One Night with Prince Charming (4 page)

On the other hand, the romantic in her believed in kismet. He was the most magnificent man she'd ever met.

And if that had been the last she'd seen of him, she probably would have remembered him as nothing more than a handsome, charming fantasy—a brief glimpse of a fairy-tale prince to brighten her disappointing night. Certainly, the evening began to show few signs of success once they went their separate ways.

Two hours afterward, however, it was hard to keep
disappointment at bay. She hadn't glimpsed James since he'd departed, nor had she had any luck in making potential contacts, aside from handing her business card out to a couple of women who'd expressed a casual interest in retaining an event planner.

Pia sighed as she slid off a bar stool, having settled her tab. Cornelia had departed twenty minutes ago while Pia had still been conversing with a potential client. The woman who'd just vacated the bar stool next to Pia was an office manager at a small real estate firm, and though she'd had someone whom she used to help plan the firm's annual holiday party, she'd been willing to listen to Pia's pitch.

Business development was the part of her job that Pia found most challenging. Coming from Pennsylvania, she didn't have an extensive social network in the city. And it was so disheartening to get the brush-off from strangers. She supposed that telemarketing could be worse, but then again, at least telemarketers only had to deal with rejection by phone rather than face-to-face.

There was no doubt about the high point of the evening. James had shown real interest in
her
—however briefly.

Pia felt her heart squeeze.
Definitely time to leave.

She'd head home to a rent-stabilized apartment on the unfashionable edge of the Upper East Side. She decided she'd pop in a DVD and lose herself in one of her favorite Jane Austen flicks, spending the rest of the evening forgetting what would never be.

It was a decent feel-good plan. Except as soon as she stepped out of the bar, she realized that it was pouring rain.

Oh, great.

She huddled under the bar's awning and looked down at herself. Even with the platform heels on her beige sandals, she knew her feet—and likely more—were going to get soaked. She'd tucked a small umbrella into her handbag this morning, just in case, but she'd been betting it wouldn't rain when she'd
chosen what to wear. The weather report had said showers weren't in the forecast until the wee hours of the morning.

Her one hope was hailing a cab, but she knew one would be scarce in this kind of weather, and in any case, on her salary, taxis were a luxury she tried to avoid. The only alternative was walking to the subway and then making the long hike from the train station to her apartment.

As she stood there, hugging herself for warmth and debating her options, the tavern door behind her opened.

“Need a ride?”

She turned and glanced up.
James.

Paradoxically, she felt embarrassed—as if she were the one running out on
him,
when in reality he hadn't sought her out again.

“I thought you'd already left,” she blurted.

A slow smile spread across his face. “I did, but I came back in. I was conversing with the CEO of MetaSky outside, where we could hear each other and speak with more privacy.” He looked around them. “It wasn't raining then.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“Do you need a ride?” he asked again, glancing down at her.

She tried for some belated dignity, even as a gust of wind pelted her with raindrops. “I'm f-fine. I'm just debating whether to walk, row or swim home.”

His smile spread. “What about a car instead?”

She raised her eyebrows. “How are we ever going to catch an empty cab in this weather?”

She knew that rain made New York City taxis disappear.

“Leave it to me.”

She watched as James scanned the street. Two cabs passed them but their lit signs indicated that they were occupied. As the two of them waited, they made idle chitchat.

Close to fifteen minutes later, by a stroke of luck, James spotted a cab letting out a passenger beyond the nearest
intersection. He moved swiftly from the shelter of the awning and into the street when the empty cab started to make its way down their block. He raised his arm, a commanding presence, and hailed the cab.

As the rain continued to assault him, he opened the taxi's door and motioned for her to step in.

“What's your address?” he called as she hurried toward him. “I'll tell the driver.”

She called it out to him, realizing that he had an excuse to find out where she lived. He made everything appear smooth, charming and effortless.

“Are you leaving? Do you want to share a cab?” she asked as she reached him. “You're getting drenched! I should have offered you the umbrella in my bag but you stepped out so suddenly.”

