Golden Threads

by Kay Hooper

  “That’s why we made you a blonde,” Les explained. “With your red hair, you never wear pink. And everyone knows it. Honestly, Manda, nobody’ll recognize you. Even your voice is different.”

  A little dryly Amanda said, “Because I’ve just gotten over a cold, and I’m still hoarse from coughing. Don’t tell me you planned that.”

  “No,” Les said, faintly dissatisfied. “We couldn’t, of course. We were going to have you speak very softly, but this is a much better disguise.”

  “And the best disguise of all,” Sam said, “is your contact lenses. We knew your spare set was tinted blue, so when you took the other set out to clean them last night, we—um—switched them.”

  Amanda sighed. “I wondered. Thought I was going nuts. So my eyes are now blue-green instead of merely green.”

  “Actually,” Les said, “they’ll look completely blue. The mask is black, so your eyes will look darker. And Ryder Duncan Foxx will find himself dancing with a blue-eyed blonde instead of a green-eyed redhead.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like blondes,” Amanda suggested with a faintly hopeful air.

  “Well, actually—” Leslie broke off with a yelp as Samantha kicked her.

  “Actually, he loves blondes,” Sam said.

  Amanda eyed her cousins suspiciously. “Actually,” she said, “I wonder how you demons know that.”

  “We must be overusing the word,” Samantha said innocently to her sister.

  “Must be,” Leslie agreed in a murmur, rubbing her abused shin.

  Amanda clasped her hands together in front of her and glanced down at the spangled pink silk ball gown that was, in all fairness to her cousins, something straight out of a dream. Then she cleared her throat and spoke carefully.

  “I really hate to burst your pretty bubble, kids, but there are a few tiny elements missing from your plan.”

  “Such as?” Sam asked.

  “Have you looked out a window lately? Surprise! We’re in the twentieth century. Ryder Duncan Foxx is not, from all I’ve heard, a prince in search of his princess. In fact, I imagine anything out of a fairy tale would get pretty short notice from him; by all accounts, the man is quite firmly rooted in the logic of business. And, in case it escaped your attention, I don’t believe in princes.”

  “We know.” Samantha’s voice was suddenly and unexpectedly soft, and her eyes were very bright. “You’ve had that knocked out of you.”

  Amanda was conscious of a lump in her throat. “Well, don’t sound so unhappy about it, dammit,” she said irritably. “I’m twenty-eight; if I haven’t learned about the absence of princes by now, I should be locked in a padded cell.”

  Sam smiled. “Manda, you’ve been like our big sister our whole lives, and we love you. Tonight is our present to you. Tonight you’re Cinderella. When the clock strikes midnight, Cinderella leaves the ball, as anonymous as she came. And tomorrow, when the society press does its bit about the latest charity affair, they won’t have their usual paragraph about Miss Amanda Wilderman and how much money she has in the bank.”

  Amanda managed a smile. “It’s a lovely present, Sam, Les. Thank you.” She forced herself to keep quiet this time about her inevitable doubts.

  “Just remember,” Les said firmly, “you must leave before midnight. If you have to take your mask off, everything’s ruined. We’ll be waiting in the limousine out front at eleven forty-five.”

  “We wanted a pumpkin coach,” Sam explained, “but we couldn’t find one anywhere.”

  “But it is a white limousine,” Les said with an air of having made the best of things.

  “Where do I drop the glass slipper?” Amanda asked, chuckling.

  “Anywhere you like,” Sam murmured.

  Amanda eyed her cousin but wasn’t sure if she was supposed to take that seriously. She decided not to; it was just too absurd—even for Samantha.

  —

  Ryder Duncan Foxx had finally gotten accustomed to his costume, although he still thought it was damned silly. While dressing he had mentally composed a letter to the committee, in which he made it plain in blisteringly polite language that the next time they chose his costume, should there be a next time, he would inspect it before agreeing to wear it.

