November 2014, Avon Books
ISBN-10: 0062019066
ISBN-13: 978-0062019066
December 1998
Leisure Books
Reissue:  August 2004
ISBN-10: 0843944579
ISBN-13: 978-0843944570

LOVE ME TENDER

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EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

Cinderella’s slipper would have never made it over a corn…
“THE PRINCE IS A ROYAL PAIN IN THE…FOOT.”
Prince Pedro Tomas de la Ferrama had just shimmied off his jeans and was pulling up his gray silk Armani slacks when he glanced out the shaded side window of the limousine and saw the sign wielded by a female picketer. He immediately did a double-take.

A long-legged strawberry blonde on crutches brandished the ignominious placard. Although she leaned against a telephone pole, she was clearly the ringleader of the line of chanting women—at least a dozen—who paraded in front of the skyscraper housing his sixteenth floor offices. They carried similar messages: “FERRAMA IS ANTI-WOMAN.” “WHAT’S SEXY ABOUT CORNS?” “PRINCE FERRAMA IS A FROG.” “THE VAMP = CORNS.” “DOWN WITH FERRAMA SHOES.” “CORNS, BUNIONS, CALLOUSES…WHAT NEXT? WARTS?”

¡Maldito!” he muttered and quickly flicked a switch, speaking into the intercom, “Circle the block, Jake.” With the usual noontime traffic congestion, that could take half an hour.

“Sure thing, boss,” his head designer, Jacob Beaunare, snapped back with childlike glee. Due to their ongoing financial crunch, Jake had been forced to double as chauffeur, but it was a role he enjoyed. The former MIT whiz kid whipped the leased stretch limo, with its detachable imperial crests, out into the bustling Manhattan street, oblivious to the honking horns and curses of cab drivers, not to mention the WBOT news van.

Oh, great! Is that Diane Sawyer coming up the street, flanked by two ABC cameramen?

“What the hell’s going on, Dick?” he snarled, turning on his lawyer and figurehead CEO, Enrique Alvarez, who sat beside him on the other side of the limo’s wide bench seat, sipping a Scotch and perusing a file of papers in his open briefcase with calculated coolness. Dick prided himself on his smooth composure under pressure.

He was about to give Dick some real pressure…like a fist in his too-pretty face. He was sick to death of all the PR games Dick orchestrated, although, to be fair, he didn’t know if Dick was responsible for this latest travesty.

Peering up at him over a pair of wire-rimmed reading spectacles, Dick smoothed a hand over his long, slicked-back hair, which was gathered into a ponytail at his nape—a personally blueprinted facade. “Relax, P.T. I told you when I picked you up at La Guardia that we have a minor crisis. No problema.”

Uh-oh! Every time Dick said “no problema,” he could be sure they had lots of problems. P.T. mentally fortified himself for the worst, then said, “¿No problema? You call a herd of…of Femi-Nazis circling my headquarters no problema? You call that Hard Copy vehicle on our tail no problema? You call this kind of publicity just before the Ferrama stock offering no problema?”

“Don’t get your laces in a knot, mi amigo. I’ll handle it.”

¡Carramba! Were articles of Incorporation filed today with the Securities and Exchange Commission?” he asked stonily.

“Sí…of course. Now we have three weeks before Ferrama goes public on August sixteenth. Next starts the road show, taking our presentations to the brokerage institutions in the selling group. The lawyers are proofing the final prospectus as we speak.”

“And the opening price?”

“Five dollars per unit.” Dick beamed with satisfaction. He’d been afraid the initial offering would be set at a lower price, which wouldn’t necessarily have been bad, but anything under five dollars smacked of penny stocks which he’d wanted to avoid.

“So, with two million shares, we’ll raise ten million in equity, as we’d hoped.”

“Yep. Man oh man, we landed in a pile of gold dust when we chose Donaldson & Donaldson for the managing underwriters, P.T. The fifteen securities firms they invited into the initial selling group are primo…the best in the business.”

“It was more of a coup that Donaldson chose us,” P.T. pointed out dryly, but he couldn’t help but smile at Dick’s enthusiasm.

