Sleeping with Beauty

by Donna Kauffman

  Towering, tux-clad gods, however, seemed to be in unfortunate abundance. Mostly spousal gods, as far as she could tell. Apparently the Debbie Markhams of the world still had all the luck.

  Of course, in some cases, a tuxedo, no matter the designer, hadn’t been a wise fashion option. She’d accidentally bumped into a now beer-bellied Buddy Aversom, cinched into a severely strained cummerbund, with a too-tight bow tie that looked like it was trying to pinch his head off at the neck. A visual, she was sad to say, she actually spent a few moments savoring. Fortunately, even up close, he hadn’t recognized her. She liked to think it was because the Glass Slipper transformation had been so complete that all her former classmates were presently whispering behind their hands, wondering who the hot, Amazon goddess in the sequin dress and fabulous designer heels was.

  It was a nice fantasy. And it gave her the necessary strength to continue trolling. Nametag still tucked inside her purse, she scoped out the thickening crowd and let her imagination spin out on how their little reunion would play out. Of course, without her name tag, he’d never recognize her. So, should she simply introduce herself right off? No, no. Better to tell him after they’d finished their first dance. He would be all but drooling over her by then, right? Or her boobs, anyway. Whatever.

  She was deep into her little fantasy now, picturing the immensely satisfying look of complete shock on his face when he realized the hot chick with the tan tits was dorky old Lucy Harper. That moment, of course, would be followed by a stuttered yet very sincere apology for how badly he’d treated her that long-ago night . . . maybe there would be some begging involved at that point, she wasn’t entirely sure. And she hadn’t forgotten the condoms in her purse. While she’d never been a sex-on-the-first-date kind of girl—okay, so no one had exactly begged her to have sex on the first date—every rule had an exception.

  All she knew was that if she wanted to ace this final test, she was going to have to make him sweat. One way . . . or the other.

  Her fantasy scenario then took a decidedly R-rated turn. She was quite vividly imagining him begging her for just the chance to be the one who took her home tonight, when someone politely tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hi, there.”

  Startled from her reverie by both the warm touch grazing her bare skin, and the deep timbre of the voice, she spun around, wobbled badly, and had to grab onto the owner of said deep voice to keep from going down. “Sorry,” she said, flustered, trying to quickly regain her balance. She dug her fake, French-tipped nails into the sleeves of a very expensive-looking tux. Just as impressive were the big, taut biceps beneath the finely woven fabric. Wow. Her heart rate kicked up a few notches, which made letting him go that much harder. After a few more gravity-negotiating moments, she finally managed to release her death grip and stand on her own two spikes.

  The initial rush of attraction was compounded further when she found herself having to look up—up! even in four-inch heels!—to see who she’d wobbled into. Until her gaze collided with the intense blue eyes of the one looking back down at her. Then her heart stopped completely.

  She didn’t need a yearbook photo to recognize those eyes. She’d seen them often enough in her dreams.

  Jason Prescott was officially in the building.

  And he’d found her first. Shit.

  All of her carefully planned conversation starters evaporated into the ether. Or the subtle scent of his aftershave. Whatever. Along with her highly detailed fantasy scenario. Which she’d been totally insane to believe for one second would ever happen to her. Leaving her able to do little more than stand there, gaping at him. In all her carefully calculated planning, never once had it occurred to her that he would track her down. Honestly, Glass Slipper reincarnation or not, her karma just wasn’t that good.

  She knew for sure she was hallucinating now when he sketched a slight bow, offered her his arm, and in a voice that had only gotten deeper and more incredibly male, said, “Care to dance?”

  She looked behind her, half expecting to see Debbie Markham and the rest of the varsity cheerleading squad tittering behind their real French manicures while they waited for the punch line of what was surely a ghastly joke about to play itself out. Except there was no one behind her. She was standing in a corner. But another furtive glance proved there was no one standing behind him, either. At least, no one who was paying any attention to them. Yet. That would surely change if she took his arm and stepped out onto the dance floor.

