Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One (40 page)

“If the boss doesn’t think enough of her project to stay late, how can she expect her people to?” Pat said defensively, and Blaise surprised her by nodding. Or maybe that was just his way of throwing her off balance. She wondered how many women had been disarmed by the light that shone in his blue eyes.

“But any principle carried to the ‘nth degree becomes fanaticism. And you’re much too pretty to be a fanatic,” he teased, reaching out to touch her face.

Pat stepped back, nearly tripping against the step behind her. Blaise was not slow in catching her in his strong, powerful arms.

“Um, where’s Angelica?” Pat asked, seizing the first subject that came to mind as she tried to keep her nerves on an even keel.
 
She wasn’t succeeding.

“I sent her to bed,” Blaise said. “You’re long past needing a duenna,” he added, using the Spanish word for chaperon.

“But a Doberman might help,” she quipped, and he laughed, his eyes snapping and sparkling. The laugh lines around his mouth deepened, convincing Pat that lines on a man added an endearing quality. It didn’t seem fair.

“C’mon,” he said, taking her arm gently as he tried to guide her toward the hallway.

“Where?” she asked, digging her heels into the carpet and refusing to budge.

Blaise looked at her upturned face, highly amused. “Give me a little credit, Lady Pat. I’m not about to force you into my bedroom. Dragging a woman by her hair into a man’s domain went out a couple of thousand years ago—give or take a hundred,” he quipped. “I was only thinking of your welfare. . . . Dinner,” he clarified when she gave no response.

She blushed a little, chagrined at her thoughts, then shook her head as if to regain her dignity. “No, thanks, I’m not hungry,” she said.

But Blaise would not be put off. “Uh-uh. You need to keep up your strength, and you won’t do it by skipping meals.” He took her arm again and ushered her off.

“And what do I need to keep my strength up against?” she couldn’t help but ask, becoming a trifle giddy in her tired state. “You?”

He clutched his chest dramatically, his dark hair falling into his eyes, looking for all the world like a wayward boy about to pull a prank.

“I? Lady Pat, I’m your ally and friend—and besides, arm wrestling is not what I have in mind when the time comes,” he whispered confidentially, looking her up and down with a promise that she could not help but recognize.

“What do you mean, ‘when the time comes’?” Pat demanded, now fully alert. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

Blaise smiled for a moment, which made it all the worse. Then he replied, “I was taught to play poker by the best—and he said never put all your cards on the table unless you’re sure you have a winning hand.”

She did not know what to make of that. She realized that he was leading her past the dining room. “Wait,” she protested, but Blaise ignored the long, darkened room and purposefully led her on. “I thought you said we were eating.”

“I did.”

‘Well, you just went past the dining room,” she said suspiciously, knowing that they were going in the direction of his room.

Blaise shook his head. “These formal dining rooms are designed by frigid women and effeminate men who are trying to retain population zero. You could bowl on that table,” he said. “I’ve seen enemy camps in the Far East set their tents up closer than the opposite ends of it.”

“We used it for entertaining,” she said defensively, thinking of her cherry wood dining-room set.

“Nothing very entertaining about having to shout to be heard,” Blaise told her, entering the warmly lit kitchen. It was bathed in candlelight. “Your dinner, Lady Pat,” he said with a flourish of his hand, which indicated the little kitchen table, “is waiting in the cozy breakfast nook, where, if I position myself just right, our knees will touch.” A teasing smile was on his lips.

Pat didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he settled her into the far side of the nook. And Blaise was right. The warmth of the kitchen was infinitely preferable to the alienating, formal dining room. He seemed instinctively to know everything, she thought as he removed her dinner from the warming tray and placed it before her.

Suddenly she wondered if he knew how very lonely she had been. Looking up into his warm, liquid blue eyes as he sat down next to her, Pat was sure that he did.

Chapter Five

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say at your press conference tomorrow?” Blaise asked Pat, patiently repeating his question.

Pat blinked, as if coming out of a daze. For a moment his eyes had held her captive. They had made her think of wonderful, impossible things that she knew could never be. But his words brought her back to the present, with all its responsibilities.

