“Cindy?” Carla’s chubby little hands clasped Cindy’s knee. “Aren’t you going to read to me?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Somehow she managed to pick up the book and flip open the front cover. Carla positioned herself comfortably in her cousin’s lap, leaned back, and promptly inserted her thumb in her mouth.
It took all of Cindy’s energy to start reading. Her throat felt incredibly dry. “ ‘Once upon a time…’ ”
—
“ ‘…in a land far, far away,’ ” Mary Susan Clark told her five-year-old son, who sat on the brocade cushion at her feet.
Thorne gazed at his sister, who was reciting the fairy tale to her son, and his heart slowed with anger and resentment. “Do you think it’s a good idea to be filling a young boy’s head with that kind of garbage?” Thorne demanded gruffly.
Mary Susan’s gray eyes widened with surprise. “But it’s only a fairy tale.”
“Thorne.” His mother studied him, her expression puzzled. “It’s not like you to snap.”
“I apologize,” he said with a weak smile. “I guess I’ve been a bit short-tempered lately.”
“You’ve been ill.” Sheila, with her dark brown eyes and pixie face, automatically defended him. She placed her hand in his and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.
He liked Sheila well enough; she was unfailingly pleasant and loyal. One day she’d make some man an excellent wife. Maybe even him. Thorne was through playing Cindy’s games. Through believing in fairy tales. He couldn’t live like this. Cindy didn’t want anything to do with him, and he had no choice but to accept her wishes. Sheila loved him—at least she claimed she did. Thorne didn’t know what love felt like anymore. At one time, he’d thought he was in love with Sheila. Maybe not completely, but he’d expected that to happen eventually. Then he’d met Cindy, and he was head over heels in love for the first time in his thirty-three years. Crazy in love. And with a woman who’d turned her back on him and walked away without a second thought. It didn’t make sense. Nothing did anymore. Nothing at all. Not business. Not life. Not women.
Thorne and Sheila had been seeing each other for nearly six months and she’d hardly been able to conceal her disappointment when an engagement ring hadn’t been secretly tucked under the Christmas tree. But she hadn’t questioned him. He wished she wasn’t so understanding; he would’ve preferred it if she’d gotten angry, demanded an explanation.
Thorne noticed his mother still studying him and he made an attempt to disguise his unhappiness. Smiling required a monumental effort. He managed it, but he doubted he’d fooled his mother.
“Thorne, could you help me in the kitchen?”
The whole family turned to him. That was code for talking privately, and it wasn’t the least bit original.
“Of course, Mother,” he said with the faintest sardonic inflection. He disentangled his fingers from Sheila’s and stood, obediently following Gwendolyn Prince out of the room.
“What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?” she snapped the minute they were out of earshot. “It isn’t that…that girl you mentioned, is it?”
“What girl?” Feigning ignorance seemed the best response.
“You haven’t been yourself…”
—
“…since the night of that Christmas Ball,” Aunt Theresa said softly.
“I know,” Cindy whispered. “You see, there’s something I didn’t realize…Fairy tales don’t always come true.”
“But, Cindy, you’re so unhappy over him.”
“We said good-bye,” she said, her eyes pleading with her aunt to drop this disturbing subject. Accepting that she’d live without Thorne was difficult enough; discussing it with her aunt was like tearing open a half-healed wound.
“You haven’t stopped thinking about him.”
“No, but I will.”
“Will you, Cindy?” Theresa’s deep brown eyes showed her doubt.
Cindy’s gaze pleaded with her. “Yes,” she said, and the words were a vow to herself. She had no choice now. When she’d left Thorne’s apartment it had been forever. Although the pain had been nearly unbearable, it was better to sever the ties quickly than to bleed slowly to death.
—
“Mother and I are planning a shopping expedition to Paris in March,” Sheila said enthusiastically, sitting across the table from Thorne.
