Sandra Hill (13 page)

It wouldn’t do for his prickly fish to awaken yet, though. He had a lot of thinking to do. And planning.

Suddenly Cynthia made a soft snuffling sound, rolled over onto her back, threw her arms over her head on the pillow, and kept on sleeping.

P.T. froze…and not just because he didn’t want Sleeping Beauty to awaken yet.

He’d suspected before, but now he knew for sure: Cynthia “The Shark” Sullivan was an absolute babe. With her inadvertently wanton pose, partially clothed as she was, she could be a
Playboy
centerfold any month. Or year. Or century. A twenty on a scale of ten. In his book, anyway.

In sleep, her face lost its customary cynical expression. Her mouth pouted, soft and rose-colored. He’d never noticed before, but she had Marilyn Monroe lips. Now that he’d noticed, he couldn’t stop noticing.

He yearned to lean forward and press his mouth to hers. Soft at first, testing, shaping. Then harder.

Would she taste like berries, or minty tooth
paste, or have her own distinctive flavor? He’d discovered over the years that every woman had a unique taste. Cynthia Sullivan’s would no doubt be tart, he decided with a silent chuckle.

He shook his head to clear it of such impossible fantasies. This was a serious inventory he was taking. Casing the joint, so to speak. At least, that’s what he told himself. But, Lordy, her joints were mighty fine. In fact, he was developing an appreciation for a whole lot of her…inventory.

That first day in his office, she’d commented on the thickness of his eyelashes. Well, hers were thick, too, but light. The same strawberry blond as her hair. No bottle blonde here.

She was tall, long-waisted and long-limbed, at least five-eight or so. A good height to match his six-foot-one.

Good for what?
he asked himself.

Good for you-know-damn-well what
, he answered himself.

Peter gave him another nod of thanks.
Son of a gun! What a talented fellow!

She’d been right in describing herself as soft. No en vogue thinness of Kate Moss here, or hard-bodied toning of Naomi Campbell. But she was a fool, as was the whole fashion industry, in not realizing that men prefer women with a curve or two in the right places.

P.T. couldn’t resist touching her, but he limited himself to a feather-light pass of his fingertips down the creamy expanse of bare skin from
her upper arm to her wrist. Goosebumps followed in his wake, and she arched her upper body slightly in the sensuous motion of a petted cat. In that brief nanosecond when her chest elevated, then relaxed, he watched as her breasts bloomed with hard, budlike nipples.

Blood drained from his head, then began churning to all the erotic spots in his body…about two thousand of them.

Peter went ballistic.

And Cynthia slept on.

He bit his bottom lip to stifle a moan and clenched his fists to keep from grabbing for her. Carefully, he lay back on the pillow, eyes closed, and counted to fifty. Then he added another fifty for good measure.

When he was calm again—well, relatively calm, with his heart still knocking out about a hundred beats per minute—P.T. decided that he needed to handle Cynthia Sullivan like any other challenge in his past, business or personal. Study the problem thoroughly. Know everything about his adversary…background, likes, dislikes, dreams, disappointments, family, relationships, strong points, weaknesses.

He’d have to lure her into talking about herself. Hell, that shouldn’t be too hard. They had nothing else to do…nothing she would countenance at this stage, anyway. When he knew everything about Cynthia Sullivan—the child, the woman, the stock trader—he would have a
better idea how to approach his seduction campaign.

It was a simple, age-old philosophy: Know thine enemy.

He should feel guilty about these devious machinations, but he didn’t. As Cynthia’s grandma would have said if given the chance to comment on his moral dilemma, “If the fox runs into the hound’s embrace, who’s to blame?” To his amusement, P.T. had noticed that many of the same proverbs were claimed by numerous cultures. That fox hound proverb was one his mother used to quote all the time, except she’d been referring to the gamblers who hung out in the San Juan casinos.

And another thing—the only way he was going to be able to pull off this seduction scheme was to bank down his attraction to Cynthia. Detachment, that’s what he needed.

As to the marriage business, well, he didn’t know about that. He’d play it by ear.

