She double-checked the lace camisole to make sure nothing unseemly was showing. Some women on Wall Street, which was still a predominantly male bastion, felt the need to hide their femininity. Cynthia worked hard to tone down her provocative curves and brassy coloring, but still she delighted in flaunting her femininity, in a subtle way.

As her dear old Irish grandma used to say, “There’s no need to fear the wind if your haystacks are tied down.” Well, Cynthia preferred to wrap her haystacks in designer clothes and the illusion of womanly softness which hid her hard inner core.

Cynthia had learned long ago to rely on no one but herself. She had no husband or family or significant other to lean on when the going got rough. Just herself. And that was just fine.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, despite the ugly thick-soled Dr. Scholl-type sandal she was forced to wear on one foot and the open-toed, velcro, post-op bootlet on the other, she hobbled with as much panache as possible out of the elevator on her crutches.

Waiting for her was the man who’d identified himself as Enrique “Just-Call-Me-Dick” Alvarez. He’d extended an invitation to her on behalf of his employer, Prince Ferrama, the president of the shoe company from hell—the cause of all her current problems. Apparently his highness, the shoe toad, wished to meet with her privately to clear up the “little misunderstanding.”

Hah! She’d show him a “little misunderstanding.” More than one trader on the exchange had been burned by underestimating her intelligence. Her grandma had been right. A sharp lass could beat the devil at his game.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to lean on my arm?” Alvarez purred. His words oozed politeness, but his spider-crafty eyes said, “Step into my parlor, Ms. Fly.”

As if! Cynthia reminded herself of another of Grandma’s proverbs, “It’s for its own good that the cat purrs.”

She shook her head at Alvarez’s extended elbow. She really didn’t need crutches all the time, even though three toes were broken a month ago and were still terribly sore. If she walked carefully, she could put her weight on the inner ball of her foot. But she wasn’t about to give the “enemy” that information to use against her.

And make no mistake, this Hispanic man in the ponytail and thousand dollar Italian suit and flamboyant Bolgheri tie was her enemy.

A sly rogue is often in good dress, she cautioned herself.

Alvarez was the full-time attorney as well as the puppet CEO of Ferrama, Inc., the company she intended to take to the cleaners for all her pain and suffering. The man behind the action was the president…the prince himself, she’d discovered through research…but for some reason he preferred to maintain a mysterious, aloof presence, giving the misleading impression that he was not the driving force behind Ferrama, Inc.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t have legal counsel present?” she asked, blinking her eyelashes. She’d once negotiated a billion dollar takeover with just such a ploy. Men could be such idiots.

They were approaching a suite of walnut-paneled offices where an efficient looking, middle aged secretary in a jade silk shirtwaist peered up at them from her word processor. She waved them forward, announcing, “Prince Ferrama will be with you shortly.”

Oh, goody! Cynthia wondered if she’d be expected to curtsy or something. Right. That would be a classic picture—her on crutches, bending, and her short skirt hiked up to her behind. Cynthia repeated her question to Alvarez, “Perhaps I should call my attorney? I don’t understand all this legal mumbo-jumbo. My lawyer might want to be here, don’t you think?”

The secretary swept her with a “Are you for real?” once-over of disdain.

Alvarez snickered under his breath—the jerk!—and waited until they’d entered a large corner office—presumably the royal chamber—before answering. “No, an attorney won’t be necessary, Ms. Sullivan,” he assured her, flashing a dazzling smile of sincerity, which reeked of utter transparent skullduggery. Lucifer couldn’t have done it better.

God, she was going to enjoy bringing this egomaniac and the condescending, pretentious shoe company to their knees.

“It won’t be that kind of a meeting.”

Give me a break. What kind of meeting will it be? Wham, bam, screw-you-ma’am…betcha that’s what kind of meeting he has in mind. “Oh? Well, golly, I don’t know.”

“Trust me, my dear. I’m a lawyer.”

“Now there’s an oxymoron,” she mumbled.

