Glass Slipper Bride

by Arlene James

  She nodded dreamily. It took all his willpower not to reach for her again. Instead, he got up off the stool and began putting the fast-aid kit back together.

  “You’d better be getting to bed.”

  She nodded but otherwise didn’t move.

  “Some rest will do that shoulder a world of good,” he went on.

  She blinked and got down off the stool, reaching for the first-aid kit “I’ll, um, put this away,” she murmured, but he moved it out of her way.

  “I’ll do this. You go on to bed.”

  “All right. Um, are you sure you wouldn’t prefer that I show you to the extra room first?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be perfectly fine on the couch in the den.”

  She put a hand to her head as if trying to think, and he was flattered despite himself. At least he knew that kiss had affected her as much as it had him. “If you need a blanket—” she began.

  “No blanket, no pillow. I’ll be fine. Take yourself off to bed, and if you hear a noise again, scream first, okay? No more wandering around in the dark. I’m here now, and when I’m not, you wait for the cops. You don’t investigate. Understood?”

  She smiled almost secretively. “Understood.”

  “Good.” He winked and jerked a head toward the hall. “And good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She moved around the bar and started off down the hallway toward her room. Then she came back again and slipped off the sling. She laid the towel out on the counter, unfolded it and removed the bag of corn, which she then returned to the freezer.

  “Maybe you’d better take an aspirin,” he said.

  “I have some in my bathroom,” she told him shyly.

  He stood at the end of the counter, watching as she moved down the hallway again. She paused and trilled him a little wave. He smiled, feeling absurdly giddy, and she ducked her head and went into her room. He put away the first-aid kit and switched off the overhead light. For a long moment he stood there in the darkness, contemplating that kiss.

  He couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he’d given in to the impulse, yet he couldn’t quite be sorry about it, either. It had been, well, right, somehow. But it wouldn’t happen again. He’d be on his guard next time. He had to be. He didn’t want her to think that he was interested in her. It was against his policy, after all. Sort of. Not that it mattered. He had to keep his hands off her for lots of reasons. If he couldn’t think of any right now, it didn’t matter. They would come to him later. What mattered was that he must not kiss her again. It shouldn’t be a problem. She wouldn’t always look so vulnerable and softly needy as she had tonight She wouldn’t always need a shoulder to lean on or a strong arm to hold her.

  He remembered how light and utterly feminine she had felt in his arms. She’d looked so fragile and ethereal sitting there with her bruised face, and he’d been ready to fight hordes of felons for her, to make the world pay for allowing her to be wounded. That was what had made him think of Serena. Sweet, gentle, unassuming Serena, so beautiful she hadn’t seemed real, so sweetly vulnerable and giving. Yes, that was it, not the looks, because in truth they didn’t look much alike. Perhaps they were built alike, but he always went for the long, lean type. Since Serena, though, he’d managed to keep his distance, and he could keep his distance this time, too. He had to, and so he would. From now on. Absolutely.

  He hoped.

  Jillian pulled the covers up to her chest, folded them back neatly and laced her fingers together over the fold. Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes once more. But it was no use. She couldn’t sleep. Somehow, she wasn’t even tired, which was funny because she’d been exhausted earlier. Then he had kissed her. He had really kissed her, and it had, somehow, made everything all right, just as he’d said. She pressed trembling fingertips to her lips, amazed and bemused all over again.

  Why had he kissed her? Could he really be attracted to her? Or had he just felt sorry for her? He had said that she was “sleek and unique.” Did he really think that? Should she believe him? I know a model’s physique when I see one. Gamin face. Enormous blue eyes. Model’s build.

  And he had kissed her. Maybe she would believe him. Oh, it wasn’t really her; she understood that

  You remind me of someone. Serena Gilbert. I was in love with her.

  Still, he had kissed her, Jillian. That meant he was attracted to her. Didn’t it? Even if he didn’t like her, he was attracted to her. That was something. Wasn’t it?