So, that was the plan. Get to know the shark, lure her with his indifference, overwhelm her with the royalty role-playing, then snag her with his sexual charisma. Tie the knot with her to seal the bargain, if absolutely necessary.

More confident now, he opened his eyes and peeked over at his prey. He was cool. He was in control. He could handle this job. No problem!

Cynthia let out another one of those breathy snores. They probably taught it in shark school…a mating call.

Peter about popped his cork.

P.T. survived the assault, barely.

Within moments, employing a few mind exercises, which included crossing his eyes and thwapping his palm against the mindless Peter
—ouch!—
his body was soon humming with indifference.

Or was that humming noise coming from the small winged creature that flitted over them and out the window on a stream of sunlight? How did a butterfly get inside, and up this high?

And wasn’t it strange how the dust motes in the air resembled gold on the flickering sunbeam? Like fairy dust.

He could have sworn Peter grinned.

Cynthia slowly emerged from the deepest sleep she’d had in ages. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged in the luxury of a nap in the middle of the day. Wasting time equated with wasting money in her supercharged schedule.

Eyes still closed, she stretched with feline satisfaction. Who knew there could be such pleasure in the little things of life, like a drawn-out, bone-crunching stretch or a lusty yawn?

A sudden image came to her of lazy summer afternoons sprawled on her cot in the one-bedroom project apartment, waiting for Grandma to come home from the factory.

She’d been an obsessive reader then—fairy tales in the early years, followed by romance
novels, especial medieval romances full of brave knights, beautiful ladies, wizards and happily-ever-after—a far cry from the hopeless, dangerous world outside her window. She would read for hours on end in those days, then stretch with a dreamy sigh, yearning for a future when such magic would enter her own dreary life.

Unfortunately—or fortunately—Cynthia soon learned there was no magic in this world. And happily-ever-after came only through hard work and ambition.

Funny that she should think of all that now. Drowsily, she ruminated over the cause. It was probably all this forced proximity to the sexiest man alive, and a prince to boot. “Beauty won’t make the pot boil,” Cynthia kept repeating to herself, but Grandma’s familiar admonition didn’t cut any ice this time. Cynthia’s pot was about to boil over.

Gradually, she recalled her circumstances and how she came to be sleeping in the middle of the afternoon. Reluctantly, her heavy eyelids fluttered open, then shot wide.

Ferrama was sitting cross-legged on the bed, within touching distance, watching her.

“Do you believe in magic?”

“What?” she squeaked.
Oh, God! Now the jerk is reading my mind, too. And, no, I do not believe in magic. No, no, no!

He tilted his head in confusion, and she realized that the words had come from Elmer’s tape player sitting on the stand by the door. It had
been the Lovin’ Spoonfuls on one of those rock ‘n’ roll classics records, not Ferrama, who had asked the disturbing question, “Do you believe in magic?”

Whew! For a minute there I was beginning to believe in all this fairy-tale nonsense Elmer spouts
.

Meanwhile, the prince continued to stare at her. How long had he been watching her like this? In her sleep, for heaven’s sake! And why?

“What are you doing?” she demanded indignantly.

“Watching you snore.”

“I do not snore.”

“Oh, yes you do,” he said with a strange rasp in his voice.

His wonderfully expressive eyes swept her body but kept coming back to her chest area, as if he couldn’t help himself. Once, he ran the tip of his tongue over his mouth, wetting his lips.

She glanced down and could have died of mortification. Because her arms were still thrown over her head from stretching, her breasts were uplifted, her nipples clearly visible. Cynthia hated her breasts. Unlike the chic unisex models with flat chests and barely discernible nipples that most businesswomen emulated, Cynthia had full breasts and large nipples. Sometimes she even covered the tips with Band-Aids and wore de-enhancing bras. It wasn’t that she wanted to deny her femininity; she just didn’t want to share it with strangers.

And the “stranger” in her bed was gaping at her feminine assets like an overeager teenager. Correction: He was probably repulsed. In his jet-set circle, real breasts with real nipples would be unfashionably common…maybe even vulgar.

She sat up and folded her arms over her chest. Which only caused his eyes to shift to the long expanse of her bare legs.

His Adam’s apple moved once, twice, three times, and he licked his lips again.

