Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One (45 page)

“You’re imagining things,” Pat said, dismissing his statement airily while she kept her eyes averted.

“Lady, if there’s one thing I can spot, it’s a hostile woman. Now you’d better pull yourself together for the Prime Minister. He doesn’t care for scowling women—and neither do I,” Blaise added. “What’s the matter? Did I overstep another boundary again?” he asked. This time he sounded a bit annoyed.

They had spent the long journey from New Mexico’s Municipal Airport to Ottawa Uplands Airport mostly in silence, as Pat mulled over the entire situation. Someone was obviously betraying her and she didn’t know whom to suspect. No one within the factory, or “the Family” as she had come to think of them all, stood to gain anything if the Eagle never made it off the ground.

“Is that a smile, or just gas?” Blaise asked, taking her arm as they stepped outside. The cold November wind whipped at Pat’s ermine hood, pushing the pile forward against her face.

“Do you always word things so eloquently?” she asked as the wind snatched at her breath, making her lungs ache. A few snowflakes fell against her cheek. The remains of the last snowstorm were around her fashionable, knee-high boots as Pat leaned against Blaise to steady her walk.

“Well, it got a response, didn’t it?” Blaise said with a chuckle. “Besides, I don’t recall you having that kind of look on your face before. Ah, a coach and four,” he muttered as a taxi pulled up slowly in front of them.

Blaise bundled her inside and she moved awkwardly toward the window, leaving room for him. The taxi felt oppressively warm from its old heater and Pat let her coat part.

“Chateau Laurier,” Blaise said to the driver, then settled back next to Pat, putting his arm easily around her shoulders.

Pat had the feeling that he had done this countless times before in hundreds of taxicabs, whisking a woman off to an elegantly furnished room. Well, she was not about to be sidetracked.

“That’s not the name of the Prime Minister’s residence,” she pointed out.

Blaise laughed, and she felt a little like a child who had said something amusing. He shook his head, his eyes snapping invitingly at her, showing her that part of him was not thinking about business at all.

“I’m not that important, Lady Pat. I couldn’t wangle us an invitation with the Prime Minister. But I did manage to get a room at the most expensive hotel in town, despite the heavy flow of conventioneers—which, I hope you appreciate, is no mean trick. Despite this being the capital, Ottawa does not have that many places to stay once conventions really get started.”

But all Pat heard was one word.

“Room?” she repeated.

His eyes sparkled merrily. “Have to economize in some way,” he said softly. “Our President requests it.”

“I want two rooms,” she said firmly.

“Where’s your patriotism?” he asked, amused, pushing back her hood after he had taken off his fur-lined gloves. His warm hand brushed against her face, making her tingle.

“Tucked behind my good sense,” Pat replied, glancing out the window and watching the scenery go by. Ottawa was a combination of old and new, with Victorian buildings existing comfortably alongside modern structures. A layer of snow lay where, in the summer, a myriad of bright flowers peered back at tourists.

“A pity,” Blaise said, his voice a trace harder to Pat’s ear. “But I’m afraid your good sense will have to take into account the fact that there are no other rooms available at the moment.”

Pat turned back to Blaise. “That’s impossible,” she said. This wasn’t the backwoods, this was the capital of Canada. Surely there had to be “a room at the inn,” she thought.

As if reading her thoughts, Blaise took his arm from her shoulders and said, “There might be a stable or two available, but the town is full up. There’re twenty separate conventions taking place here,” he said. “And all those conventioneers are wondering if they’re in for another snowstorm,” he added, glancing past her out the window.

It sounded impossible, but she had no doubt that he was speaking the truth. Blaise would have researched something like that. Despite her resolve, she felt overjoyed at being “forced” to spend the night with him. But something within her pulled back, ever watchful. It was vital that she sever all contact with the part of her that was vulnerable. A lot more was at stake here than just her heart, which had already been lost in the gamble.

“I could sleep on the sofa the way they did in the old movies,” he whispered, winking gallantly. His breath made her shiver as it tickled her cheek.

The taxi stopped at Confederation Square in front of the 1912 edifice that played host to all the important dignitaries who passed through Canada.