She couldn't stop the flow of words, though she knew she was nearly babbling. She had no idea what direction was home for him, but it seemed churlish not to offer to share the cab that he'd hailed for her. Yet again, he'd handily managed to accomplish something she herself often found difficult, being petite and certainly less imposing.

James looked at her and his lips quirked. Even with his hair getting matted by the rain and his face wet, he looked unbelievably handsome.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said.

She wasn't sure if he meant to accept her offer, but once she entered the confines of the cab, she slid across the seat so he would have room to join her.

A moment later, he slid in beside her, folding his tall frame onto the bench seat and answering her unvoiced question.

She felt relief and a happy flutter, even as she also experienced a sense of nervous awareness. She had never left a bar with a man before—she was cautious. But then again, no man had attempted to pick her up in a bar before.

“I live on First Avenue in the high Eighties,” she cautioned
James belatedly as he closed the car door. “I don't want to put you out. I don't know in what direction you need to head.”

“It's no problem,” he said easily. “I'll see you home first.”

She noticed that he didn't divulge whether she was taking him out of his way or not.

He leaned forward to the partition separating the front from the backseat and told the cab driver her address. And in no time at all, they were speeding through Manhattan's wet and half-empty streets.

They were content to make some more desultory chitchat as the car ate up the distance to her apartment. She discovered that he was thirty-three to her twenty-four—not ancient by any means, but older and more worldly than the boys she'd dated back in high school and college in Pennsylvania.

Perhaps in order to make the gulf between them seem less so, she shared her dream of opening her own wedding planning business. Surely, he wouldn't think of her as so young and inexperienced if he knew she had plans to be a business owner.

He showed enthusiasm for her plans and encouraged her to proceed with them.

All the while, as thoughts raced through her mind, she wondered if he felt the sexual tension, too. Would she ever see him again?

In no time at all, however, they arrived outside her building.

James turned toward her, searching her eyes in the silence drawing out between them. “Here we are.”

“W-would you like to come up?” she asked, surprising herself.

It was a daring move. But she felt as if their evening had been cut short when he'd had to meet with the CEO of MetaSky.

He paused and looked at her meaningfully for a moment. “Sure…I'd love to.”

He settled the cab fare, and then they raced up the front stoop of her building, sharing her small umbrella.

She managed to fish out her keys in record time and let them inside. They stumbled into the vestibule and out of the cold and wet.

She lived in a studio on the top floor of a four-story brownstone. At least, however, the rental was hers alone. On a night like tonight, she didn't have to worry about the awkwardly timed arrival of a roommate or two. She'd made the best of her situation by putting up a partition wall to create a separate bedroom, though she couldn't do anything to alter the fact that her windows were the small ones beneath the roof.

As she heard and felt the tread of James's feet behind her on the stairs, she couldn't help feeling nervous about having him step into her little world.

Fortunately, she didn't have much time to dwell on the matter. Within a few minutes, they reached the uppermost floor, and she inserted her key in her door and let them inside.

She dropped her handbag on a chair and turned around in time to see him scanning her apartment.

He dominated the small space even more than she'd anticipated. Here there were no fellow bar patrons to defuse the full force of the magnetism that he exuded. There was no crowd to mitigate the sexual attraction between them.

James's eyes came back to hers. “It's cute.”

She'd tried to make the apartment cheerful, as much to lift her own mood as anything else. A tiny table flanked by two chairs and sporting a vase of pink peonies and tulips sat near the door. The kitchen lined one wall, and a love seat guarded the space on the opposite side. Facing the entry, a
small entertainment center stood in front of the partition that separated her bedroom from the rest of the space.

Pia knew what lay beyond the partition that shielded what remained of her apartment from James's gaze. A white croquet coverlet covered the full-size bed that occupied most of her sleeping area.

Nervously, she wet her lips. She couldn't keep her eyes from straying to the rain-soaked spots of his shirt. Some of those wet areas clung to the muscles of his arms and shoulders.

She'd never done this before.

 

“Pia.”

