Prince of Delights Read online

  Though Alexander's expression remained serious, An­gela could tell by the tone of Tarrant's voice that the "pat her down" remark had been a joke, however impudent. Her host was goading her. Again, to show her apprecia­tion for his caustic sense of humor, she tossed him one last scornful glare.

  Tarrant merely inclined his head in a mocking gesture of farewell and strolled away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Delila Seaton conversed quietly with Alexander, Angela took a moment to survey both her hostess and the imposing room in which she sat. Delila, delicately beauti­ful at fifty-five, wore a floor-length dress made of fine linen batiste, its cuffs, collar and hem trimmed with lace. Her hair was the color of champagne, and she wore it bobbed in a close-fitting cap. She wore no jewelry, except a simple gold ring on her left hand. As she spoke to Alex­ander, Angela could hear the huskiness of her voice, pleasant yet authoritative. She found herself drawn to the woman, even if Delila did resemble her son a bit too much around the mouth.

  Allowing her gaze to wander about the room, she was again struck by the grandeur of the place. Though the li­brary was a large room, it exuded an intimate warmth, from the well-stocked bookshelves to the dusty rose of the walls and draperies. The wood trim was painted a soft flax color, and the chandelier was of gleaming polished brass. A breakfront stood against the wall opposite the book­shelves. It contained an intriguing variety of antiques: a mother-of-pearl stallion, a jade leopard and myriad brass maritime devices.

  A rose, moss and gold Sultanabad rug hugged the wood floor and served to accentuate the gray-green damask of the contemporary sofa and armchairs. The end tables were of satinwood, as was the Baker tray table, on which the silver tea service sat.

  The picture window at the back of the room over­looked a stone patio with a three-tiered fountain as its centerpiece. Beyond the patio glimmered the pristine wa­ter of a swimming pool that had been landscaped to look like a natural pond. Atop a diving board stood Tarrant Seaton, preparing to dive. Thighs bunched and calf mus­cles bulged as he tensed with the effort of his upward launch and executed a flawless back flip that made An­gela gasp.

  Both Delila and Alexander looked her way. "Is every­thing all right, my dear?" Delila asked softly.

  Angela blanched. "I…" She nodded. "Your son nearly hit his head on the diving board." She bit her lip, hoping Delila didn't think she'd been ogling.

  The older woman glanced out the window. "Oh? Don't fret about Tarrant, my dear. He's quite a good diver. But I know what you mean. I used to get terribly upset watch­ing him." Turning back to Angela, she shrugged ele­gantly. "I simply don't watch anymore."

  Angela's smile was weak. Easier said than done, she mused silently, but she merely said, "I'm sorry for dis­turbing you."

  "Oh, you didn't disturb us at all," Delila assured her, dismissing Alexander with a nod. "As a matter of fact, I was about to suggest that you join Tarrant and me for dinner. Though I have to go out later this evening, I can trust him to show you the storage areas that are in need of remodeling. I have a great number of projects on hold, and I need that work done as quickly as possible." She smiled benignly. "What do you say?"

  Angela had never been so smoothly coerced in her life. Delila's invitation had been nothing short of a direct or­der, but she'd done it with such finesse that Angela couldn't say no—even though it meant another run-in with Tarrant Seaton.

  Just then, the man darkening her thoughts completed a perfect double flip. Unaccountably Angela's heart did, too. She had to admit that he really was wonderful to look at. To avoid any further view of him, she lowered her gaze to her clenched fists. She didn't even like the man, for heav­en's sake!

  "Well, my dear," Delila prodded. "What do you think of my plan—dinner and a tour of the house?"

  Angela composed her expression and smiled, though she had no love for the idea. She was worn out, and the pros­pect of spending one more instant with Delila's son was unwelcome. "Why, it sounds lovely, Mrs. Seaton," she heard herself lie.

  The April day was unusually warm and a welcome change. With the temperature hovering around eighty, even at half-past five, Angela was delighted to discover they were going to eat on the mansion's sunny patio. Then she realized that Tarrant would be joining them—in his bathing gear.