“Are we here?”

“That we are,” Blaise said, leaning forward to pay the driver the fare plus a handsome tip. The man stammered his thanks for the extra twenty in his hand as he nearly tripped over himself to get out, come around and open Pat’s door.

“I thought we were economizing,” Pat whispered against her fur hood, looking up at Blaise as she stepped out of the cab.

Blaise grinned. “You’ve nothing against being generous to the less fortunate, have you?” he asked.

She had to smile as she shook her head, not in answer to his question but in response to the deviltry in his eyes. The man had a way of squirming out of everything. She could see how he managed to wheel and deal so well.

Blaise whisked her inside quickly, out of the cold, which was beginning to nip at her despite her heavy, calf-length ermine coat. Immediately, a sense of elegant warmth surrounded her in the lobby of the hotel, which had been named after Prime Minister Sir Wilfrid Laurier. The lobby was filled to capacity, but even the conventioneers, recognizable because of their badges, seemed sufficiently subdued by the luxurious atmosphere.

“See?” Blaise said, in case Pat still doubted him. “You’re lucky we don’t have to double up with a couple from Lower Sandusky, California,” he said as they reached the desk.

He gave his name to the austere man at the front desk, who seemed to come alive at the mere mention of it. A bellhop appeared at their elbow from out of thin air, and within a few minutes Blaise and Pat were standing in an elegant, ornate suite.

“I’ve seen smaller guesthouses,” Pat said, looking around the front room.

Despite the large size of the room, once the bellhop had left, clutching his tip and trying to appear unaffected but not succeeding, Pat felt very, very alone with Blaise.

He watched her for a long moment as she looked at the view—or tried to. All she really was conscious of was that they were alone together.

Blaise came up behind her as she stood in the doorway of the bedroom and slowly slipped her fur coat from her shoulders and tossed it onto the bed.

“So,” Pat said with effort, finding a voice that wanted to be still, “when do we see the Prime Minister?”

Blaise’s lips found the hollow of her throat and
Pat struggled to remember why she was here. The
Eagle, the Eagle, her mind echoed in diminishing
tones.

“Who?” Blaise asked as his lips slowly trailed around her neck and up against her ear, his tongue encircling the outline ever so lightly.

“The . . . Prime . . . Minister ...” Pat fought to get the words out of the swirling sea that was engulfing her brain.

“Oh, him,” Blaise murmured, his voice teasing as his fingers began to undo the buttons of her bone-white suit jacket. “We’ll call him later,” he promised, his flesh making contact with hers.

With strength that came out of nowhere, Pat stepped back, fighting her way out of the hot haze around her. “We’ll call him now,” she said. “It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.”
 

Fool
, her mind echoed.

But Blaise seemed to take it all in stride as he shrugged and calmly went to the old-fashioned white telephone that stood on the nightstand. He dialed a number without consulting his telephone book, then, after a quiet exchange that lasted barely three minutes, he hung up and turned back to Pat, who had used the time to compose herself.

“I’m afraid we’re out of luck.”

“What?” Pat exclaimed suspiciously.

“Seems that an emergency came up. He won’t be able to see us until tomorrow,” Blaise said.

“And what will tomorrow’s excuse be? Canada’s gone to war?” she asked with a tinge of cynicism.

“If they go to war, they’ll probably need the planes that much faster,” he said glibly. He stepped over to her again, and instead of being angry, he looked at her with understanding, pity, and a trace of sadness. “Patti, when did you lose that innocent trust you had?” he asked, slowly rebuttoning her jacket for her.

His gesture filled her with a tender feeling for him, which she tried to banish.
It was just what he wanted
, her logical mind told her. He wanted to keep her guard down and her resistance low, so he could manipulate her. “When I became chairman of the board and responsible to a lot of other people,” she said truthfully.

“C’mon,” he said with a small sigh. “Let me take the chairman of the board to lunch, and then we’ll take in the sights.” After a pause, he offered Invitingly, “Unless you want to stay here.”

