Seduced by the Heir(21)

Paris touched her neck, remembering she'd lost her heart-shaped pendant,  and sighed with regret. She'd called Hotel Excelsior every day since  returning from Venice, hoping that a Good Samaritan had turned it in,  but she had no such luck. Paris kept telling herself it didn't matter,  that she could replace it with something more expensive from Cartier,  but deep down she knew the piece was unique. Rafael had given her the  necklace for her twentieth birthday, and she'd worn it every day for the  past fifteen years. It had sentimental value and could never be  replaced. She'd always considered the necklace her good luck charm and  felt naked without it.

Shaking off her sadness, Paris raised her hunched shoulders and  straightened her electric-blue blazer. She didn't have time for a pity  party. She had a speech to write for the Women's Business Expo,  contracts to read and a charity gala to plan. Now more than ever she had  to stay focused and keep it together.

Swallowing a yawn, Paris pulled back the sleeve of her blazer and  checked the time on her wristwatch. If she finished writing her speech  by noon, she could squeeze in a nap and a little retail therapy at her  favorite Georgetown boutique.                       
       
           



       

"If you were a hamburger at McDonalds you'd be the McGorgeous!"

Oh, brother, not again, Paris thought, groaning inwardly. Why do  lowlifes keep hitting on me? Do I have the word desperate written across  my forehead in yellow neon marker?

A guy dressed in a black bomber jacket and baggy clothes saddled up  beside her, wearing a toothy grin. Annoyed, she sucked her teeth and  rolled her eyes to the ceiling. The stranger had tattoos, gold teeth,  and gave off a bad-boy vibe. He definitely wasn't her type. She  preferred athletic, clean-cut men with impeccable manners.

Men like Rafael Morretti.

Thoughts of the handsome Italian filled her mind. As Paris reminisced  about their time in Venice, she couldn't help wondering if what  Cassandra had told her was true. Last night, while she was working in  her home office, her best friend had called to talk about her romantic  Caribbean honeymoon. They'd chatted and laughed for hours, but the  moment Cassandra mentioned Rafael's name Paris had lost her voice. Her  tongue froze inside her mouth and her heart beat wildly.

"Rafael called Stefano in a panic the day you left Venice."

Paris played dumb. "Really? That's odd. I wonder why."

"I don't know. You tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Oh, but I think there is. Rafael was supposed to go clubbing with the  bridal party after the wedding, but he got on the elevator with you, and  that's the last anyone saw of him."

"You make it sound like he was abducted!" Paris cracked up. "Maybe he changed his mind and crashed in his hotel suite."

"Or," Cassandra stressed, raising her voice, "maybe you put it on him, and he blacked out!"

Twenty-four hours later her friend's joke still made Paris laugh.

"Are you from around here or just visiting?"

Paris blinked and surfaced from her thoughts. Spotting her Versace  suitcase on the luggage belt, she stepped past the five-foot nuisance  running his mouth and grabbed her designer bag. Weaving through the  crowd, she stalked through the airport, desperate to distance herself  from the tattooed stranger with the weak-ass pickup lines.

Paris slid on her sunglasses, flung her pashmina scarf over her  shoulders and strode confidently through the sliding glass doors. The  sky looked gloomy but the air smelled clean and fresh. Taxicabs crawled  along the glistening street, car horns blared in the distance and  travelers rushed in and out of the busy airport doors.

The black Town Car idling at the curb flashed its headlights, and Paris  hustled down the sidewalk as fast as her stiletto boots would allow. She  threw open the back door, heaved her suitcase inside and buckled her  seat belt. "W Hotel Washington, please."

The driver nodded and joined the slow-moving airport traffic.

