Читать книгу Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed - Kathryn Jensen - Страница 8

The situation was far worse than he’d imagined. Antonio Boniface stepped off the elevator at the tenth floor of the Washington, D.C., high-rise and stared at the plaque on the heavy oak door facing him—Klein & Klein Public Relations and Advertising. Quickly, he checked the address on the slip of paper, his eyes narrowing, the muscles across his stomach clenching as if in preparation for an opponent’s punch. Marco had said nothing about the place being a business establishment. He’d assumed he would end up at the woman’s apartment.

Don’t make more of this than necessary, he told himself firmly. A simple explanation to this Maria McPherson, the client Marco had been on his way to see before Antonio and U.S. Immigration had caught up with him. That was all that was required.

“Scusi, signorina—” No! English, he corrected himself, speak in English! “Pardon me, miss. Mr. Serilo is no longer employed by the Royal Escort Service. If you tell me how much you paid for his services, I shall be happy to reimburse you.”

There. What was so difficult about that? For one thing, he hadn’t counted on approaching the woman at her workplace with such delicate news.

But too much was at stake to back down now. He couldn’t let Marco’s use of his family’s illustrious name bring further dishonor. The Bonifaces d’Apulia had once ranked alongside the Medicis in power, had been benefactors to great artists including Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Their aristocratic roots extended back to the twelfth century, included two popes, illustrious statesmen, men and women of vision and pride. No rogue servant would be allowed to tarnish that name while Antonio lived!

Determined, he turned the knob and pushed through the door, into a gray-and-beige reception area furnished in sterile Scandinavian decor. The receptionist’s desk was vacant. No one seemed to be around. What to do now?

Suddenly, he heard shouts burst out from behind a half-closed door to his right. Antonio swung around, strode toward it with purpose, peered through the crack.

The conference room was jammed with men and women in business attire. On a long mahogany table at the room’s center was a neon-frosted cake, candles ablaze. Poised over the cake, her cheeks puffed out in preparation for extinguishing a blinding array of candles, was a petite young woman with cool gray eyes and long, wavy hair the color of champagne. She delicately blew out each candle then straightened and smiled nervously at the crowd around her.

“There. Now everybody enjoy a piece of cake. I really do have to get back to work,” she said, starting to turn away.

“Whoa! Not so fast, Maria.” A tall woman with blunt-cut black hair laughed, stepping forward to block her path. “Your present hasn’t arrived yet.”

A titter went up around the room, and Antonio guessed that everyone knew what that gift was to be.

Marco.

Clearly, the woman whose birthday they were celebrating did not.

He observed the waiflike creature, feeling sorry for her. Sensing also, in a sudden, too-vague recollection, that he had seen those gentle features before. Somewhere. The sense of familiarity was haunting, gnawed at his mind. But both place and time ultimately eluded him.

Maria shook her head nervously. “Please, Tamara, you shouldn’t go to all this trouble for me.”

“Oh, it’s our pleasure, dear. I think we’ll get as much out of this gift as you will.”

“Not if she’s lucky!” a voice rang out from the crowd, and everyone broke into laughter.

So that was their plan, Antonio thought. These sophisticated, brash PR types had decided to have a little fun at the expense of their bashful co-worker. They had sent for a mail-order prince as offered in the escort service’s vulgar advertisement.

Fortunately, his good friend the Senator had seen it and sent him a copy. The knave had been using Antonio’s name and official title, Il Principe di Carovigno, as his own. At least the service hadn’t been bold enough to use a photograph too!

In a way, it was a lucky thing for Miss McPherson that he’d learned of his former employee’s deception and sent the Casanova packing. The young woman he was watching tentatively nibble a slice of the gaudy cake wouldn’t have to suffer the indignities of Marco’s foolish performance, whatever that might entail. For all Antonio knew it might have involved removing articles of clothing. Or worse!

But would his walking in and announcing that the game was over only delay the young woman’s torment? A new scheme might soon replace the original farce. His heart went out to her. If there was any way of saving her further embarrassment…

The solution came to him in an unexpected flash of inspiration.

