The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  The chauffeur said nothing, but moved stiffly around the limousine, to slide into the driver’s seat. Shane thought he was going to close the door and drive off, leaving him standing there with all of his worldly possessions slung over his shoulder. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” he murmured, even as he held his confident smile.

  The old man stared ahead for a moment longer, then glanced at Shane and finally reached for the small cell phone. Shane shifted his bag off his shoulder and hiked to the back end of the mile-long car. While he waited for the driver to pop the trunk, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Home again.

  For thirteen years he’d done his best to be anywhere else in the world. And he’d done a damn fine job of it, too. Now he was back. With a whole lot more shit to deal with than he wanted to acknowledge. He couldn’t help but wonder if his luck had just run out.

  Well, at least the sun felt good on his face.

  The trunk clicked and Shane hoisted his bag in, glancing at the battered leather satchel and Army-issue canvas duffel already residing in the cavernous interior. Not the usual set of matched luggage that Glass Slipper, Inc.’s clientele used to tote their designer clothes around. Sure, his godmother’s business was helping people improve their lot in life, but someone had to pay the tab. He grinned and snapped the lid down. Probably Aurora’s doing, the old softy. Because while Mercedes firmly believed in helping those who were willing to help themselves, she expected to be well compensated for her services.

  He was moving alongside the car when the rear window eased down . . . and the woman inside let her cheek rest on the open frame.

  He stopped. “Are you okay?”

  Apparently she hadn’t seen him approach, because she let out a little yelping noise and snapped her head up, then immediately growled and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “First the glass slipper, now what?” she muttered, before gingerly looking up at him. The sun at his back had her squinting. “Who in the hell are you supposed to be? Prince Charming?”

  Cranky and not afraid to share it. Shane grinned, liking her already. “Well, I’ve been called a lot of things, but generally that one doesn’t even make the extended list. I’m just hitching a ride in, for a visit with my godmother.”

  “Isn’t this taking the whole fairy-tale thing just a tad too far? You’re a grown man, for God’s sake. I mean, it’s just a glorified charm school, isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, I think they’d take exception to that description. And please, say you’ll let me be there when you share that with the group. But, for the record, I’m not a client. Mercedes Browning really is my godmother. Nothing fey about her in the least, trust me.”

  “Jesus,” she said, then blew out a long sigh and leaned her head back inside the car, closing her eyes. “Just shoot me now. And don’t worry, no court would convict you. It would be a total mercy killing.” She opened one eye. “Honestly, though, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”

  He didn’t hold it against her. She looked like hell. Her long, thick hair, a heavily sun-streaked dark blonde, had wrestled half-free of the braid she’d bound it in. Her eyes were an interesting shade of green-flecked hazel and looked huge, probably due to her otherwise wan complexion. Her arms were a deep, golden tan, however, the soft hair on them bleached blonde and a light sprinkling of freckles that matched the ones scattered across her nose and cheeks.

  He stuck his hand out. “Shane Morgan.”

  She did nothing for a moment, then warily took his hand. Hers was clammy, which wasn’t a total surprise. What was a surprise were the calluses and the strength of her grip, which came through despite the brevity of contact. So, she had hands with character, too. How intriguing.

  He lifted her hand, then bowed at the waist before releasing it. “Black sheep of the East Coast Morgans, at your service, madam,” he added, then ruined the whole effect by shooting her a wink. “Although I’m definitely more Dark Knight than Prince Charming, so I give fair warning to accept any services with caution.” He nodded at the glass slipper lying neglected on the seat next to her. “You must be Cinderella-In-Training.”

  “Darby Landon,” she replied evenly. “Black sheep of the East Coast Landons, feeling more like a science project than Rookie Cinderella.”

  “You don’t sound too optimistic about making it to the major leagues.” He nodded to the sleek limo she sat in. “I guess that’s why you signed up for this ride. Well, trust me, while Mercedes, Aurora, and Viv have no magic powers, they have been known to work a miracle or two.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Thank you. I think.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to imply that—”

  “Yes, you did, but it’s okay.” She gestured to herself. “Who could blame you? But I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here under duress. The only miracle I need is the one that’ll keep me from hitching the first train back to Montana.”

  He gave her a considering look. “Husband or boyfriend?”

  She looked nonplussed for a moment. “As in, who coerced me into this? It’s not so simple as that. I could have said no to either of them.”

  “Have one of each, do you?”

  “I’m beginning to realize the depth of my error with that Prince Charming crack. I was obviously blinded by the smile and the blue eyes. But then, I suppose you’re well aware of your impact on the fairer sex.”

  “Now there’s a rather backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Fair’s fair. Besides, something tells me you’ve heard more than your share of those, too.”

  Rather than be turned off by her sarcasm, he was intrigued. He let a smile be his answer. “So, if it wasn’t the hubby or the boyfriend, who got you into this mess? I sense you’re not generally pushed around a lot.”

  “Generally, you would be correct,” she said, somewhat warily.

  Could it be that she wasn’t used to having someone pay such close attention to her? The intrigue continued to grow.

  “Sibling guilt,” she said reluctantly. “Which makes it my own damn fault.”

