Operation Cinderella

by Hope Tarr

  A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled, losing her balance.

  Ross caught her against him. “Hey, princess, is it Pumpkin Time so soon? Can’t be, it’s not even midnight.”

  Never so glad to be caught in her life, it was all Macie could do to say, “I’m afraid I’ve had a wardrobe malfunction.”

  He followed her gaze downward. “That’s a shame. I know a really great shoe repair place. They can’t help you tonight, but we can drop them off tomorrow first thing.”

  His casual mention of “we” warmed her, as did leaning into his big, strong body; the latter felt unbelievably nice. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He hesitated and then wrapped an arm about her waist. The heat from his palm seemed to sear the black silk. His other hand held his statuette.

  “Congratulations again on your award. I’m sorry I missed the rest of your speech.”

  He shrugged as if the accolade was a trifle. “I’m sorry I had to leave you in the lions’ den. Was Frannie okay? Did she play nice?”

  Macie hesitated. “She can be a little…intense.”

  He stopped, threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a pretty big understatement.”

  “For what it’s worth, I really admire her. She’s smart, witty, and talented, not to mention gorgeous.” It was all true, of course. She watched Ross’s face, waiting for him to agree.

  Instead he lifted one sandy brow and said, “I’m sensing there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  There was indeed. Still, Macie hesitated. “She’s not exactly who I would have pictured you marrying.” Wondering if she’d gone too far, she bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit that “Martha Jane” and “Macie Graham” unfortunately sometimes shared. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Ross shook his head. “No apology necessary. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I have trouble picturing it myself.” He chuckled, the sound setting Macie once more at ease—or at least as eased as one could be in the midst of pretending to be someone else. “Listen,” he said, keeping a bolstering hold on her elbow, “I know you’ve thrown a shoe and probably can’t go far, but Washington really is a beautiful city, especially at night. What do you say to me busting the car out of valet and us going somewhere quieter where you can see it?”

  .

  Macie stood alone with Ross on the Kennedy Center’s rooftop terrace, flutes of champagne in hand and the panorama of Washington, DC and Virginia spread out before them. To the southeast she picked out the dome and classical colonnade of the Jefferson Memorial and the obelisk of the Washington Monument. To the north was the distinctive cylindrical Watergate complex where Ross lived. Myriad lights twinkled from Georgetown’s Washington Harbor, making the historic seaport seem like a fairy-tale village in miniature. More lights outlined the Memorial Bridge leading across the river to Virginia. Seen from this vantage point, the Potomac looked like a giant reflecting pool, the sort you saw in the older enclosed shopping malls from the seventies and eighties, the basin bottoms covered in pennies hurled by the hopeful.

  Make a wish, Martha Jane.

  Glancing up to the sky lit with stars and ambient light, Macie wished with whatever heart she still had that she could change—for the night at least—who she was and why she’d come.

  “Cold?” Ross’s question called her back to the moment.

  The evening breeze held just enough of a hint of fall to bring gooseflesh to her bare arms. “A little,” she admitted, “but it’s too beautiful to go inside just yet.”

  She’d been to the famous performing arts center just once before as a student, when a kindly college professor had handed over her extra ticket to a production of “Shear Madness” held in the Theater Lab, but the terrace had been temporarily closed. Struggling to balance her coursework with part-time jobs, Macie hadn’t been able to come back. Now, owing to Ross, she was standing on the marble-covered terrace sipping champagne and wearing black silk, albeit in bare feet.

  “Here, take my jacket,” he said, slipping it off. Overriding her protests, he draped it across her shoulders.

  Hugging it around her, she took a moment to savor the slight scent of sandalwood and the warmth that the fabric had absorbed from his big, strong body. Feeling borderline breathless, she looked away to the statuette of Lady Liberty set atop one of the lounge tables. “Where will you put her?” The trophy was a pretty impressive hunk of glass and gilded wood. The only person who didn’t seem all that impressed was Ross. He’d actually suggested wrapping the award in an old towel and placing it in the trunk of his car.