Antonio pushed through the door and into the conference room. All talk ceased. He smiled around the room at the women, fixed the male employees with a daunting glare, then turned his darkest, most mysterious gaze on the birthday girl.

“Ah, signorina,” he said, bowing as he approached. He lifted her limp fingertips to his lips. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, cara mia.” Yes, he was laying the accent on a bit thick, but he suspected that would have been Marco’s style.

A worried smile hovered over Maria’s lips. She blinked up at him, at a loss. “Y-you have?”

“Si. Your friends have arranged for you to share l’avventura with me. I believe you have the rest of the day off?” The raven-haired woman nodded, her eyes wide, appreciative and more than a little envious. “Andiamo, cara. My car waits for us.”

Maria shot a panicky glance around the room, then looked pleadingly at Antonio as she sidled closer to him. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered. “I know it’s all a joke.”

“But Signorina McPherson, it is my pleasure,” he said aloud, giving her a conspiratorial wink. He placed a hand at the hollow of her slim back and guided her firmly toward the door. She wore a conservative sweaterlike dress of a synthetic fiber—black, a bit scratchy to the touch.

He imagined her in cashmere, perhaps a soft blue to set off her eyes. Much better.

Tamara finally found her feet and rushed to catch up with them. She handed Maria her purse, coat and a card. “Have fun, honey. This will explain the services your date is prepared to offer. Be sure to let us know all the details tomorrow.”

Maria blushed a bright pink, snatched at her things and didn’t look back as she allowed Antonio to escort her out of the office to a chorus of cheers and hoots.

“Would you like my driver to help you carry anything else down?” he asked, allowing the exaggerated accent to fade.

“Ah, no…this is fine,” she said, tightly. “Let’s just get on the elevator and I’ll explain everything to you.”

“Certainly.” He let her step on ahead of him, admiring the view from behind. Yes, cashmere would suit her. She had an elegant figure. She just didn’t know how to dress. Or perhaps she couldn’t afford quality clothing.

As soon as the elevator doors shut, Maria faced him. “Listen, I know this is your job, but you can drop the phony aristocratic act now. They were just trying to embarrass me. You’ve done your job.” Her chin lifted and cool mist-gray eyes darkened as if it took a great deal of courage for her to speak. And now she seemed to be struggling to hold eye contact with him. “I don’t know what else you have been paid to do, but you can forget it. I don’t date strange men. I have no interest in a romantic…adventure,” she finished at last, looking flustered.

“You have other plans for the celebration of your birthday?” Antonio asked. “A party with your family?”

“No.” She laughed as if uncomfortable that he was prolonging the conversation. “No party. I’m going home. I expect I’ll enjoy my afternoon off with a good book and a hot bath.”

He raised a questioning brow. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone!” she gasped, sounding short of breath. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

“A lovely, intelligent, sensitive one,” he said simply. He wasn’t trying to flatter her; he was being perfectly honest.

After a moment, the young woman apparently realized her mouth was resting open and she brought her lips tightly together. She scowled at him. “Who are you, and how do I turn off the Latin-lover act?”

He refused to be offended. After all, the poor thing must be confused by all that had happened in the past twenty minutes.

“My name is Antonio Boniface, Il Principe di Carovigno,” he explained solemnly. “I only wish to save you further harassment from your friends. And, by the way, I am an Italian citizen, not a Latin lover, as you say, and I—”

“Listen, you,” she interrupted with surprising force, “I know you were hired to do a job. What do you need to prove you’ve done it? A signed receipt? A customer satisfaction form filled out? Just give it to me now, and I’ll sign—oh my!”

They had stepped out from the lobby of the building onto Connecticut Avenue and stood on the sidewalk beside a sleek, ebony limousine. Antonio’s driver had positioned himself beside the rear passenger door. He swung it open, the snappy brim of his uniform cap inclined politely toward Maria.

She swallowed and turned to Antonio, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and glistening with childlike amazement. “Tell me this isn’t part of the package.”

