Читать книгу The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12 - Кейт Хьюит, Шантель Шоу - Страница 11

EVERYTHING was going to be fine.

Absolutely fine, Maria told herself wearily as the Lexington Avenue local rumbled to a stop at the Spring Street subway station.

Never mind that the man next to her smelled like a skillet of sautéing garlic. Forget that her feet were shrieking after a day strapped into gorgeous-but-impossible Manolo stilettos. Pretend the rain that had become sleet hadn’t turned her sleek, three hundred dollar Chez Panache blow-out right back into her usual tumble of coffee-colored wild curls, or that she was obviously coming down with the flu or something suspiciously like it.

Oh, yes, everything was going to be fine.

And if it wasn’t… if it wasn’t…

The train gave a lurch as it left the station. Garlic Man fell into her, Maria stumbled sideways and felt one of her sky-high heels give way.

A word sprang to her lips. It was a word ladies didn’t use, even if they knew how to say it in Spanish as well as English. Not that Maria felt much like a lady right now. Still, she bit back the word, instead visualized it in big neon letters and decided that trying to figure a way to find the lost heel on the floor of the packed subway car was something only a madwoman would attempt.

Goodbye, Manolo Blahniks. Goodbye, Chez Panache. Goodbye, Jewels by Maria.

No. Absolutely, no. She was not going to think like that. What was it she’d learned in that stress reduction class? Okay, she hadn’t taken the class, not exactly; there was no time for anything like taking classes in her life but she’d read the course description in The New School catalog…

Live in the now.

That was it. Reduce stress by learning to live in the now. At the moment, that meant—damn!—that meant the train was pulling into Canal Street.

“Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through!”

She pushed her way through the rush-hour crowd, reached the doors just as they began to shut and hurled herself onto the platform. The doors closed; the train started. People surged toward the stairs, carrying a hobbling Maria in their midst.

Climbing the steps to the street with one shoe now four inches shorter than the other was an interesting experience. Why did they make shoes with heels like these? Better still, why had she bought them? Because men thought they looked good? Well, they did, but that wasn’t the reason. There was no man in her life; she couldn’t imagine there would be, not for a long time after that incident two months ago on Aristo.

The prince. The prince of darkness, was how she’d taken to thinking of him, and she felt the anger rise inside her again.

Damn it, why was she remembering him, anyway? Why waste time on him or that night? It had all been a nightmare. She hated herself for it, would probably always hate herself for it, thought not half as much as she hated him and…

And, there was no point in this.

Aristo, the commission she’d wanted so much and lost because of him, were behind her. She had to concentrate on the present. On how to convince shops like L’Orangerie to buy her designs.

That, she thought grimly, that was why she’d worn these shoes. Why she’d spent as much on a stupid blow-out as she could have spent to buy gold wire for the new earrings she’d been sketching. Why she’d all but begged for today’s meeting with the buyer from L’Orangerie. And where had it gotten her?

Nowhere, Maria thought as she reached the sidewalk. Nowhere except out here, limping home like a derelict in sleet that was rapidly turning to snow.

The weather, coupled with the fact that it was Friday, had sent people fleeing their offices earlier than usual. Still, the street was crowded. This was Manhattan, after all. The good news was that because this was Manhattan, nobody so much as looked at her.

Still, she felt ridiculous, hobbling like this.

Yes, Maria, but the better news is that your heel could have come off when you were on Fifth Avenue, heading for that meeting with the man from L’Orangerie.

What an impression she’d have made then.

Not that it would have mattered.

L’Orangerie’s head buyer had been polite enough to keep the lunch appointment and honest enough to begin it by telling her he wasn’t going to buy her designs.

“I like them, Ms. Santos,” he’d said, “I like them very much—but your name will mean nothing to our clients. Perhaps after you’ve had a bit more exposure …?”