  Desire warred with common sense. And she didn’t have much of a handle on either at the moment. Her whole entry strategy had been to get his attention, then set him on his heels. Only she hadn’t counted on him knocking her back on hers first. She’d expected to feel nothing more than cold and calculating vengeance as she went about taking him down. It was all about making him want her. She’d sort of overlooked the fact that she might want him. She wasn’t counting on the clammy palms, the racing heart. Okay, so she might have expected a little of that, but that would have just been due to nerves from facing down her enemy.

  Not because she wanted to strip her enemy naked and beg him to take her up against the nearest wall.

  Christ. She was so not equipped to handle this.

  Then another thought occurred to her. Duh! No badge. He didn’t know who she was! She still had the edge. She just wished like hell it felt that way. In the end, all she managed to do in the face of his questioning, attentive, and incredibly sexy gaze, was nod in the affirmative. With what had to be a stupidly glazed look on her face. But they were making their way to the dance floor, weren’t they? She was still in this. She’d just have to reformulate her plan of attack while they danced.

  More tentatively than she’d hoped for, she laid her hand on his offered arm. He grinned, the same blinding white, perfect smile that beamed out at her from the yearbook photo pinned to his jacket lapel, and covered her hand with his own. She almost swooned right then and there. Get a grip. She couldn’t lose it just from a brush of his fingers on hers. Not if she had any hopes of completing her plan. Although, at the moment, there was a part of her that felt pretty damn complete.

  The DJ was playing a song that was just slow enough so that he held her hand and put his other hand on her waist . . . but not sappy enough that he pulled her close. Where she might have pressed her cheek to that broad chest, inhaled the scent of his cologne, and lost herself in the fantasy completely. Only the fantasy was real. Living, breathing, just-like-in-the-movies real.

  She had to stop this. Right now. If Jana were here, she’d be rolling her eyes in disgust at this very shallow display of, well, absolute shallowness. All of Lucy’s endless talk about how this was all about her personal emancipation and not nailing Jason Prescott . . . would be pretty hard to defend at the moment.

  Good thing Jana didn’t come after all, then, isn’t it? her little voice whispered. Her wicked, wicked little voice. No one is going to know what goes on here tonight but you. You . . . and Jason Prescott!

  She bravely tried to shut her little voice out. Focus on the plan! Right now she should be shifting back a polite space, just enough to allow him the obvious ogling opportunity. She’d wait for him to leer down at her perfectly plumped-up breasts, then dip her chin just enough so that he realized she’d caught him looking. While his cheeks turned an endearing shade of red, she’d gaze ever so coolly into his big, blue eyes and make some perfectly slice-worthy remark about “my, how times had changed if he couldn’t do any better than be reduced to begging dorky old Lucy Harper for a dance.”

  Except in the real world, her cheeks were frozen in a perma-grin as she stared at some vague point beyond his shoulder. What was worse, she couldn’t seem to unstick it long enough to make even the most banal kind of mindless dance-floor conversation. The music was too loud for talking, anyway. At least that was the reason she gave herself for not trying harder.

  After. After the dance was over and they floated over to the bar for a drink, then she’d spring
her cleverly worded set-down on him.

  Hopefully by then she’d have thought one up.

  And be past the pathetic “Oh, my God, Jason Prescott is touching me!” phase, having ascended to something resembling actual maturity.

  Her thoughts veered wildly as the music played on . . . and on. From Please, dear God, don’t let me step on his toes, to How can I get him to stay with me when the song is over?, to Is the air getting a whole lot warmer in here or is it just my pounding heart making me hot?

  The song ended before she was ready, but thankfully segued into another slow song. He just kept on dancing. She didn’t stop him. Halfway through, she finally dared a glance at his face, and flashed what was probably a totally gawky smile at him when she discovered he was looking at her. Her cheeks heated and she looked away again. Perma-grin firmly in place.

  By the time the second song came to an end, she knew she had to do something to break this spell she seemed to be under, or she’d never be able to live with herself after this night was over. But then the third song started. And it was, in all improbability, Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose.”