Dios, I’m so anxious, I wish we could hit the boards today, but the SEC demands this twenty-one day ‘cooling off’ period. I can see that you’re wired, too, P.T. So, why don’t you take this time to cool off yourself. You’re entirely too uptight.”

P.T. realized that Dick had managed to divert his attention from the problem at hand…the picketers. He released a long sigh of exasperation. “Ah, Dick, you have to know that this is a delicate stage. News of our impending stock offering will surely hit the financial news by tomorrow.”

“Yeah. In fact, you have an appointment this afternoon with a Wall Street Journal reporter. And the ‘tombstone’ ads to be run in the financial pages of all the major newspapers on the big day are ready to be sent out. They just need your final stamp of approval.”

He groaned. “So why are those women picketing our offices?”

“We had no warning the crackpot would go this far. She and her cohorts weren’t here when I left the building two hours ago.”

“You knew there was a problem? And didn’t nip it in the bud?”

“Hey, I had my hands full with your stepsisters. Those two blood-suckers would put the wicked stepsisters in Cinderella to shame.”

P.T. winced. “What are Naomi and Ruth up to now?”

“Same old/same old. Money, money, money…they just can’t get enough. They’re driving everybody at the office bonkers. Wait till the accountant gets a hold of you. Naomi bought five thousand dollars worth of power tools and fifty gallons of paint last week. Ruth ordered three Bob Mackie sequin jumpsuits for her boyfriend, Elmer Presley, for a cool ten grand.”

“Elmer Presley? He’s still hanging around?” P.T. choked out, then waved a hand dismissively. “I can’t deal with Naomi and Ruth now. Back to the picketers…what can we do to avert a disaster?”’

“Don’t overreact. I’m sure it’s just a tiny blip in the scheme of things.”

“Are you loco? I smell a lawsuit waiting to happen. Any negative publicity could deflate our opening stock price.”

“I said I’d handle it, man.”

That was the problem. He probably would. The question was how.

Arching his butt off the seat, P.T. tucked his black tee shirt into the pleated slacks, then buttoned, zipped and belted himself in, the whole time scowling his displeasure at his colleague. As a final touch, and with a grimace of distaste, he draped the matching, double-breasted suit jacket over his shoulders like some Italian movie star…or prince. Who the hell ever heard of wearing a tee shirt with a suit? But that’s what Dick proclaimed the hottest item in international men’s couture, according to GQ. Dick knew that kind of useless crap.

The persona finally in place, P.T. took a deep breath. “Let’s cut to the chase and—.”

His words were interrupted by the screech of brakes and the sound of metal abrading metal as Jake misjudged a corner with the twenty-foot vehicle and side-swiped three trash cans. A bag lady gave them the flying finger salute, and a cop blew his shrill whistle. Jake could be seen in the rear-view mirror shrugging sheepishly and mouthing, “Oops!”

P.T. braced his forehead with the carefully manicured fingertips of one hand—another of Dick’s bright ideas to fit the image…clear nail polish!—and closed his eyes, counting to ten. Then he leveled a withering glare at Dick, who had the good sense to put aside his booze and briefcase. “Fill me in on everything.”

“She’s Cynthia Sullivan.”

“Who?”

“The redhead.”

Oh. The babe on crutches with the Rockette legs. “That wasn’t red hair. It was blonde…well, reddish-blonde,” he pointed out, having no time to wonder why or how he’d noticed such irrelevant details.

“Oh, God!” Dick’s mouth went slack-jawed with surprise before he hooted with laughter, shaking his head at him. “You dumb schmuck. That’s Cynthia ’The Shark’ Sullivan, and you’ve got the hots for her.”

“Knock it off,” P.T. sliced out. Dick had been a friend for more than a decade and a business associate for more than five years, but sometimes he went too damn far.

“Take my advice. You need all your wits about you the next few weeks, and it’s a proven fact that testosterone is a natural I.QI.Q. suppressant. I oughta know.”

“Damn straight you oughta know.” Since his divorce, Dick had gone through one woman after another.

“Believe me, this señorita is bad news…a pit bull in high heels.”

“I am not interested in the woman. I only commented on her hair,” he protested. “Besides, my sex life is none of your business.”

