Sandra Hill (22 page)

“No, don’t release those mutts on my new—”

Too late. Elmer and Ruth dropped their leashes.

“—white carpet.”

Six yipping dogs went wild.

“Meet Aron and Priscilla and Lisa Marie, The Colonel, Gladys and Grace,” Elmer said proudly.

One made a flying leap…or as much of a flying leap as such a decrepit creature could make…for Enrique’s black leather Heidellsen sofa, fur and fleas flying in its wake. Another dog was taking a leak in the middle of the aforementioned white long-haired Turkish carpet. A third dog, obviously thirsty, headed down the hallway toward the bathroom, where a loud slurping noise ensued. The fourth was chewing on the leg of his baby grand piano, which had come with the apartment. A fifth lay down on a cushioned window seat and fell asleep…or died. A sixth had developed an intimate affection for his leg.

He was too stunned to be outraged. That would come later. Or sooner. Just not yet.

The only one left was Naomi, who stood out in the corridor, reluctant to enter. She was probably afraid that he would tease her, which he always did. It was one of the greatest joys of his pathetic life. Hell, he’d been doing it for a dozen years, ever since her father had practically offered her to him on a silver matrimonial platter.
Dumb shit that he’d been (and still was, of course), he’d declined.

And Naomi had been in a wrath ever since. She never had recognized that his teasing was his dumb-man way of trying to make peace. He absolutely refused to consider the possibility that it might mean he wanted a piece of her. Not Naomi. Never.

She looked ridiculous, as usual…and adorable, as usual. Today she wore paint-spattered white workman’s coveralls over a short-sleeved white T-shirt. On her feet were heavy leather boots that could probably crush concrete.

“Hi-i-i-i, Na-o-mi,” he drawled, crooking his finger for her to come in.

She gave him the finger.

He grinned.

She glared.

It was a game they’d been playing for a dozen years or more.

He continued to grin and added a look.

Her face went from pink to red as she stomped through the doorway, stopping directly in front of him. Then she pulled out a pistol, causing his heart to drop about three feet. That was just before she stomped on his bare foot, hard…really hard.

“Owwwww!” Through the haze of pain, he realized that she wasn’t waltzing victoriously into the living room. He hoped she wasn’t planning on using that gun, especially since it was aimed at a really special place on his body, one he
hoped to keep for a while longer. She waited till his vision cleared.
Uh-oh!

As in one of those slow-motion film clips, he noticed that everyone in the room had turned to them. Only then did Naomi let loose with a through-the-teeth whistle that would pierce the eardrum, causing all the hounds to rush to her.

Holding his gaze, she put her weapon aside and reached into a large carryall looped over her shoulder. “I figured I’d give the sweet things their doggie treats,” she explained with some hidden meaning. Then she tossed out a dozen dog-eared Bolgheri ties for their chewing pleasure.

“Don’t push me, Enrique,” she warned, sashaying past him with all the aplomb of a Mack truck. “I’ve been taking shark lessons.”

“I love the Dakota,” Cynthia said with a weary sigh. “It feels almost human to me—a living entity with arms wide, welcoming me home.”

“Hmpfh! It looks like a dreary fortress,” Ferrama grumbled as their cab pulled up in front of the imposing building near midnight. The taxi driver parked, waiting for the other cab with Naomi and two FBI agents to arrive.

Startled, Cynthia spun away from him on the seat and tried to hide her hurt by examining the famous landmark. The original jonquil yellow brick and reddish brown cornerstones of the huge eight-story cube had long since darkened with years of New York grime. But its eclectic architecture—heavy on ledges, balconies, decorative iron railings, bay windows and ornate
gables—gave it a fanciful character, like a castle. “It does resemble a fortress…a
majestic
fortress,” she conceded.

“It’s a castle, dammit. You’re living in a castle and loving it.”

His vehemence shocked her.

“My dream is to escape the whole prince/palace/royals carnival.” he tried to explain, “and you’re aching to jump on the calliope. What you don’t understand is that, despite the gilt and pretty music, a wooden horse is just a wooden horse.”

“Huh? Are we talking about the Dakota or something else? It’s only an apartment building, for heaven’s sake.”

“No, Cynthia, it’s much more than that. It’s a dream…the difference between your dreams and mine. It’s about souls connecting and drifting apart and…” He raked his fingers through his hair, as if amazed at his own words. “Go ahead and laugh. I have no idea where the hell that poetical ‘souls drifting’ crap came from. Probably Elmer.
Mierda!
I can’t believe I’m spouting this stuff now, when I should be concentrating on the stock offering and Naomi’s Mafia shenanigans.”

Puzzled, she put the fingertips of one hand to her furrowed brow. “My soul isn’t drifting, it’s just tired. And this tired soul considers the Dakota a haven tonight, whether a stronghold or a palace. Be honest; can’t you see its ageless sense of security…its unspoken assurance that if it
could withstand the barrage of time, we humans can survive our crises, too?”

His face, which had been in a perpetual frown the past hour, softened. “Are you in crisis,
cara?
” With one arm draped over her shoulder, he cupped her face, turning her to him.