“It’s part of the package, as you put it,” he said with a shrug. He always engaged a car and driver when he traveled in unfamiliar cities. At home, he preferred to drive himself in the Ferrari. There he knew the twisting coastal roads intimately and enjoyed controlling the powerful vehicle.

“Oh, jeez,” she breathed. “I’ve never ridden in a real limo before.”

He smiled, charmed by her innocence.

“Let me at least transport you home,” he offered gently. “I would like to explain something to you on the way.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know…maybe we should just call it quits now and—”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he murmured, reaching out to take her hand again.

She nearly pulled away, then followed his gaze upward to the windows of the offices above. Rows of faces stared down at them.

“Do you want your friends to know that you’ve…what is the expression? Got chicken feet?”

She laughed, all the tension draining from her face. “You mean, I’ve chickened out…or I’ve gotten cold feet. No, I certainly don’t want to give them that satisfaction.” She shot one final grim look above them, then allowed Antonio to help her into the rear seat. Sliding across the smooth leather to give him room, she called out to the driver, “I live in Bethesda, Maryland, 755 Mullen Street. If you’ll drop me off, I’ll be most grateful.”

He closed the door behind them, then walked around the car.

“Your driver does know where Bethesda is?” Maria asked.

“I’m sure he does. I hope it’s a long ride. I have a lot to explain, Miss McPherson.” Antonio smiled. He watched as her glance followed the motion of his lips.

She sighed then shook her head as if denying herself a particularly fattening dessert. “Oh my, you’re awfully good. Listen, you’re a very nice looking man, handsome really. And you play your role well. But I’m just not interested in your kind of…service.”

She gave an almost imperceptible shiver of pleasure as she slipped the card Tamara had given her, unread, into her coat pocket. Her upper lip had become lightly beaded with perspiration, and her eyes were too bright. He was pretty sure she didn’t even realize the signals her body was giving off.

“Maybe it would be best if we just pulled around the block and you let me off there. I can take the bus home like I usually do.”

“No,” he said bluntly.

“No?” She looked alarmed now.

“On second thought,” he said slowly, “I believe you deserve a real celebration. Do you have friends you’d like to invite to come along?” He could explain all about Marco, Immigration and his real identity after she’d calmed down a bit.

“Friends? No, not really. I mean, I have college friends, but they’re back in Connecticut where I grew up. And the people I work with—” She shrugged as if unable to put her thoughts into words.

“They aren’t like you,” he supplied softly.

“No,” she murmured, “they aren’t like me. Take today, for instance. They get a kick out of singling out a person on their birthday and finding the most effective way to embarrass them. Tailored humiliation, I call it. I tried to take the day off, like I did last year when I’d just started working for the company, but my boss insisted she needed me.” She sighed. “It’s all in good fun, I suppose. But I’ve never liked being the center of attention.”

He nodded, intrigued by her lack of ego. So unlike the women he’d known.

“So we shall celebrate quietly, just the two of us. Si?” His flight didn’t leave until the next morning. He rarely allowed himself time away from the groves or the mill and factory. Spending an afternoon with an attractive American woman wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. Besides, after handling the Marco catastrophe, he deserved a little vacanza.

She laughed and rolled her pretty gray eyes dramatically at him. “The two of us? Alone? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? A pretty woman like you deserves at least to be treated to a delicious meal in a gracious setting on her special day. Why wouldn’t you allow yourself this simple pleasure?”

She gave a little growl of frustration from deep within her throat. To him it sounded delightfully sexy. “It does sound awfully tempting. I can’t remember the last meal I ate out that wasn’t fast food.” Good, she was at least debating her decision. “This is already paid for, right? I mean, you’re not going to hand me the check at the end of the meal, are you?”

He laughed. How fresh, how entertaining she was!

He had fully intended to explain about Marco, then leave her at her door. Just spiriting her off in the limo might have been enough to satisfy her work friends. But he sensed that if he took her home now, when she was questioned the next day she wouldn’t lie. She would admit that she’d let her hired prince leave, then they would all feel gratified that they had sufficiently shamed her.

