The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  A discreet knock came at the door just as Darby was getting to the good part. “Ms. Landon?” came Beverly’s perfectly modulated voice. “Your car is here.”

  Darby stiffened, all dangerously dewy recollections turning to damp, clammy dread, instead. She supposed she was just being delivered from one prison to another. But, all in all, Glass Slipper was preferable.

  “Would you like assistance with your luggage?”

  She looked around her room, making sure she had everything. She knew she did, she just wasn’t ready to give up her warmly decorated cell for the colder, austere one that awaited her at Landon Manor. One thing was for sure, she thought, as her gaze skimmed over the rich rose walls, deep pile rugs, and cloud-soft duvet that covered her sumptuous bed, Glass Slipper definitely delivered a lush nest to languish in while they did their best to hatch a swan from an ugly duckling’s egg.

  She smoothed her raw-linen feathers and walked to the door, telling herself it was ridiculous to feel nervous. She’d come this far, hadn’t she? Still, her palm was damp on the carved-glass doorknob. “Hi,” she said to Beverly. “I’m all packed and ready to go.”

  She beamed. “You look wonderful!” She looked her over. “Perfect ensemble.”

  “Melanie has great taste.”

  Beverly pursed her lips. “Now, now, you’ve taken an active role in this transformation. We talked about this yesterday.”

  Darby tried not to let her gritted teeth show. “Yes, we certainly did.” She and Beverly had spent more than an hour on her “performance and objectives review” the previous evening. Darby’s opinion was that they’d gone the extra mile and then some. She wasn’t too sure how they felt about the results, though. She’d noticed that Bev had left a number of little check boxes blank. It had left her wondering what the makeover recidivism rate was here. Or if she’d become the first Glass Slipper guest recommended for remedial courses. Or, even more likely, if she would simply be asked not to mention to anyone that she’d been a guest in the first place. It might scare away potential clientele.

  “Oh, good, I’d thought I’d missed you.” Vivian bustled up. She beamed at Beverly. “I’ll show our guest out, dear.”

  Beverly nodded and smiled at Darby. “Good luck.”

  She knows I’ll need it, Darby couldn’t help but think, as she nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  She took a deep breath and turned to face Vivian, who pursed her vividly painted lips and gave her a studied once-over, then shifted a very direct gaze back to Darby.

  “So, do you feel what you learned here will help you with the tasks you’re to undertake?”

  The question caught her off guard. And the scary thing was, the answer was yes. Every bizarre thing she’d been put through would probably come in handy. She didn’t want to ponder what that said about Washington society. “I don’t think you left anything uncovered,” she said judiciously.

  “There’s a diplomatic response,” Vivian noted.

  “I got what I came for.”

  “But not necessarily what you needed.” Before Darby could question her on that—though what she’d have asked, she wasn’t sure—Vivian followed up with, “Shane seemed quite taken with you.”

  Darby had no idea what to say to that, either. “He’s an interesting man,” she said at length. “Quite charming.”

  Vivian snorted. “He’s a total hottie and everyone knows it, including Shane. He’s led quite the storied life, you know. Lived everywhere, done just about everything. Quite the rogue,” she said, with a faint smile curving her lips. She winked at Darby. “Will you two be seeing more of each other during your stay?”

  Darby’s first reaction was a jumble of panicked thoughts, ranging from Dear God, she heard about the dressing room to Yes, I plan on seeing a great deal of him. Preferably naked and in private this time.

  Certain she had Dressing-Room Slut stamped in blazing neon on her forehead, she said, “I—I’m not sure. I suppose if time permits. I’m going to be rather busy during my stay.”

  “Would you mind overly much if I enquire what events you will be attending? We generally do follow up, if we can be of any help.”

  Darby’s alarm must have shown on her face, because Vivian added, “It doesn’t hurt to have an ace in the hole, honey. You never know when you’ll need a quick refresher.”

  “Thank you. That’s—that’s very kind of you to offer.” They’d reached the circular drive and Darby was never so grateful to see a stretch limo in her life. Her bags had apparently already been loaded, as the driver was waiting by the open rear door. She turned to Vivian. “I really do appreciate all you and your staff have done for me.”

  Vivian took her hand and squeezed it. “Our pleasure, dear.”

  Darby tried not to let her relief show too obviously as she climbed in the car and let the driver close the door.

  Vivian had pulled out a long golden cigarette holder and used it to tap on the window, which Darby reluctantly lowered.

  “Will you be attending the Belmont party at Four Stones over the weekend?” she asked quite casually.

  Too casually, Darby thought, but what the hell did it matter. “As a matter-of-fact, yes, we will.”

  Vivian shifted the gold-stemmed holder and it struck Darby that she looked more like a siren out of an old forties movie than a fairy godmother. “We?” Vivian asked.

  “I’m escorting one of my father’s business associates. Stefan Bjornsen. I’m due to pick him up at the airport shortly.”

  “Ah,” she said, her smile as bright as always. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, then, you’d best be on your way. With any luck, perhaps our paths will cross at Four Stones.” She tapped the roof with her “wand” and the driver pulled away before Darby could do more than nod, smile, and wave good-bye.