“¿Perdóneme?” he inquired as he motioned her toward a winged-back leather chair in front of the desk. He sank down into the chair facing her and stretched his legs out, ankles crossed. “What did you say?”

His posture said relaxed, his eyes said coiled-like-a-cobra. Cynthia warned herself not to underestimate the man.

“Oh, I was merely wondering if you were the Mr. Alvarez I spoke to on three occasions last week. Or was that Mr. Everest?” She plastered a silly grin of embarrassment on her face, as if she was the most scatterbrained woman on the face of the earth. “Dear me, I can’t remember.” With a sigh, she propped her crutches against the side of the chair and settled back. Come on, you dumb flounder, you. I’ve fed you the line. Now take the bait. Move in closer for the kill.

“Yes,” he said tentatively. “I believe I may have spoken with you.”

“I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. I’ve spoken to so many people in this firm the past few weeks, trying to arrange an amicable settlement. In fact…” She pulled out a small leather notebook from her side pocket and flipped it open. “…in fact, I was shuffled around to seventeen different persons in your organization during the course of fifty-three calls. When they weren’t laughing at me, they put me on perma-hold—”

“Perma-hold?”

“Yeah, that’s the tactic known as Receptionist’s Revenge where they put you on hold so long you eventually hang up. The unspoken message in all this stonewalling was, ‘Take a hike, Lady.’“ She nailed him with a level look now—the pretense of gullible dingbat dropped. “Does that about sum it up, Mr. Alvarez?”

“Ouch,” he said with a grimace. “Have I just been subjected to a shark attack, Ms. Sullivan?”

“You bet your wing tips.” Cynthia kept her face deliberately bland, not revealing her surprise that he was aware of her shark reputation. Heck, the guy probably knew the size of her mortgage, her education history, where she bought her Tampax.

Unruffled at being zapped, Alvarez grinned at her, obviously relishing the battle to come. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

“In spades.”

He removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and studied her. A weaker-willed woman would have shriveled under such scrutiny, but she met his gaze and matched him with a lift of her chin.

“Bottom line, Ms. Sullivan. How much?”

“One million. And if your boss keeps me waiting much longer, the ante goes up to two million.”

He laughed.

She shrugged.

“Twenty thousand if you sign the release papers right now.”

Now this was interesting. She hadn’t expected Ferrama to be willing to negotiate at all. Oh, twenty thousand was chump change to a corporation of its size and deep pockets, but most companies would rather spend the money in court than set a precedent for what they consider frivolous lawsuits. Not that her claim was frivolous. Not by a Big Board longshot.

“Deep six that, mister. Twenty thousand would barely cover my mortgage payments while I’m out of work.” She started to rise from her seat. “We aren’t even in the same ballpark, Mr. Alvarez. Remember, shut fists catch no hawks.”

“Hawks, sharks…what is this? A zoo?”

Cynthia glared at him. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

He raised a halting hand. “Thirty thousand.”

She tilted her head, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Fifty, and that’s our final offer.”

Okay, I smell a fish here. No way would a shoe company offer me fifty thou unless there’s trouble in paradise. Cynthia’s intuition told her that she’d landed in the midst of a flim-flam, and even if she ended up fifty thousand richer, she was going to be on the losing end of the deal. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a vulture, Mr. Alvarez?”

“¡Ah, mierda! Another lawyer jokester!” he murmured enigmatically, throwing up his arms in mock surrender.

“The wing tips are easily removed from one of them,” she answered.

“Are you trying to say you don’t like my shoes?” He waggled a variegated grain wing-tip of buttery soft leather at her that probably cost five hundred dollars.

“No, I’m trying to warn you. Never con a con man…or con woman, in my case. I make my living…a very good living which has been interrupted, thanks to your company…in the financial world where bluff-and-call is the name of the game.”

“I’m listening,” he prodded.

“You thought I was faking. Big mistake.” She gave him a self-satisfied smile, meant to irritate. “Some people think sharks never attack attorneys,” she added, deciding to hit him with another lawyer joke. “Professional courtesy, dontcha know? But as you can see, that’s just an old wives tale.”