However, if he actually romanced her for the day, in the most innocent of ways, of course, she’d at least have a great story to tell. She’d come out the winner.

He liked that idea. She seemed such a nice person. He wanted to give her as much armor as possible against their obnoxious teasing.

Maria wrapped her arms around her body and pressed tense shoulder blades into the buttery leather cushions of the limousine. Beyond the tinted windows, the Washington cityscape passed. The famous cherry trees hadn’t yet blossomed, but they were heavy with pink buds in the late morning light.

She felt awkward, out of her element. Her stomach was doing flip-flops because of her excitement. She didn’t know where to put her hands, where to look…or not look. One minute her glance settled on her companion’s sensuous mouth as he spoke, the next her eyes drifted to his wide, strong hands, resting on the elegant gray wool encasing his thighs.

She didn’t even know his real name, and here she was ogling his thighs! She more than half suspected he was ready to sleep with her, might even have been paid to do so. Did she dare look at the services listed on her gift card?

Her throat and cheeks flamed at the thought. When she tried to focus on the passing Washington sights, all she saw was his reflection in the smoky side window of the limo. He was watching her, thinking she didn’t know. The realization sent a provocative ripple of warmth down her spine where it settled in a tingling pool inside her.

“I should go home to change first,” she said, glancing down at her conservative black wool dress, “if we’re going anywhere fancy for lunch.”

“Prego. Wear something that makes you feel feminine and happy,” he suggested in a rich baritone.

She tried to ignore the way his words resonated pleasantly along her nerves. Sort of tickling. Sort of nice. What would she wear?

Nearly everything she owned was black or shades of neutral. Work clothes, chosen not to attract attention, to give her a professional appearance and avoid feminine vulnerability. Or else jeans and sweatshirts—those were for weekends. There had never been a reason to buy anything else, even if she could have afforded more. Maybe Sarah, her neighbor, would lend her one of her scores of dresses. Something at least with a little color in it.

“You’d look good in—” he seemed to be considering options “—perhaps an Ungaro, or a Dolce frock. Or one of the newer styles I’ve seen from Positano.”

“Positano?” She laughed, remembering a recent article in Vogue that she’d drooled over. “As in Italy and ultra-high couture? Listen, you don’t have to keep up the act for my benefit.”

“I don’t?” He lifted heavy, dark brows. There was a hint of amusement on his full lips.

“Of course not. I know you’re from around here, hired to escort me.” She brought out the card and flicked it at him. “The polite way of saying date me for money.” She gave him an understanding smile to let him know there were no bad feelings. “A prince? That’s honestly how your agency bills you?”

“That’s who I am,” he said mildly. He took the card from her and slipped it into his suit jacket pocket.

She gave a little snort. “Prince, indeed. Titles went out of style with fairy tales. Don’t they know that?”

“I wasn’t aware.”

She told herself she should hate the smug way he was observing her. But he was just so delicious to look at, it was hard to find fault with him.

Thirty minutes later they arrived at her apartment house. Maria slid closer to the door. The driver moved quickly, opening it for her. She felt Antonio come across the seat after her.

“You stay here,” she instructed him firmly, as if he were a mischievous puppy being told to heel.

“Escorting the lady to her door is the gentlemanly thing to do,” he objected, looking disappointed.

“Yeah, well, gentlemanly or not, you’re waiting in the car.”

She wasn’t about to let a call boy, or however they referred to themselves, into her apartment. Things were already complicated enough with him sitting on her street in a limousine.

It was a good thing most of her neighbors were at work. Someone was bound to be home, though. She wondered if she told Mrs. Kranski in 7B (who was undoubtedly staring out her window even now) that she was attending a funeral, would the woman believe her?

Maria punched in the security code and let herself into the building. She hit 8 in the elevator, tapped her foot impatiently as she rose to her floor. Another second and she was through her front door, breathing raggedly.

