Sandra Hill (23 page)

“Naomi, why don’t you go to bed?” he suggested with the subtlety of a weedwhacker in a hair salon.

The two of them gaped at him as if he’d lost a few more screws, then turned their backs on him, resuming their tour.

“Paul Segal, an architect who lived in the Dakota, came up with the idea of dividing some of the rooms horizontally. If a room had fifteen-foot ceilings, why not build a loft with stairs leading up at one end, thus creating another room? The historical preservation purists went nuts, but it didn’t stop Segal. Some people use them for sleeping lofts. Mine is a home office.”

“Do you have any Scotch?” he asked, ambling over to what appeared to be a fully stocked bar in an ornate niche near the fireplace.
I could use a belt or two, or five
.

“Yes. I think there’s some Dewars and Cutty,” Cynthia answered.

“I only drink Laphroaig. Straight up. Do you have that?” It had been a long time since he’d remembered to employ his prissy prince personality. He was in a surly enough mood to engage it now.

Cynthia stopped midway up the short flight of stairs leading to her study, where she was continuing her tour with Naomi. The blush that bloomed on her cheeks was a clear indication that he’d rattled her old insecurities. “No, I don’t have Laphroaig.”

“Why don’t you have a beer, P.T.?” Naomi interjected. “Better yet, why don’t
you
go to bed and sleep off this mean mood you’re in.”

He thought about telling Naomi what she should do, explicitly, but instead stomped off to the kitchen, where he leaned against the open refrigerator door. There wasn’t much there that wasn’t moldy or dried out. He took out the milk and sniffed to see if it was okay. Then, checking furtively to see if anyone was looking, he chugged down half a quart straight from the carton. Definitely un-princely. And supremely satisfying.

He tried to belch as an added touch but couldn’t. Too many years of savoir faire, he supposed with a rueful grin. Maybe later he’d scratch his armpits. Or watch professional wrestling, even though he hated it. Did this show-place even have a TV?

How had he made such a mess of his life? He felt his dreams crumbling around him, like that stupid castle in the Catskills, and he didn’t know what to do about rebuilding. It seemed a monumental, almost hopeless task.

A voice with an Irish lilt commented dryly in his head, “Handfuls make a load, boy.”

“Huh?”

“The only cure for spilled milk is to lick the pitcher.”

Suddenly inspired, he gave Grandma a mental high five, then set out a carton of eggs, a stick of butter, some cheddar, a half-used onion and the remaining milk. Next he checked the cabinets, where he found a small can of jalapeño peppers and a jar of salsa. When Cynthia and Naomi returned to the kitchen from their world tour, he had a bodacious Spanish omelet sizzling on the gas range, buttered toast in the warming oven and a pot of coffee brewing in a yuppie gourmet contraption. He was swigging down his second can of Bud Light, feeling mighty pleased with himself.

“You did this? By yourself?” Cynthia asked, slack-jawed with surprise.

“No, the maid bopped in.”

“You’re drinking beer? But I thought—”

“Well, sometimes when there’s no Laphroaig available, I don’t mind slumming with a beer. It makes me feel like one of the common folks.”

Naomi guffawed.

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Your eyebrow is twitching.”

With a laugh, he tweaked Cynthia’s chin, then took her by the shoulders, steering her to the table, where he proceeded to serve her a much-needed midnight meal.

Naomi just surveyed him with her usual all-knowing smirk. He ignored her. If she wasn’t go
ing to bed, as he’d suggested, then he would pretend she wasn’t there. Undaunted, Naomi helped herself to a heaping plate of
his
omelet and plopped her butt down between him and Cynthia, who was savoring his offering as if it was a royal feast. The little sounds of appreciation she made were warming the cockles of his heart. And some other cockles, too.

Maybe things would turn out okay, after all.

Finally, finally, finally, Naomi went off for a bath and then beddie-bye.

He propped his chin on his cupped hands, his elbows braced on the table. He inhaled deeply, taking in the still lingering scent of strong coffee and the more seductive scent of his wife. “Can I tuck you in, Mrs. Ferrama?” he asked with a cute little bobble of his eyebrows. At least,
he
thought the affectation cute. It was one of his lesser looks, one he was still perfecting.