  The song that was her song, that she’d been so sure on prom night was going to be Their Song. Finally really was. Not even Jana could say that wasn’t a huger-than-huge honkin’ sign.

  She looked into his eyes again. Only this time she didn’t look away. And neither did he. For the duration of the song, she swore her feet never touched the ground. Nor did her heart stop pounding. And she couldn’t seem to care.

  By the end she felt like she was glowing. Then belatedly realized the glistening sensation was actually from perspiration. Hers. And suddenly all she could think was Please, God, let two-sided tape be waterproof!

  Why hadn’t she asked Vivian the important questions?

  No matter what song came on next, she knew she had to call a halt to this magical moment before she embarrassed herself. Or exposed herself. It had been too perfect up to that point to chance ruining it. And her fantasy bubble didn’t have to burst just because they’d stopped dancing, did it? Of course not. She just needed some air.

  Wait! Maybe she could get him to take her for a romantic walk on the roof terrace! The invitation had clearly said they’d have full and exclusive access, complete with magnificent views of Washington under the stars.

  Jana’s imaginary look of disgust chose that moment to surface in her mind. Yes, okay, she was supposed to be looking for the right moment to cut him to the quick. And she would. Really. But would it throw her plans off so much if she sort of enjoyed his company first? Just for a little while? I mean, wasn’t that a kind of revenge, too?

  At the moment, what was important was to keep him from disappearing on her. To do that, she was actually going to have to speak.

  The DJ announced a short break. Her perfect cue. Another sign. She swished her hair a little, mostly to get a slight breeze along the damp nape of her neck, then offered him what she hoped was a scintillating smile, and . . . said nothing. Even the soles of her feet felt sweaty now. Which, in four-inch spikes, was just begging for disaster.

  Paranoia set in, and she quickly waved her hand in front of her face like a fan, then tilted her head in the vague direction of the doors. She tried not to be obvious about her huge sigh of relief when he smiled easily and said, “Would you like to get some air? I understand we have the use of the rooftop terrace.”

  It was like their minds were one! All she had to do was nod and he understood. Then he put that wide, warm palm on her lower back and she had to use all of her concentration not to slide right out of her heels and her thong panties as they crossed the room. She couldn’t even say if anyone was paying attention to them. Her gaze was focused like a tractor beam on the doors, which they were taking an agonizingly long time to reach.

  But surely the whispers were starting now that the music was over and everyone was just standing about. Jason Prescott was always the center of attention. Which meant she was now the center of attention. Because she, Lucy Harper, was officially with Jason Prescott.

  She wobbled a little just then, and he moved up and slid his hand smoothly around her waist, pulling her lightly to his side. “Careful there.”

  Oh, God! At this rate she was going to dissolve into a puddle of gooey, lust-filled mush before they ever reached the terrace. So freaking pathetic. But, damn, the man smelled good. And he felt even better. It had been forever since she’d been this turned-on.

  Okay, okay, so she’d never been this turned-on. Not when she was actually with the man in question, anyway. She had to refrain from doing a little happy dance right there, sweat or not.

  She was finally getting her bam! moment! And it was exactly how she thought it would be. Or hoped it would be. She’d take one look at Mr. The Right One, and, bam!, that would be all it would take.

  And as Jason Prescott, aka Mr. The Right One—and really, hadn’t she always known?—moved in front of her to open the door, looking down—down!—long enough to grace her with that perfect smile, she finally admitted her original plan was toast.

  Chapter 18

  The autumn night air felt lovely, and as Jason guided her to the quiet, unpopulated end of the terrace, she worked hard to stay calm and collected.

  Having given up formulating the ultimate put-down, she could focus on other, more important things. Don’t blow it now. Say something clever. Do that sexy hair flip. Entice him with your perfectly modulated laugh.