Was she insane? Agreeing to go with this stranger to her own private birthday celebration. But maybe she could pull this off. Just go out for lunch with the guy, give him as generous a tip as her weekly budget would allow, then be back before six when most of her neighbors arrived home.

Ten minutes later, she’d donned a nubby purple sweater and black wool skirt. Conservative black, low-heeled pumps. Off-black panty hose. Her only real gold jewelry (the tiny heart-shaped studs she’d gotten free when she’d had her ears pierced) and a fresh application of makeup completed the job.

She was ready for anything!

Anything, she realized when she returned to the car, except for this amazingly gorgeous man, whoever he really was. When he saw her coming down the steps to the sidewalk, he signaled his driver who swung the passenger door wide with a flourish. Her date stood up out of the car to let her pass, then held out a hand to guide her down and into the limousine.

“They certainly do train you guys well, I’ll say that much,” she murmured as she slipped back across the lake of gray leather.

“Mi scusi?” He sat beside her.

“Well,” she began nervously, “it’s just that practically no one has good, old-fashioned manners these days. My mother used to complain about that all the time.” She knew she was babbling, but she had to keep talking to control the runaway pace of her heart. “By the way, what should I call you, Prince?” She grinned, feeling silly just saying it.

He was looking at her that way again. As if she amused him. It wasn’t that she minded being entertaining. It was just that she so infrequently got that sort of reaction from men. From anyone.

“Antonio,” he said at last. “That’s my real name.”

“Oh.” Maybe it was.

“Your mother lives near you?” he asked.

“No,” she said regretfully, as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. “My mother died two years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She was aware that he was observing her very closely. She blinked twice, taking care of the threat of tears. “It was hard. For both of us. We were close.”

“But for comfort you have the rest of your family—”

She was already shaking her head. “No one really close. But it’s okay. My father was never in the picture, and I was an only child. I have an aunt in Connecticut. We send Christmas cards,” she added with an effort to sound brighter.

“So you’re alone,” he said, “truly alone.”

She glanced across the car at him, and she could have sworn there was honest sympathy reflected in his eyes. Strange, she thought, someone in his line of work caring at all. After a while, she would have thought men like him would have become immune to their clients’ personal traumas. Sort of like bartenders.

“I have my work. It can be satisfying.” She slanted a quick look at him without turning her head. She could feel him still watching her. She wondered why he’d suddenly gone quiet, and what he was thinking.

A moment later Antonio sat forward on the seat and spoke quietly to the driver. She couldn’t make out his words.

They drove toward the center of the city, gliding over Wisconsin Avenue, through fashionable Chevy Chase. The car finally pulled up in front of a store she’d passed by many times but never would have dared step inside.

“Versace isn’t a restaurant,” she said helpfully.

“I know. But I’ve changed my plans. Where we’re going, you’ll feel more comfortable wearing something different.”

She looked down at her outfit. “This isn’t dressy enough?”

He tipped his head to one side and observed her objectively. “It doesn’t do you justice,” he stated. “Come. You decide after you’ve tried on a few pieces.”

Maria let out an involuntary little snort. “Now I know this isn’t part of the package deal. My office pals would never spring for anything this extravagant. Do you realize what stuff in a place like this costs?”

“It will be taken care of,” he said simply.

She stared at him then smiled, feeling a little daring. “All right. If you’re game, so am I. But no one in Versace is coming within ten feet of my charge card!”

He laughed and shook his head at her. “Agreed, cara.”

An hour later they left Versace Couture with a slim gold box, in which Maria’s old clothes, shoes and hose had been packed beneath shimmering layers of tissue. She wore an elegant powder-blue, cashmere suit with a gold brooch, and sleek Italian leather slings with tiny heels. All purchased for her through a mysterious arrangement between Antonio and the saleswoman that involved only a signature and not even a glimpse of a check or plastic. The sales staff all but genuflected as he left the boutique.

Maria had become a believer. Almost.

If he wasn’t actual royalty (which she still found hard to accept), he at least had one soaring credit allowance and the respect of high-end merchants—neither of which was likely to come as a perk for working as a professional escort.