  “So,” Darby murmured. “That was unsettling.” She turned and discovered they’d put the bag containing her glass slipper on the backseat next to her. She lifted it out of the tissue paper and turned it around so it caught the sunlight. “Well, Cinderella, we’re off to the ball.”

  Cinderella Rule #6

  Don’t ever underestimate the power of sex in the workplace. Not to suggest you seduce the boss or the client, but it would be ridiculous, not to mention a waste of killer legs, to leave the potential of natural attraction, or sexual influence, unrealized. Men and women are different for a reason. Vive la différence!

  —VIVIAN

  Chapter 6

  Shane didn’t know what he expected when he steered down the oak-lined drive of Four Stones for the first time in thirteen years, but it wasn’t the buzz of activity he found. For a split second he thought the staff was loading up their stuff and heading out in some kind of mass exodus rather than face the new head of the household. Then he realized the numerous workers in white coveralls weren’t taking stuff out of the house, they were hauling it in.

  Oh, goody. Just what he needed. More shit to get rid of.

  He got out of the shiny little Jag he’d rented—there had to be a few perks in the midst of all this crap—and raked his fingers through his hair as he stood and stared at the house he’d grown up in. Most of the time, at least. He’d been back in the D.C. area any number of times over the years, usually just passing through on his way to somewhere else, only stopping long enough to visit Mercedes and crew. He’d never once, despite Big Al’s various threats and summonses over the years, come back to Four Stones.

  The house sat high above the Potomac River on the Virginia side, just down from Great Falls. There was a fantastic view in the winter, when the leaves were off the trees. The name itself came from the four massive chunks of limestone that jutted out of the ground at the four corners of the property like nature’s own boundary markers. Two were located just below the terraced levels at the rear of the estate, right before the land fell away completely in a steep drop, dotted with pine, ending in a huge tumble of other boulder-sized rocks at the river’s edge. The other two flanked the front co
rners of the property, between which ran a low, stone wall, stacked by hand sometime between the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. Which was about as long as the Morgans had lived on this land.

  He shaded his eyes and looked at the house itself. Only one of the stone chimneys was part of the original structure, which was one of the oldest buildings still standing in Virginia, or anywhere in the country for that matter. He supposed he should take some pride in being part of a history that was so firmly intertwined with the birth of an entire nation. And by a family that, in this generation alone, had endured battles that would put world wars to shame, he thought, but found himself smiling as he scanned the grounds around the house, which were still exquisitely maintained with dignity and grace. He took note of the one topiary that his mother had insisted on planting after a particularly inspiring trip to England. Maybe Big Al had more sentiment in her than Shane gave her credit for, because he noted that the dancing maiden had been scrupulously cared for. More than likely, Alexandra simply hadn’t been able to do anything about it, as it was always featured in photo spreads of the house and grounds in various magazines, both modern and historical . . . and removing it would have reflected poorly on her.

  A lap pool ran along the south side of the house, one of two pools on the grounds, although Shane doubted this one had been used much since he’d been caught practicing belly flops in it as a twelve-year-old. “Definite waste of prime splash water,” he murmured. It was the perfect width for sending a sheet of water out the other side like a tsunami, where it would crash over the edge of a sloping path, taking it directly across the tennis courts, the surface of which insisted on settling and cracking no matter how often they were torn up and resurfaced. Water in those cracks helped the weeds grow faster, and pissed the head gardener off good.

  Other childhood memories came back to him. It surprised him that more than a few of them were actually okay. Playing hide-and-seek with the staffers’ children in the many hidden servant passages, kissing some of those same girls years later on those same hidden stairwells. Of course, a goodly number of those incidents probably weren’t viewed the same way by anyone else involved at the time. Except said girls.

  His gaze shifted to the two-story building that sat to the east of the house. The garage, which had existed since the days when it was a carriage house, now had room for ten cars. Or nine cars and one motorcycle, he thought with a nostalgic smile. He was fairly certain, as his purchase of a beat-up old Kawasaki 450 had been pretty much the final straw between him and Big Al, that the garage housed nothing with fewer than four wheels these days. His gaze lifted to the rooms over the garage. Over the decades, they’d housed various house staff, grounds staff, garage maintenance staff and the like. But at the age of sixteen, from the day he’d been kicked out of his seventh and final boarding school, to the day ten months later when he’d torn out of here on that 450, with a hundred bucks and a backpack filled with clothes, that apartment had been his sanctuary.

  He’d gotten drunk for the first time in those rooms. Lost his virginity there, as well. Looking back, he couldn’t say which one had been the less fulfilling milestone. He’d certainly perfected the art of both over the years, although the former no longer held much allure. The latter however . . . His thoughts drifted to a certain department-store dressing room. Maybe you can go home again, he thought with a grin, wondering if he could con Darby into coming over . . . then sneaking her up to those rooms and reliving a few old memories. Some of the better ones, anyway.

  He turned back to the house, his smile fading as the glow of the few good times faded, and the weight of what he faced today bore down on him once again. “Should have stayed in the damn dressing room.”