Dick just grinned at him.

P.T. inhaled deeply for calm. “What do you mean by the shark remark?”

“Didn’t you see the Business Week article last year profiling Cynthia Sullivan, the Wall Street trader nicknamed ‘The Shark’?”

P.T. rubbed his chin pensively. “I thought ‘shark’ referred to a ruthless corporate raider or ‘Black Knight’.”

“It usually does, but in her case, she earned the tag another way. She’s so aggressive on the exchange floor that some brokers refer to her as ‘The Irish Barracuda’.”

“Is she the kook who made network news when she told Alan Greenspan to eff-off?”

“Bulls-eye! The Fed chief was giving a speech at the Forbes Magazine luncheon when she overheard him saying something about brokers taking voluntary pay cuts to help curb inflation.”

“Hmpfh! It’s about time someone put Greenspan in his place.” But then P.T. frowned. “I don’t understand. We have a Wall Street trader leading a picket of our business? We’re talking serious shit hitting the fan, then. And you say ‘no problema’?”

“No, no, no,” Dick corrected. “Her job has nothing to do with this campaign of hers…well, not directly. Don’t you remember me telling you on the phone last week that some fruitcake had been calling customer service to complain about a corn she got from one of our shoes…‘The Vamp’? You told me to ignore her.”

“A corn?” P.T. yelled. He felt a headache the size of his debit balance begin to pound behind his eyeballs. “I thought you were talking about some old lady with blue hair, not someone quite so…uh, young. And wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Oh, Cynthia Sullivan’s not young,” Dick said with a knowing snort. “She must be at least thirty.”

He slanted Dick a wry glance. They were both thirty-two. “That’s young,” he insisted. “Let me get this straight. We’re being picketed because some chick allegedly got a corn on her big toe from one of our products.”

“Pinky.”

“What?”

“The corn’s on her pinky toe, not her big toe.”

¡Mierda!” he murmured.

“She claims her profession requires her to be on her feet all day on the exchange floor. Traders are those people you see on the evening news during the daily stock reports, standing around yelling out bids, like an auction. Anyhow, she says the pain of the corn kept her from doing her job.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Then, because she wasn’t able to move quickly, one of the other traders stepped on her foot and broke that toe, along with two others. She lost her job…temporarily, at least. And she might have to default on the two million dollar apartment she recently bought at the Dakota.”

“Two million dollars?” P.T.’s jaw dropped with incredulity. Then he thought of something. “The Dakota? Isn’t that the place where John Lennon was shot?”

“Uh-huh. It’s harder to get into that building than Fort Knox now—visitor or resident. Very ritzy place, like a castle. Believe me, she got a bargain at two million. And talk about elite occupants! Over the years it’s been home to Lauren Bacall, Rudolf Nureyev, Gilda Radnor, Roberta Flack, some Arab princess, Boris Karloff. In fact, the movie ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ was filmed there.”

“What are you, a walking real estate encyclopedia?” P.T. snorted with disgust. “So, we’ve got some Boris Karloff Creature from the Black Dakota Lagoon, living in Rosemary’s baby’s co-op, about to put a curse on our company?”

“I never said she lived in those particular apartments.”

“Whatever! A corn, Dick? A corn? Talk about frivolous complaints!”

“That’s what everyone said about that lady who sued McDonald’s over a hot cup of coffee. She got millions.”

“I needed to hear that,” P.T. grumbled. “Dick, our shoes sell so well because they’re sexy, but also because they’re guaranteed to be ergonomically and orthopedically comfortable. Is it possible our product caused her…injury?”

“I doubt it, but it doesn’t really matter. We can’t risk a court battle.”

“Okay, what’s our happy picketer looking for…fifteen minutes of fame on the T.V. tabloids? An easy cash cow from us? Or is she just plain crazy?”

“At first, I would have said crazy. Now I’m leaning toward ‘crazy like a fox’.”

“Or a shark.”

“Yep,” Dick agreed. Then he added, “We need a plan.”

“Will our liability insurance cover this kind of injury claim?”

“Probably. Even our bare bones budget isn’t skimpy in that department.”