  Sleek and unique.

  That was something with which she could work.

  She sat up suddenly and threw back the covers. After crawling over the end of the bed, she came to her feet and padded silently to the closet door. She pulled it open, switched on the light and looked into the mirror mounted on the door. Gathering the fabric of her T-shirt gown into her hands, she pulled it tight and studied her shape. She wasn’t hopeless. She was...sleek and unique. Her breasts were small, but they were high and firm. Her waist dipped in rather nicely. She turned and cast a critical look over her shoulder. She didn’t have much rear end, but at least her thighs weren’t heavy. Turning again, she stepped closer and took a good look at her face. Her chin was entirely too pointy, and she hated the fact that her eyes took up half her face, but he seemed to like her eyes, and her mouth was good, the mouth he’d kissed. Her nose was too small for her face, but with her eyes crowding out everything else, she supposed it didn’t matter much. Okay, so she wasn’t beautiful, but she was attractive in her own way. She must be because he had kissed her.

  Yes, she was definitely going to believe him.

  Smiling, she pulled at the wisps of hair around her face, fashioning them this way and that until she was satisfied. Reaching into her closet, she pulled out first one garment and then another, rejecting most with a wrinkle of her nose. These were the clothes that Camille had picked for her, tailored, subdued, almost sexless. Jillian had worn them because it was easier to give in to Camille than to assert herself, but she knew that she wasn’t going to do that anymore. She was sleek and unique; she was going to dress like it from now on. When she’d separated everything that did not appeal to her from that which did, she had precious little left, but some of the things still had the tags attached. She’d bought them on whimsy and then never found the courage or occasion to wear them. But no more.

  Smiling, she switched off the closet light and closed the door. After crawling back into bed, she collapsed upon her pillow, thinking that it was time that the real Jillian Waltham stepped out into the light of day and demanded a little respect. Maybe the next time he kissed her, it would be because he was attracted only to her and not because she reminded him of someone he had loved. Maybe.

  Maybe...

  She awoke to laughter, and even before she glanced at the clock on her bedside table, she realized that she’d slept later than usual. Was he still here? A second burst of laughter told her that some male was definitely in the kitchen laughing with her sister. Throwing off the covers, she leaped to her feet and literally ran to the bathroom.

  She took a quick—very quick—shower, shaving her legs with one hand and shampooing her hair with the other, then hurried to the closet and slapped through those things she’d set aside last night. Her hand fell on a black, sleeveless cotton knit dress with a neckline so wide that it slipped off one shoulder. For once, she decided to follow her first inclination and not second-guess herself. After slipping into black silk panties and a white tank top with spaghetti straps, she towel-dried her hair, then pulled on the dress. She dug out a pair of white leather sandals set with amber stones, and a narrow copper belt that looped loosely around her waist and dipped gently over one hip.

  Impatiently, she blew her hair dry. Well, almost dry. Then finished it up by pulling and plucking it into wisps about her face and setting it with a few spritzes of hair spray from a pump dispenser. She grabbed her glasses from the bedside table by sheer rote and pushed them onto her face, only to stop as sh
e caught sight of herself in the mirror above her dresser. Did he really like her big eyes? For once she was tempted not to hide them behind her glasses. She hadn’t had the prescription changed in years, and she supposed that by most standards she didn’t really need them, but they were almost a part of her, she’d worn them so long. She chewed her lip in indecision, then finally realized that if she was to maintain the spirit of the moment, she would have to follow her inclination. By way of compromise, she lifted the glasses off her face and carefully set them atop her head. She actually liked the effect. Except for the bruise on her cheek, she had never looked better. She decided to try a little camouflage, and stroked on a little powdered blush. More laughter spurred her to end her cosmetic application there and hurry out into the hallway.

  Camille, Gerry and Zach were sitting at the bar in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Zach was the first to notice her. His surprised gaze took her in with one sweep, and he lifted both brows appreciatively. She couldn’t possibly look as good as he did, though, with that dark morning beard shadowing his jaws and chin, his dark hair tousled charmingly.