Her head jerked up from where she’d been studying her empty coffee mug. He wasn’t sure if her alarm was due to the reference to tucking or to her being Mrs. Ferrama. Whatever. He was in too good a mood to be daunted by trivialities.

Life was good. He had hope. He was about to get laid.

“I really think you should go home,” she said nervously. “It’s not a good idea for you to stay here.”

What? Where did that come from?
He scooted his chair closer and took both her hands in his.
“I’m not leaving you till this danger passes.”

“It’s Naomi who’s in danger, not me,” she argued.

“You
might
be, and I won’t take that risk. Besides, there’s a more important reason. Will you look at me, please?”

Her eyes had shifted, as if she was having difficulty facing his direct gaze. That was a good sign, in his opinion. When she raised her chin, he saw fear and insecurity in her misty blue eyes. Not such a good sign.

“I love you, Cynthia, and you love me. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

“But what if it’s only a spell?”

He squeezed her hand, trying to convey how strongly he felt. “I’m beginning to think there never was a spell…that Elmer just planted the idea in our heads and we ran away with it.”

“Is that possible?” The tinge of hope in her voice was like a blast of adrenaline to his ego. Not to mention his cockles.

“Yes. Yes, I think it is. But even if there were some spell or something, who’s to say it isn’t like a seed? Once it germinates, does it matter how it got planted in the first place?”
Man, am I on a roll. I oughtta start a new company and bottle this stuff
.

A tiny smile tugged at her luscious lips. “You do have a way with words, Ferrama. But I have so many questions. You’re like a puzzle I can’t quite figure out. Some of the pieces are missing.”

“We both have questions and lots of unresol
ved issues, I agree, but I just don’t think now is the time to hash them out. There’s less than two weeks till the stock offering, and I was wondering…well, I have an idea for you and me. A sort of deal.”

“Uh-oh,” she said warily. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not that kind of deal. This is what I’m thinking. Since you can’t go back to work yet, and the feds want you to stay put with Naomi, why don’t you help me in the interim? Be my personal stock consultant.”

“Absolutely not. Legally, I’m not permitted to get involved in your stock operation. Besides, your underwriters would have a fit. And my boss would fire me on the spot…for good, this time. Not to mention losing my SEC license.”

“No, no, no. I meant advise me as a friend and wife and lover.” When she didn’t go all purple and ballistic over the lover bit, he went on. “After the stock goes public, I swear to you on my mother’s soul, we will make a financial settlement regarding your injury and the kidnapping that will be more than acceptable to you. I’ll work with you privately or through your lawyer, whatever you want. And as to the missing pieces of my puzzle, I’ll give all of those to you then, I promise. Just bear with me a little while longer, babe. Trust me.”

“Boy, that’s a lot of promises, Ferrama. And you’re asking for a tremendous leap of faith…to trust a rogue like you.”

“Well?” His heart was lodged in his throat as he waited for an answer.

“It’s a deal. Two weeks. Then all bets are off.”

He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss of thanks for her vote of confidence. “You won’t be sorry,
querida
.”

“Just don’t let me down, Ferrama. Trust doesn’t come easy for me, and I’m giving up my pride to cut you this slack.”

He tilted his head to the side, as if listening to a distant voice.

“What?”

“Your grandma just said to tell you that pride is a hook well lost to catch a salmon.”

“You lying fish you, that motto is on one of the Irish coffee mugs on that shelf above the sink,” she accused with a laugh.

“Well, I knew I heard it somewhere.” He grinned unabashedly.

“There’s just one condition to the deal. You get a two-week reprieve from full-puzzle disclosure, as long as you consent to…” She paused deliberately.

His body stiffened, and the fine hairs stood out on the back of his neck. “Conditions?”

She nodded, then smiled enigmatically. “No sex.”

“No sex?” He let out a hoot of laughter, figuring she must be kidding.

She didn’t return his laughter. In fact, she folded her arms across her chest and waited out
his laughter with a solemn, stubborn expression on her face.

He frowned with puzzlement, trying to figure out her game.

This woman who made love with me all night long with uninhibited enthusiasm is saying “No sex?” This woman who echoed my refrain, “You are mine,” and meant it, is now saying “No sex?” This woman who is caught in the same love web as me is saying “No sex?”