  For tonight, however, he was stuck in this one. Prince Charming indeed! He didn’t mind the paste-jewel crown so much, or even the short cape, but the glittering tunic could have used a few more inches; he was hardly ashamed of his legs, but encasing them in white tights wasn’t his idea of suitable evening wear for a man of thirty-two.

  He would have been more upset about it, but there were at least a score of other men in tights of varying colors, so he took comfort in the knowledge that he wasn’t suffering alone.

  Perfectly aware that he was considered one of the five most eligible bachelors in the country, Ryder found the committee’s choice of costume for him ironic in the extreme. Since most of his energy had been channeled into his business these past ten years, he hadn’t had time or energy for being charming. And he had yet to encounter a woman who sparked in him even the faintest inclination to slay dragons or foil the evil spell of some demented witch.

  Or the modern version of either, whatever that might prove to be.

  Still, it was amusing to play the part, complete with royal dignity and princely bows, and somewhat surprising to discover he was really quite good at it.

  The committee had pulled out all the stops. Thomas Brewster’s garden had been transformed, with the aid of a temporary wooden floor and innumerable lanterns, into a ballroom fit for any fairy tale. The weather had cooperated nicely, supplying a cool, dry autumn night complete with stars and a full moon. And the orchestra had apparently been given every suitable piece of romantic music for the occasion.

  The guests, paying charity for the privilege, were dressed to the teeth and having a grand time.

  As co-host for the evening along with Thomas Brewster, Ryder did his duty and, for the most part, enjoyed it. Everyone at the ball had learned to dance immediately after the first uncertain steps of childhood, so it was a pleasure to have such accomplished partners. A few mothers, hoping perhaps for something more lasting than a dance, steered their unmarried daughters his way, but Ryder, experienced, coped easily and with disinterested courtesy.

  The ball began well. It was nine-thirty, and all the guests had made their way down the marble steps to the dance floor in the garden. Stealing a break from dancing, Ryder was standing on the far side from the steps, watching the couples moving decorously and half listening to the music. Even as his brain registered from which musical this particular tune originated, he looked up toward the steps—and lost all interest in music.

  Ryder was striding toward the steps before he consciously realized he was even moving, his eyes never leaving the delicate enchantress who was moving gracefully down the steps.

  He didn’t know why, not really. There was nothing logical about his reaction to her. He wasn’t particularly susceptible to feminine beauty, so it wasn’t that. And he had already danced with a number of ladies who were strikingly beautiful. Granted a moment to think about it, he would have admitted a preference for brunettes or, even more, for redheads. So his desire to go to her was somewhat baffling. Still, he felt no inclination to resist his own impulse.

  He decided vaguely that the music must have gotten to him. Or maybe the absurd crown he wore.

  She saw him, hesitated almost imperceptibly, and then continued toward him.

  He reached the bottom of the steps first, and waited.

  The ball gown she wore was a soft pink, the spangles on the full skirt catching and reflecting the light in a brilliant shower of stars. Above the skirt, pink silk molded her impossibly tiny waist and caressed the full curves of her perfect breasts. The neckline was off-the-shoulder and its standup lace trim framed the creamy flesh of her shoulders and throat. Her slender, graceful neck was bare of jewels and needed none; only diamond earrings glittered at her lobes. And the fragile silv
er webbing of a diamond tiara caged her golden hair in an upswept style that was the essence of femininity.

  A black butterfly mask hid much of her face from him, but he could see the gleam of brilliant blue eyes, and below the mask the lips were delicate, curved in a secret, enigmatic smile.

  He had already seen the glass slippers on her small feet, but he had needed no confirmation of who she was tonight. Cinderella.

  Without a word Ryder offered his hand when she reached him, and he was oddly moved to feel her elegant fingers quiver in his gentle grasp. He lifted them to his lips, still silent, and then led her out onto the dance floor.

  He was beginning to understand how Prince Charming had felt.