This took serious mental adjustments.

Next stop was I Matti, an upscale Tuscan-style trattoria, on Eighteenth Street. Antonio ordered for her, and she was delighted with his choices. They dined on lamb shanks and pasta with a heady tomato sauce redolent with olive oil, accompanied by a delicious Barolo wine.

She couldn’t help questioning him further. “You’re really Italian then,” she said as they returned to the limousine.

“Yes.”

“And rich?”

“Very.” He seemed more amused than offended by her questions.

She nodded, thinking about times in the distant past when she’d been called gullible.

She had fallen for Donny Apericcio’s game, playing Doctor and Patient, when she was seven. She’d had to undress to be “treated” for her pretend ailment. And she had believed Becky Feinstein in high school when the popular girl had congratulated Maria on making the yearbook committee. It had been a cruel joke.

But those episodes were kids’ stuff, embarrassments she’d gotten over long ago. Allowing herself to be charmed, possibly even seduced by a stranger, was of the adult world. A game she wasn’t about to play with any man, rich or not.

“So-o-o-o,” she said pushing Antonio’s wide hand off of her knee where it had wandered as soon as they’d seated themselves in the limo. “You’re an honest-to-goodness prince, and you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re in this country, standing in for a paid date.”

“Si, my former valet, he was posing as me and causing my family terrible embarrassment.”

“Valet,” she repeated thoughtfully. “And what do you do in Italy? Own a vineyard or something?”

“Olive groves, a mill where the olives are crushed for their oil, and a bottling factory,” he corrected her, smiling proudly. “Passed down many generations through my family.”

She absorbed these new details. “Listen, I hope you’ll understand my confusion. I didn’t know you, but I do know my co-workers. They once hired a stripper dressed up like a pizza delivery person to surprise a man who was retiring. Then there was the singing kangaroo.”

“Kangaroo?”

“You don’t want to know,” she assured him with a roll of her eyes. “The thing is, I’m going along with this for one reason only. To save myself grief in the office.”

He looked a little disappointed. “I thought you were coming with me because you’d never ridden in a limousine.”

“That too,” she admitted quickly, uncomfortable that he’d remembered an unguarded moment of girlish enthusiasm. “But I really don’t need all this wining and dining stuff to be happy on my birthday. A good book and a hot bubble bath are just fine. And I don’t mind being alone,” she added quickly when he opened his mouth as if to comment. “I enjoy my privacy.”

Which was true. To a certain degree.

She’d always needed time to herself. Time to read, to write in her journal, to garden or listen without interruptions to a CD of her favorite opera. A cup of sweet tea and a melt-your-knees tenor singing to her while she soaked in steaming water was her idea of heaven.

But there were times, more and more often these days, when she’d have liked someone to eat dinner with, someone to talk to about her day or snuggle up with in bed at night before falling asleep. These were other kinds of quiet times.

Sex? The word popped into her head. Sex would be nice, she imagined.

Everyone said it was an indispensable part of life, although she believed most people made too much of it. Someday she’d be able to judge for herself. That time would come when she found the man she would marry.

Until then, she had promised herself she wouldn’t surrender totally to any man. Her mother had made that mistake, and had been left alone with a baby. Maria admitted to herself that she was curious, maybe even a little anxious as the months and years wore on and she felt child-bearing years slipping away from her. But she wouldn’t be foolish.

Antonio’s hand returned to her knee. This time she eyed it thoughtfully, but didn’t brush it off. “Where to next?” she asked.

“Next, we go to Espazio Italia. On my last trip to this country I saw there the loveliest terra-cotta pieces outside of my own country. I would like to buy presents for family back home and, if you like, something for you as well.”

She shrugged, having already decided it was easier to go along with him than fight a mulish man. “Sounds harmless enough. Why not?”

So why did she feel as if she’d just stepped off a cliff into thin air? Why did her instincts shriek at her that, with that simple gesture of lifted shoulders, she had just set forces in motion over which she had no control?