it all."

  Angela studied her mother closely, unable to com­pletely relinquish her skepticism. "Tell me exactly, Mother, when did Delila do all this… this talking?"

  "One afternoon when we were sitting in the sun by the pool. A lovely warm afternoon. She reminded me about my dilly dream and told me how marvelous my power was." Minny preened, patting her hair net with a theatri­cal flourish. "Delila said I'd brought a lot of memories back, and they made her want to get some things off her chest—that's how she put it—to someone with a sympa­thetic heart." Minny smiled dreamily. "She thinks I have a sympathetic heart." Sighing contentedly, she went on, "We had a fine chat, until, silly me, I fell asleep. I'm afraid she hasn't had many real friends—you know, people she could talk to. I was happy to listen."

  "You say you fell asleep while she was talking to you?" Minny appeared abashed. "It was so peaceful and warm, and Delila's voice is so soothing."

  "Mother," Angel began as kindly as her fractured mood would allow, "don't you see, you didn't dream anything on Noah's watch—I mean nothing beyond what you'd heard when you were drifting off to sleep that afternoon by the pool. Delila told you everything except that first lion-dill-pickle thing."

  Minny looked at Angela with annoyance. "Don't be such a sour grape, daughter. I know what I dream and what I don't. Anyway, back to your lovers' spat, don't you see why Tarrant is going to marry Eden even though he doesn't love her? Delila felt guilty about fooling Noah, so she taught her son that marriage should be a partnership, or some such drivel. I'm all muddled about that." She screwed up her face in thought. "I'll try to dream about that problem tonight. That'll clear things right up."

  "But mother, don't you understand…" Angela trailed off. What good would it do to argue? Minny would never acknowledge that she didn't dream any of the things that actually made any sense about Delila and Jack Lyon or her marrying Noah to give Tarrant a name. It was curious that Minny had somehow been sensitive enough to get the lion and the dill parts at all—however mixed-up. Still, Minny was far from being clairvoyant! Too bad she would never admit it, even to herself.

  Exhaling heavily, Angela said, "Switch off the light, will you, Mother?" Hipping over in her bed, she thought about everything Minny had divulged. Could it really be that Delila's ongoing guilt about deceiving Noah had caused her to pass on this "partnership marriage" philosophy to Tarrant? It was impossible, wasn't it? On a sud­den thought, she turned back, cautioning, "Mother, you mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone. Prophetic or not, it would be devastating for both Delila and Tarrant if the story got out."

  "Well!" Minny groused as she turned off the lamp. "First, it certainly is prophetic. Remember, I have the power! And second, do you think I'd do anything to up­set my best friend and your future husband?"

  Angela grimaced and closed her eyes, not knowing quite how to answer that.

  The night before the wedding, Angela realized she'd left her new calculator at the Seaton mansion. Knowing it was the evening of the wedding-rehearsal dinner, she thought she could safely return there without running into the Prince of Delights. The paper had announced that the dinner would be miles away at a Wichita country club.

  She'd heard from gossip circulating at the Delila's De­lights factory that Tarrant had been in a foul mood all week, and employees had taken to hiding when he thun­dered onto the premises. They couldn't understand why their great leader was so angry about everything lately— the company stock was continuing to rise on the New York exchange, his newest factory in Munich was doing well, and he was marrying the most beautiful woman in the state. What was his problem? the employees had asked each other as they scurried to stay out of his way. Angela certainly couldn't answer that. Though she didn't gossip, she mused that it was merely his true, tyrannical self fi­nally rearing its ugly head.

  Another bit of news from the company grapevine made her smile in spite of herself. It seemed that Marty had re­cently met a cabdriver named Bud who was an up-and-coming rodeo star. Cracked ribs had put him temporarily out of commission for bronc riding but not for courting. And it appeared that the redhead had fallen totally and completely in love with Bud the cabdriver. Considering the time frame, Angela knew it had to be the very same cab­driver who'd taken Marty home from Tarrant's that aw­ful night not so long ago. Angela shook her head. Fate certainly loved a good twist!

  Alexander opened the door, disrupting Angela's mus­ings, and ushered her into Havenhearth with a reserved, "Nice to see you this evening, Miss Meadows."

  She smiled at him, because she liked the man even though he worked for a nasty-tempered tyrant. "Nice to see you, too. Alexander. I left my calculator in the base­ment, and I'm going to need it in the morn—"

  The soft thud of footsteps on the carpeted staircase halted her words, and she looked up fearfully to see Tar­rant loping toward her, boldly attractive in a black tux­edo. When he saw her, he stopped and eyed her coolly. "Good evening, Miss Meadows." He turned to Alexan­der. "You may go. I'll handle this."

  Alexander seemed to disappear. Angela's attention was so riveted on the aloof elegance of the man on the stairs that she simply didn't notice the butler's exit.

  Tarrant strolled the rest of the way down the stairs to stand before her. "To what do we owe this honor?" he asked sarcastically.

  "I… I left my calculator in the basement."

  He nodded without warmth. "A true emergency."

  She bristled defensively. "It is if it's your only one. Of course, you'd have no idea about such things," she ad­monished. "You've probably never owned just one of anything!"

  His nostrils flared, and Angela realized she'd hit a nerve.

  "Do you mind if I go fetch it?" she asked.

  "Here it is," Alexander interjected, appearing again as if by magic. After handing it to Angela and quietly ac­cepting her thanks, he left as unobtrusively as he'd ar­rived.

  "If that's all," Tarrant said, dismissing her as he turned to head back up the stairs.

  Lifting a haughty chin, she called, "I was hoping, as long as I'm here, to re
measure your closet. Our Kansas City custom module supplier had a computer problem and lost some data…."

  He pivoted around, his expression harried. "Of course, of course! Do whatever you have to do!" he growled. "Hell, Angela, why must you be everywhere I am—my factory, my home, my dreams—?" As though horrified by his own revelation, he cut his words short. His tone sharp, he demanded, "Blast it, why can't you get the hell out of my life?"

  Stunned wordless by his hostility, she spun on her heel and fled outside, leaving the double doors gaping in her wake.

  A crash of thunder made Tarrant aware that a rain­storm was hammering the landscape full force. Frowning, he strode to the door to stare after her as she escaped into the midst of the maelstrom. "Nice work, idiot," he said to himself. Jerking a frustrated hand through his hair, he shouted, "Angela, you can't drive in this! Come back!"

  A flash of lightning illuminated the drive, allowing him to see her struggle with the hood of her car, shoving at it, fighting the rain and wind to get it open. She was having very little luck at anything but getting soaked to the skin.

  "Damn!" he growled. Yanking up his tuxedo collar, he headed out into the storm.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It had taken Angela only a few seconds behind the wheel to determine that something was dreadfully wrong with her car. When she turned the key, nothing happened. "Why now?" she moaned. She would have given any­thing to make a swift getaway.

  She vowed she would absolutely not go back into that mansion and ask for help. She would die of pneumonia first! Tarrant thought she made excuses to come out there and be around him! Of course, many women did—she'd seen the evidence of that. But Angela Meadows was not one of those women!

  Slamming out of her car, she fought the strong, wind­swept rain to get to the front of the car and grapple with the hood. She wasn't sure if she could tell anything by looking at the engine, but action was better than doing nothing, and her only other options were to trudge home in the middle of a rainstorm or go back and admit defeat. Neither choice was very palatable…