  “Not sure.” He shrugged, the motion stretching his white tuxedo shirt across broad shoulders and a washboard flat belly.

  Standing with him alone on the rooftop terrace, it was entirely too easy to imagine reaching up and unbuttoning that shirt, then slowly peeling it off. The vivid fantasy struck an inner alarm. She glanced down at her champagne, the fizzy wine already hitting below the half empty mark, and schooled herself to slow down. An almost two-week hiatus from her clubbing lifestyle had lowered her alcohol tolerance and she was buzzed, if not exactly drunk.

  He took a sip of his champagne and stared out over the rail, and Macie took the opportunity to feast her gaze on the spare, clean lines of his profile. Whatever he might or might not be, Ross Mannon dressed in formalwear and drenched in moonlight made for a pretty heart-stopping view.

  “All the awards in the world don’t amount to a hill of beans without someone to share them with.” He looked back at her. “Thank you for being that someone for me tonight.”

  Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to her glass. “Sam’s proud of you. That must count for something.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been in her black books ever since I confiscated that damned magazine.”

  Macie winced. Not for the first time she wondered why one article on teenage sex had struck such a nerve with him.

  Still, picking up on the hurt in his voice, she insisted, “No, really, she is.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on it.” He still sounded skeptical but the frown creasing his forehead smoothed.

  She smiled up at him. Standing barefoot, she was shorter than he by at least a head. “I guess you will, Professor.”

  He smiled back, one broad hand braced on the balcony rail. “How about you start calling me Ross? Make it a habit or something?”

  She pretended to consider. “We’ll have to compromise,” she finally said. “Ross it is, but only for tonight. And I’m…MJ. At least that’s what my sister calls me. When Pam was little, Martha Jane was too much of a mouthful.”

  “MJ, I like it,” he said, sending her a heart-stirring smile.

  “But at the stroke of midnight, I go back to being the housekeeper and you to being Doctor Mannon.”

  He cocked a brow. “You drive a hard bargain, Cinderella. Midnight’s just a few minutes away.”

  Caught up in the moment, she smiled back. “We should make the most of them then.” God, had she really said that?

  Resisting the urge to down the final few sips of champagne for the false courage it might bring, she surrendered her glass. He set it aside and then slipped his hand inside the jacket sleeve.

  Finding her hand within, he gave it a light squeeze. “Seriously, I want to thank you for tonight and…for helping me remember what it feels like to feel.”

  His raw honesty melted the last of Macie’s reserve. “That is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  Gaze locked on hers, he lifted the hand he still held and turned it over. “A woman like you should only ever have sweet things said to her, especially when they’re all true.”

  The press of his mouth to her palm was shockingly erotic and sinfully sweet, and when the balcony seemed to sway, Macie knew that her champagne buzz was in no way to blame. “Dr. Mannon?”

  “It’s not midnight yet. You promised to call me Ross.” Releasing her, he slid his scarred workman’s knuckles beneath her chin and tippe
d her face up to his.

  He bent to her, closing the space between them. His breath was a cinnamon-spiced breeze against her cheek, his gaze moving over her the closest she’d come in a while to being caressed. At the first soft meeting of their mouths, a hot shiver shot through her. She shuddered, the motion sending his jacket slipping. His hands found the tops of her bare shoulders, the heat of his palms searing. She reached between them and wrapped an arm about his neck; the other took possession of his hard-muscled shoulder, her kneading fingers bunching the fine shirt fabric.

  His hands slipped lower to the dress’s plunging back, his fingers following the triangle cutout to the zipper. One tiny tug on the tab was all that it would take to free her.

  “MJ,” he breathed into her parted mouth, and the way he said the shortened version of her name sounded almost like a prayer—sanctified and serene, a promise that would carry them beyond the remaining minutes to midnight.