More exposure? Maria gave an inelegant snort as she turned the corner. How much more exposure did she need? After winning the Caligari prize, she’d sold to Tiffany’s. To Harry Winston. To Barney’s.

She’d said all that to her luncheon companion. And he had said yes, he knew she had, but her status in those places was insignificant compared to designers like Paloma Picasso and Elsa Peretti, n’est-ce pas?

Not, she’d wanted to say. Not n’est-ce pas.

Maybe she didn’t have a lot of pieces in the display cases. Maybe the stores didn’t buy whole page ads for her in The New York Times and the high fashion magazines. Okay, maybe they didn’t advertise her name at all.

But she’d sold to the big players. That mattered. And the pieces she’d designed were certainly more significant than that phony French accent laid over the unmistakable underpinnings of his Brooklyn upbringing.

She almost told him so.

Fortunately, sanity had made her put a forkful of salad instead of her foot in her mouth.

She couldn’t afford to insult a jewelry buyer of such influence. The world to which she wanted entry was small. Gossipy. Insulting one of its door-keepers came under the heading of Shooting Yourself in the Head Just to See if the Gun Would Fire.

Besides, he was right.

She’d been incredibly lucky to sell a few pieces to those stores. Who knew if she’d ever sell them others? Who knew how she’d sell them others? Not landing the Aristan commission had been an enormous setback.

When you could add a discreet line to your business card that said ‘By commission to Their Majesties, King Aegeus and Queen Tia of Aristo,’ you had the world by the tail.

She’d lost the chance to have that happen.

Correction. A man had taken that chance from her. A man who had seduced her and then tossed her out of his bed as if she’d been a twenty-dollar whore.

“Stop that,” she muttered to herself. Why think of him now? Why waste time looking back? There was no point.

Maria made a left on Broome Street, hobbled to the next corner, turned down that street and, finally, there it was. Her building. Well, not hers. The building in which she lived. And worked. That was the great thing about renting a loft. There was plenty of space within its high walls, room for sleeping and eating, but mostly room for working.

If she could keep working.

The fact of the matter was, she was in debt up to her ears.

The loft cost thousands a month to rent. The gold and silver, the precious and semi-precious stones with which she worked, cost thousands, too. She had only one employee, Joaquin, but she had to meet his salary every week. And designing something that would be a fit gift for the Queen of Aristo’s sixtieth birthday had taken hours and hours of time.

So she’d borrowed the small fortune she’d needed to pay her rent, her bills, to set aside other projects and devote endless hours to a design for the competition.

Useless, all of it. Useless.

She had been one of the three finalists. They’d all been invited to Aristo, where the winner would be announced at a ceremony. And she’d lost any possibility of being that winner in one night. One foolish night.

A handful of hours had ruined her hopes and dreams, had left her humiliated beyond measure and the truth was, it was her fault, all of it. Not the fault of the man who’d seduced her.

Alexandros, the Prince of Aristo, had only proved what she already knew. The hell with soft lights and sweet talk. All a man wanted from a woman was sex. That she, of all women, should have forgotten that cold truth and given in to a moment’s weakness, was unforgivable.

Once you’d warmed a man’s bed, he had no further use for you. If something unexpected happened, like, in this case, it turning out that he was an Aristan prince and you were a finalist in the competition to design his mother’s birthday gift, he’d lay the blame for the seduction on you, even when he was the one who’d done the seducing.

Her father had put the blame on her mother.

The mighty prince had put the blame on her.

“Damn this useless shoe,” Maria said furiously. To hell with the snow and the icy pavement. She bent down, ripped off both the broken shoe and its mate, and strode the last few wet yards to her front door.

It swung open just as she reached it. Joaquin stepped onto the street, smiled when he saw her but his smile changed to bewilderment as his startled gaze dropped to her nylon-clad feet.

“Maria? ¿Cuál es la materia? ¿Por qué está usted descalzo en este tiempo?”

