Kathryn Jensen – Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed (страница 3)

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.”

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.