Operation Cinderella

by Hope Tarr

  “Here you go.” He pocketed the pen and handed her the closed book.

  “Thank you.” She tucked the signed book back into her bag just as their waitress returned with their drinks and appetizer.

  Samantha took one look at the plate of stuffed skins and shoved it away. “They have bacon on them. I hate bacon. Chopped up chunks of some poor innocent pig—gross!”

  “Suit yourself.” Mannon offered the plate to Macie. “Samantha sees herself as a vegetarian, except she eats raw fish. Go figure.”

  The girl glared at him. “I am a vegetarian and the sushi I eat is the veggie kind.”

  Why she felt the need to intervene Macie couldn’t say, but staring back into Samantha’s face, the angry eyes suspiciously bright, something touched her. The tough act was just that, an act, and having once been in a similar place, she couldn’t stop wondering what exactly Samantha Mannon was working so hard to wall herself off from.

  In a show of solidarity, she admitted, “I don’t eat much pork myself, but look, it’s just sprinkled on the top. You can pick it off. I’m going to.” To demonstrate, she served herself a potato wedge and brushed off the crumbled bacon with the tines of her fork.

  Samantha watched with narrowed eyes, and then with the suddenness of a rainbow appearing, she snapped upright. “That’s a great idea.” Beaming, she reached for the plate and served herself not one but two skins. Dodging her father’s scowl, she ignored her cutlery and brushed off the bacon with her fingers. “Miss Gray, would you please pass me that ketchup over there?”

  “Certainly.” Macie handed her the bottle, wondering if the kid might be bipolar and her meds had just now kicked in.

  Samantha twisted off the cap and upended the bottle over her plate. “Sure is slow.” She slapped at the glass bottom.

  Mannon reached for the condiment. “Here, honey, let me help you.”

  Holding the uncapped bottle at an angle, Samantha shook her head. “No thanks, Daddy, I’ve got it.”

  Macie looked up just as the ketchup missile struck, a sloppy wet scarlet slap on her left breast.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Gray.” Gaze glittering, Samantha plunged a napkin into her water glass and popped up from her seat toward Macie.

  “Oh, no you don’t…I mean, no thanks. I can take it from here.” Macie snatched the dripping napkin out of the kid’s hand.

  “Samantha, sit down.” Mannon’s command, edged with real anger, had his daughter dropping back into the booth.

  “Gosh, I hope that isn’t real silk.” The kid could barely stifle her smile.

  The tailored blouse was not only 100 percent silk but also one of Macie’s recent purchases from Ann Taylor—and not from the sale rack. Using what was left of the water in her glass to dampen a corner of her napkin, she caught the glob before it could drop into her lap and take out her skirt, too.

  Blotting the stain and gritting her teeth, she forced herself to say, “Don’t worry about it, Samantha. Accidents happen.”

  Accident, my ass. The little monster had meant to slime her, taking aim with the precision of a paintball enthusiast. Macie met Mannon’s gaze. Beneath the obvious parental mortification laid a fleeting look of fear. He knows she did it on purpose, too, and he’s asking himself what that means.

  He shook his head, looking so stressed she almost felt sorry for him—almost. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Gray. Send me the dry cleaning bill and I’ll take care of it. Better yet, let me replace it.”

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  Surveying the damage, she saw the water had rendered her plunging white silk push-up more or less transparent. Her shirt stuck to her skin, showing through to the lace edging of her bra and perhaps to her “true colors,” too. The bra and panties were the only clothing articles on her body that still let her be herself. She’d thought expressing herself through sexy underwear would be safe. Not so much, it seemed.

  “Look, Daddy, its soaked right through to her…uh…bra.” Samantha’s gaze shot from Macie’s boobs back to her face. Flicking aside messy bangs, she added, “Don’t you worry, Miss Gray, you tell us your size, and we’ll pick you up a nice new one from the Victoria’s Secret over there in Union Station, won’t we, Daddy?”

  “Samantha, settle down!” Mannon, his color high, grabbed for the girl’s arm, pulling her back down into the booth when she would have risen.