  The dinner progressed well. Angela found herself laughing at Tarrant's wry wit, and she was amazed at her­self. He exuded an easy charm, flashed a quick smile and lulled one into a cozy camaraderie with his deep pleasing voice. Angela, of course, had built up an impervious re­sistance to him since that day in the restaurant when he'd been so unforgivably disdainful. But she could see how other, more susceptible women might succumb to him. Unfortunately, every time he said something that struck her as clever and she chanced to smile his way, she was confronted by his attire—or lack of it—and blushed furi­ously.

  From the amusement twinkling in Tarrant's eyes, she could tell he was enjoying her discomfort. No doubt he was paying her back for what he thought she'd engineered in the restaurant.

  "My dear," Delila finally noted, "you must be quite sensitive to the sun. You're getting a little pink."

  Stalling, Angela pretended to sip some water and tried to decide how to explain her flushed face.

  "Well, in deference to your delicate skin," Delila went on, replacing her teacup in its saucer, "I think it's time we went inside. And Tarrant, dear, put on some clothes. We don't want our guest to think we're barbarians, do we?"

  He grinned at his mother, and Angela's gaze was drawn, yet again, to the single, slashing dimple that indented his left cheek. She turned away from it, though its impact continued to adversely affect the pit of her stomach.

  "I don't think anything I wear could sway Miss Meadows's opinion of me," Tarrant remarked, shooting a glance toward Angela. "Would it, Miss Meadows?"

  In the depths of his eyes she saw the cynicism she was growing accustomed to. His look told her that he believed her to be a scheming, money-hungry opportunist, and that his mode of attire would have no effect on her black­hearted motives.

  Angela returned his falsely pleasant expression with one of her own. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Seaton."

  The smile that crooked his lips was sardonic, affording her another glimpse of his bothersome dimple. "There, you see, Mother," he said, pushing himself up from the table. "All your worry for nothing." Rounding the table, he kissed Delila on the cheek. With his hands on her shoulders, he looked across the table at Angela. "I'll slip into something less barbaric and meet you in the kitchen in fifteen minutes."

  Delila laughed and patted her son's hand. "You're such a fool, dear."

  You're such a conniving pain! Angela thought darkly.

  As Tarrant chuckled for his mother's benefit, he caught Angela's gaze in the vise of his own. "I shall always be a fool for you, Mother," he murmured. Then he straight­ened and strolled away, but not before Angela received his telegraphed message. Tarrant Holmes Seaton, Prince of Delights and hotshot tycoon, would never be a fool for a devious little mantrap like Angela Meadows.

  Fifteen minutes later, as he'd promised, Tarrant ap­peared in the kitchen doorway, freshly showered and clad in linen slacks and a cotton-knit sweater. So correctly careless was he in his calfskin loafers and no socks, that Angela couldn't help but eye him with some hostility. Why did he have to look this attractive when she felt as though she'd been dragged around a dusty floor on the end of a mop handle? It had been a long day for her, and it was far from over. She had a nagging feeling that the worst was yet to come.

  Grabbing up her notebook, she fairly groaned, "I'm very tired, Mr. Seaton. Could we make this quick?"

  "Have a hard day at the office?" His voice was taunt­ing, though his handsome face was the picture of con­cern.

  She stiffened with indignation. Her "hard day at the office" had been entirely his fault, and he knew it! "Why don't you become a stand-up comic?" she snapped. "That way you could annoy hundreds of people at a time."


  His lips twitched. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or if he was amused because he found her comeback clever. "I see we get cranky when we're not getting our way," he observed. "Not a very professional attitude, Miss Meadows."

  She almost choked. How dared he treat her with such shabby condescension? Well, if he expected the satisfac­tion of bullying her into quitting, then he had vastly un­derestimated her! She needed this job, and she was sticking it out, come hell—in the insufferable incarnation of Tar­rant Seaton—or high water! Counting silently to ten, she managed to compose her voice. "If you'd rather, you can send Alexander with me. As a matter of fact, I'd prefer Alexander."

  "After six on Tuesdays, Alexander has the evenings off."

  He moved up beside her, and she could detect the sub­tle tang of his cologne. Trying to ignore the captivating scent, she muttered, "Lucky Alexander."

  Passing her a reserved half smile that told her he'd heard her remark, he said, "Since we seem to be stuck with each other, Miss Meadows, where would you like to start?"

