Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed (Silhouette Desire) Page 2

  “Why not? A pretty woman like you deserves at least to be treated to a delicious meal in a gracious setting on her special day. Why wouldn’t you allow yourself this simple pleasure?”

  She gave a little growl of frustration from deep within her throat. To him it sounded delightfully sexy. “It does sound awfully tempting. I can’t remember the last meal I ate out that wasn’t fast food.” Good, she was at least debating her decision. “This is already paid for, right? I mean, you’re not going to hand me the check at the end of the meal, are you?”

  He laughed. How fresh, how entertaining she was!

  He had fully intended to explain about Marco, then leave her at her door. Just spiriting her off in the limo might have been enough to satisfy her work friends. But he sensed that if he took her home now, when she was questioned the next day she wouldn’t lie. She would admit that she’d let her hired prince leave, then they would all feel gratified that they had sufficiently shamed her.

  However, if he actually romanced her for the day, in the most innocent of ways, of course, she’d at least have a great story to tell. She’d come out the winner.

  He liked that idea. She seemed such a nice person. He wanted to give her as much armor as possible against their obnoxious teasing.

  Maria wrapped her arms around her body and pressed tense shoulder blades into the buttery leather cushions of the limousine. Beyond the tinted windows, the Washington cityscape passed. The famous cherry trees hadn’t yet blossomed, but they were heavy with pink buds in the late morning light.

  She felt awkward, out of her element. Her stomach was doing flip-flops because of her excitement. She didn’t know where to put her hands, where to look…or not look. One minute her glance settled on her companion’s sensuous mouth as he spoke, the next her eyes drifted to his wide, strong hands, resting on the elegant gray wool encasing his thighs.

  She didn’t even know his real name, and here she was ogling his thighs! She more than half suspected he was ready to sleep with her, might even have been paid to do so. Did she dare look at the services listed on her gift card?

  Her throat and cheeks flamed at the thought. When she tried to focus on the passing Washington sights, all she saw was his reflection in the smoky side window of the limo. He was watching her, thinking she didn’t know. The realization sent a provocative ripple of warmth down her spine where it settled in a tingling pool inside her.

  “I should go home to change first,” she said, glancing down at her conservative black wool dress, “if we’re going anywhere fancy for lunch.”

  “Prego. Wear something that makes you feel feminine and happy,” he suggested in a rich baritone.

  She tried to ignore the way his words resonated pleasantly along her nerves. Sort of tickling. Sort of nice. What would she wear?

  Nearly everything she owned was black or shades of neutral. Work clothes, chosen not to attract attention, to give her a professional appearance and avoid feminine vulnerability. Or else jeans and sweatshirts—those were for weekends. There had never been a reason to buy anything else, even if she could have afforded more. Maybe Sarah, her neighbor, would lend her one of her scores of dresses. Something at least with a little color in it.

  “You’d look good in—” he seemed to be considering options “—perhaps an Ungaro, or a Dolce frock. Or one of the newer styles I’ve seen from Positano.”

  “Positano?” She laughed, remembering a recent article in Vogue that she’d drooled over. “As in Italy and ultra-high couture? Listen, you don’t have to keep up the act for my benefit.”

  “I don’t?” He lifted heavy, dark brows. There was a hint of amusement on his full lips.

  “Of course not. I know you’re from around here, hired to escort me.” She brought out the card and flicked it at him. “The polite way of saying date me for money.” She gave him an understanding smile to let him know there were no bad feelings. “A prince? That’s honestly how your agency bills you?”

  “That’s who I am,” he said mildly. He took the card from her and slipped it into his suit jacket pocket.

  She gave a little snort. “Prince, indeed. Titles went out of style with fairy tales. Don’t they know that?”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  She told herself she should hate the smug way he was observing her. But he was just so delicious to look at, it was hard to find fault with him.

  Thirty minutes later they arrived at her apartment house. Maria slid closer to the door. The driver moved quickly, opening it for her. She felt Antonio come across the seat after her.

  “You stay here,” she instructed him firmly, as if he were a mischievous puppy being told to heel.

  “Escorting the lady to her door is the gentlemanly thing to do,” he objected, looking disappointed.

  “Yeah, well, gentlemanly or not, you’re waiting in the car.”

  She wasn’t about to let a call boy, or however they referred to themselves, into her apartment. Things were already complicated enough with him sitting on her street in a limousine.

  It was a good thing most of her neighbors were at work. Someone was bound to be home, though. She wondered if she told Mrs. Kranski in 7B (who was undoubtedly staring out her window even now) that she was attending a funeral, would the woman believe her?

  Maria punched in the security code and let herself into the building. She hit 8 in the elevator, tapped her foot impatiently as she rose to her floor. Another second and she was through her front door, breathing raggedly.

  Was she insane? Agreeing to go with this stranger to her own private birthday celebration. But maybe she could pull this off. Just go out for lunch with the guy, give him as generous a tip as her weekly budget would allow, then be back before six when most of her neighbors arrived home.

  Ten minutes later, she’d donned a nubby purple sweater and black wool skirt. Conservative black, low-heeled pumps. Off-black panty hose. Her only real gold jewelry (the tiny heart-shaped studs she’d gotten free when she’d had her ears pierced) and a fresh application of makeup completed the job.