Maria forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I broke my heel, that’s all.” She stepped past him into the vestibule. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

The door swung shut behind her. She started up the stairs to the loft, Joaquin at her heels. There was a freight elevator, but, as usual, it wasn’t working.

“I am still here, as you can see. I waited in hopes you would return to tell me good news.”

Maria nodded but said nothing. When they reached the third floor, she stabbed her key into the lock, walked briskly across the age-dulled hardwood floor, dropped her shoes and bag on a table near one of the loft’s big windows and turned toward her old friend and co-worker.

“That was good of you.”

Joaquin’s warm brown eyes searched her face. “It did not go well?”

Maria sighed as she slipped her coat from her shoulders. She could lie or at least make the meeting with the buyer sound more hopeful, but there was no point. Joaquin knew her too well. He’d been working for her for five years. More than that, they’d grown up in neighboring apartments in a crumbling building in the Bronx, which was not a place most people thought of when they spoke of New York.

Joaquin and his family had come from Puerto Rico to the mainland when he was five and she was six. He was the brother she’d never had.

So, no. Trying to fool him was useless.

“Maria?” he said softly, and she sighed.

“We didn’t get the contract.”

His expression softened. “Ah. I am so sorry. What happened? I thought this Frenchman had good taste.”

“He’s not even a Frenchman,” Maria said with a little laugh. “As for taste, well, he says he likes my work. But—”

“But?”

“But, I should get in touch with him when Jewels by Maria is better known.”

“When it is,” Joaquin said stoutly, “you won’t need him.”

Maria grinned. “It’s just a good thing you’re married or I’d nab you for myself.”

Joaquin grinned, too. It was an old joke and they both knew it had no meaning. So did Joaquin’s wife, who was Maria’s best friend.

“I’ll be sure and tell Sela you said that.”

“Tell her, too, that I’m looking forward to dinner on Sunday.”

“I will.” Joaquin tucked his hands in his overcoat pockets. “I left the new wax castings on the workbench.”

“Thank you.”

“FedEx delivered the opals you ordered. I put them in the safe.” “Excellent.”

Joaquin hesitated. “There is also a letter—a registered letter—from the bank.”

“Of course there is,” Maria said sharply. She sighed and put her hand lightly on Joaquin’s arm in apology. “Sorry.” She smiled. “No need to kill the messenger, right?”

“You might change your mind when I tell you that your mother phoned.”

Joaquin said it lightly but they both knew a call from Luz Santos was rarely pleasant. Maria’s mother’s life had not gone well; she held her daughter responsible. Having Maria had changed her life. It had ended her dreams. Her plans. Not that she had regrets. Oh, no. No regrets. She had sacrificed everything for Maria but that was what mothers were supposed to do.

If only Maria would make the sacrifice worthwhile. If only she would stop playing with trinkets and get a real job…

“My mother,” Maria said, and sighed again. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“Her back is acting up. She has indigestion. Her doctor is of no use to her.” Joaquin cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ferrara’s daughter was just promoted.”

Maria nodded. “Of course.”

“So was your cousin Angela.”

“Again,” Maria said, deadpan.

“Again,” Joaquin agreed.

Suddenly, it seemed too much. The day. The disappointment. The overdue bank loan. The flu symptoms she couldn’t shake, and now a call from Mama… A little moan escaped her lips. Joaquin put his arms around her and she gave in and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Maria, I have a fine idea. Come with me. You know Sela will be thrilled to see you. She is making Chile Colorado for supper. When was the last time you had something so delicious, hmm?”

She smiled, stood straight and knotted the woolen scarf at his neck.

“Joaquin,” she said gently, “go home.”

“If there was a way Sela and I could help you—”

“I know.”

“If only you had gotten that commission. I still cannot understand the reason you didn’t win.”

She understood it, but she’d sooner have died than divulge it. “You’ll see, Joaquin. Everything will work out.”

“De su boca al oído del Dios.”