  She went into his arms naturally, gracefully, and danced as though the music were a part of her. She seemed content to be silent, but Ryder was not. However, though it was highly unusual for him and not a little surprising, he found himself considering and rejecting various comments and questions before he voiced them. He was astonished to realize that he felt like a boy on his first date, tongue-tied and terrified of making a mistake.

  “You dance well,” he finally offered in a sincere but decidedly lame attempt to break the silence between them.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was husky, musical; the glance she sent upward held a laugh.

  Ryder smiled. “Does it show so plainly?” he asked in mock resignation.

  “Does what show?”

  “My lost wits.”

  She laughed very softly. “I’ve noticed nothing missing. Perhaps you just mislaid them?”

  “No, I’m afraid they’re lost for good. After all, how often does a man find Cinderella in his arms? And I’m at a disadvantage, too. You can hide behind your mask, but I’m not wearing one.”

  “You’re one of the hosts.”

  “It’s a stupid rule. Take off your mask,” he urged her.

  “Not until midnight.”

  Ryder thought about it, keeping step perfectly with the music without having to pay attention. “Cinderella ran away,” he said finally. “I recall that distinctly. She left on the stroke of midnight, and the poor prince was desolate.”

  “It served him right,” she said solemnly. “Princes always have things too easy.”

  “Dragons,” he protested.

  “The dragons always lose,” she pointed out.

  “Because princes are heroes.”

  “And usually not very bright,” she said gently.

  “On behalf of princes everywhere,” Ryder said, “I resent that.”

  “I’m not surprised. But it’s true. Think about it for a minute. Would you carry a glass shoe from house to house, having promised to marry whomever it fit?”

  “She had very tiny feet,” Ryder explained.

  “A number of women have tiny feet. I wear a small size myself—and there must be a dozen women here tonight who could wear these glass shoes of mine.”

  He considered that. “You have a point. I’ll admit that the prince might have found himself married to the village shrew. But it turned out all right.”

  “Yes. Happily ever after.”

  Ryder heard the rueful note in her voice, and his own tone became more serious. “So you believe Shakespeare more than fairy tales? ‘Put not your trust in princes’?”

  The music stopped just then, and she stepped back, then gave a slight curtsy. “Cinderella knew only one prince,” she said lightly. “If she’d known a few more, she might have been more wary. Thank you very much for the dance, Mr. Foxx.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, catching one of her hands and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “We aren’t finished yet.”

  As he led her toward one of the garden paths, she protested, “You can’t leave the dance floor. You’re the host.”

  “I’ve done my duty. Now I plan to enjoy myself with a Cinderella who doesn’t believe in princes.”

  Amanda was more than a little surprised, but she made no attempt to escape him. It appeared that she had indeed caught Ryder Foxx’s interest—but not in the way that Sam and Les had hoped for. Of course, they hadn’t expected Amanda’s own bitterness to filter through Cinderella’s masquerade.

  At that moment, for the first time, Amanda decided simply to enjoy the evening…to be the innocent, trusting maiden she was supposed to be. Every woman should have the chance to be Cinderella for one night, she thought somewhat wistfully. Yes, every woman deserved the chance to possess a starry-eyed faith in princes and love and happy endings. What was wrong with that for just one night?

  So, quite without being conscious of its existence, Amanda allowed the chip on her shoulder to fall away. She was Cinderella, walking beside a tall, dark, and handsome prince through a moonlit garden on a magic night when impossible things were possible.

  “You’re very quiet,” he said as they strolled down the neat path of the formal garden.

  “Now I’ve lost my wits,” she murmured, and felt a dim astonishment at the shyness she heard in her voice. Shy? Amanda Wilderman?

  They had reached the center of the garden, where wrought iron benches ringed a trilevel stone fountain. The gentle splash of the water was soothing, and the music from the dance floor no more than a soft counterpoint.

  Amanda sat down, grateful to be off her feet; the custom-made shoes were comfortable, certainly, but since she usually scorned high heels, they were still a trial. She was too conscious of Ryder’s closeness as he sat down beside her.