  She was ready for anything!

  Anything, she realized when she returned to the car, except for this amazingly gorgeous man, whoever he really was. When he saw her coming down the steps to the sidewalk, he signaled his driver who swung the passenger door wide with a flourish. Her date stood up out of the car to let her pass, then held out a hand to guide her down and into the limousine.

  “They certainly do train you guys well, I’ll say that much,” she murmured as she slipped back across the lake of gray leather.

  “Mi scusi?” He sat beside her.

  “Well,” she began nervously, “it’s just that practically no one has good, old-fashioned manners these days. My mother used to complain about that all the time.” She knew she was babbling, but she had to keep talking to control the runaway pace of her heart. “By the way, what should I call you, Prince?” She grinned, feeling silly just saying it.

  He was looking at her that way again. As if she amused him. It wasn’t that she minded being entertaining. It was just that she so infrequently got that sort of reaction from men. From anyone.

  “Antonio,” he said at last. “That’s my real name.”

  “Oh.” Maybe it was.

  “Your mother lives near you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said regretfully, as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. “My mother died two years ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  She was aware that he was observing her very closely. She blinked twice, taking care of the threat of tears. “It was hard. For both of us. We were close.”

  “But for comfort you have the rest of your family—”

  She was already shaking her head. “No one really close. But it’s okay. My father was never in the picture, and I was an only child. I have an aunt in Connecticut. We send Christmas cards,” she added with an effort to sound brighter.

  “So you’re alone,” he said, “truly alone.”<
br />
  She glanced across the car at him, and she could have sworn there was honest sympathy reflected in his eyes. Strange, she thought, someone in his line of work caring at all. After a while, she would have thought men like him would have become immune to their clients’ personal traumas. Sort of like bartenders.

  “I have my work. It can be satisfying.” She slanted a quick look at him without turning her head. She could feel him still watching her. She wondered why he’d suddenly gone quiet, and what he was thinking.

  A moment later Antonio sat forward on the seat and spoke quietly to the driver. She couldn’t make out his words.

  They drove toward the center of the city, gliding over Wisconsin Avenue, through fashionable Chevy Chase. The car finally pulled up in front of a store she’d passed by many times but never would have dared step inside.

  “Versace isn’t a restaurant,” she said helpfully.

  “I know. But I’ve changed my plans. Where we’re going, you’ll feel more comfortable wearing something different.”

  She looked down at her outfit. “This isn’t dressy enough?”

  He tipped his head to one side and observed her objectively. “It doesn’t do you justice,” he stated. “Come. You decide after you’ve tried on a few pieces.”

  Maria let out an involuntary little snort. “Now I know this isn’t part of the package deal. My office pals would never spring for anything this extravagant. Do you realize what stuff in a place like this costs?”

  “It will be taken care of,” he said simply.

  She stared at him then smiled, feeling a little daring. “All right. If you’re game, so am I. But no one in Versace is coming within ten feet of my charge card!”

  He laughed and shook his head at her. “Agreed, cara.”

  An hour later they left Versace Couture with a slim gold box, in which Maria’s old clothes, shoes and hose had been packed beneath shimmering layers of tissue. She wore an elegant powder-blue, cashmere suit with a gold brooch, and sleek Italian leather slings with tiny heels. All purchased for her through a mysterious arrangement between Antonio and the saleswoman that involved only a signature and not even a glimpse of a check or plastic. The sales staff all but genuflected as he left the boutique.

  Maria had become a believer. Almost.

  If he wasn’t actual royalty (which she still found hard to accept), he at least had one soaring credit allowance and the respect of high-end merchants—neither of which was likely to come as a perk for working as a professional escort.

  This took serious mental adjustments.

  Next stop was I Matti, an upscale Tuscan-style trattoria, on Eighteenth Street. Antonio ordered for her, and she was delighted with his choices. They dined on lamb shanks and pasta with a heady tomato sauce redolent with olive oil, accompanied by a delicious Barolo wine.

  She couldn’t help questioning him further. “You’re really Italian then,” she said as they returned to the limousine.

  “Yes.”

  “And rich?”

  “Very.” He seemed more amused than offended by her questions.

  She nodded, thinking about times in the distant past when she’d been called gullible.

  She had fallen for Donny Apericcio’s game, playing Doctor and Patient, when she was seven. She’d had to undress to be “treated” for her pretend ailment. And she had believed Becky Feinstein in high school when the popular girl had congratulated Maria on making the yearbook committee. It had been a cruel joke.

  But those episodes were kids’ stuff, embarrassments she’d gotten over long ago. Allowing herself to be charmed, possibly even seduced by a stranger, was of the adult world. A game she wasn’t about to play with any man, rich or not.

  “So-o-o-o,” she said pushing Antonio’s wide hand off of her knee where it had wandered as soon as they’d seated themselves in the limo. “You’re an honest-to-goodness prince, and you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re in this country, standing in for a paid date.”

  “Si, my former valet, he was posing as me and causing my family terrible embarrassment.”

