Prince of Delights Read online

  From Back Cover…

  The Wizard of Oohs and Ahs!

  That was Tarrant Seaton, otherwise known as the Prince of Delights, and the unwilling subject of numerous women's fantasies. Not Angela's, though!

  Tarrant thought she was just another scheming gold digger. Especially when her mother "dreamed" he was going to marry Angela— despite his engagement to someone else! Then Angela was hired by his mother to remodel the storage space at her mansion and at Delila's Delights, the family's chocolate factory.

  But Tarrant was wrong about Angela. Because she wanted to dislike him as much as he seemed to dislike her. Why was that so hard?

  Excerpt…

  "You aren't the first to try tricking me into matrimony!"

  Tarrant smiled scornfully as he spoke.

  Angela bristled; she knew about his reputation with women. "I hope all those women who supposedly want to marry you realize their good fortune in not succeeding!"

  She'd planned to stride haughtily away, but caught a heel in the carpet and tumbled across the chair, upending herself.

  "Miss Meadows, do you need any help?"

  "No! I'm—I'm fine."

  Despite her breathless protest, he helped her regain her balance. Their eyes met for a brief, appalling second, then she made a beeline for the exit.

  "By the way…"

  She stopped and faced him. "By the way what, Mr. Seaton?"

  "It's Tuesday, Miss Meadows, and your panties read Wednesday. If you're going to work for me, you'll need to show more attention to detail."

  Angela pinned him with a disgusted stare. ' "I would rather be a day ahead, Mr. Seaton, than a horse's behind!"

  About the Author…

  Renee Roszel became a professional writer at the tender age of ten; her hometown newspaper paid her five dollars for a feature article titled "My Pop Is Tops." However, her career didn't really take off until after her two sons started school. She decided to try writing romance novels and hasn't looked back. Renee now combines writing with teaching aerobics and claims that if she could ever learn to control her love of chocolate she'd actually look like an aerobics instructor! With apologies to her wonderful husband, she confesses that one of her secret fantasies is to find a "chocolate magnate" like Tarrant Seaton—a man who could provide her with chocolate-covered strawberries for the rest of her life.

  Renee was recently named the University of Oklahoma's 1991 Writer of the Year.

  Prince of Delights

  by

  Renee Roszel

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angela dropped her salad fork with a resounding clank, drawing curious glances from the elegantly clad diners at nearby tables. Feeling heat creep up her face, she whispered, "I hope you didn't say what I think you said, Mother."

  Minny Meadows dabbed delicately at her pursed lips. "Of course I did, sweetie." She leaned across the fine English bone china and repeated her upsetting revelation. "I said, I had one of my dreams, and it was about you."

  Angela stifled a groan, forgetting the expensive lunch she'd been picking at—and the fact that she was picking at it in the poshest restaurant in Seatonville, a restaurant she could ill afford. She clamped her hands together in her lap and swallowed nervously. "About—" she cleared her throat"—me?"

  Minny's brown eyes twinkled merrily. "That's why we're here."

  Angela's apprehension became mixed with bewilder­ment. "Here?" She looked around the richly appointed restaurant, candlelit even at midday. "In The Plethora? I thought it was to celebrate my getting the Delila's Delights remodeling contract."

  Her mother cast her gaze left, then right, as though she had a great secret to disclose and feared being overheard. "No." She smiled knowingly. "That was just my excuse for coaxing you into this place."

  Angela looked at her watch. She didn't have time for riddles. She was worried about leaving her young assis­tant in charge of her fledgling store, but Minny had in­sisted they have this lunch. They were celebrating the fact that Delila Seaton herself had hired Angela to help reor­ganize both the Seaton mansion and the Delila's Delights chocolate factory—or so Angela had thought.

  Angela had been aghast when she'd settled into a velvet Queen Anne chair and discovered that the least expensive thing on The Plethora's menu was the fifteen-dollar house salad. She'd hoped, for that price, the house salad in­cluded a kitchen sink!