They were at one of Thorne’s favorite lunch spots. Sheila made it a habit to visit the office at least once a week so they could have lunch. In the past, Thorne had looked forward to their get-togethers. Not today. He wasn’t in the mood. But before he’d been able to say anything to Ms. Hillard, she’d sent Sheila into his office, and now he was stuck.
“Paris sounds interesting.”
“So does the chicken,” Sheila commented, glancing over the menu. “I hear the mushroom sauce here is fabulous.”
Thorne’s stomach turned. “Baked chicken breast served with mushroom sauce,” he read, remembering all too well his last evening with Cindy and the meal she’d prepared for him.
“I hope you’ll try it with me,” Sheila urged, gazing at him adoringly.
His mouth thinned. “I hate mushrooms.”
Sheila stared down at the menu and she pressed her lips tightly together. “I didn’t know that,” she said after a long moment.
“You do now,” Thorne muttered, detesting himself for treating her this way. Sheila deserved better.
The waiter came to the table, hands behind his back. “Are you ready to order?”
“I believe so,” Thorne said, closing his menu and handing it back. “The lady will have the chicken special and I’ll have a mushroom omelet.”
Sheila gave him an odd look but said nothing.
During lunch Thorne made a sincere effort to be pleasant. He honestly tried to appear interested when Sheila told him about the latest fashion trends in France. He even managed to stifle a yawn when she hinted at the possibility of buying several yards of exclusive French lace. It wasn’t until they’d left the restaurant and were walking toward his office that Thorne understood the implication. French lace—wedding gown.
Suddenly something caught his attention.
There. The blonde, half a block ahead of him. Cindy. It was Cindy.
“And I was thinking…”
Sheila’s voice faded and Thorne quickened his pace.
“Thorne,” Sheila said breathlessly. “You’re walking so fast I can’t keep up with you.”
Without thought, he removed her hand from his arm. “Excuse me a minute.” He didn’t take his eyes off Cindy, fearing he’d lose her in the heavy holiday crowds.
“Thorne?”
He ignored Sheila and took off running, weaving in and around the people filling the sidewalk on Sixth Avenue.
“Cindy!” He yelled her name, but either she didn’t hear or she was trying to escape him. Again. He wouldn’t let her. He’d found her now. Relief flowed through him and he savored the sweet taste of it. He’d dreamed this would happen. Somehow, some way, he’d miraculously stumble upon her. Every time he stepped outside, he found himself studying faces, looking. Searching for her in a silent quest that dominated his every waking thought. And now she was only a few feet away, her brisk pace no match for his easy sprint. Her shoulder-length blond hair swayed back and forth, and her navy wool coat was wrapped securely around her.
Thorne raced around two couples, cutting abruptly in front of them. He didn’t know what he’d do first—kiss her or shake her. Kiss her, he decided.
“Cindy.” He finally caught up with her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I beg your pardon.” The woman, maybe fifty, slapped his hand away. She didn’t even resemble Cindy. She was older, plain, and embarrassed by his attention.
Thorne blinked back the disbelief. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously. Mind your manners, young man, or I’ll call the police.”
“I apologize.” He couldn’t move. H
is feet felt rooted to the sidewalk, and his arms hung lifelessly at his sides. Cindy was driving him mad; he was slowly but surely losing his sanity.
“Decent women aren’t safe in this city anymore,” the woman grumbled and quickly stepped away.
“Thorne! Thorne!” Sheila joined him, her hands gripping his arm. “Who was she?”
“No one.” He couldn’t stop looking at the blonde as she made her way down the street. He could’ve sworn it was Cindy. He would’ve wagered a year’s salary that the woman who couldn’t escape him fast enough had been Cindy. His Cindy. His love.
“Thorne,” Sheila droned, patting his hand. “You’ve been working too hard. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” he said absently.
The pinched look returned to Sheila’s face, but she didn’t argue. “March gives you plenty of time to arrange a vacation. We’ll enjoy Paris. I’ll take you shopping with me.”
