Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One (47 page)

Pat walked over to Blaise, attempting to pull the cover over him a little more, when he suddenly opened his eyes and grabbed her wrist playfully. “Trying to sneak a peek while I sleep?” he asked mischievously. “For shame.”

Pat felt color rise to her cheeks beneath her makeup and her olive complexion. “You were kicking it off,” she said, trying not to sound embarrassed.

“Would that have been so bad?” he asked teasingly, sitting up.

“You’d better get dressed,” she said, her voice amused at his ploy. She hoped she sounded sufficiently detached. “It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” he said, getting up and moving like a well-trained athlete. Pat averted her eyes a moment later—not quite quickly enough not to see him. Blaise caught the motion. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night,” he commented, padding on bare feet to the shower.

“You have a way of constantly embarrassing me,” she called into the bathroom. “Do you enjoy it?”

“In a way,” he replied above the rush of the water. “But not nearly as much as I enjoy making love to you.”

“Do we have to talk about that now?” she asked, uncomfortable. She had thought of herself as a modern woman, but he had a way of changing all that. He had a way of giving the lie to all the things she thought she knew about herself.

“No,” he said, coming out as he toweled himself dry after an incredibly short shower. “We could be doing something about it instead,” he suggested.

“Get dressed,” she said, turning away and walking to the next room.

“Can’t trust yourself, eh?” he chuckled.

Pat did not answer.

Her suspicions grew as, over breakfast, a now suavely dressed Blaise informed her that the Prime Minister was entirely unavailable. Her gaze hardened. So it had been a sham, she thought as her appetite failed her.

“Then I guess we had better take the next plane home,” she said, putting down her coffee cup. “Unless you need to keep me here longer for some reason,” she said cuttingly, her voice cold. How could he have used her like this?

The light in Blaise’s shimmering blue eyes was annoyance, but he said nothing as he finished his coffee, then paused for a moment, as if to calm something inside. “If you take the plane now, the press here is going to be mighty annoyed with you. Not to mention those out-of-work Canadians.”

She looked at him blankly, trying to clear the fog out of her mind. “What are you talking about?” she asked as a waitress appeared to refill her coffee cup. Pat placed her hand over it to stop her, but the woman was far too engrossed with Blaise’s profile to take note and began to pour the hot liquid over Pat’s hand.

She yelped in surprise and pain and the waitress jumped back in embarrassment. Blaise was quick to dip his handkerchief into the glass of ice water at his place and bathe Pat’s red fingers.

“Wounded without even firing a shot,” he said lightly, stroking her red fingers.

“Yes,” she said, not thinking of the coffee at all as their eyes met and held for a moment.

“Well, you were asking me about my statement,” Blaise said after a pause, his voice cutting through the electrically charged air. “The Prime Minister can’t meet with us, but some very able representatives of his in the House of Commons can,” he said. “Right after we hold a press conference.”

“Another press conference?” she asked in dismay as the frightened young waitress appeared with a bowl of ice cubes.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Blaise said, rising to help her on with her coat. “That’s not necessary,” he said to the waitress. “The lady has decided she’ll live.” He turned back to Pat. “Haven’t you?”

Pat smiled, relieved that he had not lied to her, had not brought her here on false pretenses.

“Yes, I’ve decided it’s definitely worthwhile. Even if I have to talk to the press,” Pat said cheerfully.

The conference was held in one of the Parliament buildings. The Parliament Hill complex stood on a promontory above the Ottawa River like a huge Gothic symbol of justice.

The press was marvelously receptive to her. There was no cynical hostility to face, only predominantly grateful reporters who wanted to know every detail that was available about the proposed factory and the plane itself. Here, Pat met a hope that matched her own. Back home the Eagle was looked on as a whimsical invention that might never take flight—or as a possible threat to the already existing plane-manufacturing industry. Here the Eagle was looked on as a hopeful source of employment. The atmosphere was much more relaxed.

And again, Blaise sat at her side, lending his silent support.