  In the distance, a church bell chimed, one, two, three…

  It was pumpkin time, or certainly a call back to sanity. Macie broke off the kiss and stepped away, her arm slipping from his shoulder and pushing against the hard beating heart on the left side of his chest. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  He released her and backed away. He shook his head as if to clear it, drew a shuddering breath, and then swallowed so deeply it looked as if his Adam’s apple might leap free from his throat. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I was wrong to take advantage. It’s late and we both have early mornings. I should get you home.”

  Chapter Seven

  He had her, she was his, her body and will trapped within his unbreakable embrace, the long, loose sleeves of his black cassock wrapping around her like bat wings, the cold metal crucifix cutting into her breast. His mouth covered hers, suckling to silence her breath and her screams, her fight and her freedom. She stilled to a statue, finally accepting the terrible truth. She might be an honor roll student, the acknowledged “popular girl” of her sophomore class, and a two-time finalist in her state’s spelling bee, but she wasn’t going to win this one. Now that it really counted, now that the stakes were as high as the New York skyscrapers she hoped one day to see, she wasn’t going to win.

  The fact was she’d already lost. She’d lost the moment she’d given in and let herself be goaded into following him back to the choir room after services. Now life as she’d known it—simple and sweet, slow-paced and secure—was over. The God she’d grown up learning to love and obey had deserted her to the darkness, relegated her to the mercy of the monster who every Sunday stood behind a pulpit and invoked His praises. From here on she had no beacon of light to look to, no happy future to plan. A bottomless pit of brimstone and blackness was home now. She was suffocating, drowning in it, and there was nothing and no one coming to her rescue. No Lord and Savior, no Prince Charming, no magic wand-wielding fairy godmother would find her in time. Even her body betrayed her. Like a fly caught in a spider’s web, her arms and legs didn’t work anymore. Struggling only made it worse, only made him worse. There was only one thing left for her to do.

  She went limp and willed her mind to blankness.

  Macie bolted upright in bed. For the first few sweaty, heart pounding seconds she didn’t know where she was. Fortunately the room wasn’t completely dark. It never was. She always slept with the bathroom light on. As much as she might like all-black clothing, all-black for the night was too terrifying to take.

  She looked down to her legs tangled in the covers, and remembrance returned. Washington, DC; Ross Mannon’s condo; Operation Cinderella. Far from reassuring, her reality seemed like yet another layer to the dreaded dream. What am I doing?

  She glanced at the alarm. The backlit clock face showed 3:35 a.m. Her face was damp, her mouth dry. She could do with a drink of water but more than anything she needed a change of scene. Drawing deliberately deep breaths, she got up, pulled on her old Catholic U sweatshirt and a comfortably worn pair of jeans, and slipped out into the hallway. Passing Sam’s closed door, she stepped out into the living room—and to the scent of strong coffee.

  Ross stood at the kitchen counter, wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe and a serious case of bed head. Cracking eggs into a bowl, he didn’t seem to see her. Relying on the plush wall-to-wall to muffle her retreat, she whipped around—and slammed into the coffee table.

  “F— Ouch!”

  Ross’s head shot up. Looking out into the living room, he said, “You okay?”

  Bending down to rub her shin, she blew out a breath. “Great, thanks.”

  Seeing she was all right, he picked up the whisk. “Want some breakfast?”

  Straightening, she answered, “Kind of early, isn’t it?” As “Martha Jane” she would have taken care to be more polite. Unfortunately Macie Graham was in a ferociously bad mood—as well as pre-coffee.

  He shrugged. “People who work on farms or oil rigs are sitting down to breakfast about now, so why not us?” He beckoned her over.

  She hesitated, weighing her options: dream-haunted bedroom versus mortifying kitchen. Macie chose the kitchen. She walked up to the breakfast bar, pulled out a stool, and sat.

  He handed her a steaming mug. “Thanks,” she said, taking it.

  It wasn’t coffee but warm milk, the classic cure for insomnia. He’d even sprinkled nutmeg on top like her mom used to do. She wrapped both hands around the mug and took a sip. It was good.