  “Ah. I wouldn’t know much about that. My parents wisely gave up reproduction after I popped out.”

  For the first time, the slightest quirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. A mouth he was just now noticing. And what a mouth it was, too. It was wider than the norm, with a clearly defined upper lip, but a generously fuller bottom one. It was the kind of mouth he could sink tongue, teeth, and heart into. He angled his head, curious about the rest of the package.

  The driver popped up and looked over the roof of the car. “Sir?”

  Shane acted impulsively. Some things, after all, never change. He opened the side door of the limo. “Your guest has invited me to ride in the back, to keep her company.”

  The driver shot him a dubious look. Shane wasn’t sure if he simply doubted Cinderella would be interested in sharing a ride with a guy like him, or if he was worried that Shane would somehow corrupt her on the drive in. Probably a little of both. Smart man.

  “Very smooth,” she said as he settled himself across from her. The expanse of carpet was wide enough for both of them to stretch out their legs. Which was a good thing, because hers were easily as long as his. And he topped six feet by a few inches. He openly sized her up and decided she was flirting with the six-foot mark herself. Amazon Cinderella. He took in the rest of her. Those strong, tanned arms, the white T-shirt that he’d bet was more likely to sport a Fruit of the Loom label than Calvin’s or Ralph’s. Her lanky legs were covered in loose jeans that had to have acquired their battered look honestly. Equally well-worn Western boots completed the ensemble. All she lacked was the sweat-stained Stetson and a bandana around her neck. And he’d bet there was at least one of each back in Montana.

  And damn if that didn’t turn him on. She was the complete Cinderella-In-Chaps fantasy. He’d never even realized he had one of those. But now that he did . . .

  “Assessment through?” s
he asked. “In case you’re wondering, I had to change when I got off the plane. These are my carry-on clothes.” That smile teased the corner of her mouth again. “Which, amazingly, look a lot like my what-I-wear-on-airplanes clothes.”

  He finished his once-over then lifted his gaze to hers, not remotely abashed at being caught staring. He noticed their verbal sparring had brought the color back to her cheeks. “Not much on flying, huh?”

  “Gee, what gave me away?”

  Despite the deadpan humor, he noted a slight twinge of discomfort. He wasn’t sure if it was real embarrassment over her appearance, or unease at what lay at the other end of the limo ride. He could identify with the latter part. His attention drifted out the window as they tooled down the access road, drawing him closer to his fate. He hated admitting he might have finally gotten himself into a jam that would require more than a little charm and a dash of sex appeal to get himself out of.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, somewhat grudgingly.

  He realized now how unsettling it was to have someone paying close attention. It had been a while for him, too. He managed a smile. “Let’s just say you’re not the only one here under duress.”

  “Really.” She folded her arms, never once glancing at the crystal slipper she’d tossed on the seat next to her. Cinderella-In-Chaps, indeed.

  “My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago. I had to come back, to settle the estate.”

  She immediately looked contrite. “I’m so sorry.”

  For some reason, he liked her better when she was snarky. “Don’t be,” he said, working to smooth the edge sharpening inside him with every mile that passed. “We weren’t close. And she wasn’t that nice of a lady.”

  Her lips threatened to curve all the way into a smile, albeit a dry one. “Unlike her grandson, I take it.”

  “Oh, definitely. Her grandson is engaging, amusing. Hell of a guy.”

  “She had more than one grandchild, then?”

  He relaxed back into his seat, willing to put off the inevitable for as long as he could keep her dry wit engaged. “Nope, just the one.”

  “Ah. Funny how I missed all that, then.”

  “The smile probably blinded you to the rest of my shining attributes.”

  “Oh, something blinded me, all right.”

  He laughed. “I’m glad I met you, Darby Landon of the East Coast Landons. I’ve been dreading this trip for seven days, fifteen hours, and”—he checked his diving watch—“twenty-three minutes.”

  “And I thought I had it bad with three days, six hours, and”—she checked her own nonexistent watch—“four freckles past the hair.”

  “Not much on schedules, I take it?”

  “I run a horse ranch. So my schedule is usually ruled by sunup, sundown, and how many hours I get between the two. Everything else sort of comes along at its own pace.”

  “My kind of schedule.”

  She said nothing, letting her gaze travel over him instead. And she made no effort to hide the fact that she was checking him out.

  “Conclusions?” he asked, after she finished her casual perusal. And damn if that didn’t make him stir a bit, too. He wished he had a Stetson of his own at that moment. For his lap, not his head. He made do with casually propping one ankle on the opposite knee. It occurred to him that his hiking boots had seen as much wear and tear as her Western ones.

  “Not sure,” she replied. “I read horses better than I do people.”

  “It’s been my experience that horses read people better than people read people.”

  “You ride?” she asked, obviously surprised.

  He could have told her that Morgans were to the saddle born. Only said saddle was generally on the back of a polo pony. He’d tried polo. Unlike his forebears, he’d never been much for it. He’d had a lot more fun the two seasons he’d spent on the bronc-busting circuit. As a rodeo clown. “Let’s just say I know which end of a horse to steer clear of.”

