by Natasha Deen
Sneakers, Sandals & Stilettoes:
Fairy-tales for the Well-Heeled Princess
by
Natasha Deen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Sneakers, Sandals and Stilettoes: Fairy Tales for the Well-Heeled Princess
Copyright © 2011 Natasha Deen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover art: Nicola Martinez
Blueberry Hill Press
Published in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1456596705
Dedication
For Alli, Alice, Caitlin, Donnae, Jo, Mel, Nicola, Stacy, & Sven, you keep me sane—an almost impossible task. Thank you.
Other Titles by Natasha Deen
(writing as Bronwyn Storm)
Ethan’s Chase
I Love You a Latte
Praise for Ethan’s Chase
This modern day story will keep you on the edge of your seat!
~ Romance Junkies
This book is AMAZING from beginning to finish...you NEED to read this book.
~ Ohio Girl Talks
A sexy, fun, quick read.
~ Cheryl’s Book Nook
I would definitely recommend this book to anyone!
~ The Long and Short of it Reviews
You have an all-around great read that manages to combine comedy, romance and suspense all in one book.
~Confessions of an Overworked Mom
It's absolutely perfect for a middle of the week book to release some stress from your busy week.
~ A Moment with Mystee
Every time I had to put it down, my mind would be on the book, wanting to see who was trying to sabotage Chase and Ethan's businesses...I just HAD to keep going back and finding out what happened next.
~ Book Reviews by Molly
Chapter One
The day, having begun with small notes of inconvenience, ended in a symphony of disaster and things gone wrong. Aggie pulled into the driveway of her two-storey condo, and the music hit its crescendo. Cymbals crashed and climaxed with the sight of Dillon, the love of her life and the object of her torment, lit by the headlights of her fire-engine red MG Triumph.
He stood on the sidewalk, his latest confection of choice beside him. Drop-dead sexy, the red-head had curves so deep, she would send Barbie running to the nearest plastic surgeon. Aggie turned away so she wouldn’t see them kiss good bye and jabbed her garage door remote hard enough to break the tip of her gel nail. She pulled the car into its space and wrenched her exhausted body from the seat.
“There’s my favourite music producer.”
Dillon’s bass voice washed over her in a warm, sensual tide of low tones and smooth timbres. She glanced up, saw the redhead driving away in a silver Mercedes, then turned to regard him. Late evening, and she was bedraggled, rumpled, and wrinkled. Dillon, on the other hand, dressed in faded jeans and a blue, long-sleeve jersey, had the audacity to look pressed, fresh, with not a stray lock of his ebony hair out of place. The fact that he, naturally and with little effort, carried himself with the grace and confidence of a super-model did nothing but sour her already dark mood.
“Can it, MacKenzie. It’s eight o’clock, and I’m too damn tired for another episode of “As the Bed Sheets Rustle.”” She crawled into the back seat and gathered her briefcase, three cloth bags worth of groceries, and her laptop. She backed out, her mules contacting the cement floor with a dull click.
“Is it Stelner, again?” The dulcet wave of his voice crept with soft steps, to her ear. “I keep telling you, he’s working you too hard.” The warmth of his breath puffed against her ear, the hard comfort of his body brushed her back. Dillon reached in front of her, his fingers wrapped over hers as he grabbed the bags and work equipment.
“It’s not Stelner, just a long day—would you stop helping? I can handle it.” She elbowed him in the ribs, but he had six inches on her five foot, eight inch frame and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. Blocked on one side by the door and on the other by Dillon, she struggled to hold onto the bags and manoeuvre herself from the mind-melting, knee-buckling proximity of his presence. He wrapped a hand around her waist and tried to grab a bag with the other. Her stomach jumped and jived at his touch.
“Would you stop being so stubborn? Let me help you.”
To cover her excitement, Aggie whirled to face him, intending to force his retreat, and immediately regretted the move. All the best parts of their bodies lined up. Added to that, was the synapse-exploding, brain-liquefying sight of him. Bright blue irises, framed by black lashes, blanched almond-toned skin, a generous mouth and a killer smile. The sight of him coalesced into a sexy bullet that hit her between the eyes and made the air in her lungs exit in a sharp “oh!”
Dillon’s smile widened into a grin and her lungs forgot how to breathe.
“Step away from the bags, Agnes Frump, and let your favourite neighbour help you.”
The use of her full name made her wince. Agnes Frumps of the world never got the Dillon MacKenzies, no matter how many Victoria Secret bras they bought, glamorous their music producing career, or witty their repartee, because the Dillons always loved the Rubies, Opals, and Pearls. Jewelled women who spoke ten languages, did Karate and Yoga, owned Fortune 500 companies, and saved endangered species in their spare time. Next to his bevy of girlfriends, Aggie was tacky costume jewellery, nothing but a cheap knock off of the woman he wanted. “I don’t need your help.”