Pia found herself jerked from her memories as Tamara closed the space on the lawn between them. Over Tamara's shoulder, she noticed the member of the household staff with whom Tamara had been speaking was heading back toward the stone terrace and French doors at the back of the house.

Hawk was nowhere to be seen. He, too, must have gone indoors.

“I'm sorry to have left you stranded here.”

Pia pasted a bright smile on her face. “Not at all. It's all part of the prerogatives of the bride.”

And one of her prerogatives, Pia thought, was to stay away from Hawk for the rest of this wedding…

P
ia walked along East 79th Street on Manhattan's Upper East Side looking for the correct house number. She'd received a call from Lucy Montgomery yesterday about being hired as a bridal consultant. She hadn't paid much attention to the particulars, but had jumped at the chance for new business because it had been a slow summer.

She hadn't liked to dwell on how much her silent phone was due to the Wentworth-Dillingham wedding being, well, both
more
and
less
than expected. She hadn't been directly to blame for the first part of the debacle. But the hard truth was that if the wedding had been a resounding success, her phone might have been ringing with more interested brides.

True, she'd been called on to help with Tamara's wedding last month. But that had been a small wedding—mainly family—and had transpired in England, so her involvement hadn't counted for much in the eyes of New York society. And while she'd also worked on a wedding in Atlanta over the
summer, she'd been retained for that function
before
Belinda's nuptial debacle.

Now, though, on a breezy day in late September, with clouds overhead and the threat of rain in the air, she walked along one of Manhattan's tonier side streets, glad she'd worn her belted trench to ward off the threatening elements and even happier for the possibility of a new client.

Finding the house number she was looking for, she stopped and surveyed the impressive double-width, four-story limestone town house. A tall, black, wrought-iron fence guarded the façade, and flower boxes and black shutters framed tall, plate-glass windows. In the center of the building, stone steps ascended to the double-door front entrance at the parlor level. But instead of windows, the parlor floor boasted French doors embraced by tiny balconies.

There was no doubt that Lucy Montgomery came from money. This house was a well-preserved example of Manhattan's Gilded Age.

Pia ascended the steps and knocked before ringing the doorbell.

Within moments, an older gentleman, dressed in somber black and white rather than a clear uniform, responded. After Pia introduced herself, the butler took her coat and directed her to the parlor.

Pia soon discovered that the parlor was a spectacular room with a high, molded ceiling and a marble mantel. It was decorated in gold and rose and outfitted with antique furniture upholstered in stripes and prints.

She knew she should recognize the furniture style, but for the life of her, she could never remember how to separate Louis XIV style from its successors, Louis XV and Louis XVI. In any case, expensive was expensive.

She sat on one of the couches flanking the fireplace and contemplated her surroundings, taking several deep breaths to calm her nerves.
She'd never needed an account more.

She hoped she would sufficiently impress Lucy Montgomery. She'd dressed with care, donning a chic and timeless short-sleeved peach dress and beige pumps, and keeping her jewelry to a minimum. She'd chosen wedding colors, even on an overcast day, because they were cheery and they resonated with brides.

At that moment, the parlor door opened, and with surprising promptness, Lucy appeared, a smile on her face.

Her hostess was a slim, attractive blonde of medium height with hazel eyes. She looked crisp in a salmon-colored shirt and knee-length tan skirt cinched by a wide black belt. Her legs stretched down to strappy sandals and showed off a tan that was courtesy, no doubt, of time spent at one of the sand-dusted retreats favored by the rich or famous or both.

Pia guessed that Lucy was around her own age or younger.

She rose from her seat in time to shake her hostess's outstretched hand.

“Thank you for scheduling this appointment on such short notice,” Lucy exclaimed, her inflection British. “I was just about to come down the stairs when Ned told me you were here.”

“It was no inconvenience, Ms. Montgomery,” Pia responded with a smile of her own. “Client service is what my business is all about.”

“It's Lucy, please.”

“Pia, then.”

“Good,” Lucy responded happily, and then glanced at the clock. “I'll have tea brought in, if that meets with your approval.” She smiled. “We British consider late afternoon to be teatime, I'm afraid.”

“Yes, please. Tea would be wonderful.”