“I’m not going to Paris,” he snapped.
Sheila continued to pat his hand. “I do wish you’d consider it. You haven’t been yourself, Thorne. Not at all.”
He couldn’t agree more.
—
Two hours later Thorne sat at his desk, reading financial statements the Accounting Department had sent up for him to approve.
“Mr. Williams is here,” Ms. Hillard informed him.
Thorne closed the folder. “Send him in.”
“Right away,” Ms. Hillard returned crisply.
Thorne stood to greet the balding man, who wore a suit that looked as if it hadn’t been dry-cleaned since it came off the rack at Sears ten years before. His potbelly gave credence to his reputation as the best private detective in the business; from the looks of it, he ate well enough.
“Mr. Williams,” Thorne said, extending his hand to the other man.
“Call me Mike.”
They exchanged brisk handshakes. The man’s grip was solid. Thorne approved.
“What can I do for you?” Mike asked as he sat down.
“I want you to find someone for me,” Thorne said, without preamble.
Mike nodded. “It’s what I do. What’s the name?”
Thorne reclaimed his chair and his hands clutched the armrest as he leaned back, giving an impression of indifference. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Cindy.”
“Last name?” The detective reached for his pencil and pad.
“I don’t know.” He paused. “I’m not actually sure Cindy’s her first name. It could’ve been made up.” Thorne was braced to accept anything where Cindy was concerned. Everything and anything.
“Where did you meet her?”
“At a party. The one put on by this company. She doesn’t work here. I’ve already checked.”
Williams nodded.
“She did leave this behind.” Thorne leaned forward to hand the detective the comb. It was missing one pearl, he saw, to his dismay. “I’ve had it appraised and the comb isn’t uncommon. She has two, and she claims they belonged to her mother. There are no markings that would distinguish this one from ten thousand other identical combs.”
Again Williams nodded, but he examined the comb carefully. “Can I take this?” he asked, and stuck it in his pocket.
Thorne agreed with a swift nod. “I’ll want it back.”
“Of course.”
They spoke for an additional fifteen minutes and Thorne recalled with as much clarity as possible each of the two meetings he’d had with Cindy.
Williams stopped him only once. “A limo, you said.”
“Yes.” Thorne slid forward in his chair. He’d forgotten that. Cindy had gotten into a limousine that first night when she’d escaped from him. She’d handed him his coat, run across the street, and been met by a long black limousine.
“You wouldn’t happen to remember the license plate, would you?”
“No.” Thorne shook his head disgustedly. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have enough.” Williams scanned the details he’d listed and flipped the pad shut. He got to his feet.
Thorne stood, too. “Can you find her?” he asked.
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Good.” Thorne hoped the man couldn’t see how desperate he’d become.
—
A cold northern wind chilled Cindy’s arms as she waited on the sidewalk outside the Oakes-Jenning building. It was well past midnight. She was exhausted—physically and mentally. She hadn’t been sleeping well, and the paper she should be writing during the holiday break just wouldn’t come, although she’d done all the research. It was because of Thorne. No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Uncle Sal pulled to a stop at the curb. Cindy stepped away from the building and climbed into the front seat beside him.
“Hi,” she said, forcing a smile. Her family was worried about her, and Cindy did her best to ease their fears.
“A private detective was poking around the house today,” her uncle announced, starting into the traffic.
Cindy felt her heart go cold. “What did he want?”
“He was asking about you.”
Chapter 7
“Asking about me…What did you tell him?”
“Not a thing.”
“But…”
“He wanted to look at my appointment schedule for December twelfth, but I wouldn’t let him.”
The chilly sensation that had settled over Cindy dropped below freezing. Her uncle’s refusal would only create suspicion. The detective would be back, and there’d be more questions Sal would refuse to answer. The detective wouldn’t accept that, and he’d return again and again until he had the information he wanted. This stranger would make trouble for her family. In a hundred years, she never would’ve guessed that Thorne would go to such lengths to locate her. She had to find a way to stop him…a way to make him understand and leave things as they were.
