Disguised Enchantment Page 5

  "Well now, isn't this a cozy little scene."

  Shannon jerked away from the Marquis as she sat beside him on the ballroom's brocade sofa and focused on the woman glaring icily down at her. Immediately, she recognized her to be the same redhead she nearly collided with in the foyer two nights earlier.

  Slowly the Marquis rose from the sofa, expelling an irritated sigh. "What are you doing here, Marsha?"

  "Ohhh, I just decided to drop by and keep you company for awhile. I ... ah ... thought we might partake of a little afternoon delight, but I see you're busy baby sitting." Then with an antagonistic smirk, she re-directed her cruel remarks at an unsuspecting Shannon. "I don't know why you're here today, sweetie, but don't get used to it. I know my darling Marquis has a soft spot for pathetic little creatures like you, although I sometimes think it's in his head rather than his heart. He may have given it out gratis last night, but take my word for it, it won't happen again. He's way out of your league, hon. Way out!"

  Tears welled in Shannon's eyes and her face grew paler and paler as an icy chill descended upon the room. It was obvious she was no longer welcome and she certainly wasn't going to wait to be asked to leave. Jumping up from the sofa, she flew to the dining room chair where her purse hung from its straight back, snatched it up and stalked into the foyer toward the front door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Marquis start after her and she quickened her pace to the door, letting it slam in his face behind her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shannon ran down the driveway that led away from the Chateau. Simmering with both anger and humiliation, she hurried through the front gate and continued onto the street not caring which direction her feet carried her as long as it was away from the infamous mansion. It was enough that she had let the Marquis talk her into attending the brunch in the first place. And it was more than enough that she had almost lost her head and given in to his tender kiss and warm embrace. But to be made a fool of in front of everyone by that horrible woman, it was just too much! Her eyes filled with tears again as Marsha's biting words replayed in her mind. Yet in her heart she knew they echoed the truth. No matter how pleasant the afternoon, or how kindly the Marquis treated her, he was certainly in a class well beyond her means and she would do well to remember it.

  A street sign caught her eye as she neared a corner and she halted in confusion. The names on the signpost meant nothing to her and she promptly decided to continue on in the same direction. Crossing to the next block, she earnestly hoped the street would lead to downtown Beverly Hills where she could find a pay phone to call a cab, or at the very least, catch a bus going to the San Fernando Valley. As she walked along the sidewalk, however, it became clear that she was headed in the wrong direction. One large estate after another seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see indicating that she was indeed lost somewhere in the heart of a residential neighborhood. Suddenly, the folly of her actions gripped her with panic. It was just plain stupid of her to take off on her own, especially when she had no idea where she was going or how to get home. Now it would be dark soon and being alone on the street, even in Beverly Hills, was quite risky, if not downright dangerous.

  Kicking at a pebble in a crack in the sidewalk, she sat down on the curb and pondered her dilemma. She could go to one of the houses and ask to use the phone to call a cab, but those places were so ritzy. Most of them had a gate with a security system where you needed to announce yourself and your business before being admitted to the grounds and, in her case, it was quite likely no one would be interested in helping her. Tears moistened her eyes again, but she fought them back, determined not to let her fears get the best of her.

  Rising from the curb, she started to walk in the direction from which she had come when the sound of an approaching automobile captured her attention. Looking up, she saw a bright red sports car top a small rise in the road and speed toward her. She watched as it whizzed past, but when it stopped abruptly and began backing up nearly as fast as it had been going forward, she felt her stomach muscles tighten in terror, and she slowly backed away from the edge of the walkway. The small car screeched to a halt and the window lowered on the passenger's side of the vehicle.

  "Good lord, it is you!" A masculine voice spoke from inside.

  Keeping her distance, she bent slightly and peered into the car's interior. A sense of relief washed over her and her fear rapidly vanished as she recognized the ruggedly featured face behind the wheel.

  "What are you doing way out here on a Sunday afternoon?" Ben Tate inquired laughingly.

