The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  Shane had to smile as he all but heard the calculations begin spinning in Viv’s brain. “Remember, he’s grieving.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, dear. And what better time to go provide some . . . comfort. Who knows, maybe I can get him off of your back . . . and me onto mine. We’ll both be happy!”

  He’d been dealing with Vivian and company for most of his life and she could still make him blush.

  “So, are we on for a good time? We haven’t been able to catch up, and who knows if our paths will cross before you flit out of town.”

  “You just want to play girl detective so you can report back all the dirt to your cohorts. I know how this works.”

  “And all the better to get it over with while enjoying really fine champagne and contributing to a good cause, don’t you think?”

  Always shameless, Shane thought. He loved that about her most. “What is the benefit for?”

  “Oh, heavens, honey, I have no idea. I bought the tickets ages ago. But I wouldn’t have gotten them if I wasn’t totally behind their cause.”

  Shane smiled and shook his head. “Now you sound like Aurora.”

  “Oh, and aren’t you the catty one. Maybe I made the wrong phone call after all,” she chided. But there was honest affection in her voice when she added, “Scamp.”

  He grinned. “Flatterer. What time should I expect my ride?”

  “Two hours. Will that give you enough time?”

  “Honey,” he said, in a fair imitation, “I could get fitted for a suit, hit the barber, grab a shower, and still have time left to read a good book.”

  “Oh, to be a man,” Vivian sighed.

  “And destroy the hearts of half this town?”

  “Only half? Dear me, I really have lost my touch.”

  “Not ever. I’ll see you soon. And, Viv, thanks for the rescue.” Which was exactly what this really was all about, if he knew her.

  “What are fairy godmothers good for if they can’t wave their magic wands once in a while?”

  Shane was still smiling when he hung up the phone. But even the warm glow his trio of godmothers always seemed to cast about him dimmed, as he stared at the remainder of the giant stack of documents Hal and William had left for him to read through. Grief or no, he was still smarting from Hal’s set-down, not to mention stunned by the enormity of the news they’d dropped on him. But he still hadn’t changed his mind. Of course, after a week of hazing at Morgan Industries, he admitted he probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind to make major decisions about property and the like.

  He pushed back from the desk, stood and stretched. It didn’t help. He still felt bone-weary. And, Vivian’s dazzling company notwithstanding, he did not remotely want to hobnob with the Washington social set. But anything was better than staying here and dwelling on all the memories and emotions that Hal’s comments had dredged up. Not the least of which was the point-blank challenge he’d issued as he and William had finally departed for a dinner meeting.

  Shane had walked them down to the door, wishing he and Hal could have reunited under any other circumstances. And yet despite everything that had transpired, he’d still been caught off guard by Hal’s parting shot. He’d stopped Shane at the door and said, “If you’re half the man I thought you’d become, you won’t hightail it out of here and hide in your hotel room.” He’d gestured to the grounds, then up to the house. “The very least you owe your forebears is to stay in this house, and consider very carefully how you intend to walk away from it. Because if you walk away this time, there will never be anything to return to. Not for you. Not for any offspring you might someday have. Close to three hundred years of Morgan history— All gone. Forever.”

  And he’d walked away without looking back.

  Not wanting to think about it anymore, not tonight anyway, Shane punched a button on the house panel. “Is it possible to find a suit that fits me?” he asked the nameless, faceless voice that responded to his buzz. “Oh, and a pair of shoes, if you could.”

  “No problem, sir. Should we bring it to the office?”

  Shane paused for a moment, then sighed heavily. “No. Take it to the guest wing.”

  There was a brief clearing of a throat. “Sir, would you prefer we take it to your suite? Your rooms have been prepared.”

  “My . . . rooms?” Confused, his mind went to the rooms over the garage. Surely they didn’t mean—

  “In the east wing, sir. Ms. Morgan always kept a suite of rooms ready for you, in the event you should require a place to stay while in town.”

  The bombshells just kept blowing up in his face, didn’t they?