  “Tell me who you are,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him. The moonlight stole color, but his face was revealed clearly, even starkly, by the light. It was a lean face, handsome by any standards: a wide, intelligent brow, high cheekbones, firm jaw. His striking pale gray eyes were colorless in the moonlight, but the unusual vividness of them still was obvious.

  Amanda drew a short breath. “Tonight I’m Cinderella,” she said.

  “Who will you be tomorrow?”

  “Someone else.” She hesitated, then said, “That doesn’t matter.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I don’t want it to matter.”

  “So you are hiding behind the mask?”

  Amanda laughed softly. “Of course. I crashed the party.”

  It was a reasonable explanation. The guest list for this event had been decidedly exclusive. And it wouldn’t be the first time that a gate-crasher had taken advantage of a masquerade.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he promised solemnly.

  “A true gentleman. Thank you.”

  “If you remove your mask, that is.”

  She laughed again. “I take back the first part; gentlemen don’t resort to blackmail.”

  “Don’t let the costume fool you,” he said. “I’m no gentleman.” He captured one of her hands and held it against his thigh firmly. It trembled in his grasp, and the impulse to remove her mask himself died before he could make the attempt. His free hand had half lifted toward her, but he slowly lowered it again.

  Hearing her soft sigh of relief, he said, “You wouldn’t have stopped me.”

  “No. Either you believe in the magic or you don’t.”

  “And you do?”

  “Tonight I do.”

  After a long moment he said slowly, “All right. But promise me you won’t leave at midnight.”

  Amanda hesitated, but he had left her an out. She wasn’t going to leave at midnight. She was going to leave before. If, that is, she decided to finish her role the way it was written. So she gave him her word. “I won’t leave at midnight.” And before his keen brain could begin examining that for a loophole, she added dryly, “The coach won’t turn into a pumpkin, the horses into mice—or my gown into rags.”

  “Your fairy godmother must believe in overtime.”

  “She has a union.”

  —

  To her surprise, Amanda thoroughly enjoyed the next couple of hours. Ryder Foxx was a charming man with a highly developed sense of humor, and was willing—at least until m
idnight—to accept his role in a modern fairy tale. They walked in the garden and talked, discovering that they shared a number of opinions and beliefs as well as a quick wit and a somewhat ironic way of looking at the world around them.

  They also disagreed amiably on a number of topics, which was another step in getting to know each other.

  “Snails,” Ryder said when the subject of culinary preferences came up.

  “Yuk,” Amanda said.

  “You should try them.”

  “I have. That’s why I said yuk.”

  He chuckled. “Grasshoppers?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve—”

  “No. I just wondered if you had.”

  In an aggrieved tone she said, “If I don’t like snails, what makes you think I’d like bugs?”

  “Not even covered in chocolate?”

  “Not even covered in gold.”

  “That,” he said gravely, “seems to take care of gourmet delights. Shall we move on?”

  “Please.”

  “Well, then, let’s hear your opinion on the state of the world.”

  “I’ll tell if you’ll tell,” she said in a teasing tone.

  He laughed again. “I get the feeling we agree. The world’s going to hell, but with a little luck won’t get there until the sun goes nova.”

  “That about sums it up. And if you want another pocket summation, I’m for space exploration, rainy days, fewer taxes, baby animals of all kinds, good books, museums, flowers left in gardens instead of stuck into vases, old movies, spicy food, and the poetry of Keats.”

  “And what are you against?”

  “Snails and bugs being termed edible.”

  “I got that the first time,” he said reprovingly, and the hand lightly holding her arm slipped down to warmly grasp her hand. “What else are you against?”

  Amanda couldn’t quite recapture her light tone. “Oh…music with words I can’t understand. Cruelty. A social security system running out of money. Hunting anything that can’t shoot back. Cheating at solitaire. War. People who don’t signal before they turn.”