  Taking in the byplay, Macie decided Samantha Mannon was either the biggest brat on the planet or a poster child for Ritalin—only time would tell. Either way, having your kid mouth off in public before a total stranger would try the patience of any parent, but for a self-styled child-rearing expert like Ross Mannon it must be torture—or in this case, just desserts. So why couldn’t she shake feeling sorry for him?

  Macie was about to excuse herself to the ladies’ room when the waitress showed up with their meals. She took one look at Macie’s blouse and promised to bring back some club soda for the stain.

  Macie looked down at her lunch of lettuce heaped with strips of hot fried chicken, olives, and hardboiled egg, and felt her stomach flip. The prospect of spending the next six weeks in the thick of the Mannon family’s dysfunction suddenly seemed a lot more like enrolling in boot camp than taking on a journalistic assignment.

  Mannon didn’t look so hungry himself. “I’m going to get you that club soda.” He whipped the napkin off his lap, tossed it on the seat, and slid out of the booth.

  Across from her, Samantha attacked her fries with the gusto of a reality TV contestant who’d lived off worms for weeks. Left alone with her, Macie couldn’t resist asking, “Aren’t you forgetting the missing ingredient?” She tapped the ketchup bottle with her newly shortened, clear-polished nail.

  The kid looked up, gaze glinting with what must be pure evil. “No thanks. I never touch the stuff.”

  .

  “Sundaes for dessert, Miss Gray? Only, if Samantha asks for the bottle of chocolate syrup, I’d think twice,” Mannon said with a chuckle, pushing his cleaned plate to the side.

  Macie felt herself smiling back. Since returning with club soda and extra napkins, her prospective employer had managed to restore them to good spirits—everyone but Samantha.

  “Duly warned,” she answered, cutting the kid a look.

  Sullen gaze on her picked-over plate, Samantha didn’t join in, not that Macie expected otherwise. Clearly her plan to sabotage the interview had failed—so far. If anything, the ketchup incident had leveled the playing field. Macie felt sure Mannon would have questioned her more closely if it hadn’t been for his daughter’s bad behavior. Far from grilling her, he seemed to be pulling out all the stops on the charm while keeping his gaze trained on the terrain above her shoulders. Once or twice, though, she thought she’d caught that deep blue gaze dipping. That he might be checking her out, not as a housekeeper or nanny but as a woman, should have offended her. It should have…only it didn’t. Then again, her whole purpose in coming here was to prove he wasn’t the squeaky clean conservative he portrayed. If showing him her chest hastened that happening, then she’d gladly spring for Samantha Mannon’s next piercing—and toss in a dragon tattoo.

  After paying the bill, Mannon looked at her and said, “I’d like to swing by the apartment and give you a quick tour, if that’s okay. That way you can check out the place for yourself and evaluate the perks.”

  “The perks?” she echoed, wondering what she’d missed.

  He nodded. “My TV flat screen is a full sixty-five inches and my cable package is deluxe. It includes the classic film channel, I swear it,” he added with a smile.

  She might be dressed like an angel but thinking of Mannon in terms of “inches” and “packages” had her demon heart beating double time. And though warmed by his reference to their unexpectedly delightful phone chat about old movies—Zach had refused to watch anything older than the eighties—it was clear there was only one answer she could give.

  “Sure, I’d like that. I turn into a
pumpkin at five, though, when my train leaves.” She’d bought her return ticket in advance and not only because it was cheaper. Since launching Operation Cinderella, like that fairy-tale princess, she always had an eye on the exit.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I promise I’ll have you back in plenty of time.”

  They left the restaurant and headed to Union Station, where Mannon’s car was parked, Samantha straying ahead. Glad to be outside again, Macie savored the sunshine on her face. Unlike urban dense Manhattan, DC boasted ample open space as well as warm weather for much of the year.

  She’d fallen in love with the capital city when she’d first arrived as a freshman. Had it really been eight years? Biking along the Potomac, picnicking beneath the cherry blossoms, seeing the restored Lawrence of Arabia at Cleveland Park’s iconic Uptown Theater were fond if faraway memories.

  The light changed to “No Walk,” and they halted at the curb. Mannon asked, “You come back here much?”