Yes, she wanted to stay here. She wanted to be made love to again, but it was the last thing she could allow herself to do. “Lunch will be wonderful,” she said, picking up her coat.

“No, lunch will be fine. Something else will be wonderful,” he promised, a wicked glint coming into his eye.

How well he knew his women, she thought. She held her head high as she passed him out the door. Was it her imagination, or did she hear him chuckle to himself?

They had lunch at the hotel’s sedate yet charming Canadian Grill; then, seeing that the weather had let up a little, Blaise escorted Pat out and proposed that they do what women liked to do second best.

“Which is?” Pat asked archly.

“Shop,” he said innocently.

“And what is it in your estimation that women like to do first?” she asked gamely as the elegant-looking doorman hailed a cab for them. The frosty chill in the air had died away, and while the pregnant clouds still hovered over them, no more snowflakes descended for the moment.

Blaise grinned widely at her. “If your memory’s so poor, I suggest we retire back up to the suite and I’ll remind you,” he said, snuggling close to her as the doorman closed the cab door behind them.

Her coat made it difficult to slide over when she felt the outline of Blaise’s hard, muscular leg against hers, despite the many layers of clothing between them. She had to get control of herself!

“I think you’re oversimplifying things,” she said, gathering her dignity around her.

“I think you’re overcomplicating them,” he countered. “You’re the last person I would have thought capable of indulging in games.”

“I’m not the one playing games. You’ve got to admit,” Pat said, letting her guard down for a moment and speaking to him the way she wanted to, “your reputation with women makes it a little difficult to take anything you say without a grain of salt.”

“Perhaps Lady Pat can’t,” he said seriously. “But Patti can,” he added with a whisper that recalled their night of love.

Pat turned from him, confused. She didn’t want to risk a major disappointment by daring to hope that he was serious about her. But as the tender, wonderful, endless moments of lovemaking shimmered vividly before her, she could not believe that this was something he went through mechanically. How could all that have happened between them without any feelings on his part? And yet, how could there be any? He had an army of women at his beck and call, far more experienced, far more sophisticated than she.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Blaise chided, his deep voice breaking into her thoughts. “The vein in your forehead is standing out,” he said, his fingers brushing against it as if to smooth it back. “Let everything happen the way it should,” he advised.

“I fully intend to,” she said, thinking of the Eagle and her promise to Roger.

“Good,” he said, settling back in the deep seat of the cab, obviously not thinking of the Eagle at all.

The cab driver took them to the Sparks Street Mall, an outdoor shopping area comprised of five city blocks filled with shops, both thriving department stores and little boutiques that brought the word quaint to mind immediately. In addition, there were historic buildings, rock gardens, sculptures galore, and even a few brave musicians who provided live entertainment as they stood around a heater donated by the department store that had hired them. The four violinists took turns playing and warming themselves at the heater.

“This is a more interesting place in the summer,” Blaise said as he escorted Pat into the store.

“Of course, then you have to deal with the heat. It gets pretty bad here at times.”

“A little heat would be nice now,” Pat commented, feeling her face tingle as the warmth of the store met it.

“I could take care of that,” Blaise volunteered.

“Don’t you ever stop?” she asked with a laugh.

“Not until they bury me,” he said honestly. “Ah, women’s wear,” he read from the directory. “Let’s go”

“Why do you think you know my tastes?” she asked as he directed her exactly where she would normally have gone.

“Because, Lady Pat, I know everything about you.”

And he seemed to.

It was almost eerie. Blaise knew her favorite color. At lunch, he had ordered for her without asking her and had known just what she would have chosen on the menu. He knew her favorite drink. And the suite had been decorated in her favorite colors. And now he chose a cocktail dress that her own instincts would have led her to had he not been there. How careful a study had he made of her? she wondered as he urged her to try on the dress. And why?

Pat modeled the navy chiffon cocktail dress and saw the approval in Blaise’s eyes as she turned with the full skirt swinging out around her. She was proud of the way the dress nipped in at her waist. She felt sensual in it. The dress had long full sleeves and the front had a deep, deep V neck that disappeared into the wide belt. She felt as if she were wearing an airy, floating cloud.