  Shannon's mind went blank. She wasn't about to tell him she'd run away from the male equivalent of a whorehouse. Helplessly, she glanced about at the stately homes lining the street, then back at his grinning face. Finally, she uttered the first thing that popped into her head. "Ah ... sightseeing?"

  "Sightseeing, huh?" he chuckled. "Then I assume your car's parked around here somewhere?"

  "N-no," she shook her head, "I was planning to return home the same way I got here."

  "Which is?" his brows lifted inquisitively.

  "Why the bus, of course!" she exclaimed, quite amazed that he couldn't have figured that out for himself.

  Mirth crinkled the corners of Ben's eyes as he glanced down at his wristwatch. "I don't want to alarm you, but it could be hours before one shows up in this neighborhood--if at all. It's mid-January, and it's going to be dark and cold soon. You can't just stand here waiting. Come on," he leaned across the seat and flung open the passenger side door. "Get in. I'll take you home."

  Shannon stared at the open door, but didn't move a muscle.

  "I promise I won't bite," he added comically, a lopsided grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  "Well, all ... all right," she stammered as a touch of color crept into her cheeks. "I guess I don't have much choice." Cautiously, she stepped from the curb and slid into the bucket seat closing the door beside her.

  "By the way, I'm Ben Tate." He stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture.

  "Ah ... Shannon McAllister," she replied timidly, grasping it in a brief shake.

  "Well now that we've been properly introduced, I think you'd better tell me where you live so we can get out of here before someone reports us as would-be burglars."

  The mischievous twinkle in his eyes told her he was only teasing, but she promptly gave him her address just in case someone really was suspicious.

  Ben backed the small car into a nearby driveway, and then roared off in the direction she had traversed earlier. An air of tense silence prevailed inside the cramped interior of the vehicle as the close proximity of their bodies made Shannon quite uncomfortable. She sat wedged against the door clinging to the arm rest to keep from falling against his shoulder every time they rounded a curve that caused her to lean toward him.

  Ben cocked an amused brow at her stiff form and quickly decided a little conversation might alleviate her tension. "You know, my sister really liked her birthday present."

  Shannon's face came around and her wide eyes gazed at him in utter surprise. "She did!"

  "She sure did," he grinned at her amazed expression. "In fact she was so happy with it she begged me to tell her where I'd purchased it. So don't be surprised if she shows up at the Boutique someday."

  "Well, if she does, I'll be happy to help her with anything she might be interested in," she smiled. "I'm so glad she was pleased."

  Soon they arrived at Shannon's house in the Valley. Ben steered the car to the side of the street in front of the small structure and shut off the motor.

  "I realize it's getting late, and it's rather spur-of-the-moment, but would you have dinner with me? I know a little café not far from here that serves great pasta." He peered at her persuasively.

  Her gaze dropped from his face to the soft, fleecy fabric of the pale green pullover he wore loosely over tan jeans. "I'm sorry. I'm really tired ... Perhaps another time?"

  "Sure," Ben shrugged. "Why don't you give me your phone nu
mber and I'll call you."

  Pulling a slip of paper and a pen from her purse, she hastily scrawled the number on it, and then handed it to him. "Th-thanks for bringing me home," she expressed shyly, watching him stuff the paper into his shirt pocket.

  "It was my pleasure," he confirmed with a brief nod.

  Shannon opened the door and started to get out of the car. Before she could step onto the curb, however, she felt his hand on her arm and she turned back to him.

  "You take care of yourself, Shannon," he spoke soberly, slowly scanning her face as if he was etching every detail to memory.

  "Of ... of course. I will," she replied, frowning at the strange sadness in his voice.

  "All right." He flashed her a bright smile, and released his gentle grip on her arm.

  Alighting from the car, she closed the door and, with a wave of his hand, he pulled away from the curb and roared into the street. She watched until he was out of sight, then turned and scurried up the walkway to the back door. Letting herself inside, she closed the door behind her and sagged wearily against its wooden form, utterly relieved to be home at last. Her relief was short lived, however, when it suddenly occurred to her that the last time she stood on this spot was twenty-four hours ago, and that somewhere a bag of groceries had been left unattended. With visions of sour milk and rotten eggs leaking onto her counter top and floor, she leaped away from the door and ran into the small kitchen.