  She turned and looked up at him. Even tall and wearing heels, she was shorter than he by several inches. “This is the first time I’ve been back since graduation,” she admitted. “I suppose I’m a little lost in nostalgia.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up in a sexy half smile and his deep blue gaze fixed on her face. “You strike me as kind of young for nostalgia.”

  She caught his amused expression and tried to feel pissed-off, but it was no use. He was too freakin’ charming, too unflappably good-natured. “It depends on how you measure time, I guess.”

  His gaze lingered for a moment more, the unblinking brush of his blue eyes doing funny, fluttery things to her insides. “I reckon you have a point.”

  Reckon. Exactly when had she landed smack dab in the middle of a Bonanza re-run? But delivered in his slow, syrupy drawl, the quaint expression sounded not so much out-of-touch as sexy.

  Very sexy.

  Ahead, a scowling Samantha slouched at the fountain in front of the station, shifting from foot to foot in obvious impatience. A shadow crossed his face. “Sometimes I look at Sam, and I can’t figure out where the years have gone. Other times, I feel the weight of every day like it’s a year.”

  According to his website bio and Wikipedia entry, he was thirty-four, eight years older than she. Still, thirty-four was young. It seemed, though, that he must not feel it. “I know,” she found herself admitting, and the weird thing was she actually did know. She might be newly twenty-six, but since turning sixteen and coping with all the crap that had gone down during that pivotal, disastrous year, she’d felt older than her age—a world-weary soul locked inside a young woman’s body. Wearing edgy clothes and makeup was like putting a patina over the pain—it held in the hurt but also kept more from seeping in. Now and for the next six weeks, that buffer would be gone.

  The walk sign flashed on, and they crossed. Samantha flew away from the flagpole and bolted over to her father. “Daddy, there’s a sale on at Express. I really need—”

  “Absolutely nothing.” She started to object, but he cut her off with a shake of his head. “Your room’s packed so tight, stuff’s spilling out into the hallway. You clean up that mess and then maybe we’ll talk about shopping.”

  Samantha sputtered a “so not fair” and stalked off. Watching her head for the ramp leading to the parking deck, Mannon turned to Macie. This time his smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Speaking of nostalgia, would you believe, Miss Gray, that my daughter was once the sweetest child on God’s green earth?”

  Macie resisted the urge to reach up and lay a comforting hand on that broad and obviously burdened shoulder. “Weren’t we all, Dr. Mannon?”

  .

  They caught up with Samantha at Mannon’s white Ford Explorer in an upper tier of the station’s garage. Once they cleared the deck and turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, they made it to the Watergate in less than twenty minutes despite the heavy traffic. Macie had to admit she was impressed, as much by Mannon’s choice of unpretentious vehicle as by his urban driving skills. So far nothing about him was as she’d expected. In light of her mission, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  He swung into his reserved space in the condo’s underground garage, got out to open Macie’s passenger side door, and then led the way to the elevator for his eastside tower apartment.

  “Home, sweet home,” he said, opening the condo’s door.

  Macie stepped inside the cool, marbled foyer. “This is beautiful,” she said, trying not to gawk. “And what a great location.”

  She glimpsed a dining room of gleaming, wide-planked wooden floors and high ceilings offset with crown molding. A sunken great room led off from the eating area. Carpeted in wall-to-wall plush beige, it was furnished with an overstuffed leather sectional sofa, matching chairs, and a glass-topped coffee table. True to Mannon’s word, a huge wall-mounted flat screen TV dominated the living area. Drawn drapes revealed sliding glass doors and, beyond them, a bird’s eye view of the Kennedy Center. Spewing conservative doctrine was some cash cow. The place must have cost a mint.

  He tossed the car keys on the hallway table. “I’m still getting used to the feeling of being hemmed in.”

  Macie swallowed a snort. Hemmed in! Her six hundred square foot East Village studio walkup could fit comfortably inside his foyer. Rather than say so, she turned to study an abstract landscape, the oil-on-canvas covering most of the far wall. Other than a few framed photos set about, the main rooms were devoid of dust-collecting decorative items, which should make them easier to keep clean.

  Mannon called out to Samantha, who’d drifted into the living room, the TV remote already in hand. “I need to talk to Miss Gray—in private.”