  “Valet,” she repeated thoughtfully. “And what do you do in Italy? Own a vineyard or something?”

  “Olive groves, a mill where the olives are crushed for their oil, and a bottling factory,” he corrected her, smiling proudly. “Passed down many generations through my family.”

  She absorbed these new details. “Listen, I hope you’ll understand my confusion. I didn’t know you, but I do know my co-workers. They once hired a stripper dressed up like a pizza delivery person to surprise a man who was retiring. Then there was the singing kangaroo.”

  “Kangaroo?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she assured him with a roll of her eyes. “The thing is, I’m going along with this for one reason only. To save myself grief in the office.”

  He looked a little disappointed. “I thought you were coming with me because you’d never ridden in a limousine.”

  “That too,” she admitted quickly, uncomfortable that he’d remembered an unguarded moment of girlish enthusiasm. “But I really don’t need all this wining and dining stuff to be happy on my birthday. A good book and a hot bubble bath are just fine. And I don’t mind being alone,” she added quickly when he opened his mouth as if to comment. “I enjoy my privacy.”

  Which was true. To a certain degree.

  She’d always needed time to herself. Time to read, to write in her journal, to garden or listen without interruptions to a CD of her favorite opera. A cup of sweet tea and a melt-your-knees tenor singing to her while she soaked in steaming water was her idea of heaven.

  But there were times, more and more often these days, when she’d have liked someone to eat dinner with, someone to talk to about her day or snuggle up with in bed at night before falling asleep. These were other kinds of quiet times.

  Sex? The word popped into her head. Sex would be nice, she imagined.

  Everyone said it was an indispensable part of life, although she believed most people made too much of it. Someday she’d be able to judge for herself. That time would come when she found the man she would marry.

  Until then, she had promised herself she wouldn’t surrender totally to any man. Her mother had made that mistake, and had been left alone with a baby. Maria admitted to herself that she was curious, maybe even a little anxious as the months and years wore on and she felt child-bearing years slipping away from her. But she wouldn’t be foolish.

  Antonio’s hand returned to her knee. This time she eyed it thoughtfully, but didn’t brush it off. “Where to next?” she asked.

  “Next, we go to Espazio Italia. On my last trip to this country I saw there the loveliest terra-cotta pieces outside of my own country. I would like to buy presents for family back home and, if you like, something for you as well.”

  She shrugged, having already decided it was easier to go along with him than fight a mulish man. “Sounds harmless enough. Why not?”

  So why did she feel as if she’d just stepped off a cliff into thin air? Why did her instincts shriek at her that, with that simple gesture of lifted shoulders, she had just set forces in motion over which she had no control?

  Two

  Maria was delighted by the profusion of amazing hand-made pottery from Sicily, Taormina and Grottaglie. The brilliant colors evoked Mediterranean sunshine and made her feel cheerful just by looking at them.

  Antonio bought a pretty glazed bowl and a small figurine of an ebony horse, and had them wrapped—for safe travel, he told the clerk. It seemed odd that he was purchasing items that had originated in his own country, but maybe he was too busy with his olive groves to go shopping very often at home.

  He offered to buy Maria a pretty vase she had admired, but she politely refused after flipping over the price tag. “I’ll save up for it and come back someday.” But she knew she never would. Everything in the shop was gorgeous but way out of her budget’s league.

  At last they drove back ac
ross the city as the sun set, and Maria felt as if she were melting into the limousine’s seats. She hadn’t felt so relaxed, so pleased with a day in as long as she could remember. If humiliating her had been her friends’ goal, their plan had failed miserably. This day and Antonio had been wonderful gifts.

  The car pulled up in front of her apartment building. Maria sat up straight and was about to turn toward the passenger door beside her when Antonio’s hand closed around the back of her neck and easily guided her back toward him.

  “Sei bellissima,” he murmured, then kissed her expertly, softly on the lips.

  It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to draw a breath or protest. When he pulled back a few inches to observe her reaction, she was speechless.

  “You still don’t believe me,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”

  She shrugged, but the words came out in a froggy little whisper. “I believe you’re Antonio Boniface from Italy. It’s the prince part that’s still a little hard to swallow.”

  “A pity you’re such a cautious woman.” He tapped one finger on her chin, her cheek, then the sensitive lobe of one ear.

  “What’s wrong with being cautious?” she asked, mesmerized by his voice as much as by his touch.

  “You will miss out on a lot of life’s pleasures.”

  She laughed nervously, her heart thudding in her chest. “I don’t suppose we’re talking about chocolate cake or a good movie?”

  “No.” He gave her an amused smile.

  “Listen,” she said over a sudden dry spot in her throat, “I think I know what you’re getting at. I’m just not in the habit of sleeping around.”

  “I know that.” His finger continued its path, tracing her lips, trailing down her throat.

  She gulped. “You do?”

  He nodded slowly. “You’re easy to read, Maria McPherson. You were an obedient child, and now you’re a careful woman. You don’t entice men, intentionally that is. In fact—”

  He studied her face thoughtfully, then ran an experimental hand around behind her neck and brought his fingers up through the strands of her hair at her nape. The sensation was electric. She shivered deliciously.