  As usual, the night-light glowed from its place above the counter and, by its orange light, she could see the outline of a grocery bag. Flipping on the overhead light, she hurried over to the bag and peered inside. To her amazement, the non-perishable things--bread, dried pasta, cereal, and canned soups--still remained inside. But her eggs, milk, yogurt and sliced cheese were missing. Curiously, she walked around the bar to the refrigerator and opened the door. Sure enough, all those items had been carefully placed inside its chilled environment. Apparently, the Marquis had an accomplice that rainy Saturday night, and she couldn't help wondering if it was the ever-faithful Mattie who helped him or someone else from the Chateau who felt obliged to the masked mystery man.

  Her eyes wandered back to the grocery bag and fell upon a white envelope lying beside it. Retracing her steps, she walked to the counter and picked it up. The flap was unsealed allowing the contents--two one-hundred-dollar bills and a folded piece of paper--to fall out in her hand. Gasping in disbelief, she stared at the money for a long moment before reading the neatly printed words on the paper:

  In order for one to be worthy of another,

  one must first prove his own worth. Let

  me start by returning your money. I deeply

  regret frightening you and sincerely wish

  there was more I could do to make you see

  how much I care. Please don't be a stranger.

  Yours,

  The Marquis

  Shannon crumpled the note in her fist and tossed it toward the trashcan.

  At least he had the decency to return her money, she thought bitterly. Come on now, a small voice inside her heart whispered. You know he was more than decent to you today. How could you forget the way he danced with you? Or the way he held and kissed you?

  She couldn't. And that was the problem. The more she tried to put the events of the day out of her mind, the more they haunted her. Sleep. That's what she needed. A good night's rest and she could put the Marquis and his dangerous charm behind her.

  Switching off the kitchen light, she made her way down the hall to her bedroom and stumbled toward the outline of her bed in the dark room. Collapsing upon it, she closed her eyes trying to force his image from her mind. His passionate, yet tender kiss had sent her emotions reeling, rendering her as limp as a rag doll. Even now, the thought of his muscular arms holding her tight against his sexy body made her ache with desire. She hated to admit it, but somehow he'd managed to awaken in her a yearning she'd never known before. A yearning she now feared she might no longer be able to fight.

  Shannon turned on the lamp beside the bed and slid off the flowered coverlet. Wearily, she moved toward the closet and took out her nightgown. After undressing and putting her clothes away, she got back into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Sleep, however, would not come to release her from her thoughts. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind replayed the feel of the Marquis' bulging penis pressed against her and it made her cry out in despair. For the first time in her life she wished she had someone comforting to cuddle up to. But could that someone really be the Marquis?

  CHAPTER SIX

  During the next few weeks, Shannon had little time to think about the Marquis. With the cool, often dreary days of February in full swing, the Tapestry Boutique began offering counted thread classes for its interested customers and, because she was the only "trained" stitcher the shop employed, the teaching duties became her responsibility. To make matters worse, Donna and the shop's owner, Mrs. Phillips, had quite mysteriously become friends. Shannon always believed Mrs. Phillips regarded Donna in much the same way she did--a loud-mouthed busybody who delighted in irritating everyone. Lately, though, they spent most everyday together pouring over folder after folder of papers and engaged in an intense, yet closely guarded conversation, punctuated with occasional bursts of congenial laughter. It seemed to Shannon that she had been assigned the extra burden of the classes to keep her from learning the meaning of their sudden collaboration.

  Unfortunately, she didn't have long to wait to discover what they were up to. She saw Donna busily arranging a display rack when she walked into the shop the next Monday morning, but thought nothing of it until Donna made a point of insisting that she come over to look at her "special project." At first Shannon regarded Donna's bragging as just so much drivel. Yet when she started gloating and taunting her about achieving something she couldn't, even with all her "artistic talent," she could no longer control her rising anger, let alone her curiosity, and she stomped off toward the display. As she neared the rack of small packaged items, she thought her eyes were deceiving her. There, in bold exhibit, were dozens of little cross-stitch kits, complete with material, floss and instructions, labeled with the unmistakable words: DESIGNS BY DONNA. Flabbergasted, Shannon snatched one of the kits from the rack and studied it with critical eyes.