“So, the problem is publicity. We have to do everything to avoid publicity,” P.T. concluded.

Exactamente. The bankers say we have every reason to expect Ferrama to be hyped as a hot issue. But what we don’t want is a swooner…a stock that’s volatile…supersensitive to news of any kind.”

“Like picketers,” P.T. deduced. “Okay. You’ll have to set up a meeting with Wall Street Barbie, ASAP.”

Dick nodded. “And you’re going to have to be her Ken. Lay on the princely charm with a trowel. Seduce her if you damn well have to.”

P.T. didn’t even blink at the suggestion. They’d both done worse for the company in the five years since they began the blitz to change direction in the marketplace. Now the pot of gold was almost in their grasp, the end of the rainbow no longer an impossible dream.

Besides, he’d never made it with a stock broker before. Maybe he could learn something new.

Still, P.T. balked inwardly. “I’ve spent the past week dodging the bed of Countess Ariana,” he complained.

“That oversexed tart who owns a chain of European fashion mags? I read about her in the New Yorker.”

“One and the same,” P.T. said tiredly. “I gotta tell you, I’m all charmed out. Why don’t you do the seducing this time?”

“Because you’re so much better in the charm department. Because women…no matter how intelligent, no matter what age…still harbor this fantasy of Prince Charming coming down the pike on a white horse to carry them off into the sunset. Because the only horses I’m acquainted with are at the track,” Dick answered with a grin. “Besides, hopefully it won’t come to that. Maybe Ms. Sullivan will be reasonable.”

“A reasonable shark? Somehow, I doubt it.”

Dick tucked his pager and cell phone into his briefcase as the limo approached the front of the building again.

P.T. slid on a Rolex watch and inserted one tiny gold loop earring—additional ostentatious props in their dog and pony show. On his neck, he squirted a minuscule amount of French cologne that cost an ungodly $500 an ounce. Then he wet his palms with water from a bottle of Perrier that Dick handed him and raked the fingers of both hands through his collar-length hair, pushing the long black strands back off his face in a style meant to evoke a casual cosmopolitan air—all window dressing to enhance the image of Ferrama, Inc. Thus far, it had worked.

“Well?” he inquired finally.

With a quick assessment of P.T.’s appearance, Dick nodded his approval. It was a silent ritual they’d replayed too many times to count these past five years, ever since he’d converted his stepfather’s tacky Friedman’s Wholesale Shoe Factory into the elegant Ferrama, Inc.

“Lookin’ good, my friend,” Dick commented with a playful poke in his arm.

Dick knew how much P.T. hated this playacting scam. Well, only three more weeks. Then he could buy out the interests of his greedy stepsisters, and he would be free, free, free. No more prince baloney. No more nonstop business pressures. He would become P.T. Ferrama, regular guy.

“How many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb?” he asked, wanting to lighten the strain between them. He’d posed that same hackneyed lawyer riddle to Dick hundreds of times, often in situations far tighter than this. Hell, some men bonded by hugging, he and Dick bandied ridiculous jokes.

“How many can you afford?” Dick shot back, bobbing his eyebrows at him.

They exchanged smiles then.

“None…if we go belly-up.”

“Hey, where’s the kick-ass Norman Vincent Peale attitude that’s carried us this far?”

“I’m just tired, that’s all.” It was more than that, but this was not the time to open that can of worms.

Donning his dark sunglasses, P.T. waited for Jake to come around and open the door for him. He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself into the suave, debonair guise that should have become second nature to him by now. He’d reinvented himself so many times he barely knew who he really was. Then, bracing himself for the gauntlet of reporters and picketers, he gave Dick one last meaningful look. They both knew the drill.

“Well, hombre, let’s launch this boat and make some waves.” As much as his friend pissed him off, they were in this together, sink or swim. “Oh, and another thing,” P.T. added.

Dick’s lips twitched with amusement, anticipating what he was about to say next.

“Bring Ms. Sullivan up to my office,” he said. “Let’s show her how the big sharks play.”