  He went back to beating the eggs. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

  “Please, can’t we just…let it go?” Now especially, a post-mortem of her earlier humiliation was too much to take.

  But Ross was adamant. “I need to apologize. I can’t find strong enough words to tell you how deeply I regret my behavior. It was appalling, totally out of line. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t go around kissing—”

  “The help?” she put in. She wasn’t sure which was worse: having accepted a pass from a Republican or hearing he wasn’t that into her.

  “Young women who work for me,” he corrected. “You have my word it won’t happen again.”

  She tried for a smile but it felt brittle and stale, as though it might flake off at any moment. Despite the embarrassment and tension that had followed, so far as she was concerned the kiss had been altogether awesome, the hands down best of her life. Hearing how much he regretted it ruined even that.

  “Thanks, but if it helps, it was just a kiss. It’s not like you ravished me.” She had the satisfaction of seeing him pale. “And I’m as much to blame as you. I kissed you back. But you’re right, it was a mistake. For Sam’s sake, I think it’s best if we set it aside and move on, don’t you?

  She slipped off the stool and stood. Maybe bolstered by the warm milk, her room wouldn’t feel so forbidding.

  But it seemed Ross had other plans. “Sit yourself right back down.”

  Macie prided herself on being immune to orders, so it was a big surprise to her when she obeyed.

  Dropping the whisk, he braced both hands on the counter, eyeing her. “We’ve been circling each other like cats ever since you first set foot inside this apartment, and I at least need to settle things so I can get back to sleeping nights.”

  He was losing sleep over her? Considering the bruising her ego had taken during his “apology,” knowing that thoughts of her kept him awake was pretty vindicating.

  She laced her hands around the mug to hide their trembling. “I’m listening.”

  “The thing is, I like you, MJ. I like you a lot. What’s more, I think you may like me, too. And if it’s all right with you, I wouldn’t mind seeing where that mutual liking might take us. But I don’t want to do anything to scare you off or make you feel like you have to leave here, because Sam needs you. So if you don’t feel the same about me, just say the word, and I’ll back off.”

  Macie’s gaze flew to his. The vulnerability she saw clawed at her heart. He liked her. He really liked her! And yet how much of what he was f
eeling was for the real her and how much was for Martha Jane? There was only one way to find out. Looking across the counter to him, so earnest and honorable and sexily rumpled, she dared to consider putting journalistic ambition on the back burner. Maybe with a man like Ross Mannon things could work out differently than they had in the past. Maybe things could work out—period. Maybe it was time she stepped away from the safety net of her cynicism and gave this whole happiness thing an actual shot.

  She set down the mug. “I don’t want you to back off.”

  He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t.” Before he might say more, she stood, reached over the breakfast bar—and opened his robe.

  …

  Staring down, Ross was shocked—and turned on as hell. For a sweet, old-fashioned girl, MJ sure had some moves on her.

  He caught her wrist before she got a handle on his hard-on. “Slow down. Where’s the fire?” It took every iota of his willpower, but he managed to move her hand away.

  She stared up at him, looking all kinds of confused. “I don’t get you. One minute you want me, the next you don’t.”

  The pained expression on her lovely flushed face very nearly undid him—nearly but not all the way. Determined to stay strong for both their sakes, he shook his head. “Of course I want you. I want you more than you probably even know. But I also don’t want to rush things and screw up any chance we have of making this into something more than a fling.”

  He and Francesca had jumped into bed—actually, the backseat of his borrowed Ford truck—without taking the time to get to know each other first. With their teenage hormones hopping, casual sex had seemed like a fine idea, but he’d always wondered if things might have turned out differently if they’d waited. He’d never know the answer, but what he did know was he was coming to care too much about MJ to take anything about her casually.

  She eased back onto the stool. “So what’s next?’

  He’d half expected her to run back to her room. Relieved when she didn’t, he said, “What’s next is breakfast. Ever had huevos rancheros?”