As they left the reporters behind them, Pat glanced at her watch, knowing that they had to be at the Centre Block, which housed the House of Commons and the Senate, within half an hour. She was to meet five of the dignitaries in the Parliamentary Library, where everything could be settled informally—as informally as possible with a battery of lawyers looking on.

Pat wondered where they would meet their own legal council, who, Blaise had assured her, possessed outstanding credentials. Then a man waved to them, and she felt a resurgence of gratitude to Blaise for using his connections on her behalf. But a devil’s advocate within her still wondered why he was going to such trouble.

“The press conference went very well,” Blaise said as they crossed the threshold of the huge library.

Pat felt overwhelmed by the hushed, awe-inspiring atmosphere. The row of neatly attired men, all in their late fifties, rose in unison to greet her. “I guess I’m getting pretty good at press conferences,” she whispered, drawing her courage around her like a protective cloak.

“That’s not all you’re getting good at,” Blaise whispered back. A smile traced itself over Pat’s lips and the row of men seemed to respond to it.

“Don’t forget to be charming,” Blaise advised, just before he made the appropriate introductions.

“I thought that was your department,” she said between lips that hardly moved.

“It’s your Eagle,” he reminded her.

Yes. It was her Eagle. And she was relieved to hear him say that. So, he apparently thought that in the final analysis, she would have to do her own persuading.

And that was what she did. Armed with an endless supply of answers that had been embedded deep into her brain over the last year, Pat found herself equal to all the questions asked.

At first, they had been polite and simple. But Pat soon proved herself quite capable in the men’s eyes. She noted that Blaise deliberately did not come to her rescue with answers when she paused. He let her pull herself out of her own traps. And this above all else compelled the men to look upon her seriously. Not that there was any question that they were all set, as representatives of their government, to pledge financial backing in exchange for the rights to the factory, but they had indicated at the beginning of the meeting that they believed themselves to be dealing with Blaise.

Pat had changed their minds and infected them with her enthusiasm as she spoke about the dream that was now hers.

“Gentlemen, we are on the threshold of something that could revolutionize air travel as we know It today. Ten years down the road, all the planes that are used will be built according to the specifications that are being laid down right now, and I do thank you for your vote of confidence and your farsightedness. For all inventions, once upon a time, were only dreams in the minds of their inventors. What the dreams need are men of faith and vision to make them a reality. And you are those men,” Pat said as she beamed gratefully at them.

She sank back in her chair as the final arrangements were placed in the capable hands of the lawyers. She glanced at Blaise, who looked genuinely proud of her. “I told you she was something else,” he said in an audible whisper to the government representatives.

A shared laugh signaled an end to business discussion and they adjourned to another room, where they enjoyed a sumptuous luncheon, away from the watchful eye of the press.

Pat could not believe it had truly happened. Thirty million dollars and a factory where they could produce the Eagle. All arranged within an hour. What sort of magician was this Blaise Hamilton? she wondered, stealing a glance at him over the rim of her wine glass.

“Do you really think you can have the ‘bugs’ out of your plane before January first?” a nattily dressed, wide-jowled senator asked Pat.

“Well, we certainly will try,” Pat said with a smile. Then, after taking another sip, she looked into the man’s catlike eyes. “Besides, we have no alternative,” she said honestly. “We have to meet our deadline. The U.S. Cavalry always arrives in the nick of time.”

Later that afternoon, when a session of the Senate was called, Pat and Blaise stayed and exchanged pleasantries with the five men who had become the saviors of her dream. During the whole period, whether she stood or sat, Pat felt that her knees were made entirely of water and she was amazed that they could support her at all. She hadn’t realized how very frightened she was of the whole ordeal until it was over.

And she knew that she would never have made it without Blaise’s support.

Chapter Ten

They stayed for a while, standing in the visitors’ gallery overlooking the proceedings on the Senate floor, just to get a touch of the local government. But in an hour’s time they were back at their hotel.

“We could stay another day,” Blaise said as Pat began to pack her suitcase. “I have the suite reserved until tomorrow night.”

“No.” Pat shook her head. “I’d better be getting back. There’s so much to be done if we’re to meet this deadline,” she said, worrying that they could not.