After Lucy had gone to the door and spoken in low tones with a member of the household staff, she returned to sit on the sofa with Pia.

“Now then,” she said. “I'm rather in desperate need of help, I'm afraid.”

Pia tilted her head and smiled. “Many brides come to that conclusion at some point during their engagements. May I offer my congratulations, by the way?”

Lucy lit up. “Thank you, yes. My fiancé is American. I met him while working on an off-Broadway play.”

Pia's eyebrows rose. “You're an actress?”

“Shakespearean trained, yes,” Lucy replied without a hint of boast, and then leaned forward conspiratorially and winked. “He was one of the producers.”

Money married money, Pia thought, if only because the people involved tended to move in the same social circles. She'd seen it many times before. And yet, it was clear from the way Lucy lit up that she was in love with her fiancé.

“You see,” Lucy explained, “Derek and I were planning to marry next summer, but I've just landed a new role and we need to move up the wedding. Suddenly, everything seems upon us at once. Since I'm currently working in another production—” Lucy spread out her hands helplessly “—I have no time to organize things myself.”

“How quickly would you like to wed?”

Lucy gave her an apologetic smile. “I'm hoping for a New Year's Eve wedding.”

Pia kept her expression steady. “Three months. Perfect.”

“I should say that the church has been booked and that, quite astonishingly, the Puck Building is available for a reception.”

Pia's shoulders relaxed. The most important details had been taken care of. Since the church and the reception hall were set for the new date, she wouldn't have to scout locations.

She and Lucy discussed some other details for a few minutes, until Lucy glanced at the door.

“Ah, tea. Perfect,” Lucy said as a middle-aged woman,
obviously one of the household help, appeared with a tray of tea.

Pia felt she was going to like Lucy. Her hostess had a sunny disposition, and there was already a lot to suggest that she would be easy to work with.

Lucy leaned forward as the tray was set down on a table in front of them. “Thank you, Celia.”

“How do you take your tea?” Lucy inquired as Celia departed, and then shot Pia a teasing, self-deprecating look. “No matter how long I've been in New York, this is teatime for me. You can imagine the problems it causes when I'm giving a matinee performance!”

Before Pia could respond, Lucy glanced toward the door again. “Hawk,” Lucy acknowledged with a smile. “How nice of you to join us.”

Pia followed the direction that Lucy was looking, and froze.

Hawk. Him.

It wasn't possible.

What was he doing here?

Pia felt a sensation like emotional vertigo.

Hawk looked relaxed and at home in a green T-shirt and khakis, as casual as she'd ever seen him. He looked, in fact, as if he might have sauntered in after watching some television or grabbing a bite to eat in another part of the house.

Pia glanced at Lucy, bewildered.

“Have you met my brother, James Carsdale?” Lucy said with an inviting smile, seemingly unaware of anything untoward happening.

Lucy cast her brother an impish grin. “Do I need to recite all your titles, or will it suffice to enlighten Pia that you're also known as His Grace, the Duke of Hawkshire?”

“Carsdale?” Pia repeated, still forcing herself to focus on Lucy. “I thought your surname was Montgomery.”

“Pia knows I have a title,” Hawk said at the same time.

It was Lucy's turn to look perplexed. She glanced between her brother and Pia. “I feel as if I've walked in during the middle of the second act. Is there something I should know?”

Pia swung to look at Lucy. “Your brother and I are—” she spared Hawk a withering look “—acquainted.”

Hawk arched a brow. “Well-acquainted.”

“Past tense,” Pia retorted.

“Obviously—on all counts,” Lucy put in before turning to look at her brother. “You didn't tell me that you knew Pia. You suggested only that, on good authority, you had the name of an excellent wedding planner whom you wanted to recommend to me.”

“The truth,” Hawk responded.

Lucy arched a brow. “I take it
the good authority
was none other than yourself?”

Hawk inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, a mocking look in his eyes as they met Pia's.

“Yes,” Pia put in acidly, “your brother is practiced in making the artful omission.”