  “Begging your pardon sir, but I can have someone come up and direct you if you’d like.”

  Shane shook off the new set of emotions that pummeled at him. And here he’d thought he’d been put through all he could be in one day. “Yes,” he said, then had to clear his throat. “That would be appreciated. Thank you.” He clicked off and sat heavily in the desk chair. So Big Al had kept the home fires burning? If he had finally trotted home, as she’d apparently hoped he would, he could just picture the scene. She’d likely have waved to his waiting rooms and said something like, “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure out I was right all along.”

  He shook his head, swearing he could actually hear the echo of her voice in the air, and gratefully got up to answer a discreet knock at the door. A young Asian woman, dressed in the traditional black-and-white Morgan staff uniform, greeted him with a professional, competent smile and gestured for him to follow her.

  “I should have stayed at the clambake,” he said beneath his breath.

  “I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t know if the chef has clams, but—”

  Shane smiled wearily and shook his head. “That’s okay. Lead on.” He fell into step behind her . . . and wondered if a guy could run away from home at the age of thirty.

  The limo from the airport hadn’t felt this uncomfortably intimate, Darby thought, edging her pantsuited legs away from Bjornsen’s. Stefan, she mentally corrected. He’d already assured her—twice—since they’d left the house fifteen minutes ago that he didn’t stand on ceremony and would prefer them to be on a first-name basis.

  Keeping her attention carefully averted out the tinted window, as if she’d sorely missed seeing this section of the Inner Loop during her long absence, she tried like hell not to imagine what other kind of “basis” he’d like them to be on. She thought about a very different limo ride in from the airport, what now seemed like a century ago. She wondered what Shane was doing right now, and again found herself comparing the two men. Both were good-looking to a fault, both of them knew it, and both were confident bordering on arrogant.

  Only, somehow, on Shane, it was sexy as hell and made her think about tousled bed linens, thrusting body parts, and multiple orgasms.

  When she looked at Stefan, well, she couldn’t put her finger on it exactly. Something about his eyes, so dark, so . . . bottomless, made her think about sci-fi flicks where androids came to Earth disguised as perfect specimens of mankind and probed your brain—or worse—while you slept. The part she couldn’t seem to ignore was the scene where he seduced his human victim first, then did unbelievable things to her in bed . . . as a prelude to said mind-probe, of course. All of which should creep her out. And it did. Kind of. That last part kept hanging her up, though.

  “Do you get to Washington often?” Stefan asked.

  Darby gathered herself, and though he’d asked in a perfectly conversational tone, she’d already discovered in their limited time together that he didn’t do anything casually. She prepared herself as she shifted her gaze away from the window and over to his. Yep. Android eyes. Riveting and emotionless, or at least unreadable. The smile curving his perfectly chiseled Nordic lips never quite seemed to reach his eyes. Which did nothing to explain the little tingle running through her, or why she had to fight the urge to shift in her seat, just a little.

  Pressing her thighs
together, she searched for an answer that was both truthful—much easier to keep straight—but not honest or open enough to leave her feeling vulnerable. She was supposed to be the urbane Washington hostess, not a hick from the wilds of Montana. He’d been surprised that she’d taken Pepper’s place, and it was clear that he thought of her as some kind of enigma—like a specimen waiting to be probed. She resolutely shut out the whole Star Trek chain of thought. He was looking to set up a deal that, knowing her father, was probably worth more money than she’d see in a lifetime. With something like that at stake, she’d be wary, too.

  “My business concerns out West generally prevent me from doing too much traveling,” she answered finally, and prayed that he didn’t ask too many questions about the ranch. For some reason, all of her protective sensors were on alert, and while she didn’t mind sticking out her neck for Pepper, and by extension, her father . . . when it came to the ranch, all bets and favors were off. She wasn’t going to offer that up for discussion. Or dissection, no matter how wary he was.