  He set off across the front lawn, his attention once again on the hustle and bustle. On a good day, Four Stones was attended by a relatively large staff, both household and grounds. Today it looked like they had enough people to provide the extras on the set of Braveheart. Now that had been a great job, he mused. Paint your face blue, scream like a madman, and run at the other guys with big sticks. Easiest money he’d ever made.

  He wound his way in and around the throngs, wondering just what in the hell any of them thought they had to do. He realized the house needed basic tending to, and he’d told the lawyers when they’d tracked him down not to let anyone go. He didn’t want to be responsible for their livelihoods, but he also sure as hell didn’t want to put a few dozen people out of work without even knowing what it was they did, or for how long they’d been doing it. He did know there were several families who’d had various offspring working for the Morgans for more than a few generations. He wasn’t looking forward to figuring out who was going to stay and who was going to have to go. He’d do whatever he could to help them secure other jobs, if necessary.

  He sighed, realizing just how much worse this was all going to get before it got remotely better. He searched the grounds for someone who looked like more than a worker drone, someone in charge. He was supposed to meet Big Al’s personal lawyers here, but had hoped to beat them out by an hour or so. Have some time to get over whatever emotional impact seeing the old place might have on him. He hadn’t been entirely certain what that impact would be, but he hadn’t counted on it being so . . . complicated.

  He stepped into the grand foyer, stared up the sweeping split grand staircase, and actually felt his heart tighten inside his chest. He was one in a very long line of Morgans to stand in this very spot, to take in the magnificence of all that this family had created and built upon. “And just what is your contribution to this legacy going to be?” he murmured beneath his breath, as the real weight of the task set upon him began to fully sink in.

  How was it he’d managed to make it all the way to this very spot and not realize how much more was at stake here than making a few massive, economy-altering corporate decisions and finding homes for a few million dollars’ worth of personal belongings? In his mind, the Morgan legacy had been Alexandra’s legacy. Not his. And not those who had come before them, either. And never have I been more shortsighted, he thought as he stared up at the portraits that lined the stairwell that rose a full two stories high.

  But I’ve never been one of those people, he thought, heedless of the people bustling past him. Not that they were paying him much mind. He trailed a hand up the glossy banister as he slowly climbed one set of stairs, looking at the same portraits he’d seen hundreds of times before, but was only now really seeing for what they were. Maybe his sense of being an outsider stemmed from the fact that he’d lost his parents at such a young age, or because Alexandra wasn’t the most maternal of people. Or because she’d tried so hard to conform him to her ruthlessly defined image of what a successful Morgan should be, that Shane had gotten her vision mixed up with what all Morgans thought success should mean.

  “Shane? Is that you?”

  Lost in thoughts far deeper than he was comfortable having, he gladly shoved them aside and turned at the landing, to find two older men coming toward him. Expensively dressed, leather briefcases in hand, they crossed the marble foyer. It was the first time he could ever remember being happy to see lawyers.

  It wasn’t until he reached the last step that he recognized the older of the two gentlemen. “Hal?” He grinned, as the man he’d once considered an uncle broke into a welcoming smile of his own. Shane tugged the hand Hal offered and pulled him—so much shorter than he recalled—into a quick hug. “It’s been a long time,” he said, once again surprised by the emotions pelting him.

  “Too long,” Hal said, patting his back before letting him go. His blue eyes had faded a bit but still looked sharp.

  Hal Calloway had been Al’s personal lawyer and erstwhile suitor for decades. He’d treated Shane with a sort of avuncular understanding when there had been little coming from other quarters, and even run long distance interference on the occasions when Shane had been in trouble at boarding school. His legal advice had rescued Shane from more than one scrape in his teen yea
rs. What little male influence he’d had in his formative years had come from this man. “I thought I’d heard you retired,” he said, his throat surprisingly tight.

  “I didn’t think they kept you up on the latest in Bora Bora, or wherever you were.”

  Shane grinned. “Bora Bora was a few years back. And I do keep up on the important things.”

  A shadow of pain flickered across the older man’s face and Shane was immediately contrite. Despite his affection for Shane, Hal had felt deeply for Alexandra for a long time, though she’d refused to acknowledge it, much less act on it. Her loss, Shane had always thought. Along with wishing Hal had found someone who could love him back. He’d asked him about it once—he’d been drunk at the time, upset after his first girlfriend of more than two weeks had dumped him—and Hal had simply shrugged and told him that you love who you love. You don’t always get to pick.

  Darby’s face flickered into his mind, and he just as swiftly flickered it back out again. She was fun, she was here, and she understood family angst. More than that? Not that he planned on. She had a ranch to run.

  And he had an empire to dismantle.

  “I’m sorry,” Shane told Hal, his first sincere condolence regarding his late grandmother’s passing. “I know you always wished that she and I could work things out. Disappointing you is my only regret.”

  Hal shook his head, but the sadness didn’t leave his eyes. “No need for that. And, to answer your earlier question, I did retire. But Alexandra still retained my old firm, and they asked me to step in and deal with this, seeing as it’s going to get a bit tricky.” His smile reached his eyes this time. “She was an old battle-ax, but I understood her motives and desires better than anyone. Who better to help you wade through this mess, eh?”