“I’m in crisis, all right. No doubt about that.”

“Ah, let me take care of all your problems, sweetheart.”

“Are you demented?” she sputtered. “You
are
the problem.”

“Me?”

“After the past five hours of meetings in Alvarez’s apartment with police, FBI agents, underwriters and your company officials, as well as phone calls to my own distraught boss and clients, not to mention the past week of emotional battering since I first met you…well, call me a whiner, but personally I think it’s no wonder my nerves are strained to the limit. The only thing not hurting on me are my broken toes which, amazingly, seemed to have healed.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “And don’t look so jubilant; it doesn’t mean I’m not going to sue your gorgeous butt.”

He grinned, whether at her long-winded reply or the “gorgeous butt” reference, she wasn’t sure. Either way, the grin was a further prod to her anger.

“And while I’m thinking about it, I don’t appreciate at all your allowing those agents to assume I’m your babe du jour.”

“Not a wild assumption when you consider that babe outfit,” he remarked, giving the edge of her cleavage a little snap.

She slapped his hand away.

He laughed and told her to sit tight while he stepped outside the taxi to see if he could see the other cab coming.

Left alone for the moment, Cynthia had to admit that she was as upset with herself as she was with Ferrama. Never once that day, even when surrounded by law enforcement officials, had she brought up her kidnapping. Or contacted her lawyer, Marcia Connor. Not because anyone had demanded or even asked it of her. The time hadn’t seemed right. Yet.

Also surprising, and dismaying, was the fact that neither she nor Ferrama, or the dingbat gang, had mentioned the marriage ceremony. Even if it had been fake, you’d think someone would have considered it of importance.

She was still suspicious of Ferrama. They hadn’t had a chance to talk in private since she’d gotten the alarming news this morning that the marriage had been plotted by him and Naomi long before she’d consented.

Was Ferrama equally confused? Was that the reason for his ornery mood? Was that why, throughout the day and evening, no matter what he’d been doing, or whom he’d been speaking with, his gaze kept coming back to her? When he’d passed by, on his way to pick up the phone or find a document, he’d invariably touched her
shoulder or trailed a finger longingly over her bare arm.

The questions, and promises, and so much more in his midnight eyes gave her hope. A dangerous, dangerous thing hope was, in Cynthia’s opinion. Did she dare surrender to its seductive lure?

At the same time she wanted this whole nightmare over, she wished with all her heart that she could go back to last night…her wonderful wedding night…and freeze time, barring the intrusion of reality. What a ridiculous notion! Comparable to living in a dream world.

“One swallow never made a summer,” her grandma had taught her.
And one night of lovemaking does not a marriage make
, she added now.

“Ah, lassie, do not be breaking your shin over a stool that’s not in the way,” she heard Grandma counter in her head.

“Deception is a
big
stool, Grandma.”

“There’re two tellings to every story, Cindy girl.”

Since when did Grandma refer to me as Cindy? That’s Elmer’s misplaced nickname for me. I must be going over the edge if I’m having mental conversations with my long-dead grandmother. I know what it is. I’m afraid. For the first time in ages, I’m afraid
.

“Desire conquers fear, sweet one,” Grandma advised softly.

How can an imaginary voice be soft?

“What do you really want? What is your heart’s desire?”

Prince Ferrama
, she replied without hesitation.

Then immediately changed her mind.
No, no, no, no!

She was just so confused.

How could she be in love with a man she’d met only a week before?

Had Elmer really zapped them with a spell, and would the love they now shared fade with the waning of the mystical ties?

Did she want to lose this marvelous love?

Was she truly married? To a prince?

How did her “husband” feel about all this? Was it an amusing lark to him? Or a deliberately planned scam, as she suspected?

Regardless, would her life ever be the same?

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Ferrama abruptly opened the cab door for her, pulled her out and tucked her close to his side, kissing the top of her head with unsettling gentleness. “Everything will work out,
querida
,” he assured her. “Trust me.”

As much as she yearned to lean on him, she pushed him away. She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes, but she couldn’t stop herself. Self-reliance was the safer route.

Where does he see our relationship going from here?
Cynthia wondered. She was afraid to ask.

More important, if I were to offer to drop my
lawsuit, would he drop me like the Prince-ess of Fools’?

Too many questions. Too few answers.

She craved time alone…to sleep and think and regain her old objectivity, if that was possible. “Go back to your own apartment, Ferrama,” she said tiredly. “I’m okay now.”

He slanted her a disbelieving look as he finished paying the taxi driver. “No, you’re not okay. And neither am I.”

She tilted her head to get a better view of him. The man had to be as bone weary as she was, and still he looked gorgeous. Darn it!

“Your grandma’s been talking to me in my head,” he admitted with a wry grimace.

“You’re kidding!”

He shrugged. “It’s either that or my conscience has an Irish accent.” A little half-smile tugged at his lips. “She likes me, by the way.”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, my God!” a female voice echoed behind her.

Cynthia jumped with surprise and turned to see Naomi gaping at the Dakota as if she’d fallen down Alice in Wonderland’s garden hole and landed in a magic kingdom. “It’s…spectacular.”