  "Not too shabby for a novice, huh?" Donna quipped haughtily.

  Shannon's temper shot into overdrive as she whirled around and glared at her. "You little sneak!" she seethed. "You know I've been trying to get Mrs. Phillips to package and sell my designs, so you purposely set out to undermine my efforts by talking her into promoting this ... this garbage you call cross-stitch! No one in their right mind will buy this junk!"

  "I beg your pardon, but this is not junk," Donna huffed. "Mrs. Phillips personally approved every detail of my designs."

  "Designs, my foot!" Shannon railed. "They're nothing but glorified doodles! Little itsy-bitsy bears and hearts and clowns ... give me a break!"

  All at once a high-pitched, but refined voice sounded above their bickering. "Ladies, please! I can hear you the whole way down the concourse!"

  Both girls turned to see Mrs. Phillips step into the Boutique's storefront. She was a tall, striking woman in her mid-fifties with a trim figure and a sophisticated manner that demanded integrity and courtesy from her employees.

  She nodded at Shannon and pointed toward the stockroom. "I want to see you in the back for a few moments."

  Donna gave Shannon a now-you're-going-to-get-it look before plucking the small kit from her hand and carefully placing it back on the rack.

  A scowl darkened Shannon's face as she reluctantly marched into the stockroom and seated herself on a wooden step stool.

  Mrs. Phillips eyed her shrewdly while she spoke. "I'm really surprised at you, Shannon. I thought you, of all people, would understand why I decided to market Donna's designs."

  "Well, I don't," Shannon pouted. "They're ... they're so ridiculously simple ... juvenile even." />
  "Exactly," Mrs. Phillips smiled. "Oh, Shannon, don't you see? A lot of our customers don't have the time or the talent to work on large, detailed pieces like those you design. Many of them have asked for simple patterns they can complete in a couple evenings or a weekend. That's why these small motifs of Donna's are so wonderful. They can be used alone or adapted to the individual needs of the stitcher."

  "Ohhh," Shannon frowned. "Then you have no intention of selling my designs."

  Mrs. Phillips shook her head. "Not at this time."

  Discouragement crept into Shannon's already crestfallen expression. Slowly she rose from the stool and started out of the cluttered room.

  "Don't give up, Shannon," Mrs. Phillips called after her. "I'm sure there's a place for your exquisite designs. You just haven't found it yet."

  The remainder of the day was a living hell for Shannon. She went through the motions of waiting on customers and busying herself with small tasks, but her heart wasn't in it. Every time she glanced in Donna's direction, her co-worker's smug face and the hordes of enthusiastic stitchers crowding around her display made Shannon want to scream. By the time her workday ended, her spirit, not to mention her self-esteem, was practically non-existent.

  Dragging herself out to the parking lot, she crawled inside her old sedan and let the tears she'd carefully been guarding all day burst forth in a torrent of despair. It was incomprehensible that in a day's time her whole world had been turned upside down. Every dream she'd ever had about a designing career was now shattered and broken to bits just like her heart. She had come to this city with high hopes and now she was sorry. Los Angeles had nothing to offer her. Now, sadly, it seemed she had nothing to offer in return either.

  A pang of homesickness made her tears spring anew and for a moment she thought about going back to Virginia. Winter in all its snow-swept glory would have turned the fields and winding lanes of her family's horse farm into a glistening wonderland. How she missed that, particularly during the Holiday season. Yet going home would be admitting failure. She knew her parents would welcome her back with open arms and love her no matter what. But that wasn't in her plans. She had come to the West Coast to make something of herself and to put to good use the hard-earned money they spent for her education. She had made her bed and now she must lie in it, no matter how many of life's nasty springs poked her in the back.