His eyes clouded over, then cleared back to a sunny blue. “You won’t even let me carry one?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He stepped back and crossed his arms. The indulgent smile on his mouth underscored the trivial stupidity of her pride, and when she had to wrestle with the door—moving and stumbling around like a drunk tortoise, trivial stupidity nose-dived into the humiliation of having made an idiot of herself in front of the one person she most wanted to impress.
She slammed the door shut with her behind.
“Better?”
“Yes.” She tried not to pant the answer.
In one step, he moved towards her and in a swift motion, scooped her into his arms.
“Dillon! What are you doing?”
“If you won’t let me help you with the bags, then I’m going to help you to the door.” He started for it.
“I’m not an invalid.” She did her best to ignore the way her body rippled with pleasure as it jostled and rubbed against him, but her senses dived into the heaven that was him.
“No, but you’ve obviously had a bad day. You’re behaving like an over-tired toddler, and someone has to step in and be kind to you.”
“Well, thanks for the pity good deed. Let me know when you get your badge, Boy Scout.”
He climbed the two steps of her porch. “I take it back. You’re like a sumo wrestler who hasn’t had his lunch. What happened to put you in such a funk?”
“Probably coming home and seeing you with yet another bimbette.”
His chuckle tickled her insides, and she hated both of them for her reaction. She wriggled out his arms, and he set her down on the
ground.
“Where are your keys?”
“Umm…”
“Never mind.” He flipped open her jacket, checked the pockets. His hands against her body were efficient, friendly and if his insides shook like hers, he didn’t show it. He reached into her back, jeans pocket and pulled out the keys.
“So? Who was the dish?”
He shot her a quizzical glance.
“You know, the sex-pot, the dolly.”
“Did we step through a time tunnel and into the forties?”
“Leave me alone. I’ve spent the week producing an Ella Fitzgerald retrospective. You’re lucky I don’t tell you to hit the road before I pump you full of lead.”
“What have I told you about reading Sam Spade?” He unlocked the door and stepping through, flipped on her foyer light.
“I gotta do something during the lunch hour, and I finished all the Mickey Spillane books you lent me.” She crossed the threshold and let him take the bags from her.
“You won’t pump me full of lead—you off me, and you’ll die of starvation. Did you get the sea salt?”
“Yes.”
He held a bag to his face, and peered into it, his expression filled with doubt. “You’re sure—you didn’t pick up the regular kind by mistake?”
She rolled her eyes, loving him and feeling exasperated at the same time. “I did one better. Before I came home, I took the Trans-Canada highway from Vancouver, hopped on to a ferry. After it set sail, I waded into the Pacific Ocean, scooped out a litre of water and let it evaporate.”
“Sarcasm will not get you roasted Illabo lamb with tomato, olives and aioli on Monday night.”
“Yeah, but I bet begging will get a certain, gorgeous friend to unpack the groceries.” She kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes against coolness of the slate floor.
“Of course I’m going to put everything away. You’ll get lost and frightened by all the chrome and large appliances. I picked up the lamb on the way home. We’ll have burgers tomorrow.” He turned and headed into the kitchen. As he flipped on lamps and switches, yellow light splattered the ochre-coloured walls of the living room. Aggie followed and collapsed, face-down, on to the couch.
“You never answered my question,” she said.
“Which one?”
“Who was the dame?”
He laughed, and she pulled a throw pillow over her head to squelch the giggle of delight that always rose in her when he was happy. “Her name is Brandy.”
“Brandy? Brandy?” She hauled herself to her knees and stared over the couch arm, into the kitchen, keeping her gaze on his broad shoulders and ignoring the temptation to let it fall to his glorious behind.
He looked over his shoulder, his profile chiselled, perfect, and the stuff of sculptors’ dreams. “What’s wrong with Brandy?”
“Nothing—unless you consider the names of your previous paramours: Brandy, Damiano, Sherry, and Bailey. Honest to God, are you dating women or aperitifs?”
He turned, a frozen boxed meal in his hand. Dillon held it aloft, like Moses getting ready to fling the stone tablets. A look of thunder blackened his face. “What the hell is this? Haven’t we talked about you and this crap?”
“It’s quick and easy—like you,” she grinned, but his face darkened from thunderous to stormy.
“It’s full of preservatives and salt. I cook for you, why are you buying this?”
“Because you’re not always going to be here—one day you might move on to the Cinnamons, Sages, and Thymes of the world, and I’ll have to feed myself.” Her eyes misted over, and she looked away before he could not only see the tears, but the fears that kept her awake at night, mourning his eventual loss.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll always be here to cook for you—we’ve been neighbours for three years. I’m not going anywhere and with your dismal dating habits, neither are you.”
“And you think Cinnamon will be fine sharing the dinner table with me?”