“This is our honeymoon, in case you’ve forgotten, wife,” he pointed out with amusement and tried to pull her close for another kiss.

She resisted. “No sex or no deal.”

He tilted his head in question. “Why?”

“Sex muddies the waters. When we get involved again…if we do…I want to have no doubts at all.”

“I love you. Don’t think I take those words lightly when I say them, Cynthia. I thought you loved me, too.”

“I do. And believe me, I take the words a lot more seriously than you do. I’ve never said them to another man. Tell me truthfully, Ferrama, can you say the same?”

He felt his face heat and considered lying, but only briefly. His eyebrow would probably give him away anyhow. “No, but I never meant those words before.”

She threw her hands up in a “See!” attitude.

He thought for a moment. No way was he going to accept her terms, but he understood her
caution. “How about a counteroffer? This is a bargaining table, right?” He pounded a fist on the kitchen table for emphasis.

“Sure. Why not?” She smiled smeetly.

Well, you overconfident shark, you! You still think you can beat me in a business deal
. “I get a two-week reprieve. You get two weeks of no sex
…unless
you beg for it.”

She burst out laughing. “I’ll never do that.”

“Never say never, sweetheart.” He matched her sweet smile, and raised her with a wink.

“Never.” She stretched her sweet smile, winked back and added a haughty toss of her magnificent hair.

God, I love her
. “Never challenge a Spanish prince, especially when he’s pulling out his armor,” he cautioned, “or you may be hoist on your own petard.”

“You’re the one with a petard, oh knight.”

He grinned. “You noticed.”

“You are outrageous.” As they shook hands to seal the deal, she repeated, “Never, I tell you. Never, never, never.”

Never lasted about thirty-five minutes.

Cynthia had just finished tidying up her kitchen and was standing at the sink, dead on her feet. She was about to go up to the study, where she planned to sack out on the soft upholstered sofa, alone, and sleep for at least ten straight hours.

“Are you ready?” Ferrama asked behind her.

She jumped with surprise at his silent approach. She’d heard the water from the shower stop running fifteen minutes earlier and assumed he was already in her bed for the night.

“Ready for what?” she inquired tentatively as she turned with foreboding. Then she gasped.

Her husband stood before her, looking like a regal Spanish prince. His shimmering black hair was combed wetly off his recently shaved face. Beads of water his towel had missed lay like diamonds on the dark skin of his collarbone, on some chest hairs, on his flat stomach.

The impossible man was totally naked, except for one tiny gold hoop earring in his right ear.

“You promised,” she accused. “No sex, remember. We shook on the deal. Is this how you keep your word?”

“Tsk-tsk, Cynthia. Did I mention sex? I merely asked if you were ready. Which do you prefer, by the way?” She noticed, then, that in one hand he held a bottle of baby oil and in the other a jar of Albolene cream.

Her face blazed with embarrassment at having misunderstood. He must have a skin rash and was seeking her advice. Perhaps from shaving. Or maybe his ankle was chafed from the chain. She refused to look any lower than his waist, though. “I use the baby oil for removing eye makeup, but it’s a good generic lubricant. The cream was Grandma’s old standby cure for dry skin.”

He grinned.

So, the rogue didn’t have a rash. She should have known. “Which part of ‘No sex’ didn’t you understand, Ferrama? Listen, I’m too tired for games tonight. Joke’s over. Ha, ha, ha.”

“That’s precisely the point. You’re tired.”

“Get to the point and cover yourself, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, I forgot I was naked,” he lied. And she didn’t need to see a twitch as proof. “But you shouldn’t mind. We’re married, after all.”

She crossed her eyes with frustration.

“You look kind of cute when you do that.”

“Aaargh! I’m exhausted beyond belief, Ferrama. Can’t you see that?”

“Precisely,” he said, stepping forward. “Actually, I prefer the baby oil.” He set the jar of cream on the counter. “So, come, sweetheart. It’s time to put yourself in expert hands.”

“Keep those expert hands to yourself, you louse.” Her shoulders slumped wearily. “I’m really disappointed in you. You said I could trust you. You said—”

“—no sex,” he agreed.

“Huh?”

He dangled the baby oil bottle by its neck with the fingers of one hand, while the fingers of the other hand laced with hers, coaxing her from the kitchen. “Do you prefer Swedish or sensual?”