From her mouth to God’s ear. It made her smile again. She clasped his face in her hands and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Go home, mi amigo.”

“Sela will be angry I left you alone at a time like this.”

“Tell Sela I love her but I am your boss,” Maria said with mock severity, “and I sent you home.”

Joaquin grinned. “Yes, boss,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She watched as he made his way to the door. It swung shut after him and she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. It was very cold in the loft. The high ceiling seemed to steal the landlord’s miserly allotment of heat from the radiators and the windows, though wonderfully big, were as old as the building. On a day like this, the wind was relentless and sent chilly air straight into the cavernous room.

A draft was blowing right on her. And a film of frost was just beginning to form on the glass. Maria rubbed at it with her fist…

What was that car doing here?

It was parked just across the street. A big car, long and black and elegant. She knew little about automobiles but in this still-ungentrified stretch of Lower Manhattan a Rolls or a Mercedes or a Bentley, whatever the vehicle was, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Her lips turned down.

It was probably a realtor, trying to get a feel for things. They’d been showing up as regularly as rats in the alley, a sure sign that the area was about to become too expensive for people like her. One realtor had even turned up at her door a couple of weeks ago, oozing charm. She’d only managed to get rid of him by assuring him she didn’t own her loft—though she hadn’t been able to keep from telling him that if she did, there wasn’t a way in the world she’d sell it to him.

In a gesture of defiance and frustration, she glared at the car and stuck out her tongue. Then she drew back into the darkness, laughing nervously at herself. What a crazy thing to do but on a day that had gone as badly as this, it was better than nothing.

Alex, sitting in the back of the Bentley limo, blinked in surprise.

Had the Santos woman just stuck her tongue out at him?

No. Why would she do that? She couldn’t even see him. It was dark. The windows of the car were tinted. She had no way of knowing if there was someone in the car or not.

A distortion, then, caused by the cold and the heavily falling snow.

Not that it had been falling heavily enough to have kept him from seeing that cozy lovers’ greeting between her and the man who’d just left. And not that he gave a damn. Five minutes to explain why he was here, that the commission was hers, and that would be the end of it.

This was for his mother. He could ignore his anger. His disgust. He could do this.

He just wished he hadn’t had to view such a charming little scene. It was enough to make his belly knot. A snowy evening. A lover, so eager for his woman that he met her downstairs. Greeted her with tenderness. Went back upstairs with her. Talked to her. Kissed her…

And walked away.

Alex frowned.

What sort of lover was this man? Why had he chosen the cold night instead of a woman’s heat? As for tenderness… Did he not know that tenderness was not what Maria Santos wanted? She was hot. Wild. Eager in bed.

Even now, he could remember how she had been that night. Her scent. Lilies of the valley, he had thought, as delicate and fragrant as those that grew wild in the hills near his home on the cliffs. Her skin, warm and soft under his questing hands. Her hair, brushing like silk against his throat.

Her nipples, sweet on his tongue.

Her mouth hot, so hot against his.

Her little cries. Her moans. That one incredible moment as he’d entered her when he’d thought—when he’d imagined—that she had never before known a man’s possession.

And, damn it, what in hell was he doing? His body had grown hard, just remembering. Alex let down the window and drew a long breath of cold, snow-laden air into his lungs.

The thing to remember was not how she had been in his bed but the reason she had been there. It had not been an accident; that she’d stood in seeming uncertainty just in front of the building in which he had his offices in Ellos, guidebook in hand, had been, he knew, deliberate.

He had not suspected it then.

But he’d noticed her right away. What man wouldn’t?

Slender, very pretty, her dark mane of hair pulled away from her face by a simple gold clasp and left to tumble down her back, her figure limned by the fading light of the day, she’d been a delightful sight.

He’d paused as he came out the door. She had a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; somehow, that had added to her charm.

American, he’d thought, a tourist. And, without question, lost.

He’d been in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Okay, why not? he’d said to himself, and smiled as he’d approached her. “Excuse me,” he’d said pleasantly, “but do you need some help?”