**********

It takes a con man (woman) to know a con man…
Physical image was important, even in the business world. Therefore, Cynthia glanced quickly in the mirrored side of the elevator and adjusted the mid-thigh skirt of her Versace navy-blue, pin-striped suit, making sure the white lace camisole beneath its open jacket was tucked into the waistband. On her jacket lapel was a platinum brooch from Tiffany’s in the form of a bull sitting on the chest of a downed bear—animal symbols of the two extremes of the stock market. The pin had been a gift from her firm’s senior partners five years ago when she’d grossed her first million in sales. Now she averaged ten million in production each year, easily.

She double-checked the lace camisole to make sure nothing unseemly was showing. Some women on Wall Street, which was still a predominantly male bastion, felt the need to hide their femininity. Cynthia worked hard to tone down her provocative curves and brassy coloring, but still she delighted in flaunting her femininity, in a subtle way.

As her dear old Irish grandma used to say, “There’s no need to fear the wind if your haystacks are tied down.” Well, Cynthia preferred to wrap her haystacks in designer clothes and the illusion of womanly softness which hid her hard inner core.

Cynthia had learned long ago to rely on no one but herself. She had no husband or family or significant other to lean on when the going got rough. Just herself. And that was just fine.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, despite the ugly thick-soled Dr. Scholl-type sandal she was forced to wear on one foot and the open-toed, velcro, post-op bootlet on the other, she hobbled with as much panache as possible out of the elevator on her crutches.

Waiting for her was the man who’d identified himself as Enrique “Just-Call-Me-Dick” Alvarez. He’d extended an invitation to her on behalf of his employer, Prince Ferrama, the president of the shoe company from hell—the cause of all her current problems. Apparently his highness, the shoe toad, wished to meet with her privately to clear up the “little misunderstanding.”

Hah! She’d show him a “little misunderstanding.” More than one trader on the exchange had been burned by underestimating her intelligence. Her grandma had been right. A sharp lass could beat the devil at his game.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to lean on my arm?” Alvarez purred. His words oozed politeness, but his spider-crafty eyes said, “Step into my parlor, Ms. Fly.”

As if! Cynthia reminded herself of another of Grandma’s proverbs, “It’s for its own good that the cat purrs.”

She shook her head at Alvarez’s extended elbow. She really didn’t need crutches all the time, even though three toes were broken a month ago and were still terribly sore. If she walked carefully, she could put her weight on the inner ball of her foot. But she wasn’t about to give the “enemy” that information to use against her.

And make no mistake, this Hispanic man in the ponytail and thousand dollar Italian suit and flamboyant Bolgheri tie was her enemy.

A sly rogue is often in good dress, she cautioned herself.

Alvarez was the full-time attorney as well as the puppet CEO of Ferrama, Inc., the company she intended to take to the cleaners for all her pain and suffering. The man behind the action was the president…the prince himself, she’d discovered through research…but for some reason he preferred to maintain a mysterious, aloof presence, giving the misleading impression that he was not the driving force behind Ferrama, Inc.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t have legal counsel present?” she asked, blinking her eyelashes. She’d once negotiated a billion dollar takeover with just such a ploy. Men could be such idiots.

They were approaching a suite of walnut-paneled offices where an efficient looking, middle aged secretary in a jade silk shirtwaist peered up at them from her word processor. She waved them forward, announcing, “Prince Ferrama will be with you shortly.”

Oh, goody! Cynthia wondered if she’d be expected to curtsy or something. Right. That would be a classic picture—her on crutches, bending, and her short skirt hiked up to her behind. Cynthia repeated her question to Alvarez, “Perhaps I should call my attorney? I don’t understand all this legal mumbo-jumbo. My lawyer might want to be here, don’t you think?”

The secretary swept her with a “Are you for real?” once-over of disdain.

Alvarez snickered under his breath—the jerk!—and waited until they’d entered a large corner office—presumably the royal chamber—before answering. “No, an attorney won’t be necessary, Ms. Sullivan,” he assured her, flashing a dazzling smile of sincerity, which reeked of utter transparent skullduggery. Lucifer couldn’t have done it better.

God, she was going to enjoy bringing this egomaniac and the condescending, pretentious shoe company to their knees.

“It won’t be that kind of a meeting.”