  “You slept well, I see.”

  She smiled, more pleased than if he’d told her she was beautiful, which she wouldn’t have believed, but to look well, after the night she’d had, that was something. “Thank you.”

  “That dress is all wrong, though,” Gerry said sourly. “I think it must be too big for you.”

  “Oh, I think it’s made that way,” Zach said lightly.

  His green eyes danced merrily at Jillian as she crossed over to the cabinet, opened one of the ruined doors and took down a coffee cup. She poured herself a cup from the pot, uncertain what she was getting. Neither Gerry nor Camille could make a decent pot of the stuff. She took a sip and, to her surprise, found it to be quite good.

  “Who made the coffee?”

  Camille answered her. “Zach did. I tried my hand at it first—with the usual results.”

  “Meaning that I thought she was trying to poison me,” Zach said teasingly.

  Camille laughed, but Gerry frowned. “Camille is not a housemaid. She’s a professional woman.”

  “True,” Camille said, taking one final salute with her cup, “which means that I’d better get moving.” She got down off her stool, saying, “Thanks for the coffee, Zach, and again, I apologize for my behavior last night. It was just the shock.”

  “No problem,” Zach replied tersely.

  “Zach wouldn’t have had to make the coffee,” Gerry noted, glaring at Jillian, “if you hadn’t slept so long.”

  Camille rolled her eyes at that but said nothing, just wiggled her eyebrows at Jillian as she moved past her. Jillian wasn’t certain what the message was. Perhaps Camille was complimenting her on her looks, or perhaps she was indicating that Gerry had bats in the belfry. Or maybe she was saying that Zach Keller was worth making apologies to and dressing for. Jillian felt a pang of intense jealousy over that laughter earlier, but the next instant guilt swamped her. She had no right to jealousy. A simple kiss didn’t entitle her to possessiveness. She should be glad that Camille and Zach seemed to have made peace. Camille’s safety could well depend on it. She made herself smile and go to the pantry for bagels.

  “We have bagels with cream cheese or butter and jam. Anyone interested?”

  “None for me,” Camille called as she moved down the hallway.

  “I’ll take cream cheese,” Zach said heartily as she opened the refrigerator.

  She took out not only the cream cheese but also a container of sliced cantaloupe and strawberries.

  “It’s nonfat. Hope you don’t mind,” she told Zach.

  “Not in the least”

  “We have cottage cheese, Gerry, if you’d rather have it.”

  Gerry sniffed. “No, thank you.”

  “Zach?”

  “Not for me.”

  Jillian closed the refrigerator door and began slicing bagels for the toaster. She popped them in, four halves at once, and depressed the slide. As she took down plates from the cabinet, Gerry said nastily, “I see you’re not wearing a bra today.”

  Jillian momentarily froze, but then she smiled and carried the plates to the bar. Zach’s gaze was direct and slightly challenging. She merely passed him a plate. She knew perfectly well that defending herself to Gerry would only exacerbate the problem. Unfortunately, Gerry’s venom was not spent.

  “I don’t approve of going without one’s bra,” she went on conversationally. “Not only is it indecent, it makes one’s breasts droop unflatteringly.”

  Jillian almost grinned. It was such absurd breakfast table conversation! Zach seemed to think so, too. His eyes were brimming with laughter, but his face was perfectly solemn when he turned to Gerry and said, “Decency, they tell me, is like beauty. It’s in the eye of the beholder. Personally, I don’t usually give much thought to what other people wear under their clothing. You might be right about the drooping, though. But then, how do you explain all those models who go around without bras all the time? They don’t seem to droop. Maybe that’s why some men, myself included, tend to prefer women with small, firm breasts.”

  Gerry’s mouth was hanging open. It was perfectly all right for her to speak inappropriately to make a point, but the idea that Zach should speak so frankly about such a delicate subject clearly shocked her. Jillian bit her lip to keep giggles from sputtering out of her mouth.

