The Cinderella Deal

by Jennifer Crusie

  Forget the prince. Stories were all well and good, but princes weren’t stories, they were impossible. Daisy had known that from the time she’d realized that her mother’s promises that her father would be back were a bigger fairy tale than anything the Brothers Grimm had ever spun out. Nobody was ever there when you needed someone. You’re born alone and you die alone, Daisy told herself. Remember that. Now think of something to get yourself out of this.

  Annie curled up and went to sleep. Liz licked up the last of the tuna and fell unconscious with pleasure. Daisy sat silently for a long time, staring at the patterns in her stained glass lamp.

  Upstairs, Linc stretched out on his chrome and black leather couch, bathed in the cool light from his white enameled track lighting, his headache receding but his troubles intact. It didn’t help that the mess he was in was his own fault.

  He’d lied.

  Linc winced. He wasn’t a liar; he couldn’t ever remember lying before. But he also couldn’t remember anything he’d ever wanted as much as he wanted to teach history at quiet, private Prescott College. And he hadn’t lied about anything important in his interview for the job: his credentials were all real and impressive, and his goals were honest and good.

  Linc closed his eyes. Rationalization. None of that mattered. He’d lied. The memory of his interview came back in painful detail. Dr. Crawford, dean of humanities, and Dr. Booker, head of the history department, had interviewed him. Dr. Crawford looked like a retired southern cop: big, beery, genial, with an overall air of stupidity. He wore a bow tie in what Linc thought of as a feeble attempt at an academic look. Dr. Booker needed no such camouflage. He looked as if the moisture had slowly seeped out of him over the years, leaving only a dried-up little shell behind horn-rimmed glasses. Linc’s dreams of a department headship had begun when he saw that Booker was older than God.

  And things had gone well at first. They’d been impressed with his credentials, impressed with his first book, published four years before, impressed with his demeanor, and just impressed with him in general. He knew he was good; he’d sacrificed for years to make sure that he was good, that he’d published in the right places and presented at the right conferences, that his background was above reproach, that he always did and said the right thing. And now the only question was, would they think he was good enough? But that hadn’t been the question. The question that Dr. Crawford, his fat lips pursing, had asked was “Are you married, Dr. Blaise?”

  “No.” And then he’d seen the look on Crawford’s face: regret. Linc hadn’t made it as far as he had in a very competitive profession by being slow. “But I’m engaged,” he’d finished. Then he’d had a stroke of what at the time had seemed like genius. “Prescott would be the perfect place for us. We’ve been waiting to get married until I was established so we could raise our children the old-fashioned way.”

  Crawford didn’t just thaw, he blossomed. “Excellent, excellent. Old-fashioned values. You’ll definitely be hearing from us again, Dr. Blaise.”

  Dr. Booker had sniffed.

  And Linc had wondered if he was losing his mind. It was bad enough that he’d created a fiancée; he’d really sent himself to hell when he’d babbled about mythical children. And the weird part was, it seemed so true while he’d been saying it. Not the fiancée part, but the idea of settling down with some elegant little woman and reproducing in a small town. The pictures had been there in his head, sunny scenes of neat lawns and well-behaved children in well-ironed shorts. You’re pathetic, Blaise, he’d told himself at the time. And you lied. God’s going to make you pay for that. You’ll probably get struck by lightning.

  But as it turned out, it wasn’t lightning that slugged him from behind, but Crawford. He’d been invited to speak to the faculty on his research, the standard job-talk audition for a college position. And, Crawford had written, make sure you bring your fiancée.

  Right. Linc punished himself with the thought of it and drank more beer. He deserved this. If Prescott wouldn’t take him on his own very considerable merits, he should have just let them go. There were other schools. And once he finished the book he was working on—

  But he couldn’t finish the book. Not at the city university, where he was now, not while teaching three awful, mind-numbing classes. To finish the book he needed someplace like Prescott. And to get Prescott he needed a plan.

  Linc shifted on the couch. He actually had two plans. One was to show up without a fiancée and probably not get the job. That one had the benefit of honesty and not much else. The other was to convince somebody to pose as his fiancée, and then if he got the job, he could tell the people at Prescott that the engagement was off. They couldn’t take the appointment back. As a plan it wasn’t great, which was why he’d put it out of his mind until three days before the interview, but as the deadline approached, it became more attractive. It beat not getting Prescott.

  All he needed was a woman who was reasonably bright and reasonably attractive in a sedate sort of way who was willing to lie through her teeth and then quietly disappear. His first thought had been Julia in the apartment downstairs. They’d had a brief affair and parted friends. She would probably do it, he knew, but she’d make a mess of it. Julia was too sharp-looking and too sharp-tongued. He needed a … a wifely-looking woman. A Little House on the Prairie kind of woman. A woman who could lie without batting an eye.

  Daisy Flattery.

  No, he thought, but logically, she was his best hope. Stories told, her card said, so truth was not one of her virtues. And Julia had said she was straight as an arrow, and he trusted Julia’s judgment if not her restraint. Daisy Flattery was about six inches shorter than he was, with a round midwestern body; if he put her in one of those old-fashioned flowered dresses, Crawford might go for it. Since she seemed to hate him for some reason, she’d probably have to be in desperate need of money before she’d agree to spend any amount of time with him, but she didn’t look rich. Desperation could drive a person to do things he or she would never contemplate ordinarily.

  I should know, Linc thought gloomily, and stared at the ceiling. Make a note to call Julia about the Flattery woman, he told himself, and then realized that he didn’t have time to make notes. It was Tuesday. He was due in Prescott on Friday. He felt dizzy for a moment, and realized it was because he was holding his breath, his response to tension for as far back as he could remember. “Breathe, Blaise,” his football coach had yelled at him in high school the first time he’d passed out during a game. “You gotta keep breathing if you want to play the game.”