Give me a break. What kind of meeting will it be? Wham, bam, screw-you-ma’am…betcha that’s what kind of meeting he has in mind. “Oh? Well, golly, I don’t know.”

“Trust me, my dear. I’m a lawyer.”

“Now there’s an oxymoron,” she mumbled.

¿Perdóneme?” he inquired as he motioned her toward a winged-back leather chair in front of the desk. He sank down into the chair facing her and stretched his legs out, ankles crossed. “What did you say?”

His posture said relaxed, his eyes said coiled-like-a-cobra. Cynthia warned herself not to underestimate the man.

“Oh, I was merely wondering if you were the Mr. Alvarez I spoke to on three occasions last week. Or was that Mr. Everest?” She plastered a silly grin of embarrassment on her face, as if she was the most scatterbrained woman on the face of the earth. “Dear me, I can’t remember.” With a sigh, she propped her crutches against the side of the chair and settled back. Come on, you dumb flounder, you. I’ve fed you the line. Now take the bait. Move in closer for the kill.

“Yes,” he said tentatively. “I believe I may have spoken with you.”

“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. I’ve spoken to so many people in this firm the past few weeks, trying to arrange an amicable settlement. In fact…” She pulled out a small leather notebook from her side pocket and flipped it open. “…in fact, I was shuffled around to seventeen different persons in your organization during the course of fifty-three calls. When they weren’t laughing at me, they put me on perma-hold—”

“Perma-hold?”

“Yeah, that’s the tactic known as Receptionist’s Revenge where they put you on hold so long you eventually hang up. The unspoken message in all this stonewalling was, ‘Take a hike, Lady.’“ She nailed him with a level look now—the pretense of gullible dingbat dropped. “Does that about sum it up, Mr. Alvarez?”

“Ouch,” he said with a grimace. “Have I just been subjected to a shark attack, Ms. Sullivan?”

“You bet your wing tips.” Cynthia kept her face deliberately bland, not revealing her surprise that he was aware of her shark reputation. Heck, the guy probably knew the size of her mortgage, her education history, where she bought her Tampax.

Unruffled at being zapped, Alvarez grinned at her, obviously relishing the battle to come. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

“In spades.”

He removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and studied her. A weaker-willed woman would have shriveled under such scrutiny, but she met his gaze and matched him with a lift of her chin.

“Bottom line, Ms. Sullivan. How much?”

“One million. And if your boss keeps me waiting much longer, the ante goes up to two million.”

He laughed.

She shrugged.

“Twenty thousand if you sign the release papers right now.”

Now this was interesting. She hadn’t expected Ferrama to be willing to negotiate at all. Oh, twenty thousand was chump change to a corporation of its size and deep pockets, but most companies would rather spend the money in court than set a precedent for what they consider frivolous lawsuits. Not that her claim was frivolous. Not by a Big Board longshot.

“Deep six that, mister. Twenty thousand would barely cover my mortgage payments while I’m out of work.” She started to rise from her seat. “We aren’t even in the same ballpark, Mr. Alvarez. Remember, shut fists catch no hawks.”

“Hawks, sharks…what is this? A zoo?”

Cynthia glared at him. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

He raised a halting hand. “Thirty thousand.”

She tilted her head, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Fifty, and that’s our final offer.”

Okay, I smell a fish here. No way would a shoe company offer me fifty thou unless there’s trouble in paradise. Cynthia’s intuition told her that she’d landed in the midst of a flim-flam, and even if she ended up fifty thousand richer, she was going to be on the losing end of the deal. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture, Mr. Alvarez?”

¡Ah, mierda! Another lawyer jokester!” he murmured enigmatically, throwing up his arms in mock surrender.

“The wing tips are easily removed from one of them,” she answered.

“Are you trying to say you don’t like my shoes?” He waggled a variegated grain wing-tip of buttery soft leather at her that probably cost five hundred dollars.

“No, I’m trying to warn you. Never con a con man…or con woman, in my case. I make my living…a very good living which has been interrupted, thanks to your company…in the financial world where bluff-and-call is the name of the game.”

“I’m listening,” he prodded.