Cynthia hadn’t noticed Naomi’s arrival, so fuzzy was her brain with exhaustion and the chaos of her bewildered thoughts. The two agents accompanying her walked off and took
up almost invisible posts in the building’s shadowy alcoves.

That was another thing bothering Cynthia. The FBI had recommended that Naomi lay low and find a good hiding place till they’d apprehended Sammy Caputo and his Mafia cohorts. Naomi had declined the federal agents’ offer of a safe house, pleading instead for Cynthia, presumably an unknown to the bad guys, to shelter her temporarily.

Decline
would be too soft a word to describe how Naomi had reacted to Alvarez’s offer that she stay with him. It could be because the slick lawyer’s offer had been accompanied by a wink and what had to be the wickedest grin on the face of the earth. Oddly, Alvarez did a lot of that wicked grinning around Naomi.

To her astonishment, Cynthia had found herself consenting to harbor her own kidnapper. The FBI guaranteed that agents would be guarding her apartment ’round the clock.

Alvarez had been given the honor of playing host to Elmer and Ruth, though he’d advised them that the hounds would be in a kennel come morning. “And no Elvis music!” Alvarez had ordered. He preferred highbrow classical jazz. Luckily, Jake had shown up and agreed to take the animals to his mother’s house in Long Island. “Don’t Be Cruel” had been blaring from Alvarez’s state-of-the-art stereo system by that time. So much for the lawyer’s admonitions!

Cynthia couldn’t wait to see if Ruth would give
the shifty rogue a makeover…not that he needed one, physically anyhow.

“Let’s go inside,” Ferrama suggested, now that Naomi had arrived.

“Miss Sullivan, it’s good to have you back with us again.” The words came from the stone-faced doorman standing before the Dakota’s arched gateway entrance, once used by carriages depositing their passengers in the inner courtyard. The doorman waved her and her companions through. A single blink of his widened eyes was the only sign that he’d noticed their bizarre appearance, even after a darting perusal of their bare feet.

Heck, he must have seen lots worse over the years, considering the eccentric inhabitants of this landmark dwelling. In fact, Aretha Franklin and an entourage of loudly chattering musicians, carrying instrument cases, were exiting now…all dressed in garish theatrical attire.

“Cynthia, you missed my party,” Aretha reprimanded with a wagging forefinger as she was about to pass by in a cloud of expensive perfume. Pausing only for a second, her quick glance also took in Ferrama and Naomi, then went back to Ferrama. She winked at Cynthia then. “You go, girl!”

They were already into the building’s corridor when Aretha called after them in a laughing voice, “Yo, Elvis! You ever need a job, just call me.”

Ferrama said a foul word and punched the elevator button for the eighth floor.

The usually tight-lipped Naomi was babbling on incessantly about each aspect of their surroundings. “Don’t you just love the mahogany woodwork and doors? P.T., look at those antique elevators. They’re just like our castle…. I swear I’ve seen side tables and gilt mirrors like these at Wintherthur…. Do you think there are craftsmen who could duplicate those carved plaster ceiling medallions? Oooh, oooh, oooh, I want some etched glass light fixtures like those.”

Cynthia was pleased at Naomi’s admiring comments, but it was Ferrama at whom she kept gazing. For some reason, she yearned for his approval of her good taste in picking the Dakota for her home.

He said nothing, just stared at her with a fierce, unreadable intensity.

Her heart sank with an ominous foreboding. She’d been right to be fearful, after all.

When they finally entered her apartment and Cynthia snapped on the soft lighting, she tried to see her home through his eyes. It was not a large apartment, nor was it luxurious by Dakota standards. Some units had up to eighteen rooms, an equal number of fireplaces and massive drawing rooms accented with Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Hers was only two bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a loft study, a kitchen and a pantry. But they were spectacular, in her opinion, especially with their floor-to-
ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. She wanted Ferrama to share her enthusiasm.

P.T. hated Cynthia’s apartment.

Oh, it was just as magnificent as Cynthia had declared it to be. And that view of Central Park had to be worth a million bucks in itself. But the living room—or drawing room, as it must once have been classified before being divided in half—had lofty, fifteen-foot ceilings decorated with fancy pastel-tinted medallions and cornices, like a birthday cake.

Why couldn’t there be cozy rafters and warm paneled walls?

The windows were framed with what appeared to be festoons of flowing silk in a trompe 1’oeil effect, Cynthia was explaining to Naomi. Actually they weren’t drapes at all, but hand-carved and painted wood.

Why can’t she have real curtains like ordinary people?

He berated himself for his irrational attitude, but her apartment was elegant, dammit.
Elegant!
The kind of place a prince and princess might buy for a little New York getaway flat, not too large that a permanent staff would be required, but not too small for sophisticated parties.

All day P.T. had sensed a distance growing between himself and Cynthia. He felt a desperate need to get her alone and do something to close the gap before it became a chasm.

This apartment just accentuated their prob
lem. It represented everything he was trying to escape. If this apartment and Cynthia’s dreams were synonymous, then what chance did they have for a future together? Especially when Cynthia found out he wasn’t really a prince…a little tidbit of information he’d neglected to disclose to her yet.