Lucy looked with interest from her brother to Pia and back. “On the stage, this would be called a moment of high drama,” she quipped. “And here I thought, Hawk, that I had a lock on the thespian skills in the family.”

Pia stood and reached for her handbag. “Thank you for the offer of tea, Lucy, but I won't be staying.”

As Pia tried to step by Hawk on the way to the door, he took hold of her elbow, and she froze.

It was the first time he had touched her in three years—since the night they had first met. And despite herself, she couldn't help feeling Hawk's casual touch on her elbow to the tips of her toes. Her skin prickled at his nearness.

Why, oh why, did she have to remain so responsive to him?

Pia forced herself to look up. It was at a moment such as
this that she rued her lack of stature. And Hawk bested her on all counts…physical height, bearing and consequence in the world.

“I see you have the knack of anticipating requests,” he said smoothly. “It's a useful skill in a wedding planner. And, as it happens, I was going to ask for a private word.”

Fortunately, she regained some of her combativeness at his words, and she fumed silently even as she let Hawk guide her out the door to the parlor without protest. She was headed in that direction anyway and there was no use making a scene in front of his sister.

Once in the hall, however, she pulled away from Hawk's loose hold. “If you would summon your butler or majordomo, or whatever you call him, for my coat, I'll be on my way and we'll put an end to this charade of an interview.”

“No,” Hawk responded, pulling shut the parlor door.

“No?”
The gall…the utter nerve.

Hawk smiled grimly. “Why pass up the chance to tell me, again, what you think of me? Or better yet, say it with finger food?” He nodded toward the room they'd just exited. “I noticed at least a few good scones in there.”

“I'll permit Lucy to enjoy them.”

“What a relief.”

Her gaze clashed with his.

“It seems we're at an impasse,” Hawk said dryly. “I refuse to let you leave with your coat until we've spoken, and you're—” he looked at a nearby window and the steady drizzle coming down “—determined to get wet.”

“You're all wet,” she retorted. “And for your information, I have a compact umbrella with me in my handbag.”

Hawk sighed. “We can do this the hard way, and perhaps make a scene that Lucy will overhear, or we can retire to somewhere with a bit more privacy.”

“You leave me little choice,” Pia tossed back, her chin set at a mutinous angle.

Without waiting for a further invitation, Hawk steered her into a room across the hall.

As Hawk shut the door behind them, Pia noted that this room was unmistakably a library or study. It had built-in bookshelves, a marble mantel as impressive as the one in the parlor, and a large desk set in front of high windows. With plenty of dark, leather-upholstered furniture, the room was clearly Hawk's domain.

Pia turned back to confront Hawk. “I had no idea Lucy was related to you. She gave her name as Lucy Montgomery. Otherwise—”

“—you'd never have come?” he finished for her, his tone sardonic.

“Naturally.”

“Montgomery is the stage name that Lucy adopted. It is, however, also a surname that appears in our family tree.”

Pia raised her eyebrows. “Do all you Carsdales operate under a variety of names?”

“When it suits.”

“And I suppose it suits when you're intent on seduction?”

She'd intended the comment as a sharp riposte, but he had the audacity to give her a slow, sensuous smile.

“Is that what it was—seduction?” he murmured. “To which you fell victim?”

“Through foul means.”

“But still you were seduced by the man…not the title.”

Pia detected a note of naked honesty in Hawk's banter, but she didn't let herself dwell on it. She didn't let herself dwell on anything—including the fact that they were in his library alone together—except holding on to her outrage.

“You masterminded this,” she accused, looking around them. “You arranged to have me come here when you knew I was not suspecting…not ex-expecting…”

Words deserted her.

“It's not a charade, however,” Hawk countered. “How could
it be? My sister needs to move up her wedding date, and you're a wedding consultant, last I heard.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Does it matter if you can use the business?” Hawk replied.

Pia's eyes widened. “I don't know what you mean. In any case, I'm not that desperate.”

“Aren't you?” Hawk said. “You've dropped hints that you've been less than busy lately.”

Pia's eyes widened further.

“Never play poker.”

“Seeking to make amends?”

“In a sense.”