  His gaze stayed on hers a tick too long, then he smiled and lifted a shoulder in that way Europeans had of shrugging. So negligent and elegant at the same time. “My business concerns create the exact opposite problem for me. I am rarely able to stay home for any length of time.”

  Darby seized on the opportunity to steer the conversation away from her. Bjornsen was probably the kind of guy who loved to talk about himself and his accomplishments. “Where, exactly, do you call home?”

  He arched one brow. Another European thing. She wished they’d had that class at Glass Slipper. Oh, to be able to communicate volumes with nothing more than a shoulder and an eyebrow.

  “Your father didn’t mention much about me, I see. Well, that makes us even, I suppose. Göteborg is my place of birth, but I now reside in Stockholm. Have you traveled to Sweden?”

  “My sister is the traveler,” she answered. “I’ve never really overcome my aversion to flying.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Oh?”

  Both eyebrows went up.

  She’d piqued his curiosity further. Dammit.

  “You don’t enjoy flying?” His smile widened. “Oh, but then you simply haven’t been introduced to it properly. I love to fly. I earned my own pilot’s license years ago. I fly myself whenever possible.”

  “Quite the Renaissance man.” Darby managed a smile—and prayed like hell that her father wasn’t planning to contact Stefan at any point before he showed up on Sunday. She could only imagine how fun that conversation would be, when Stefan mentioned how surprised he was to meet Paul’s other daughter. Of course, that might let her off the hook sooner, as her father would surely send her packing . . . and what did she care if she pissed her dad off or blew his chance at this deal?

  And that was when she realized that somehow, somewhere, she’d actually begun to feel more determined to see this through. Not for her father, certainly, but not entirely for Pepper, either. Maybe it was Stefan’s smooth charm, or that way he had of looking into her. But she felt like it had somehow gotten personal. Now it was like some kind of internal measuring stick, a test to see what she was really made of. And, okay, maybe Pepper’s belief that her older sister always got what she wanted had stuck in her craw just a little bit.

  “Would you like to see the skies in a more friendly way, perhaps?”

  Darby was pretty sure she understood what he was really proposing, but she definitely wasn’t up for finding out if she was right. Tingle or no tingle. She’d be lucky to pull this off as it was, without courting that kind of danger. Apparently foreplay in Nordstrom’s dressing room with a man she’d only known for a couple of days had maxed out her danger limit. She shifted a little, pasted on her best fake society smile. “I’m afraid we really don’t have the time, but I do appreciate the offer. So, you’re a pilot? What got you interested in flying? Is it a family hobby?”

  Once again, he held her gaze a bit too long, making her wonder if she was being that obvious about playing out of her league. But then he smiled, and those dimples winked out at her, and she forgot about leagues and maxed-out danger limits.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m the only daredevil in the family.”

  Yeah, I just bet you are. “Well, I’m sure they’re proud of the achievement, though they probably worry about you.”

  He cocked his head slightly and continued to gaze at her in that singularly focused sort of way he had.

  All she could think was, Mind-probe, mind-probe. Followed, of course, by indelible images of all the hot alien sex that came right after that. Christ. She wasn’t playing out of her league, she was out of her galaxy. “I mean, it’s a long flight over the Atlantic.”

  That one-shoulder shrug again. “We’re not that close,” he said. “But your father, he worries about you? You’re close to him?”

  Darby couldn’t hold that gaze. God, she was mucking this up. She wasn’t even entirely sure why all this mattered to him, but there was a vibe here that went beyond simple introductions and polite curiosity. It made her glad for the umpteen-millionth time that she wasn’t in her father’s line of work. She couldn’t imagine living a life where everyone was suspect, and money, or the potential to make more of it, was a commodity that had to be guarded like the Holy Grail. “We’re both fairly busy,” she said at length. “We trust each other to take care of our own interests.”

  She could feel his gaze on her like a physical caress. And she had to admit the disturbing sensation wasn’t entirely a turnoff. She could only pray the driver didn’t hit any traffic snags through Rock Creek and arrived at the Kennedy Center as swiftly as possible. Before she did something really stupid. Like hooking up her sensors to his probes and to hell with danger signs and Pepper’s trust fund.