  And now her mother was saying they were at this exclu­sive restaurant because she'd had one of her crazy dreams? Angela had to stop herself from leaping across the table and throttling her. They didn't have an extra thirty dollars plus tax and tip to spend on lemon-sloshed lettuce, and Angela didn't have any desire to dawdle in an opulent res­taurant surrounded by silks and diamonds. She looked down at herself. She was clad in a green-and-black-checked synthetic shirtwaist, topped off by a black cardigan. And her mother, forever draped in one wildly tie-dyed jump­suit or another, appeared more like a fortune-teller than a cutting-edge businesswoman. That was probably because she was a self-proclaimed fortune-teller.

  Angela took a deep breath, attempting to calm her nerves and steel herself for what was to come. "All right, Mother, if dragging me here wasn't to celebrate getting the Delila's Delights account, then why—?"

  "Shh!" Minny cautioned, her expression becoming in­tent as her eyes darted to the restaurant entrance. "What time is it?"

  "It's noon," Angela replied without looking at her watch again. "Mother, I really should be going…."

  "Exactly?"

  "What?"

  Minny glanced back at her daughter. "Is it exactly noon?"

  Angela checked the time with a sigh. "Well, as exact as a twelve-dollar watch will get it. I could call the radio sta­tion for the time and temperature if—"

  "Just let me know when it's one minute after noon," her mother cut in, her eyes shifting back to the gilded door.

  Angela rested her elbow on the table and stared down at her watch, observing the second hand travel across its face. She knew better than to argue with her mother when she got into one of her moods. "Okay, ten—nine—eight—"

  Minny wagged her hand. "That's good enough, sweet­ie. Now just keep your eyes on the door."

  "Why?"

  Minny, never moving her gaze from the ornate entry and never missing a beat, explained matter-of-factly, "Be­cause, Angela, the man who walks through that door at exactly one minute after noon will be your husband."

  "My husband!" Angela repeated, incredulous.

  "There he is!" Minny cried happily. Her voice was low, but to Angela's ears, it sounded as though it had boomed from a loudspeaker. She gaped at her mother, who'd ob­viously gone off her trolley. Then, as voices around her quieted and heads turned, she realized that her mother was not the only person in the room staring at the man in the doorway. As her pulse raced with irritation and frustra­tion, Angela turned, too. At first she could only see a very tall, very broad silhouette framed in the door. An instant later, the silhouette became the well-dressed form of a man quite familiar to citizens of Seatonville—and Kansas—not to mention single women all over America who would not otherwise have known where Kansas was.

  Tarrant Seaton stood there, his smile flashing in the dimness as he spoke to the attentive maitre d'. Dashing Tarrant Seaton—known on society pages as the Prince of Delights, for reasons that had entirely too little to do with his chocolate factories—was the great-grandson of Seatonville's founder, as well as the most sought-after eligible bachelor in a five-state area. His darkly handsome fea­tures constantly graced not only Kansas papers, but those of both coasts. A bit belatedly Angela noticed that a daz­zling blonde was clinging to his arm.

  Tarrant Seaton had just returned from California where he'd opened another Del
ila's Delights factory. Angela knew that, because his secretary had scheduled Angela for an appointment with him tomorrow so she could become acquainted with the factory's storage areas and begin planning how to modernize them. But considering the ex­cited buzzing in the room, it was obvious that his return had not been general knowledge. However, one lovely woman had evidently been privy to the news.

  "Why, he's just as handsome as can be, sweetie. He'll be a perfect husband for you."

  Angela shot her mother an unbelieving look. "For heaven's sake, Mother, don't you know who that is?"

  "Of course I know. I read the newspapers."

  "Well then, isn't it obvious you're mistaken? I mean me marry Tarrant Seaton? That's as foolish an idea as… as me getting picked to be Miss America!"

  Minny was clearly surprised. "Are you Miss America, sweetie? Why that's simply wonderful! I don't know how I let that slip my mind."

  "Oh, Mother," Angela sighed. "I didn't mean… What I mean is, I'm not Miss America. I'll never be Miss Amer­ica, and I'll certainly never be Mrs. Tarrant Seaton. Be reasonable." With a sad shake of her head, she added, "Please, just finish your salad. I have to get back to the store. Richard is competent, but he can't handle—"

  "Miss Meadows?"