“You haven’t even seen your first Mountie,” Blaise said. “How can you go back to New Mexico and tell them you didn’t even see a Mountie?”

“I’ll tell them they weren’t in season,” Pat said with a smile, neatly folding her cocktail dress. A flash of last night danced before her eyes as she did so.

“Mounties are always in season,” Blaise said. “If you don’t want to see Mounties, we could just stay here and see each other,” he proposed, his voice growing warm and velvety as he took hold of both her hands.

That offer was much harder to cast aside. “Blaise,” Pat said with effort, fighting her own longings. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for the project. ...” Her voice trailed off.

“It wasn’t all for the project,” Blaise said. “Some of it was for me too,” he said, running his fingers along her jawline. He turned her face up to his and kissed her, the kiss penetrating deep into her soul.

“Blaise, you’re not making this easy,” she said, her words struggling to be heard.

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t intend to make your escape from me easy. You’ve got your loan, you’ve got your backers, and a busy little crew working their hearts out for you,” he said. “How about a little time for you and the white knight who came to your rescue?” he asked, tugging at her zipper, which began to slide down without much opposition from Pat.

“I’ve also got a family that’s fighting me in court in a week and a deadline to meet,” she reminded him, but her voice was far from firm as Blaise countinued undoing her clothes while his lips delivered soft, butterfly kisses on every inch of skin he uncovered.

“They’ll keep,” he promised. “And a few hours will make no difference to the deadline or the court.”

She was about to give in to his powers of persuasion, when her cell phone rang, casting a shrill, cold hand over the pervading warmth.

“Damn Alexander Graham Bell’s soul,” Blaise muttered as he released her.

It was Sam.

“More trouble, boss lady,” he said in his low-keyed voice, and it was as if a bucket of water had been thrown at Pat.

She gripped the phone with both hands. “What is it?” she asked tensely.

“Another part failed the stress test. Everything checked out okay, and then it just blew.”

“Can it be replaced?” she asked.

“Sure, but it’ll take time.”

“We’ve got until the thirty-first of December to get it off the ground and tested under safety regulations,” Pat reminded him, her nerves taut. Why was there always something?

There was a pause on the other end of the line, even though Sam knew about the deadline. “We can work in three shifts,” he volunteered.

“Will they?” she asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Blaise pull out his own suitcase. He knew without a word obviously, that this put an end to any further lovemaking between them. At least for now.

“For you, boss lady, they’ll probably jump through a few more hoops and do it gladly,” Sam said.

“Well, someone isn’t jumping through hoops for me,” she said cryptically. “Do you suspect anyone?”

“Not a clue,” he said, a trifle too quickly, Pat thought. “See you in the morning?”

“Yes. And, Sam—“

“Yes?”

“We’ve got thirty million dollars more to work with.” She hoped that the news would make him feel better.

She knew Sam well enough to know that there would be no whoop of joy from him. Sam preferred to see life’s limitations. “Let’s hope we’ve got a plane to work with,” he said and then hung up.

“Trouble?” Blaise asked as he finished his own packing and closed the lid on her suitcase.

Pat went to him, nodding absently. Had it been her imagination, or had Sam really answered her too quickly when she had asked if he suspected anyone? “Another failure.”

“It’ll all be ironed out in time,” Blaise assured her.

“How do you do it?” she asked, turning to look at him. “How do you keep from worrying about details? You always seem so carefree.”

“It won’t help to worry. It dulls the senses. I try to keep one step ahead of it all. If that doesn’t work, something else will,” he said matter-of-factly. “Here,” he said, tossing the box he had purchased yesterday on top of her suitcase.

Pat looked at him and then back at the box.
So, it had been for her!
With excited fingers, she opened it and found a long, cream-colored nightgown. The bodice was cut straight across, suspended on spaghetti straps and made of light lace. The sides fell straight down, with three straps of material lacing it together loosely on the side. Otherwise, it was completely slit up to the bodice. She held it up, then looked at Blaise with a question in her eyes.