The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  Darby worried about her most during those times. She’d tried to steer her younger sister toward a career, charity work, anything that would give her the sense of self-fulfillment she so desperately needed. Pepper usually ended up letting men fill her, instead. And, in that respect, nothing had changed. But at least this time the guy wasn’t old enough to be her father. And he was wealthy enough, apparently, to support her sister’s tastes since Daddy had cut her off.

  Pepper pressed her advantage. “It’s a week. And only three days of actual society stuff. There are only a few events scheduled that you have to schlep him to. It’s very important that you show him a good time—”

  “Whoa, whoa, hang on right there.”

  “Not that kind of good time.”

  Darby wondered if her sister would draw the line there. Though even their dad wouldn’t expect his princess to go that far. Of course, if it did happen to go in that direction, and helped close the deal, Darby was sure her father would show his appreciation. With a new car, or something sparkly. Which was a big reason why Darby and her father didn’t get along. She didn’t show proper enthusiasm for the perks of being an offspring of the mighty Paul Landon III. She would have settled for a hug. He was more comfortable expressing his emotions with an American Express card.

  “Dad needs this deal to go through. It’s important.”

  Aren’t they all? Darby and her father had long ago agreed to disagree. Or, more realistically, she agreed to ignore him and he agreed to pretend he only had one daughter. “What’s it about?” she asked, hating herself for even asking. “The deal, I mean.”

  There was a pause. “It’s all kind of complicated.”

  Meaning Pepper probably didn’t know. “Wouldn’t it help to have something to talk to this potential business partner about?”

  Pepper paused, then said, “Something to do with gemstones. From Africa, I think. Or maybe it was Australia. Or Asia.”

  Darby visualized the unconcerned shrug that accompanied Pepper’s light laugh. “One of those A continents anyway,” Darby said dryly, then found herself shaking her head, smiling herself. Her sister was hopeless, but then, so was she when it came to denying her anything. “So this guy is African? Or Australian?”

  “Scandinavian, actually. Swedish, I think. His name is Stefan Bjornsen; he’s coming in from Amsterdam. Dad was supposed to fly in, schmooze him at all the regular haunts while they talked business, and close the deal. But he got hung up with a deal in Belgium. Or Brussels.”

  “Some B country?”

  Pepper didn’t take the bait. She was too close to closing her own deal. And Pepper was nothing if not focused when it came to getting what she wanted. Darby absently wondered what her sister could have accomplished if she’d dedicated herself to following in their father’s capitalistic footsteps. Given her people skills, she could be ruling the free world by the time she turned thirty.

  “All Dad needs is for someone to play hostess until he can fly in and take over. Stefan is flying into Reagan next Thursday at one. I booked you on a flight into Dulles, arriving Saturday afternoon. I know it’s not as close to home as flying into D.C., but it was the only direct flight I could get out of Bozeman and I know how you are about—”

  Darby groaned. “God, I hadn’t even thought about—”

  “There will be a car from Glass Slipper waiting at the main terminal,” Pepper rushed on. “You’ll be with them through Thursday morning. Then you can pick up Stefan and get settled in at the house. I’ve already alerted the staff, so everything will be ready.”

  “You’ve thought of everything,” Darby murmured, still not quite believing she was actually going to go through with this. Twenty minutes ago she’d been shoulder-deep up a mare’s birth canal. And perfectly content with her life. Now? She thought about what she was going to face and knew she’d feel a lot scuzzier after twenty minutes back in Washington than she would later tonight, when her newest foal finally came into the world.

  “There’s a charity event Thursday night, then the rest of the weekend is easy. You’re expected on Friday at the annual Belmont Stakes party at Four Stones. Daddy’s supposed to fly in Sunday and meet you out there by midday. You can cut out then. All in all, you’ll only be gone a week. It’s a breeze, really.”