  At the sound of her name, Angela turned to see their tuxedo-clad waiter standing stiffly beside them. "Yes?"

  "You have a phone call, Miss Meadows. You may take it in the antechamber."

  Angela thanked the dour-faced man, then grimaced at her mother. "See? That's Richard. I told him to call if he had a problem. Could you hurry and eat so we can get out of here?"

  Her mother, preoccupied with watching Tarrant Seaton and his female companion being led to a table, waved her away. "Of course, of course. Take your call. I'll be fin­ished in a flash."

  Five minutes later, after one more crisis had been averted at her store, which specialized in wire, plastic and wooden storage-space organizers, Angela returned to her table to discover that her mother was missing. Assuming Minny had made a trip to the ladies' room, Angela took her seat and began rummaging in her purse for her wallet, hoping she had enough cash to pay the bill.

  "It's all set, sweetie. I told him, and he was happy to hear about it."

  "That's nice, Mother. Fifteen percent of thirty dollars plus tax—" Angela looked up from counting her change, blinking in confusion. "What did you say? Who was happy about what?"

  Minny seated herself gracefully, spreading her bright blue-and-red tie-dyed sash over the chair's arm like a queen tossing flower petals to her subjects. "Tarrant Seaton, naturally. Why do you think we're here? I told him you two are going to be married. He seemed a bit sur­prised. What a gentleman he is. Of course, I apologized to the pretty blonde, since she doesn't have a chance with him, now. She's Eden Something. Seems nice…"

  Angela's eyes had widened in horror as she listened, the extent of her mother's scandalous behavior slowly creep­ing into her brain. She cast an afflicted glance at Tarrant Seaton and… and the Eden person. They were staring at her and her mother. Could she blame them?

  "Mother," she whispered raggedly. "You didn't!" She couldn't seem to stop looking at the man who was watch­ing her, his dark gaze holding her captive with an expres­sion that was uncomfortably intent, something between mild curiosity and outright disdain.

  A dark brow arched as his eyes traveled from her sale-rack pumps to her home-permed hair. Feeling suddenly defensive, she twisted a raven curl around her index fin­ger. She wanted to shout out that her hair was perfectly fine. Not many people could cut and perm their own hair with even half her success. But she could only stare back, appalled at being sized up like one of her father's not-so-prize hogs at the bankruptcy auction.

  Angela chewed the inside of her cheek, transfixed, as his lips twisted in a slow scornful smile. Suddenly cutting her free from his visual grip, he turned to his attractive com­panion and said something to her. Whatever remark he'd made, it was no doubt at Angela's expense, for the blond woman giggled. They both regarded Angela with one last amused glance before focusing their attention on their menus.

  Angela felt at first hot and then clammy as the blood drained from her face. How humiliating! Tarrant Seaton thought she and her mother were crazy, or worse, not worth taking seriously.

  "Mother," Angela breathed, "let's get out of here."

  "But I'm not finished with—"

  "I'll fix you a bologna sandwich at the apartment." Tossing her money on the table, she hastened toward the exit, her body stiff with indignation. Thank heaven she could hear the rustle of her mother's jumpsuit behind her, because she would rather eat live frogs than look to see if Minny was following.

  "But, Angela, sweetie," her mother called loudly, turning curious heads, "I thought you might want to meet Tarrant on our way out."

  "I don't think so, Mother," came her harsh whisper. "I've met just about all of Mr. Seaton I care to meet!"

  "What about tomorrow?" Minny asked, sounding winded as she finally caught up with her daughter at the door.

  Angela halted, feeling as though she'd just stepped on a Kansas cow patty. "Tomorrow," she repeated dolefully. "I have that appointment with him, don't I?"

  Her mother nodded, smiling happily. "Convenient, isn't it? You can really get to know each other."

  "Oh, jeez…" Pulling open the door, Angela hurried down the steps to the street exit. "Maybe it was too dark. Maybe he didn't get a good look at me," she murmured, hope stirring within her.

  "Maybe he'll forget your name, too," Minny offered helpfully. "But I don't think so. He seems quite smart, and he said it several times."