“You thought I was faking. Big mistake.” She gave him a self-satisfied smile, meant to irritate. “Some people think sharks never attack attorneys,” she added, deciding to hit him with another lawyer joke. “Professional courtesy, dontcha know? But as you can see, that’s just an old wives tale.”

“Ha, ha, ha. What’s your point?”

“I probably would have accepted a fifty thousand settlement three weeks ago…before your company made me mad, jerking me off left and right. But now—”

“Now?”

“Now the shark is gonna gobble up you shoe guppies.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ms. Sullivan,” he said silkily, not at all intimidated.

“Oh?”

“There’s more than one shark in the ocean. Keep that in mind before you hum the theme song to Jaws.”

They were interrupted by a commotion outside the office. Two men could be seen through the open door, speaking animatedly as they came down the hallway toward the secretary’s desk. The tall one with a suit jacket draped foppishly over his shoulders…presumably the prince…was saying something to a guy in a chauffeur’s uniform. It sounded like, “¡Dios! What the hell does the Pythagorean Theorem have to do with the arch of a stiletto high-heeled shoe?”

“Everything,” answered the squeaky-voiced chauffeur whose curly hair resembled an orangey-red Chia Pet. Although he was probably twenty-five or so, he had the voice and appearance of a freckle-faced adolescent. Pulling a calculator from his breast pocket as they walked, he punched in some numbers and chortled, “See. The angle of the incline has to be reciprocal to the force of the impact on the ball of the feet or the shoe will pinch.”

She thought she heard the prince groan and mutter an unprincely expletive.

Both men were speaking now to the secretary, who was presumably notifying them of Cynthia’s presence.

Alvarez stood abruptly. She decided to stand as well, not wanting to be in a lower height position of power during this initial confrontation. She braced herself with her hand lightly resting against the edge of the desk.

Jabbing a finger at her, Alvarez ordered, “Stay right there,” then went out to speak to the two men.

A rapid spate of fluent Spanish flew back and forth between the prince and Alvarez, supposedly bringing his royal highness up to snuff on her complaint and possibly company business. During one of her innumerable calls to Ferrama, she’d learned that the prince was in Paris at a couture showing which included his exclusive shoe creations.

Cynthia couldn’t believe she’d actually bought a pair of the frivolous Ferrama high heels. And for an ungodly two hundred and fifty dollars…on sale, at that. But it had been her thirtieth birthday…and she’d been walking down Fifth Avenue, past Saks… berating herself for her penny-pinching ways despite her fabulous income…telling herself that she deserved a gift, even if it was from herself…when she’d noticed the most delectable pair of blue suede high heels in the window. The sales clerk inside had assured her that Ferrama shoes were worth every penny because their unique composition promised that a woman could wear them all day and never feel the discomfort of a normal high heeled pump. Besides, the clerk had added with a wink, everyone knew how men reacted to women in high heels.

And the rest was history. Corn city. Lost job. Mortgage payments looming. Picketing. Pay-back time.

She narrowed her eyes at the biggest culprit of all. Prince Ferrama.

Finally, their conversation ended and the prince turned toward her. For a second he stood frozen, staring at her as if she were some incredible apparition.

But she wasn’t the apparition. He was.

Oh, my God! She tried to remember a relevant bit of Grandma’s wisdom, but all her short-circuited brain could come up with was, “A sly rogue can turn a saint to sin.” No, that was dangerous thinking. A better one would be, “Do not mistake a goat’s beard for a fine stallion’s tail.” Yep, much better to think of this handsome devil as a horse’s ass, rather than an enticing rogue.

Even before he removed his dark glasses, Cynthia could see that this man was the fulfillment of every little girl’s dream of Prince Charming. Overlong black hair was wet-combed back off his dark Castilian face which was enhanced, not detracted, by day-old whiskers. Full, sensuous lips parted in surprise, mirroring her own stunned faculties. Oh, he wasn’t as movie star good-looking as Alvarez, but better, to her mind…the harsh edges softened a bit by a quickly masked sadness or vulnerability.

That was certainly whimsical of her…seeing things that she wanted to see, perhaps. Whoa! Since when did “The Irish Barracuda” engage in whimsy?