Hearing her ring tone, Paris plopped her purse on her lap and rummaged  around inside for her cell phone. Finding it, she clutched it in her  hands. Her father's number popped up on the screen. Lowering her hands  to her lap, Paris considered letting the call go to voice mail. Since  returning from Venice, she'd spoken to her dad numerous times, and every  time they spoke he was outright rude to her. Paris knew why he was  calling, and didn't want to hear another word about the World of  Concrete convention in Las Vegas next month.

The phone stopped ringing but started up again only seconds later.

"Good morning, Dad. How are you?" Paris asked, faking a cheery, upbeat voice.

"I don't have time for idle chitchat. Terrance Franklin should be here any minute now, and I don't want to keep him waiting."

"Oh, that's right, you're meeting to discuss his new inner-city project in Dallas."

His voice warmed. "I think building a community center in his  grandfather's name is an excellent idea, and I want Excel Construction  to be a part of the project."

"I agree." An idea sparked in her mind, and a smile curved her lips.  "Dad, could you get Terrance Franklin's autograph for Anthony? He's a  huge football fan, and Terrance is his all-time favorite player."

Her father made a disgusted sound. "I will do no such thing."

"Why not? It would mean the world to Anthony."

"I don't care. It's ill-mannered and highly inappropriate."

Confused, Paris stared down at her cell phone. "What is? I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Your generation doesn't know the first thing about  professionalism or social niceties," he complained. "Do you have any  idea how foolish I'd look asking the Heisman Trophy winner for an  autograph during our meeting?"                       
       
           



       

Paris strangled a groan. All that mattered to her father-besides making  money and rubbing elbows with Washington's upper crust was being revered  by his clients, associates and well-heeled friends at the Washington  Golf and Country Club. He loved vintage wine, but never drank in public  for fear of being labeled a drunk, dined only at five-star restaurants  and flaunted his wealth in the hopes of ending up in the society pages.

"I didn't call to discuss proper business etiquette...."

His brisk tone cut into her thoughts.

"I called to give you the new password for the alarm. Get a pen and right it down."

"Dad, I'm not staying at the house."

"Why not? There's more than enough room for you at the mansion."

"I know, but I'll be coming and going for the next few weeks and I don't  want to disturb you." Her excuse sounded pathetic but Paris didn't have  the guts to tell him the truth. "Since the Women's Business Expo is  being held at the convention center, I figured it made more sense to  just book a suite at one of the nearby hotels."

Silence plagued the line. It lasted so long Paris feared her father had hung up.

"Hello? Dad? Are you still there?"

"Yes, of course. I'm just...thinking."

Paris heard papers shuffle and knew her dad was sitting behind his  executive desk reading contracts and sipping Colombian coffee. He was a  creature of habit who lived for rules and structure. And he wasn't happy  unless he was calling the shots. That's why Paris chose to stay at a  hotel and not at his lavish mansion.

"Do you have time to meet for dinner tonight or are you too busy?"

"Dad, don't be silly. I'm never too busy for you."

"You better say that! I'm the guy who signs your checks, and don't you forget it!"

His laugh startled her. Paris couldn't remember the last time she'd  joked around with her dad, and hearing his loud chuckle warmed her  heart. Their conversations were always about work, but tonight she  planned to talk to her dad about Anthony and Kennedy's anniversary  party, not ways to boost profits and productivity at Excel Construction.

"Good news," he said. "I pulled some strings and got you registered for the World of Concrete convention."

"Dad, I thought we talked about this. I'm not going."

"Of course you are. We go every year."

Yeah, and every year I consider faking my own death!

"This is not open for discussion, Paris. You're going and that's final."

"Why don't you take Oliver? He's never been to a World of Concrete convention."

Her father barked a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. Your brother doesn't  know the difference between a drill and a hammer! He'd be absolutely  useless to me at the conference."

Paris bit her tongue, deciding not to argue with her dad. There was no  way in hell she was going to the three-day conference in Las Vegas at  the end of the month. And there was nothing he could say or do to change  her mind. Maybe he'll fire me! she thought hopefully. Then I could open  the beauty salon of my dreams.