“Ha, ha, ha. What’s your point?”

“I probably would have accepted a fifty thousand settlement three weeks ago…before your company made me mad, jerking me off left and right. But now—”

“Now?”

“Now the shark is gonna gobble up you shoe guppies.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ms. Sullivan,” he said silkily, not at all intimidated.

“Oh?”

“There’s more than one shark in the ocean. Keep that in mind before you hum the theme song to Jaws.”

They were interrupted by a commotion outside the office. Two men could be seen through the open door, speaking animatedly as they came down the hallway toward the secretary’s desk. The tall one with a suit jacket draped foppishly over his shoulders…presumably the prince…was saying something to a guy in a chauffeur’s uniform. It sounded like, “¡Dios! What the hell does the Pythagorean Theorem have to do with the arch of a stiletto high-heeled shoe?”

“Everything,” answered the squeaky-voiced chauffeur whose curly hair resembled an orangey-red Chia Pet. Although he was probably twenty-five or so, he had the voice and appearance of a freckle-faced adolescent. Pulling a calculator from his breast pocket as they walked, he punched in some numbers and chortled, “See. The angle of the incline has to be reciprocal to the force of the impact on the ball of the feet or the shoe will pinch.”

She thought she heard the prince groan and mutter an unprincely expletive.

Both men were speaking now to the secretary, who was presumably notifying them of Cynthia’s presence.

Alvarez stood abruptly. She decided to stand as well, not wanting to be in a lower height position of power during this initial confrontation. She braced herself with her hand lightly resting against the edge of the desk.

Jabbing a finger at her, Alvarez ordered, “Stay right there,” then went out to speak to the two men.

A rapid spate of fluent Spanish flew back and forth between the prince and Alvarez, supposedly bringing his royal highness up to snuff on her complaint and possibly company business. During one of her innumerable calls to Ferrama, she’d learned that the prince was in Paris at a couture showing which included his exclusive shoe creations.

Cynthia couldn’t believe she’d actually bought a pair of the frivolous Ferrama high heels. And for an ungodly two hundred and fifty dollars…on sale, at that. But it had been her thirtieth birthday…and she’d been walking down Fifth Avenue, past Saks… berating herself for her penny-pinching ways despite her fabulous income…telling herself that she deserved a gift, even if it was from herself…when she’d noticed the most delectable pair of blue suede high heels in the window. The sales clerk inside had assured her that Ferrama shoes were worth every penny because their unique composition promised that a woman could wear them all day and never feel the discomfort of a normal high heeled pump. Besides, the clerk had added with a wink, everyone knew how men reacted to women in high heels.

And the rest was history. Corn city. Lost job. Mortgage payments looming. Picketing. Pay-back time.

She narrowed her eyes at the biggest culprit of all. Prince Ferrama.

Finally, their conversation ended and the prince turned toward her. For a second he stood frozen, staring at her as if she were some incredible apparition.

But she wasn’t the apparition. He was.

Oh, my God! She tried to remember a relevant bit of Grandma’s wisdom, but all her short-circuited brain could come up with was, “A sly rogue can turn a saint to sin.” No, that was dangerous thinking. A better one would be, “Do not mistake a goat’s beard for a fine stallion’s tail.” Yep, much better to think of this handsome devil as a horse’s ass, rather than an enticing rogue.

Even before he removed his dark glasses, Cynthia could see that this man was the fulfillment of every little girl’s dream of Prince Charming. Overlong black hair was wet-combed back off his dark Castilian face which was enhanced, not detracted, by day-old whiskers. Full, sensuous lips parted in surprise, mirroring her own stunned faculties. Oh, he wasn’t as movie star good-looking as Alvarez, but better, to her mind…the harsh edges softened a bit by a quickly masked sadness or vulnerability.

That was certainly whimsical of her…seeing things that she wanted to see, perhaps. Whoa! Since when did “The Irish Barracuda” engage in whimsy?

What’s happening to me? I’ve never been attracted to pretty boy celebrity types before.