What’s happening to me? I’ve never been attracted to pretty boy celebrity types before.

But, Lordy, he is pretty.

A tiny gold hoop earring glittered in one ear. The effeminate European-style draping of his gray silk suit jacket over his shoulders was belied by a long, lean body which very nicely filled out a black tee shirt tucked into a pair of pleated gray silk slacks. Casual chic. It was probably the latest savoir faire in Paris. Or the royal polo circuit. Geez!

With her one hungry glance at all that debonair, born-to-the-manner elegance, Cynthia felt like a squirt of common yellow mustard in a sophisticated grey poupon world. No matter how far she’d come from the Chicago projects, no matter how much money she earned, no matter how designer-appropriate her clothing, no matter how proper her etiquette…there was a part of Cynthia that remained a poor little ghetto girl with her nose pressed against the glass window of upper society.

But Cynthia couldn’t dwell on that now. The prince was striding purposely toward her. At the same time his right arm extended to shake her hand, his left hand removed his dark glasses.

And Cynthia’s mind went blank.

Buenos días, Ms. Sullivan. Prince Pedro Tomas de la Ferrama, at your service,” he said in a grainy bedroom-soft voice. His English was perfect, though heavily accented with the richness of his Spanish ancestry.

“Pedro?” she squeaked out, and could have bitten her tongue. What a stupid thing to say!

“Peter,” he translated with a soft “I can melt you anytime anywhere” smile.

Get a grip, Cynthia. This is a business meeting. He is the enemy. I wonder if he likes to kiss. “Prince Peter?” she said with a laugh, trying to regain the upper hand in this initial encounter, and failing miserably. Her brain appeared to have stalled in first gear.

“My friends call me P.T.”

“Huh? Prince Petie?”

“P.T., the initials,” he corrected her with a spark of irritation in his half-hooded eyes.

“Well, I’m sorry. Prince Peter sounds silly enough. I just can’t call a grown man Petie, even if they are initials.”

But then his long fingers closed over hers—was it a handshake or a caress?—and he turned her hand palm downward, raised it face level and kissed the air above her skin in the gallant Continental style. She felt the whisper of his hot breath all the way to her injured toes. The whole time, his sexy “take no mercy” eyes held hers captive. The sweeping lashes were so thick they must weigh his lids down. And the eyes—oh, God, the eyes!—they were so dark a blue that they appeared black. There were promises in those penetrating eyes…promises she couldn’t fathom…and pure unadulterated temptation.

The world narrowed in those seconds to the faint scent of some expensive woodsy cologne, the sound of his breathing—or was it hers?—and the delicious feel of his palm pressed against hers, now in a regular handshake. Cynthia had never, ever been affected by a man in this way, especially not on a first meeting.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señorita Sullivan,” he said with an intensity that implied meaning beyond the mere words.

“P.T.,” Alvarez said in a warning tone behind them.

A snicker could be heard on the other side of the room where a computer was being booted up by the chauffeur.

Cynthia understood the alarm in Alvarez’s terse admonition to his boss, not to mention the nerd extraordinaire’s chuckle. They were a wake-up call to her, as well. This was a business meeting, not The Love Connection.

The prince came to his senses with a seeming jolt, glancing down with dismay at their still-clasped hands. He dropped her hand, and a remarkable slow-motion transformation rippled over his body.

His chin rose a noticeable notch with haughtiness. He adjusted his suit jacket over his shoulders and flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve with an impeccably manicured fingernail—Is that clear nail polish he’s wearing? Jeesh, I can’t remember the last time I splurged on that kind of non-productive pampering. And the eyes which had been warmly attracted to her moments ago now gave her a cool, skimming assessment. The mirthless smile he bestowed on her was intended to be an intentional put-down—one of those chauvinistic “I know you want me” smirks.

Cynthia prided herself on her ability to judge people. Could she have been that wrong in discerning a mutual lightning bolt attraction between them? Could the prince be that good an actor? And why would he bother? She flinched inwardly as all her old insecurities rushed forth.

Still, she was not prepared for his mocking insult that followed.

“Your castle or mine, princess?”

**********

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