  She avoided looking at him. "The basement?"

  He indicated a door. "After you."

  A bank of lights went on as she descended the staircase into a morass of hallways and darkened rooms, some filled with boxes and crates, some dank and barren. Neither Tarrant nor Angela spoke as she strolled slowly around, taking notes and making quick sketches. From the things Mrs. Seaton had told her, she had some idea of the work required, but now, seeing the size and condition of these rooms, Angela's mind whirled with all that needed to be done.

  Tarrant said something, but she didn't quite catch it. "What?" she called over her shoulder, just before she felt a hard rap on the side of her head. Stars burst in front of her eyes, and her knees buckled beneath her.

  A muffled curse met her ears as she crumpled, but she felt herself caught in midair. Unable to form a coherent word, she allowed herself to be carried upstairs. Her eyes wouldn't focus and her body felt terribly, terribly heavy. Moments—or perhaps weeks—later, she found herself ly­ing on a bed, a cool cloth being pressed to her temple. The dark face that loomed above hers swam briefly, and then became clear. It was a scowling Tarrant Seaton, tight-jawed and intent on her wound.

  "What…happened?" she whispered, her voice thready.

  He didn't answer, but continued to work.

  "Am I bleeding?"

  His gaze flicked to meet hers. "You've got a cut, but the bleeding's stopped. I'm afraid you'll have quite a bruise."

  She closed her eyes to try to ease the throbbing in her head. "Why did you hit me?"

  "Hit… ?" He paused, a look of disbelief on his face. "Look, I may have been tempted from time to time in the last couple of days, but I do not abuse women."

  She squinted up at him. "Who did hit me, then?"

  "It was a what that hit you. A broken beam. I tried to warn you, but you were concentrating on your notes and you ran right into it."

  She grimaced, fingering the cloth that covered her tem­ple. "What day is this, anyway? May twenty-third?"

  He stared at her. "No."

  She was confused. "Why do I think it's May twenty-third?"

  "Maybe I'd better call a doctor," he said, sounding worried.

  "Why?"

  "Because it's still April second. And it's still Tuesday, no matter what your panties say."

  Her face grew hot. "That's right, kick me while I'm down." Pushing herself into a sitting position, she blanched, but once upright, she discovered she was prob­ably going to live—no dizziness, no nausea, just the awful throbbing in her head. "Give me a couple of aspirins and let's get back to work. Your mother's in a hurry for me to begin the remodeling."

  He shook his head. "Not tonight. Your eye's starting to blacken."

  "Oh, no," she moaned, sliding off the bed and lurch­ing to a mirror. "Oh, no…" She watched a bluish cast begin to invade the delicate area below her eyebrow.

  "I'm sorry," Tarrant offered. "No matter what our differences are, I wouldn't have wished a black eye on you."

  Tentatively, she touched the tender spot.

  "Did you hear me?"

  She turned, supporting herself on the antique dresser. "Yes. And I accept your apology. I've never heard of you beating up on women—just their hearts."

  For a fleeting instant he looked insulted. "I'll go see if your car is ready," he mumbled, leaving the room.

  She chewed her lower lip. That had been uncalled-for, bringing up his well-documented power over women's hearts. It wasn't her business how he affected women. Unfortunately, today she'd been served a small taste of that effect, and it had proved all too real.

  She looked back in the mirror and simply stared for several bleak minutes. Disheveled and completely drained by this ridiculous day, she watched as half her face seemed to swell. With a dismal sigh, she allowed herself an un­characteristic lapse into self-pity. Why me? Why in front of Tarrant Seaton, of all the men in the world?

  He was suddenly there, reflected in the mirror as he stood framed in the bedroom door. His features were sol­emn. "It'll be about half an hour. Your tire is resisting be­ing patched, so Chauncey's going to put in a new tube."

  Angela shook her head dejectedly, hating to be in debt to this man in any way. "Thanks," she murmured. "But I insist on paying for it."

  His eyes narrowed, but apparently he decided not to ar­gue the point. "You can deduct it from our bill if you like."

  She realized she could, and that knowledge soothed her injured pride. "Don't think I won't," she promised both him and herself.