  Gerry said, in her most haughty tone, “I wasn’t trying to spark debate, young man. I was merely trying to help the girl.” Zach grinned at Jillian and winked. “I don’t think she needs your help in this instance. She’s got that model’s build going for her.” His gaze targeted her bust, and he concluded, “No drooping there.”

  Gerry sounded as if she were strangling. Jillian felt her face begin to burn, but she was flattered, too, inordinately so. She mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”

  Gerry’s heightened color seemed to come from another source entirely. Jillian had seen her enraged before but never trying to swallow it like this. Zach must have sensed the building tension, but he gave no evidence of it as she delivered the toasted bagel to his plate and offered him the cheese with a case knife stuck in it.

  “Thanks,” he said companionably, spreading cream cheese on his bagel. She took out forks, one for each of them and another to serve the fruit. “So,” he said, “did you sleep as well as you look like you slept?”

  She laughed. She just couldn’t help it. “Yes, I did. Thank you. How about you?”

  He scratched at the dark stubble on his cheek. “Probably.”

  “Well, you must have slept just fine, then,” she told him brightly, surprised to find herself flirting.

  He beamed a blinding smile at her. “You know,” he said, “I think I’m just now seeing you as yourself. Before you were either uniformed—” She made a face, and he laughed. “Yeah, pretty ghastly—or, I don’t know, just not yourself. Although, the middle-of-the-night-emergency-wear wasn’t bad.”

  Jillian laughed again. Gerry got up and left the room in a huff, muttering something about having to talk to Camille. Zach seemed no more disturbed by her leave-taking than Jillian was.

  “How’s the shoulder?” he asked, reaching for the fruit.

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You look it,” he said softly. Then he picked up his bagel and bit into it. She followed suit, and they passed several minutes in companionable silence. It was a wonderful way to start the day. Even with the cabinets and walls splattered with grotesque red and her small aches and pains to remind her of the night’s misadventure, she had never felt quite so lighthearted. Zach Keller was good for her state of mind, it seemed. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d be as good for her heart.

  Chapter Four

  Zach was just a bite away from finishing his bagel when Camille breezed into the room wearing a royal-blue suit with a melon-colored blouse and a striped scarf folded ascot-style beneath the open collar. She carried a briefc
ase in one hand and a garment bag in the other. Her blond hair had been coiled into a sleek, prim roll on the back of her head.

  “I have just enough time for a bite of that fruit,” she announced, and Jillian instantly got up to get her a plate.

  “The sight of this kitchen makes me sick every time I see it again,” Camille complained, divesting herself of her baggage in order to reclaim her seat at the bar and be waited upon. “Get someone over here to clean it up today, Jilly. I can’t bear to look at this mess.”

  “But it’s Saturday,” Jillian said quietly, placing a small plate of fruit, a fork and a napkin, along with a fresh cup of coffee, in front of her sister. Camille went to work on it without a word of thanks.

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. People work on Saturdays.”

  “Some do,” Jillian agreed quietly, “but I have the studio today, if you recall.”

  “Oh, that.” Camille shrugged. “You can putter around there another time.”

  “What studio is this?” Zach asked, unable to keep silent in the face of Camille’s obvious disdain.

  “A friend and I share work space in her loft in Deep Ellum,” Jillian said. “Since I work a regular job during the week, I get to the studio only on weekends.”

  Interested, Zach leaned forward, elbows on the countertop. “And what do you do in this studio?”

  Camille waved her fork, saying peremptorily, “Jilly is a sculptor.”

  Zach was surprised and pleased. “Oh, really?”

  “I have a degree in art,” she divulged shyly, “with emphasis in sculpture.”

  “Which is why she makes sandwiches for a living,” Camille said with a chuckle.

  Jilly lifted her chin. “I do have a commission now,” she said.

  “That’s great!” Zach said, tickled for her, perhaps more so than he ought to be.