  She hadn’t exactly mastered that last one. Last two. Okay, so she couldn’t do any of them. But she couldn’t stop wishing she could. This was her moment. Finally, all the stars were lining up just right for Lucy Harper. And if she was really lucky, she was going to get kissed beneath every single one of them.

  Every rule that Vivian had taught her rolled through her mind in a hopeless jumble. All she could think about was the way the palm of his hand had slid to that spot, right at the center of her lower back. So gentle, but so strong. His step was easy, but sure. Lucy swore she felt the tension spiking between them the farther they drifted away from the terrace tables to a quiet spot by the railing. Unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, she turned to tell him—something. Anything. Now that she was finally here, she couldn’t wait a second longer to reach the moment she’d waited for her entire life.

  She was saved from whatever moment-ruining thing she might have said when, at the exact same moment, Jason pulled her into his arms. Again, their thoughts were as one! Her head tipped back, his bent down. Their eyes met for a split second, then hers drifted shut as his mouth descended to hers, ending in a kiss that could only be described as fairy-tale magical.

  His lips were warm and firm. His kiss confident, if not exactly bold. She didn’t care. Jason Prescott was kissing her! And he’d initiated everything! She hadn’t had to flip her perfectly straightened hair, bat one lengthened and separated eyelash, or laugh at any of his jokes, in a well-modulated tone or not.

  Her fingers slid up his chest, sinking into the delicious bunching of muscle at his shoulders. She tilted her head and was just debating on whether she should open her mouth—just a little, nothing too forward or desperate—to let him know she’d be okay with a deeper kiss, when he broke contact and lifted his head.

  She blinked her eyes open, but nothing seemed to want to come into focus. Was the world spinning? Or was it just her?

  “Wow.”

  Had she blurted that out? She quickly tried to force her scattered thoughts and emotions into some semblance of normalcy. Ha. Fat chance. She’d just been kissed senseless by Jason Prescott. Surely she was allowed a kind of stunned “wow.”

  Except she was pretty sure that “wow” had been uttered in a distinctly deeper voice. Which meant . . . She blinked again, and her heart pounded even more furiously. She finally brought Jason’s smiling face into focus, and though it was indulgently smug to even think it, she could swear he looked a little stunned. She smiled at him. Okay, so it might have been a full-out loopy grin. T
here might have even been a little drool. She couldn’t be sure. Nor could she seem to care. Not only had Jason Prescott kissed her, her kiss had rated a slightly stunned “wow”!

  She’d done it! Well, she and Vivian and a staff of highly trained professionals. Which was when she had her first breath of reality.

  He’d gone for the fantasy of Lucy Harper. Not the real Lucy Harper. What happened if—could she be that lucky!—he asked to see her again. Or, God forbid, offered to take her home?

  Suddenly it was like the condoms in her purse were radioactive. She felt a distinct disturbance in the atmosphere by their mere proximity. She had made it through the kiss without incident, but that didn’t mean she was ready for anything that might require any kind of discussion regarding birth control. Much less the actual use thereof.

  Okay, Lucy, plan, plan. But Jason was staring at her with a look that had all the hallmarks of desire—hooded gaze, intent focus. Yes, this was a man contemplating another kiss. And she hadn’t had time to correctly analyze the first one. Moments like this didn’t come along every day for her. Or even every year. In fact, putting this into the once-in-a-lifetime category probably wasn’t overstating things. So she could hardly risk being spontaneous about it, now, could she?

  She needed to buy a few moments to collect herself, to get her act together and reformulate her entire strategy. She did the first thing she could think of. She fanned her face a little—yes, it was lame, but it was all she had in her trick box at the moment. Besides, it had worked before! She could only hope he thought it was his kiss that had her overheating. When, in reality, it had been the mercifully brief vision she’d had of him taking off that tux . . . then patiently waiting for her to get out of this dress.

  Was there a seductive way to peel off double-sided tape?

  “I—I could use something to drink.” She recalled seeing a bar set up on the opposite end of the terrace.

  “Certainly,” he said, his perfect White Knight teeth gleaming. “Wait right here.”