  Darby was only half-listening. It had been so long since she’d had to fly—since 1999 to be exact—that she’d forgotten all about how much she hated everything there was about it. The very idea of stepping foot in a plane, much less living back under her father’s roof—no matter the duration or that he wasn’t there—dredged up emotions she wasn’t prepared to deal with. “You’re asking a lot more of me than a week of my time, you know that,” she said quietly.

  To her sister’s credit, she responded with dead earnestness. “I know.” She paused, then said, “I know I lean on you way too much. And I know you worry about me. But, honestly, DarDar, I’m going to be okay. I know it doesn’t sound like it now, but I’m really going to turn things around. You’ll see.” She laughed lightly. “It’s funny, how different we are, but you know, we’re both where we want to be. Me, in D.C., dealing with Dad, and you handling the ranch. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we came from the same two parents. Mom was probably more like you, seeing as she came from that life.”

  Darby supposed Pepper was right. Their mother hadn’t been born to the silver spoon like Dad had. Nor had the former Laurel Stockton been all that pretentious about the lifestyle she’d been sucked into when the great Paul Landon III had shocked everyone by falling in love with his guide during a Montana riding-and-fishing expedition. By a very young age, Darby figured out that her mother was the only real thing in a world filled with phonies and hidden agendas. At least, it always felt that way to her. Her mother was the only one who understood how out of place Darby felt, with her tomboy tendencies. She’d tried to help her understand that being different wasn’t such a bad thing. And provided that all-important barrier between Darby and her father, who didn’t understand any of that, despite marrying her mother.

  She’d felt completely abandoned after her mother’s death, which came only a precious few months after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her dad had climbed into a cocoon of grief. He didn’t even try to understand her. No one did. Except Grandpa Stockton. Grieving himself, he’d reached out to the one real reminder he had of his only child—the grandchild who was so like her. He offered a home and hearth unlike Darby had ever known. Best of all, it was far away from the unending parade of nannies, private lessons, and strict lectures on decorum and expected performance.

  But, even at age eleven, leaving Pepper behind hadn’t been easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. It had been a matter of survival for her then, but as she’d grown up, she’d been determined to be there for her sister the way Mom had been there for her, and should have been there for both of them.

  “I am changing, Darby. I know you don’t see that yet, but I am. I hate it when you and Dad are both mad at me.” She sighed, then with absolute sincerity, said, “I swear, Darby, this is the last time.”

  Darby laughed, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “That is so not true.”

  Pepper laughed, too, then sighed. “Probably not. But I want it to be. And I know I owe you big. Bigger for this than anything ever,” she added hurriedly when Darby snorted. “Anywhere, anytime, I swear it, you name it and if I can do it, it’ll get done.”

  Darby couldn’t possibly imagine ever collecting on that debt. Not because she wasn’t willing to put Pepper to the test. It would probably do her a world of good if she did. It was just that, looking out back at the paddocks, indoor and outdoor rings, she couldn’t possibly envision her sister doing anything particularly helpful, much less anything else actually work-related. Getting dirt beneath her nails was as foreign a concept to Pepper as painting her nails was to Darby.

  But she couldn’t resist torturing her just a little. After all, it was probab
ly the only amusement she’d get out of the deal. “Great. I’ll be sure to call you come next foaling season.”

  It was almost worth the whole thing to hear her sister audibly choke, then force herself to say, “Sure. Just, ah, let me know.”

  “I just might,” Darby warned, liking the idea of her sister getting far more than dirt beneath her nails.

  So, she had three whole days to get everything settled, then make the trip East. She only had one question. Okay, she had a ton of questions, but only one that Pepper could answer. “Who’s funding this little Glass Slipper escapade?”

  “Paolo,” Pepper said. Then, with a little laugh, added, “He considers it an investment in his team’s chances for the playoffs.” Then she heard a man’s deep voice in the background, sexy and cajoling. Then her sister’s stifled squeal, the muffled sound of the phone being covered, then Pepper’s breathless, “I have to go. Thanks, Darby!”

  Darby shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling. Pepper was very likely smiling, too, and would be for some time if that deep voice held the kind of promise Darby thought it did. She sighed in envy. “And they said sporting victories couldn’t be bought.”