  Angela spun to face her mother. "You told him my name?"

  Minny shrugged, squinting up in the brightness of this brisk, first day of April. "Well, I thought a groom ought to know his bride's name."

  "Oh, fine!" Angela turned on her heel, walking to­ward her shop with their small apartment above it. "Mother, has anyone ever told you that you can be a—" She bit her lip. Angry words wouldn't help. The damage was done.

  "Be a what, sweetie?"

  Angela shook her head. "Never mind."

  Obviously undaunted by her daughter's forlorn mood, Minny asked, "What do you think you'll wear to your meeting with Tarrant tomorrow? You want to make a good first impression."

  "Good first impression," Angela muttered, her tone despairing. "Why don't I just go to his office wearing a wedding gown, trailing six bridesmaids?"

  Minny looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't know. That doesn't seem like enough bridesmaids for a Seaton wedding."

  "Silly me," Angela retorted. "I'm sure that grin he passed me indicated he'd prefer at least twelve brides­maids."

  "He grinned?" Minny's smile broadened. "That's nice."

  "Oh, yes, Mother. It was quite a meaningful grin, too. I'm sure it meant he's absolutely delirious with the idea of marriage to me."

  Her sarcasm was apparently lost on Minny, who clasped her hands in delight. "It's just as I dreamed. Mind you, I didn't know who it was then. Aren't things working out wonderfully?"

  Angela chewed the inside of her cheek in irritation. "Mother." She turned toward the shorter woman and placed both hands on her narrow shoulders. "Try to re­turn briefly to the real world. Tarrant Seaton will not only not marry me, but he'll fire me the instant I walk into his office. So I wouldn't pick out a silver pattern, if I were you."

  Minny shook her head at her doubting daughter. "An­gela, will you never learn? I dreamed it!"

  Realizing she wasn't going to get anywhere with logic— or reminding her mother that frequently her so-called prophetic dreams caused them more trouble than any­thing else—she absently patted her mother's cheek. "Right. My mistake."

  They were standing in front of her shop—Inner Space: Maximum Efficiency for Minimum Areas. Her dreams, her hopes, her whole future depended on the success of her store. She sold individual wire and wooden shelving, drawers, cupboards, countertops, cubbyhole groupings and pl
astic storage containers, all of which could be stacked or fastened together into space-saving organizers. Plus, she offered a custom consultation service for up­grading and streamlining storage areas and closets for homes and businesses. She was working and living on a shoestring. And then, last week, Delila Seaton, the town's beloved matriarch, had called. That had been Angela's big break—a commission to do a custom revamping of the storage space in both her Seatonville chocolate factory and her mansion. Angela's dreams finally seemed to be com­ing true.

  But now… Angela sighed. There was little left to say. And tomorrow Tarrant Seaton would also have little to say. "You're fired!" wouldn't take long.

  "What are you thinking, sweetie? You look a little pale."

  Angela felt hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. She'd just lost an account that would have given them a solid economic foothold—something she and her family had rarely experienced—as well as a good chance for her new business to become a success. But thanks to Minny's eccentricity, that chance was gone. Choosing not to bela­bor a point that would be lost on her flighty mother any­way, she merely shook her head and entered the colorful container store.

  The front wall was taken up with a decorative window display. The other three walls had each been painted a dif­ferent primary color: red, blue and yellow. The wire con­tainers, which came in those three colors, were arranged on the wall of their respective color. Along two center aisles were less expensive plastic containers of all shapes and sizes. A door near the back led to the custom department where the more expensive wooden modules were exhib­ited and where she kept a selection of additional catalogs.

  Minny glided through the aisles of plastic containers toward the back of the shop. When she reached the stairs that led to their tiny apartment, a sudden thought struck Angela. "Mom, do you realize this is April Fools' Day?"

  Her mother turned. "Well, of course I do. What do you take me for? A nitwit?"

  This time, Angela didn't bother to stifle her laughter. Tears came to her eyes and she laughed so hard she came down with the worst case of hiccups she'd ever had. Per­fectly fitting, Angela decided, considering the rest of her day.