She’d looked up from the slim guidebook, her eyes a little blurry because of the glasses. Her hesitation had been artful, just enough to make her seem not just cautious but almost old-fashioned.

“Well—well—thank you. Yes, actually, I do. If you could tell me… I’m looking for the Argus. It’s a restaurant. Well, a café. The guidebook says it’s supposed to be right here. The hotel desk clerk said so, too. But—”

“But it isn’t,” Alex had said, smiling again. “And, I’m afraid, it hasn’t been, not for at least a year.”

Her face had fallen. Disappointment had only made her lovelier.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well—thank you again.”

“You’re most welcome.”

She’d taken off her glasses and gone on looking up at him, her eyes—hazel, he’d noted, neither brown nor green nor gold but a veritable swirl of colors—as wide and innocent as a fawn’s.

Innocent as a fox approaching a hen house, he thought now, his mouth thinning to a tight line.

Maria Santos had known exactly what she was doing, right up to how she’d reacted when he’d suggested another restaurant nearby.

“Is it …?” She’d hesitated. “I mean, is this other restaurant—?”

“As good as the Argus?” Truth was, he had no idea. He’d never been to the Argus. From what little he recalled, it had been a tiny café, just a place to get a quick bite.

“As inexpensive.” Color had swept into her cheeks. “The guidebook says—”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he’d said, because she wouldn’t.

The restaurant he’d recommended was incredibly expensive—but he would take her to it. He would dine with her and pay the bill. Just to talk, he’d told himself. Just to be a good ambassador for his country, even though—to his surprise—this beautiful stranger did not seem to recognize his face when the simple truth, much to his chagrin, was that spotting him was as much a tourist attraction as the beaches, the yachts and the casino.

The hell she hadn’t recognized him.

She’d known who he was. She’d set the entire thing up.

But he had not known it, then.

She’d protested prettily that she couldn’t possibly let him pay for her meal but she’d let him think he’d overcome her protests. And, after dinner, when they’d walked along the sea wall, when he’d kissed her while they stood surrounded by the tall pines that grew on a little promontory and their kisses had gone from soft and exploratory to hot and deep, when his hands had gone under her silk skirt and she’d moaned into his mouth, when he’d put his arm tightly around her waist, still kissing her, and led her through the now-quiet streets to his flat, to his bed, when she’d clung to him and whispered she’d never done anything like this before…

When she’d come apart in his arms, her cries so sweet, so wild, so real…

Alex cursed.

“Sir?” his driver said, but Alex ignored him, swung open the door of the Bentley himself and stepped into the night.

Lies, all of it, lies that had come undone in the early morning when he’d reached for her again and found her side of the bed empty. He’d assumed she was in the bathroom.

She wasn’t.

He’d heard her voice, soft as the breeze from the sea. Was she on the phone? Without knowing why he did it, he’d carefully lifted the one on his night table and brought it to his ear.

Yes, he’d heard her say with a breathy little laugh, yes, Joaquin, I think I really do have a good chance of being named the winner. I know the competition is tough but I have every reason to believe my chances are really excellent.

She’d looked up from the telephone when he walked into the kitchen. Her face had gone crimson.

“You’re awake,” she’d begun to say, with an awkward smile.

He’d taken the phone from her hand. Pressed the ‘end’ button. Carried her back to bed without saying a word, taken her in passion born of anger.

Then he’d told her to get her clothes on. To get the hell out. And not to bother showing up at the palace, later.

“Your chances of being named to design my mother’s birthday gift,” he’d said in clipped tones, “are less than those of a snowball in hell.”

Alex strode across the street.

It had taken two months but that prediction was no longer just a metaphor. Here was the snow. And, in just a couple of minutes, Maria Santos would get a first-hand introduction to hell.

And he would get the satisfaction of putting her, and that night, out of his head.

Forever.