He frowned. “I’m never going to marry anyone named Cinna—well, okay I might marry a Cinnamon, but never Thyme. I couldn’t stand to watch her pass me by.”
He grinned at his pun, boyish, charming, and her heart puddled into a viscous pool. She tossed a pillow at him. “Stockbrokers shouldn’t be comedians. Where’s my dinner?”
The pillow sailed back through the air and landed on the cushion beside her.
“It’s coming.”
She flopped on to the couch. “So, where did you meet her?”
“Who?”
“The Queen—Brandy, who else?”
“Low blood sugar makes you really grouchy. The gym.” He pivoted on his heel and refocused his attention on the groceries in front of him.
Of course. “Let me guess. She’s a CEO—no, wait—” Aggie thought about the way Brandy’s hair had swung in long, wavy layers, her lush curves, and sexy clothes—“she owns her own business. I’d say she speaks at least three languages, and—” her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember the type of shoes the woman had worn—“she’s got a fetish for antiques—classic pieces. I bet her house is full of Chippendale furniture.”
Dillon appeared over the back of the couch. “What are you, psychic? She’s a dealer in antiques.”
“No, I just know you—children’s charities, right?”
“Yes, she’s on the board for two. Open your mouth.”
Her nose twitched. “Why? What are you planning on putting inside it?”
“Something you really want.”
She doubted that, but she opened her mouth, anyway. He popped in a square of cheddar cheese.
“Do you know there’s a chemical in cheese that acts like opium in the brain? It’s one of the reasons that dieters have a hard time giving it up—cheese literally makes them happy.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Be happy or I’m going to stuff the entire brick down your throat.” He handed her three more cubes.
She laughed, she couldn’t help it. He made her wonderfully, deliriously joyful and the thought of losing him to another woman, broke her heart. “So, how long do you think you and Brandy will last?”
He shook his head. “Give me a break.”
“You go through women like chefs go through paper towels, stockbrokers go through…what do stockbrokers go through?”
“Friends who lecture them on relationships.” He stepped away from her and headed back into the kitchen. This time, she let her gaze linger on the delicious movement of his jean-covered ass.
“Just give me a ballpark—are we talking forever? A fling?” She didn’t voice the last thought—that she needed to know so she could prepare rations of tissues, chocolates, and ice cream, in case Brandy was his idea of perfection.
“You sound like my mother.” His voice climbed to a falsetto with perfect tones of a Cantonese accent, “When are you going to find a nice girl, like Aggie?”
She almost choked on a mouthful of cheese. “Your mother wants you to settle down with a girl like me?”
“She adores you—why do you think I drag you to Sunday dinner?”
“Because you like having me around, not because you thought your mother needed a playmate.” Her tone hit the bull’s eye for huffy indignation.
Dillon gave her a tolerant smile, as though she was being unreasonable but he didn’t mind, and she felt like lobbing the last piece of cheese at him. The smell of sautéed onions and garlic filled the air, calling to her appetite, making her nose twitch with anticipation. Her stomach demanded the dairy product. She stuffed the last bite of cheddar in her mouth and chewed it, alongside the harsh words she wanted to fling at him.
“Of course I like having your around, Aggie. I just meant that mom loves you and dad thinks you’re wonderful.”
“And you?”
He smiled. “And I think you’re swell—like lemon pudding.”
His mother and father adored her, and he ranked her with gelatinous goo. It was enough to send her into an apocalyptic f
it. “Pudding?”
Chicken broth and the scent of carrots filled the air. He reduced the heat, covered the pot, and turned to her. “What’s wrong with pudding? It’s light, easy—it’s perfectly fine.”
If he’d called her ugly and boring, he couldn’t have hurt her more. “You know the sea salt is for cooking and not rubbing into the wounds of my already bad day, right?”
His black brows pulled together and his mouth turned down. “What’s wrong with you, tonight? You’ve been snappy and quick to fight since you got home.”
“What’s wrong with me? Here’s a better question, what’s wrong with you?”
He back-pedalled in surprise. “Me?”
“Every night I come home, and every night, you’ve got some stupid girl on the driveway—it’s like you purposely plan it.”
“How am I supposed to cook you dinner, if I’m still on a date? Of course they’re leaving when you come home.” His voice rose with irritation.
“Why can’t they leave sooner? Why can’t you let me eat my stupid frozen food in peace?”
“Because it’s bad for your health.” Impatience licked the words.
“You’re bad for my health.”
“It was Stelner, wasn’t it? What did he do—more work, forgo your promotion?”
“No, I got the raise and the promotion.”
His face lit with joy. “Aggie, that’s great. Why didn’t you say something, sooner? I’m just making fried rice. If I’d known, I would have made you a special dinner.”
Aggie looked into his beautiful face, into the eyes that she could drown in, at the smile that chased away all the dark clouds in her life, and asked, “What if I wanted more than dinner?”