  “That would be both ends, on occasion. The trick is knowing which end to avoid at which time.”

  “Yeah. I figured that out early on. That, and that being under the horse at any time is always a no-no.”

  “Hey, you do learn fast.”

  “I try.”

  “I bet,” she said, half under her breath.

  He just smiled. “So, how many siblings are there in the East Coast Landon clan? Was it an older one or a younger one that put the bamboo shoots under your nails?” He held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess. The only people older than you who can wrack you with guilt are usually your parents. So I’m guessing younger.”

  “I only have one sibling. And yes, you’d be right. She’s younger.”

  “Oh, baby sisters. Say no more.”

  “You speak with great authority, O single child.”

  “No, I speak with great authority as a single male who has dated his fair share of both younger and older sisters.”

  She arched a brow. Natural, unwaxed, and unsculpted—and he’d seen enough to know the difference. Hers were all the sexier because of it. “Who lived under the same roof?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” He grinned. “They had their own places by then.”

  She rolled her eyes, but he saw the telltale twitch of the lips.

  “So what has baby sister conned you into?”

  She didn’t answer right off. Finally, she sighed and said, “Playing chauffeur, hostess, and all-around ego-booster to a Swedish financier. He’s doing some deal with my father and I have to make nice.”

  Shane’s brows lifted. “Sounds like—”

  “As much fun as having skin peeled off my body in tiny strips.”

  “Wow, that bad.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “We all have our personal hells.”

  “So why put yourself through it?”

  “Baby sis needs her trust fund back and is currently out of the country. I’m helping her out of a jam.” She lifted her hands, then let them fall in her lap. “I shouldn’t. I rescue her too often. But I can’t seem to say no.”

  Shane grinned. “A handy piece of information to have.”

  She gave him a “you wish” look.

  The car slowed as it pulled into a long, semicircular drive.

  “Looks like we’re here.” He glanced out the window at the aging Victorian mansion that Aurora’s state’s-attorney husband had left her when he died, some twenty years back. Shane had assumed, back when the three women started this venture, that they’d eventually move when the going got good. Something big and glitzy. But now that he looked at the place, with the ornate shutters, turrets and balustrades, all in a fresh coat of white, the deep front porch cloaked in a lush jungle of azaleas, the immaculate grounds, sweeping old oaks and aging hickory trees . . . he realized that this was Glass Slipper, Inc. And it suited his godmothers better than any pile of chrome and glass ever would.

  An unexpected wave of longing washed over him, surprising him. Suddenly he was dying to see them, to let them cluck over him, take him to task for his renegade ways. To be enveloped by their elegant perfumes and bountiful bosoms—well, Vivian’s anyway—and made to feel . . . well, welcome. He didn’t realize how much that was going to mean to him. But it did. Because this was likely the only homecoming he was going to get.

  Darby’s rustling pulled his attention back. “You can always skip the makeover,” he told her. “I’m sure the Swede will be suitably impressed with you, as is.” Hell, she’d blown him away, hadn’t she?

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, however sorely misplaced.” She stared out the window. “And you’re right, I could walk away. But the God’s honest truth is, I’m not sure I can pull this off. I’ve been gone from this world a long time.”

  “So?”

  She looked back to him. “So, I’m missing the gene that makes me care about who the ‘in’ designer is this fall, or which interior decorator is hot, or why I need a party planner for a dinner with only six people attending. Not
to mention I could give a flying flip about Buffy’s new club committee, Tad’s latest foray into golf therapy, or why I’m not a valid human being unless my day clutch matches this week’s hair color. It’s like playing dress-up in some Psycho Barbie dreamworld.” She shook her head. “I don’t relate.”

  Shane chuckled. “I have a harder time trying to make sincere conversation with people who are only making nice because they want access to my corporate investment capital.”

  “You’re an investment capitalist?”

  “You look so surprised.” He grinned. “Thank you. And no, the last thing I invested in was new nets for the pearl divers in Pulau. Of whom I was one, so it wasn’t an entirely altruistic gesture.”

  “You’re big on altruism?”

  He shrugged. “I’m big on enjoying life. And if the people around me are enjoying it, too, so much the better. I just don’t happen to equate personal happiness with amassing wealth for the sake of having more stuff than the other guys.”

  Her mouth curved in a wry smile. “So I take it you don’t come to D.C. often, then.”

  He laughed outright. “Not when I can avoid it, no.” He folded his arms and sighed a little. “But I couldn’t this go-around.”

  “No, I guess not. I probably should have, but it’s important.”

  “There’s something for you in this big deal?”

  She shook her head. “For my sister. And she’s a big deal to me. I’ve always been responsible for her, a pseudomother figure, you might say, albeit not the best one, I’m sure. But I’m all she’s got.”

  “Your dad—”

  “Is an emotionally distant ass.” She shrugged. “I’m okay with that.”

  Shane raised an eyebrow, which almost earned him a smile.

  “Let’s just say I’d rather be with people who don’t believe in bartering possessions for love. And he’s happier when I’m not around, pointing out that he wouldn’t know an honest human value if it bit him on the—”