The Prince Next Door. Sue Civil-Brown

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ looking up, the woman said, “But it becomes you so well, madam.”

      Maria Teresa glanced sideways at the mirrored wall, taking in all the expensive, basted fabric that covered her. Fabric her own mother could only have dreamed about. It did flatter the olive tone of her skin, she decided.

      “But blue,” she said, anyway.

      The dressmaker, now on solid ground, looked up. “Madam doesn’t want to look as if she has a liver disease.”

      Maria Teresa sighed theatrically. It was true, blues made her look sallow.

      “Oh, very well,” she said irritably, hating to be reminded that there was anything she couldn’t do. “Perhaps yellow…”

      The dressmaker, Adele, straightened, stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Madam,” she said sternly, “we tried every color of the rainbow and agreed this flattered you best. Moreover, it will not be so green once we add the pearls.”

      Of course it wouldn’t. She needed to remember that. She was just being difficult because of Darius. Speaking of whom…

      “You’re right, Adele. Keep working. After you bring me a telephone.”

      “Yes, madam.”

      Help just wasn’t what it used to be, Maria Teresa thought. But Adele was one of the best dressmakers around, unless you were interested in the ridiculous fashion ideas that were called haute couture in Paris these days, and Maria Teresa definitely was not.

      When Adele passed her the phone, Maria Teresa didn’t need to look up the number, even though Darius had only moved into his new residence three weeks ago. She had memorized the number instantly, just the way a bloodhound memorizes the scent it wants to follow.

      Or a predator.

      But such unflattering descriptions of herself were not on her mind as she tapped her toe and waited for her son to answer. It seemed to take a long time, but when she absolutely needed to, she could be patient. Barely.

      “Maxwell.”

      “Darius,” she said, making her tone as pathetic as she could. “Estoy secuestrada.” I am kidnapped.

      “Sí, so I’ve heard. How much are you paying them?”

      She puffed up with indignation and heard the faint tearing as pins ripped through silk. Adele cast her a disapproving glance, but Maria Theresa ignored it. She would deal with this woman’s impudence later. First, though, she had to deal with her son.

      “Darius!” she snapped, in a tone that every mother knows and at which every child quails. “I’m not paying anyone anything. You have to help me!”

      “Just how am I supposed to do that? I have no idea where you are.”

      She frowned, tapping her toe. This was certainly not the treatment she had expected from him, and certainly not when she employed the voz de la madre, the stern voice of a mother. Looking heavenward, she blasted a handful of saints and her poor departed spouse for having cursed her with such a child.

      “Ma mère?”

      In this family, a plethora of languages were spoken, and Maria Teresa had always insisted her son address her by the French rather than the Spanish for “my mother.” Sometimes he liked to irritate her by calling her mamacita.

      Regardless, she didn’t hear nearly enough concern in his voice. Feeling frustrated, she twisted just a bit, and one of the seamstress’s pins jabbed her side. She cried out.

      Which had the desired effect, she realized instantly.

      “Ma mère?”

      “They’re torturing me,” she cried with great relish.

      Adele jumped back, her face paling. Maria Teresa waved her concern away. “You have to save me at once!”

      “Where are you?”

      “I don’t know!” Which was a lie. The Riviera was a little hot this year, but otherwise comfortable.

      “Mother.” This time Darius spoke in English. “Has it occurred to you that kidnapping is a very dangerous thing to do?”

      “Only if the police catch them before I am killed,” she wailed.

      “That isn’t what I meant.”

      She hesitated. This wasn’t going as expected. “What do you mean?”

      “Just that if they’re doing this to make me accept that I’m prince of Masolimia, they’re making a big mistake. Because if I accept the throne, I can have these kidnappers beheaded.”

      “My dear son, beheadings are so déclassé.” The wheels were truly spinning in her brain now. This was a kink she definitely hadn’t expected, and she was glad that neither Menos nor Mas was able to hear this conversation. They were loco enough without fearing they’d lose their heads.

      “Then I’ll have them shot.”

      “That’s better,” she approved. She feigned every ounce of pathos she could muster. “But you will rescue me?”

      “Which hotel are you at?”

      She almost slipped. The answer rose naturally to her lips, but she bit it back just in time. “Believe me, this is not a hotel! It’s a hovel!”

      Now Adele was looking seriously annoyed, but Maria Teresa hardly cared for that. A generous tip would bring the smile back.

      “Really.” Darius sighed. “If you want the truth, Mother…”

      “But of course!”

      “If you really have been kidnapped, I feel sorry for your abductors.”

      “Darius!”

      “Tell you what, Mother. I’ll save you.”

      Her eyes lit up, and she sent paeans of praise winging heavenward to the lately slandered saints. “You will?”

      “Of course.”

      Now he would swashbuckle. At last. Her son was going to play Errol Flynn, John Wayne, Sean Connery….

      “How soon?”

      “I’m not sure. First I have to prove I’m not the prince.”

      He disconnected, leaving Maria Teresa to feel as if she had been struck by a truck.

      Prove he wasn’t the prince? ¡Dios no lo quiera!

      SERENA WAS SUNBATHING, dermatologist-style. She was lying beside the condo swimming pool, clad in a maillot, coverup, wide-brimmed sun hat and half a tube of sunscreen. And just to be sure, she’d chosen a chaise beneath an umbrella. Immediately to her right on the pool deck sat a tall bottle of spring water and a kitchen timer which she had set to twenty minutes.

      To her left was СКАЧАТЬ