  Darby fought to maintain that smile as she headed back to the stables, to finish bringing that new foal into the world . . . and to talk with Tugger about her upcoming absence.

  Any ability to smile was long gone by the time she exited the plane, white-knuckled and pasty-faced, some three days and five hours later. She more than hated flying. She despised it. Had forgotten just how much she despised it until the plane had pulled away from the earth . . . and her guts had pulled away from the rest of her insides and twisted into a knot. She had wished the worst South American disease known to mankind on her sister as she’d upchucked horrible airline food into a paper bag at thirty thousand feet. After all, it was only fair.

  “Vacation, my ass,” she grumbled under her breath, ignoring the wide berth her fellow passengers were giving her as they were corralled into the midfield terminal transport. So she’d been a little vocal when they’d hit the turbulence. Surely everyone got a little loud when they got nervous. Didn’t they?

  She exited the crowded car into the main terminal, crunching peppermint Lifesavers, but still feeling shaky and clammy. She wanted a bathroom. She needed to splash water on her face. Brush her teeth. Again. She’d spent the entire flight sweaty and chilled by turns. Between putting her head between her knees and burying it under a too-small airline pillow, the braided rope of hair hanging down her back probably looked like an entire flock of birds had made their home in it. God only knows what the rest of her looked like.

  She was itchy, grouchy, rumpled, and restless from being boxed up in an aluminum tube for five hours. And sick to death of the taste of peppermint. She needed fresh, unpressurized air. Wide-open spaces. She hated crowds. And, goddamn, could they stuff any more people into this airport? How did people deal with this on a daily basis? Rush hours, smoggy air, banging elbows just to walk down the street.

  She collided with more people in the five minutes it took her to navigate her way to Baggage Claim than she’d bumped into in the past year and a half at home. If she hadn’t already sworn to walk all the way back to Montana rather than ever set foot inside an airplane again, she’d have hopped on the next plane to Brazil and personally kicked her sister’s sorry, soccer-humping ass all the way to Washington.

  So the very last thing she needed to see, the capper on a very long day, and the one thing guaranteed to make her feel every yucky inch of herself . . . was the man wearing a crisp black-and-white driver’s uniform, standing with a sign bearing her last name in one hand.

  And a glass slipper in the other.

  Cinderella Rule #2

  Life offers very few do-overs. A good first impression is critical. Don’t waste yours unnecessarily. 12-Hour Mascara can be just as valuable as a master’s degree. An 18-Hour Bra might serve you even better.

  —VIVIAN DEPALMA, COFOUNDER

  GLASS SLIPPER, INC.

  Chapter 2

  Shane Morgan had been a very bad boy. Well, actually, that depended a great deal on who you asked.

  He stepped off the curb in front of Dulles International and was about to sling his heavy duffel bag into the trunk of the Washington Flyer, when he spied a chauffeur with a glass slipper in one hand, and opening a limousine door for an extremely unhealthy-looking woman with the other. He had no idea what was going on with the woman, but he knew exactly where that glass slipper had come from.

  Mama Mercedes.

  He grinned, knowing she’d hate that name, but for the first time since he’d gotten word about his grandmother’s unfortunate demise, he was happy to be back home. Of course, how unfortunate Alexandra Morgan’s death was, also depended a great deal on who you asked.

  He tossed an apologetic smile toward the cabbie, grabbed his duffel, and loped easily across the blacktop, darting around people, and weaving easily through traffic, despite the heavy load on his back. His many colorful careers did come in handy on occasion. Stamina was never going to be an issue. Physical stamina, anyway. Psychological stamina? Well, now that he was home, that was about to be put to the test, wasn’t it?

  “Hold up,” Shane called out to the driver as he handed the slipper to the woman and closed the door to the limo. He wondered what her story was. A woman more desperately in need of the inimitable services of Mercedes and her two fairy-godmother cohorts, Aurora and Vivian, he’d never seen.