She felt each sweep right down to her toes. Her oversensitive nipples were probably the size of grapes by now. Much more of this visual torture and she’d be licking his lips for him. Or one of those damn shamrocks. There were twenty-seven of them, she could attest, to her chagrin. That was one of the reasons she’d decided to take a nap. Compulsive shamrock counting had been taking its toll. Unchecked, she might have given in to the temptation to tally up the family crests, too. Or the family jewels.

“Stop that. Stop it right now,” she insisted.

“Stop what?” He blinked those ridiculously long lashes at her in puzzlement.

“Ogling me.” Now that sounded dumb, even to her. But, really, was he doing it on purpose? Trying to turn her on, that is. What a ridiculous notion! As if any man would be stupid enough, or egotistical enough, to think that merely staring at a woman would make her hot and bothered. On the other hand…

“Oh.” He turned his attention to the bedpost on her right. She thought she heard him mutter, “Peter made me do it.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he said to the bedpost. “You must not be offended by my staring at you, Cynthia. It means nothing.”

Nothing? Looking at me means nothing? See. I was right
.

“After all, I’m in the fashion industry. I often find myself examining the female form with thoughts of how to provide better products. Fat women, thin women, short, tall, buxom, boyish. I study them all the time—in airports, along city streets, while dining in restaurants. I make mental notes to discuss with Jake at a later time. It’s the bane of my profession, I suppose.” He was still talking to the bedpost.

Buxom? Why did he throw that word in there?

“It’s a purely clinical observation, you see.” His lips twitched, as if he was fighting a grin or, more likely, a sneer of revulsion.

Yeah, I see all right. I do repulse him
. She sat up straighter and wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. “You can stop speaking to the bedpost. I’m decent now.”

He looked at her and released a disbelieving snort. “Hardly.”

She bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that our lack of attire is indecent. I spoke to Naomi about it a short time ago. I think she might relent and give us some clothing.”

No more shamrock counting
. “Thank goodness!” she said.
Darn it!

“It’s really so bourgeois of Naomi to put us in this unseemly situation,” he elaborated, pursing his lips prissily.

She supposed princes did that a lot…pursed their lips prissily…in dealing with the less regal folk. He wasn’t nearly as blood-boilingly attractive when he pursed his lips prissily. A definite hormone douser. She considered for an insane second asking him to do it more often.

“I mean, it’s bad enough to be confined against one’s will with a person of the opposite sex not of one’s choosing. But it is tacky beyond belief to have no apparel. Or bed linens. Do you think this mattress cover is synthetic?” He was picking at the pill balls on the striped mattress, his nostrils flaring with distaste.

Oh, this is good. This is really good. Lip pursing and nostril flaring. Pretty soon I won’t be attracted to the royal pain-in-the-ass at all
.

But then he glanced up at her and licked his lips again.

Well, maybe not pretty soon
.

“So, when you were talking to Naomi, did you knock some sense into her thick head?”

“Hah! I couldn’t get that close.”

“Well, you’ve got to do something. I can’t stay here for another eighteen days. I just can’t,” she said.

“Neither can I. We’ve already started the road shows to the brokerage firms participating in
our stock offering. Dick can handle one or two of them, but if I don’t show up soon, alarm bells are going to go off.”

“I’m sure your sleezeball lawyer will come up with something. Besides, by the time a company files with the SEC, most of the groundwork is already done; so lighten up. Your biggest problem is not your stock offering, sweetheart. Your biggest problem is me…and my potential lawsuit.”

“So I should sit around and do nothing?” he sniped.

“Hell, no! I’m the one who’s got to get out of here. Even though I can’t be on the trading floor till my foot heals, I have to keep in daily contact with my clients. In this business, a broker is only as valuable as his “book,” his big accounts. At the first whiff that I’m out of touch, every trader worth his dialing finger will be hot on my accounts.”

“Even ones in your own firm?”

“Especially ones in my firm.” Cynthia didn’t like the look of sympathy in Ferrama’s eyes and quickly added, “Hey, the world’s a rat race everywhere these days. Stab in the back, or be stabbed in the back. I don’t imagine that it’s any different in your line of work.”