  His shrug was one of complete disinterest. Doubtless the cost of an inner tube was low on the list of expenses that could topple his financial empire.

  "You ought to have some ice on that eye. The cook is fixing an ice-pack and we can have some coffee while you're waiting for your car."

  She nodded listlessly. What choice did she have?

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting at the big pine table in a kitchen glowing with the beauty of raised-panel cabinets and heartwood flooring. Tarrant leaned forward and frowned at her. "You're really going to have a shiner."

  Holding the ice pack against her temple, she gazed down into the depths of her coffee cup and sighed. He didn't have to tell her that. Although the aspirin he'd given her was helping, every blink was painful.

  "Do you think you'll be able to drive?"

  "I don't know. I've never had a black eye. Do you go blind or something?"

  She heard a low grunt that might have been a chuckle. "No, you don't go blind. I just thought you might be dizzy or have double vision. I should call a doctor."

  She shook her head. "I'm not dizzy and I can see just fine."

  "How's the coffee?" he asked after a lengthy pause.

  She sipped. He was trying to make conversation, but she didn't feel like talking. "Strong," she offered, hoping he'd be satisfied with a minimal reply.

  "Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

  She looked up at him. "I'm not going to sue if that's what you're afraid of."

  Empty minutes passed while his jaw worked spasmodi­cally. Finally he said quietly, "Suing me is up to you. It might be a more straightforward way to try and get my money than your original plan."

  Angela grew still, coffee cup poised at her lips. "What did you say?" she asked, her voice hushed with disbelief.

  "You heard me." He eyed her levelly.

  "Look—" she set her cup down with a thunk, sloshing coffee on the wood "—I've taken about all I intend to take from you." She stood abruptly, the ice pack falling to the floor, forgotten. "Because of your crude prank in the lunchroom, you've made my life practically unbearable at the factory. I've been baited and annoyed all afternoon about my supposed plot to trap you into marriage, and I've had it up to my—my black eye!"

  He stood, too, his expression darkening. "Appropri­ately put. Let's just call my little prank an eye for an eye."

  Looming over her, his broad frame seemed t
o take on nerve-racking dimensions. She brought herself up to her full, affronted, five-foot-five-inch height. "Oh, no! From where I stand, it doesn't look like we're so even. First, go hit yourself in the head with a rafter!"

  "Don't worry, Miss Meadows. I've been punished, thanks to you." He gaze locked with hers. "What did you think would happen when your wacky mother came over to my table and announced that I was going to marry you? I have a number of associates who eat there and who heard it—one, an editor at the Wichita Daily Press. And in case you didn't know this, I was bombarded with calls all yes­terday afternoon and this morning. That, Miss Meadows, is why our appointment was delayed.

  "I, too, was baited and annoyed, as you put it. And not only by people I knew, but by newspapers. Gossip rags like He and She magazine, even the TV show 'Hot Topics,' gave me a call. So, you think you had a bad day? What sort of a day—two days—do you think I've had because of you and your mother?" He strode over to the kitchen counter. Leaning heavily against it, he dropped his head forward, as though he was very tired. "Don't be surprised if you're mentioned in gossip columns for a while."

  "Me? I haven't done anything to be gossiped about."

  His laughter was harsh. "Welcome to the real world, sweetheart."

  "But… but, I—" she sputtered. "Don't try to tar me with the same dirty brush as you!"

  "I don't have to. The scandal sheets will do just fine on their own. I can see the headlines now: 'Pregnant Dream Bride Left Abandoned."'

  "Pregnant!"

  "By the time the story makes the rounds, you will be-probably with twins."

  "Do you expect me to feel sorry for you? To believe all that trash they print is just—"

  "Trash." He turned to confront her. "And now you've contributed to it." Nostrils flaring with annoyance, he drawled, "Thanks one hell of a lot."

  His revelation knocked some of the bite out of her an­ger, but not all. Unhappy and confused, she spat, "I don't have to stand here and listen to this." When she began walking toward a door, she realized it was the entrance to the pantry. She spun around and hurried in another direc­tion but was brought up short when she discovered she was heading back into the basement. With an exasperated groan, she cried, "What's the confounded way out of here?"