Cindy went to bed still thinking about the whole mess and got up even more tired and troubled than she’d been before. She’d repeatedly examined her own role in this situation. Playing the part of Cinderella for one night had seemed so innocent, so adventurous, so exciting. She’d slipped into the fantasy with ease, but the night had ended with the stroke of midnight and she could never go back to being a fairy-tale character again. She’d let go of the illusion, and yes, it had been painful, but she’d had no choice. The consequences of that one foolhardy night would follow her for the rest of her life.
She’d never dreamed it would be possible to feel as strongly about a man in so short a time as she did about Thorne. But her emotion wasn’t based on any of the usual prerequisites for love. It couldn’t be. They’d seen each other only twice.
Thorne might believe he felt as strongly about her, Cindy realized, but that wasn’t real, either. She was a challenge—the mystery woman who’d briefly touched his life. Once he learned the truth and recognized that she’d made a fool of him, it would be over. Given no alternative, Cindy knew she’d have to tell Thorne who she really was.
“He could get me fired,” she said aloud several soul-searching hours later. Her hands clutched her purse protectively as she waited outside the Oakes-Jenning Financial Services building. Employees streamed out in a steady flow. Cindy stood against the side of the building, just far enough back to examine their faces as they made their way out. They all looked so serious. Cindy didn’t know much about the business world, but it certainly seemed to employ dour people, Thorne included.
For most of the afternoon, Cindy had weighed the possible consequences of telling Thorne the truth. Losing her job was only one of several unpleasant options that had entered her mind. And ultimately he could hate her, which would be so much worse than anything else he could do. She wanted to scream at him for being so obstinate, so willful, so determined to be part of her life. He had to know she didn’t want to be found, and yet he’d ignored her wishes and driven her to this. He’d forced her into doing the one
thing she dreaded most—telling him the truth.
Her tenacity hardened as she watched Thorne step out of the building, his face as sober as everyone else’s. He carried a briefcase in one hand and walked briskly past her. Unseeing. Uncaring. As oblivious to her then as he was every morning when he walked into his clean office.
“Thorne.” She didn’t shout; her voice was little more than a whisper.
He stopped abruptly, almost in mid-stride, and turned around. “Cindy?” His gaze scanned the sea of faces that swam before him. “Cindy?” he repeated, louder this time, unsure if this was real. He’d been half out of his mind for days on end. Nothing shocked him anymore. He’d known her voice instantly, but that, too, could be part of his deep yearning to find her. She was here and she’d called out to him, and he wouldn’t let her escape him again.
“Here.” She took a step closer, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. “Call off the detective. I’ll tell you—” She wasn’t allowed to finish.
Thorne dropped the briefcase onto the sidewalk, grabbed her shoulders, and hauled her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers with such intensity that he drove the breath from her lungs. His hand dug into her hair as he tangled it with his fingers, as though binding her to him. His mouth on hers left her in no doubt regarding the strength of his emotions.
Cindy’s first reaction was stunned surprise. She’d expected him to be furious, to shout at her and demand an explanation. But not this. Never this.
Once the initial shock of his kiss faded, she surrendered to the sheer pleasure of simply being in his arms. She held on to him, throwing her arms around him, relishing the rush of sensations that sprang up within her. She couldn’t have pushed him away had her life depended on it. The resolution to end their relationship had melted the minute he’d touched her.
“This had better not be a dream,” Thorne said, moving his lips against her temple. “You taste so unbelievably real.”
Cindy flattened her palms against his chest in an attempt to break away, but he held on to her. “Thorne, please, people are looking.”
“Let them.” He kissed her again, with such hunger that she was left breathless and disoriented. She made a weak effort to break loose again.
Cindy and the Prince Page 8