“You mean your press conference, don’t you?” Pat asked wryly. “You were the one who called it.”

“Don’t split hairs,” Blaise said, pouring her a glass of wine, which shimmered in the light of the flickering candle. It felt so terribly intimate, being here like this with him, and Pat was grateful that he was talking about the jet instead of trying to woo her. She needed a clear, uncluttered mind now more than ever. “You need that press conference,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“Oh? And why, pray tell?” she asked, taking a sip of the wine, which wound its warm way through her entire body, relaxing her instantly.

Blaise leaned back slightly. “You’re a babe in the woods, Lady Pat. It’s always good to have the power of the press on your side. Make them think they’re your friends, and if they don’t have to bust their tails for your story, they’ll usually treat you with kindness. The Eagle wouldn’t be such an albatross if you had called a conference sooner,” he said.

“I don’t believe in baring my soul,” Pat said.

Blaise’s smile encompassed more than their conversation about the press. “There’s a lot to be said for ‘baring’ things at the right time.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment. “This is the right time to cooperate with the press. If you wait any longer, they’ll become an obstacle for you. Tell them everything.”

She raised her eyebrow archly, putting down her fork. “Tell them that we’re on the verge of going broke?”

He shook his head. “No, not that honest. Listen, I’ll help you get through this,” he promised. “That is, provided I’m allowed.”

Pat shifted uncomfortably. What if he was really working for Jonathan and Allan or some other outside party? She wasn’t ready to trust him completely. Some of Blaise’s battles for control might have been won in the bedroom, but she was not about to let the Hamilton jet become a casualty just because she had a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Blaise looked a trifle annoyed at her hesitation. “It’s going to be awfully hard helping you, Lady Pat, if I have to wait each time until ‘Simon Says’ I can take two giant steps forward. I’m used to leaping—“

“I bet you are.” The words slipped out before she had a chance to stop them.

He laughed. “You know, Patti,” he said, and the name catapulted her back into a world that had never really existed for her, “I’d like to sweep you into my arms and carry you upstairs to your bedroom like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. You deserve that sort of treatment. But you don’t have any stairs,” he said mournfully, his eyes already making love to her.

“You could try walking up and down the steps in the living room a few times,” she said dryly.

“No, not the same thing,” he said sadly, then suddenly came around and picked her up easily in his arms. Pat was too startled for words as he began to carry her down the hall and past Angelica’s room toward his own.

“Well, so much for foreplay,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“And during-play and after-play,” she said firmly, not knowing whether he was kidding, and terribly afraid to take the chance of finding out. “Put me down, Blaise,” she ordered.

“Why?” he asked, but did as she asked. “We’re both consenting adults.”

“You’re consenting,” she pointed out, her heart pounding. “I’m not.”

He ran his finger along her lower lip. An involuntary tremor threatened to break loose. Pat maintained control, though she yearned for the promised excitement that lay just beyond his bedroom door.

“You don’t even know what I want you to consent to,” he teased.

“Oh, I’ve a pretty good idea,” she answered, amusement coming into her voice. He was so adorable, despite everything she thought he was trying to do. If only . . . “And I’m past that,” she said firmly, more to herself than to him.

Solemnly, Blaise studied her, then took her pulse. Pat stared at him, puzzled.

“Pulse okay,” he said, letting go of her wrist, then peering into her eyes. “All vital signs seem to be there,” he observed. “When did you die?” he asked mildly.

“I didn’t die!” she cried.

He loomed over her, tall and broad-shouldered, standing bigger than life and filling all the space in her small hallway. “Then you’re not past ‘that,’ “ he said, bending his head and kissing her softly.

The kiss lasted forever, intensifying until there was nothing left but infinite, all-consuming passion. She was drowning—drowning in a yearning that was more fervent than anything she had ever known. She had fully believed that after years of unfulfillment, the desire within her that had been born in the days when she had believed in romance was dead. But it wasn’t. It was alive and well and in full splendor—but she couldn’t allow it to be used against her, and she wasn’t sure if she was just a passing fancy for Blaise, or if he viewed her as the Hamilton Factory.