  The driver turned then, and took in Shane’s travel-weary appearance with a small sniff. “May I be of some service to you, sir?”

  “Mercedes always did believe the snootier the better.” Shane’s grin widened at the driver’s stunned expression. “One of the few things she had in common with Big Al.”

  “Big . . . Al, sir?” He said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Private joke.” Probably best not to share it, even with the Glass Slipper hired help. If it got back to Mama M, she’d rap his knuckles. The fact that he was well past knuckle-rapping age wouldn’t matter much where his former headmistress of a godmother was concerned.

  She and Alexandra had been students together at the elite Hedgely School for Young Ladies in New Hampshire. Mercedes had gone on to run the school, which made her the obvious choice for ringleader of the makeover empire trio. And, just as obviously, her spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-debutante background had been a blueprint for Glass Slipper’s employee-training manual.

  His grandmother had married industrialist Grayson Morgan, taking over his empire after he died at age forty-five. Some said the heart attack had something to do with the dancer who’d accidentally discovered his body—in her own bed. Shane had never known the man, but he did know Alexandra, and had a hard time condemning his grandfather for finding a little comfort somewhere.

  Shane supposed he should count himself lucky Mercedes had had a soft spot for Alexandra’s only child, Francine Morgan-Lovelle—his mother, and another Hedgely alumna. So much so, that she’d kept tabs on her favorite pupil’s only child after Francine and her husband, Chad Lovelle (of the New England Lovelles), had been killed in an avalanche while skiing in the Italian Alps. Shane had just finished up his first year at a boarding school in Switzerland. And while he wouldn’t exactly call his godmother an affectionate woman, he’d been grateful more times than he could count to have Mercedes Browning on his side.

  After the death of his parents, Alexandra had been intent on turning him into a little empire-building clone. She’d never forgiven him, the last in line to inherit the Morgan family dictatorship, for rebelling. She simply didn’t understand that not everyone was excited by the prospect of collecting corporations like other people collected stamps. He wasn’t opposed to being successful—he just defined it differently than she did. She’d also never forgiven Mercedes for championing Shane’s desire to chart his own course the instant he was old enough to do so.

  Okay, so maybe he’d hightailed it
out of Washington a bit shy of his eighteenth birthday, but he’d been to boarding schools in three countries before he’d had his first kiss. He knew how to get around. Mercedes had apparently agreed, because she had been the one who’d funded his first foray into the real world, sans trust fund. It had been the start of a life filled with absolute freedom and adventure. One he was still enjoying to the fullest, some thirteen years later.

  He held out his hand, which the gloved, liveried driver inspected with distaste—or would have if his impeccable training had permitted it. And, admittedly, Shane’s hands had been put through a wringer or two. He liked to think of them as hands with character; the various shiny patches, calluses, and not-quite-straight pinky finger were badges of merit, of a life lived to the fullest. No pampered, buffed, manicured hands for him, thanks. “Mind if I hitch a ride back to Fairy Godmother Central?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “One of them is actually my real godmother,” he explained. “Mercedes Browning.” The man didn’t blink. “She was a close friend, or as close a friend as she was capable of having, to Alexandra Morgan. My grandmother.”

  Recognition dawned in the older man’s eyes. Followed swiftly by a brief flash of unmitigated curiosity, along with a healthy dose of dismay. Apparently, the last of the Morgan lineage hadn’t been forgotten in the happy little shark pond that was the Washington corporate elite. “I’ll be glad to ride in front. Your client will never know I exist.”

  Another brief flash, this one of disbelief.

  So, his rather storied reputation had also preceded him. Great. So much for sneaking into town, pawning off his inheritance, then hightailing it back to . . . well, anywhere but here, before tongues started to wag.

  “I’ll keep quiet as a lamb,” he promised, raising his hand in the universal gesture of faith. Not that he expected the old guy to have any. Which wasn’t all that annoying. He’d learned a long time ago to have enough faith in himself so that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. “Go ahead and radio in. But I’m sure my godmother won’t mind.”