Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed. Kathryn Jensen
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friend the Senator had seen it and sent him a copy. The knave had been using Antonio’s name and official title, Il Principe di Carovigno, as his own. At least the service hadn’t been bold enough to use a photograph too!
In a way, it was a lucky thing for Miss McPherson that he’d learned of his former employee’s deception and sent the Casanova packing. The young woman he was watching tentatively nibble a slice of the gaudy cake wouldn’t have to suffer the indignities of Marco’s foolish performance, whatever that might entail. For all Antonio knew it might have involved removing articles of clothing. Or worse!
But would his walking in and announcing that the game was over only delay the young woman’s torment? A new scheme might soon replace the original farce. His heart went out to her. If there was any way of saving her further embarrassment…
The solution came to him in an unexpected flash of inspiration.
Antonio pushed through the door and into the conference room. All talk ceased. He smiled around the room at the women, fixed the male employees with a daunting glare, then turned his darkest, most mysterious gaze on the birthday girl.
“Ah, signorina,” he said, bowing as he approached. He lifted her limp fingertips to his lips. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, cara mia.” Yes, he was laying the accent on a bit thick, but he suspected that would have been Marco’s style.
A worried smile hovered over Maria’s lips. She blinked up at him, at a loss. “Y-you have?”
“Si. Your friends have arranged for you to share l’avventura with me. I believe you have the rest of the day off?” The raven-haired woman nodded, her eyes wide, appreciative and more than a little envious. “Andiamo, cara. My car waits for us.”
Maria shot a panicky glance around the room, then looked pleadingly at Antonio as she sidled closer to him. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered. “I know it’s all a joke.”
“But Signorina McPherson, it is my pleasure,” he said aloud, giving her a conspiratorial wink. He placed a hand at the hollow of her slim back and guided her firmly toward the door. She wore a conservative sweaterlike dress of a synthetic fiber—black, a bit scratchy to the touch.
He imagined her in cashmere, perhaps a soft blue to set off her eyes. Much better.
Tamara finally found her feet and rushed to catch up with them. She handed Maria her purse, coat and a card. “Have fun, honey. This will explain the services your date is prepared to offer. Be sure to let us know all the details tomorrow.”
Maria blushed a bright pink, snatched at her things and didn’t look back as she allowed Antonio to escort her out of the office to a chorus of cheers and hoots.
“Would you like my driver to help you carry anything else down?” he asked, allowing the exaggerated accent to fade.
“Ah, no…this is fine,” she said, tightly. “Let’s just get on the elevator and I’ll explain everything to you.”
“Certainly.” He let her step on ahead of him, admiring the view from behind. Yes, cashmere would suit her. She had an elegant figure. She just didn’t know how to dress. Or perhaps she couldn’t afford quality clothing.
As soon as the elevator doors shut, Maria faced him. “Listen, I know this is your job, but you can drop the phony aristocratic act now. They were just trying to embarrass me. You’ve done your job.” Her chin lifted and cool mist-gray eyes darkened as if it took a great deal of courage for her to speak. And now she seemed to be struggling to hold eye contact with him. “I don’t know what else you have been paid to do, but you can forget it. I don’t date strange men. I have no interest in a romantic…adventure,” she finished at last, looking flustered.
“You have other plans for the celebration of your birthday?” Antonio asked. “A party with your family?”
“No.” She laughed as if uncomfortable that he was prolonging the conversation. “No party. I’m going home. I expect I’ll enjoy my afternoon off with a good book and a hot bath.”
He raised a questioning brow. “Alone?”
“Yes, alone!” she gasped, sounding short of breath. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”
“A lovely, intelligent, sensitive one,” he said simply. He wasn’t trying to flatter her; he was being perfectly honest.
After a moment, the young woman apparently realized her mouth was resting open and she brought her lips tightly together. She scowled at him. “Who are you, and how do I turn off the Latin-lover act?”
He refused to be offended. After all, the poor thing must be confused by all that had happened in the past twenty minutes.
“My name is Antonio Boniface, Il Principe di Carovigno,” he explained solemnly. “I only wish to save you further harassment from your friends. And, by the way, I am an Italian citizen, not a Latin lover, as you say, and I—”
“Listen, you,” she interrupted with surprising force, “I know you were hired to do a job. What do you need to prove you’ve done it? A signed receipt? A customer satisfaction form filled out? Just give it to me now, and I’ll sign—oh my!”
They had stepped out from the lobby of the building onto Connecticut Avenue and stood on the sidewalk beside a sleek, ebony limousine. Antonio’s driver had positioned himself beside the rear passenger door. He swung it open, the snappy brim of his uniform cap inclined politely toward Maria.
She swallowed and turned to Antonio, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and glistening with childlike amazement. “Tell me this isn’t part of the package.”
“It’s part of the package, as you put it,” he said with a shrug. He always engaged a car and driver when he traveled in unfamiliar cities. At home, he preferred to drive himself in the Ferrari. There he knew the twisting coastal roads intimately and enjoyed controlling the powerful vehicle.
“Oh, jeez,” she breathed. “I’ve never ridden in a real limo before.”
He smiled, charmed by her innocence.
“Let me at least transport you home,” he offered gently. “I would like to explain something to you on the way.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know…maybe we should just call it quits now and—”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he murmured, reaching out to take her hand again.
She nearly pulled away, then followed his gaze upward to the windows of the offices above. Rows of faces stared down at them.
“Do you want your friends to know that you’ve…what is the expression? Got chicken feet?”
She laughed, all the tension draining from her face. “You mean, I’ve chickened out…or I’ve gotten cold feet. No, I certainly don’t want to give them that satisfaction.” She shot one final grim look above them, then allowed Antonio to help her into the rear seat. Sliding across the smooth leather to give him room, she called out to the driver, “I live in Bethesda, Maryland, 755 Mullen Street. If you’ll drop me off, I’ll be most grateful.”
He closed the door behind them, then walked around the car.
“Your driver does know where Bethesda is?” Maria asked.
“I’m sure he does. I hope it’s a long ride. I have a lot to explain, Miss McPherson.” Antonio smiled. He watched as her glance followed the motion of his lips.
She sighed then shook her head as if denying herself a particularly fattening dessert. “Oh my, you’re awfully good. Listen, you’re a very nice looking man, handsome really. And you play your role well. But I’m just not interested in your kind of…service.”
She gave an almost imperceptible shiver of pleasure as she slipped the card Tamara had given her, unread, into her coat pocket. Her upper lip had become lightly beaded with perspiration, and her eyes were