Get out now, now, before you’ve gone under
, something pleaded within Pat, something that had always been her lifeline to the world. With her heart beating fast in her ears, she pushed Blaise back, wedging her small, delicate hands against the overwhelming heat that came from his hard chest.

“Blaise, please, no,” Pat said, trying with all her might to keep her voice from shaking.

Blaise cocked his head slightly, still keeping her in his arms. “You certainly are something. Lady Pat,” he said softly. “I’m used to hearing ‘Blaise, please, yes.’ “ There was something serious, something almost—sad—in his eyes.

Yes, yes, she meant the world to him
, Pat told herself sarcastically, and her refusal would cause him to run off to a monastery in Tibet and become celibate.
Think, Patrissa, think
, she chided herself.

“But, as you wish,” Blaise said, releasing her.

Sadly, Pat felt the strong pressure of his arms fade. Would it have been so wrong to give in ... ?

“I’m sure you’ll recover,” Pat said, trying to sound light.

“I won’t cover that bet,” he said quietly, then a smile played on his lips for a moment. “I have the rest of forever, Lady Pat,” he said, fondly touching her honey-colored hair, which was so neatly arranged. He pulled out a pin mischievously and handed it to her. “I can wait.”

As if he’d wait for any woman
, Pat thought as she got ready for bed, acutely aware that he was in the other room. Her body was more aware than she cared to admit, and she vainly tried to think of other things. Blaise Hamilton was a charming womanizer, she told herself firmly, then relented.

No, that wasn’t quite fair. He didn’t use women. He enjoyed them, giving them a wonderful time while he was there. No strings. No promises. She climbed into bed and told herself that all this contemplation was fruitless. Besides, she needed her rest. Tomorrow was not that far away.

The press conference went better than she had thought it would. Pat had worked with Blaise all morning, preparing to answer the questions that would most likely be asked. Even so, she went into it with icy hands, keeping her head high as she stepped past an ocean of people armed with pens and papers and cameras, ready to take down every word. The conference, called for three, was held in what had recently been dubbed “the problem room,” where the “bugs” that plagued the Hamilton jet’s progress were ironed out. Pat was used to seeing engineers standing about there, chewing pencils and speaking a language that had once been foreign to her. The room, with its long oak table and the afternoon light streaming in from a wall of windows on one side, had seemed almost like a second home to her. Now it was the site of the enemy camp.

Blaise squeezed her hand as she sat down, as if sensing her thoughts. He took the seat next to her, a place she would normally have given to the foreman, Wade Pardy, who now stood off to the side and scowled. Pat looked to her left at Sam’s profile. Good old Sam, she thought, having him around was such a comfort at a time like this.

“I think we can start now,” Blaise whispered to Pat as he leaned forward, covering the microphone in front of her.

The smell of his cologne invaded her senses. What an odd thing to think of at a time like this, she told herself. Suddenly the low-keyed noise around her became an organized din as the warriors of the press took aim with their pens and recorders, waiting for her to give the first words. A naturally shy person, Pat wondered how she had come to be in this situation.
Well, here goes nothing
, she thought.

She raised her head high and forced herself to look out at the sea of faces, trying to turn them into people rather than a mass of swarming vultures.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” she said with a throat that was dry, “I’m very glad you came, giving me this opportunity to fully inform you about my husband’s—about our project. I hope to clear up any ‘mysteries’ or misconceptions that you might have.” She looked around at the wide show of eager hands before her and picked one out, fervently hoping that the question would be an easy one.

The hand belonged to a hard-looking reporter who quickly went to the heart of the matter. “The Hamilton jet has been called everything from a paper plane to the new Spruce Goose,” he said, referring to Howard Hughes’s grounded plane. “Just exactly what is it?” he asked, his tone a trifle more subdued now beneath Pat’s unwavering gaze.
 

Pat could command respect when she tried, having the manner of a cool, refined lady, hence Blaise’s nickname for her. It was only Roger’s family who insisted on treating her in a highhanded, demeaning manner.