  She kept her gaze on the passing scenery as they wound their way along the parkway. Hours passed, or so it seemed. It was likely only a handful of minutes before the silence finally got to her. “Have you been to the Kennedy Center before?” she asked, trying to sound like there hadn’t been an awkward—to her—lull in their conversation.

  “Several times,” he said easily enough. “The national symphony, I believe, and a ballet. But never for an event of this nature.”

  “Ah,” she responded, ever the scintillating conversationalist. Mercedes and crew would be so proud. She dared a glance his way as she scrambled for something to say, on any topic other than her twitching, tingling self. “I just got into town myself, so I’m not entirely sure who’s attending this evening, but I imagine they won’t all be strangers to you.”

  He cocked his head again, considering her. “What makes you think that?”

  She froze for a moment. Now what had she said? He hadn’t somehow sensed she was having entirely inappropriate thoughts about her father’s business partner, had he? What was it about her and limos lately anyway? Drawing a steadying breath, she gave the fake sincere society smile another shot, and even threw in the over-the-shoulder-hair-toss for good measure. As a confidence builder, it wasn’t much, but she couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. Her arsenal was quite limited. She’d kill for that European shoulder shrug. “Perhaps I was presumptuous,” she began. That sounded snooty enough, didn’t it? “I assumed, since you’ve spent time in Washington on past occasions, that you’d probably made at least a few connections. Most of the Hill’s power players will likely be in attendance this evening.”

  He nodded, and for a moment, she swore he was going to give her a little golf clap for her less-than-sterling performance. Instead, he merely continued to smile at her as he leaned back in his seat, resting his hands on his thighs. She resolutely did not let her gaze drift to those hands . . . or those thighs . . . or, God forbid, what lay between them. But it didn’t stop her from wondering if he wanted her to look. Or why, God help her, she kind of wanted to. Note to self: get laid more often. It was getting embarrassing.

  “I’ve met a few, perhaps. In fact, it was under just such circumstances that your father and I i
nitially made contact. Of course, he’s probably mentioned that.”

  Now it was her turn to study him for perhaps a moment too long before looking away, but the way he kept circling back to what she did and didn’t know about him, was making her feel a bit anxious. “I believe my sister mentioned something about it, but I’m afraid I don’t recall the particulars.” Well, well, she was getting better with the particulars and the affectations by the second. If this went on much longer, she’d be wearing matched pearls at her throat and calling everyone darling. “She was more in the loop, as they say, on this than I was. I do know that your business with each other originated in Europe, correct? Something about precious gems. Diamonds and emeralds, was it?” She tried the little shrug coupled with the vacuous laugh. Pepper could have pulled it off. She knew immediately that she hadn’t.

  His smile visibly tightened. Her gaze did drop to his hands then, and she noted his fingers had begun to curl inward. Almost the instant she glanced at them, he’d already smoothed them back out on his thighs. “She mentioned diamonds?” he asked, his tone perfectly casual. As was his smile. “Curious.”

  Darby thought back over that initial conversation with Pepper and wished she’d paid closer attention. Although, honestly, what could it possibly matter what she knew? The deal itself had nothing to do with her. She was only window dressing.

  She tried not to dwell on just how repulsive that reality was, and focused instead on how to answer him. Maybe the truth, or as close a version to it as possible, was in order. There was a novel concept in Washington society. “To be honest, I’m not sure exactly what she said. She mentioned gemstones and I just guessed the rest, since my father is in Brussels at the moment.”

  Error number two. The flash of surprise had been microscopically brief, but seeing as she couldn’t seem to not stare at the guy, she hadn’t missed it. Or, this time, misinterpreted it. So, Bjornsen apparently didn’t know the exact nature of the business holding her father up. Maybe Brussels meant something specific to him. Maybe her father was working two deals or something, and Stefan was worried he was being cut out. It would explain the tension.