  Macie looked up and saw Samantha shrug. “Knock yourselves out.” She dropped the remote and stomped toward a hallway. Seconds later a door slammed.

  Mannon kneaded the bridge of his nose. His eyes, Macie observed, looked tired as well as a shade lighter than earlier. Once again she was hit by the powerful pull to somehow make things better for him. But making Ross Mannon feel better, no matter how personable and charming and, okay, hot he was in person, didn’t come close to aligning with her Operation Cinderella mission.

  He gestured her to the sofa. “Have a seat, Miss Gray. Can I get you something—coffee, tea, a Coke?”

  A tequila shot, I’m thinking. The gravity of his tone stripped away her confidence and sent her stomach sinking. Had she overreacted to the ketchup incident or hadn’t she reacted enough? Afterward, had she talked too much or too little? She looked into his eyes and the shadows she saw brought back a montage of her life’s low points since high school, from when she’d repeatedly “failed to live up to her potential” to all the times since when she’d just plain failed.

  Standing in the shadow of the oversized painting, she shook her head. “No thank you.”

  “Mind if I make some coffee for myself?”

  Actually she did mind, she minded a lot. If he was going to give her the thumbs-down, she’d just as soon have it over with so she could get the hell out of there and back to Manhattan where she belonged. But the choice wasn’t hers.

  “Go ahead…please.” Dropping her bag, she followed him out to the galley-style kitchen and took a seat on one of the high-backed breakfast bar stools.

  He puttered about, opening and closing cabinet drawers, swearing beneath his breath when he couldn’t find the coffee filters. Looking up from the silverware drawer he’d rifled through, he said, “You sure I can’t get you something?”

  Antsy with impatience, Macie shook her head. “Dr. Mannon, if you have something to say to me then please just come out and say it.”

  “You’re right.” He put down the coffee scoop and faced her. “Above all, I want to apologize for my daughter’s behavior. There’s no excuse for that kind of rudeness.”

  Unused to being on the receiving end of a man’s apology, she wasn’t sure how to react. “Sam is obviously going through a difficult time.” Christ,
that was just the kind of lame platitude she’d come to hate.

  He let out a heavy breath. “I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.” He carried the coffee pot to the sink. Running the tap, he said, “I wouldn’t want this to become common knowledge, but Sam’s living with me because she ran away from her mother’s in Manhattan.”

  The revelation tripped Macie’s mind back to the times when she’d run away. Two months shy of seventeen, she’d gotten halfway to Chicago when the car ran out of gas and she’d had to stop and refill it using her dad’s credit card. By then her parents had put a tracer on the card, which was how the police had caught up with her and hauled her back home. The next time, she’d made sure to take along what to a sixteen-year-old had seemed like plenty of cash. It wasn’t. She hadn’t made it to Chicago that time, either.

  She found herself saying, “When a child runs away, there’s almost always a reason.” Who knew, Samantha’s reason might well be the crux of her juicy tell-all for On Top.

  He crossed back to the granite counter and poured water into the well of the Mr. Coffee. Measuring out the grounds, he said, “I agree. Unfortunately whenever I try to get her to tell me what went wrong, she freezes up and threatens to run away—textbook emotional blackmail, and, by the way, it’s working.” He punched the switch on the coffeemaker and turned to face her.

  Stunned by the raw vulnerability she read on his face, she worked to keep her expression neutral and her sympathy in check. “At least she felt like she could come to you,” she said, hoping to draw him out about his divorce. “She must trust you on some level.”

  He dragged a hand through his thick blond hair, and she found herself wondering if it felt as soft as it looked. “Up until a year ago we had a damn good—excuse me—good relationship. Now I just don’t know. The school counselor back in New York seems stumped, too. She recommended Sam see a psychologist. That was the doctor’s appointment we came from earlier.” He punctuated the admission with a shake of his head. “At this point, I feel like Ozzy Osbourne’s a better parent than I am. He may have beheaded bats and urinated on a monument honoring the Alamo’s fallen, but he’s also stayed married to his second wife for three decades and his kids and grandkids worship him. Maybe I should see if he’ll sub for me while I go off and figure out this parenthood stuff.”