But, Lordy, he is pretty.

A tiny gold hoop earring glittered in one ear. The effeminate European-style draping of his gray silk suit jacket over his shoulders was belied by a long, lean body which very nicely filled out a black tee shirt tucked into a pair of pleated gray silk slacks. Casual chic. It was probably the latest savoir faire in Paris. Or the royal polo circuit. Geez!

With her one hungry glance at all that debonair, born-to-the-manner elegance, Cynthia felt like a squirt of common yellow mustard in a sophisticated grey poupon world. No matter how far she’d come from the Chicago projects, no matter how much money she earned, no matter how designer-appropriate her clothing, no matter how proper her etiquette…there was a part of Cynthia that remained a poor little ghetto girl with her nose pressed against the glass window of upper society.

But Cynthia couldn’t dwell on that now. The prince was striding purposely toward her. At the same time his right arm extended to shake her hand, his left hand removed his dark glasses.

And Cynthia’s mind went blank.

“Buenos días, Ms. Sullivan. Prince Pedro Tomas de la Ferrama, at your service,” he said in a grainy bedroom-soft voice. His English was perfect, though heavily accented with the richness of his Spanish ancestry.

“Pedro?” she squeaked out, and could have bitten her tongue. What a stupid thing to say!

“Peter,” he translated with a soft “I can melt you anytime anywhere” smile.

Get a grip, Cynthia. This is a business meeting. He is the enemy. I wonder if he likes to kiss. “Prince Peter?” she said with a laugh, trying to regain the upper hand in this initial encounter, and failing miserably. Her brain appeared to have stalled in first gear.

“My friends call me P.T.”

“Huh? Prince Petie?”

“P.T., the initials,” he corrected her with a spark of irritation in his half-hooded eyes.

“Well, I’m sorry. Prince Peter sounds silly enough. I just can’t call a grown man Petie, even if they are initials.”

But then his long fingers closed over hers—was it a handshake or a caress?—and he turned her hand palm downward, raised it face level and kissed the air above her skin in the gallant Continental style. She felt the whisper of his hot breath all the way to her injured toes. The whole time, his sexy “take no mercy” eyes held hers captive. The sweeping lashes were so thick they must weigh his lids down. And the eyes—oh, God, the eyes!—they were so dark a blue that they appeared black. There were promises in those penetrating eyes…promises she couldn’t fathom…and pure unadulterated temptation.

The world narrowed in those seconds to the faint scent of some expensive woodsy cologne, the sound of his breathing—or was it hers?—and the delicious feel of his palm pressed against hers, now in a regular handshake. Cynthia had never, ever been affected by a man in this way, especially not on a first meeting.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Señorita Sullivan,” he said with an intensity that implied meaning beyond the mere words.

“P.T.,” Alvarez said in a warning tone behind them.

A snicker could be heard on the other side of the room where a computer was being booted up by the chauffeur.

Cynthia understood the alarm in Alvarez’s terse admonition to his boss, not to mention the nerd extraordinaire’s chuckle. They were a wake-up call to her, as well. This was a business meeting, not The Love Connection.

The prince came to his senses with a seeming jolt, glancing down with dismay at their still-clasped hands. He dropped her hand, and a remarkable slow-motion transformation rippled over his body.

His chin rose a noticeable notch with haughtiness. He adjusted his suit jacket over his shoulders and flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve with an impeccably manicured fingernail—Is that clear nail polish he’s wearing? Jeesh, I can’t remember the last time I splurged on that kind of non-productive pampering. And the eyes which had been warmly attracted to her moments ago now gave her a cool, skimming assessment. The mirthless smile he bestowed on her was intended to be an intentional put-down—one of those chauvinistic “I know you want me” smirks.

Cynthia prided herself on her ability to judge people. Could she have been that wrong in discerning a mutual lightning bolt attraction between them? Could the prince be that good an actor? And why would he bother? She flinched inwardly as all her old insecurities rushed forth.

Still, she was not prepared for his mocking insult that followed.

“Your castle or mine, princess?”