  He inhaled sharply through his nose and then stretched out his hand for the phone and punched in Julia’s number.

  Five minutes later, Linc was listening to Julia laugh herself sick. “You told them what?” she gasped at him when she could talk. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Knock it off,” Linc said. “It’s not funny. This is my career at stake here.”

  “And we all know that’s more important to you than any of your body parts.” Julia snickered. “I love this. You want me to be the little woman? No problem. I’ll get one of those dweeby little dresses—”

  “No.” Linc broke in before Julia could get too attached to the idea. “I need a professional liar, somebody who won’t start giggling when the chips are down.”

  “Daisy.” Julia’s voice went up a notch in approval. “She’s wonderful, absolutely trustworthy.”

  “Except she tells lies for a living.”

  “She tells stories,” Julia corrected Linc with some heat. “Unreal but not untrue, that’s what Daisy says. And anyway, it’s not like you’re lily-white here, bud. You’re the one who created the Little Woman Who Could.”

  Linc exhaled in frustration.

  “I can’t believe you lied in the first place,” Julia went on. “I would have said it wasn’t possible. You really are a stick-in-the-mud, but maybe this will break you out of that rut—”

  Linc glared at the phone. “I like my rut. I have to
go. Good-bye.”

  “Because you really are solidifying before my eyes—” Julia said, and he hung up.

  Oh, God. He let his head fall back against the leather chair back. Three days and no fiancée. He was in big trouble, and his only hope was a nutcake. There had to be a better way. The last thing he needed was to pin all his hopes for the future on Daisy Flattery.

  He got up and got himself another beer.

  Daisy spent the next morning trying to drum up work and failing miserably. When she got home, the kitten had escaped and was sitting on the doorstep waiting for her. So was the landlord, a man Julia called Grumpy Guthrie. Oh, no, Daisy thought, and then straightened her shoulders and went to save her cat, marching past the dark-haired thug from upstairs who was washing his nasty black car. She disliked his car almost as much as she disliked him; it looked like something Darth Vader would drive.

  Guthrie pointed at the kitten as if it were a cockroach. “That’s a cat.”

  “Yes, I know.” Daisy took a deep breath and then smiled at him. Daisy knew she wasn’t beautiful, but God had given her something better than beauty—a glowing, wide-mouthed, man-melting smile, courtesy of her mother and a long line of southern belles who’d dazzled their way through history. It was her only physical weapon, but it never failed her. It didn’t now.

  Guthrie smirked at her.

  Behind her she heard the cat kicker turn off the water just in time for Annie to tear out one of her ungodly meows.

  Guthrie flinched. “Daisy, you’re a month behind on the rent, and you’re not allowed to have pets.”

  “I know.” Daisy pumped out more wattage on her smile. “You know I’ll pay the rent. I’ve lived here for eight years, and I’ve never let you down, have I?”

  Guthrie closed his eyes. “No, but the cat—”

  “I’m only keeping the cat until its owners get back,” Daisy said truthfully, since she was sure Annie’s owner would never get back to this apartment house. “It’s a very valuable cat, you know.” She dropped her voice to make Guthrie a conspirator with her. “One of a kind. An Alizarin Crimson. Very unusual voice. Don’t tell anyone, or there’ll be catnappers all over the place.” Guthrie blinked and she let her voice go back up to its natural register. “I’m sure Julia won’t mind, and the people upstairs will never know. It’s such a little cat.”

  “But they do know,” Guthrie said. “Dr. Blaise knows. He’s right here.”

  Daisy turned to look at the cat kicker. He was as tall and broad and threatening as she’d told Annie, his hair thick and blue-black and his eyes dark and intense. He leaned on the car watching them, and he didn’t look angry, he looked calculating.

  Daisy went for it. “Do you mind, Dr. Blaise?” She hit him with her smile in the best tradition of her ancestresses.

  He blinked. And then he grinned at her. It wasn’t the usual feeble smirk that men gave her after she’d blasted them, it was a wide-awake grin. He had a great mouth for a thug. “I don’t mind at all, Miss Flattery. It’s an honor to have an Alizarin Crimson in the building.”

  Daisy felt uneasy, but she wasn’t about to look a gift jerk in the mouth, even if he did kick cats. “Thank you, Dr. Blaise. That’s very sweet of you.” She smiled at him again, and his own smile widened.

  Strange man.

  “I’ll have the rent for you soon,” she promised Guthrie, and he went off, shaking his head.

  Daisy scooped up the kitten and turned to go, but the cat kicker called her back. “Could I have a word with you, Miss Flattery?”

  I knew it, Daisy told herself. It was too good to be true. She took a deep breath and turned back, smiling her brains out, prepared to do whatever she had to do to keep Annie from becoming an orphan again.

  TWO

  HE CAME OUT from around the car, dressed only in black sweats and incredibly old white sneakers. His broad body was beautifully proportioned, but it didn’t matter. Daisy knew about proportion from art class, but she knew about men from life. Yes, he’s pretty, but forget it, she told herself. He kicks cats. He drives an evil black car. And Julia says he has track lighting. Definitely not somebody she wanted to spend time with.

  Still, she did need to be nice to keep her cat. She hit him with her megawatt smile again. He grinned back, immune. Oh, well. “Thank you so much for saving my kitten, Dr. Blaise. If there’s ever anything I can do in return …”

  “There is. I have a business proposition for you.” His smile disappeared. “Strictly business.”

  Daisy snorted mentally. It would be strictly business. He probably didn’t have the imagination to make a pass. Which was a relief, because when she turned him down, he’d probably kick her cat. “Business, Dr. Blaise?”

  “Linc.” He stepped closer and took her elbow. “Why don’t we go in and talk about it?”

  Oh, great. He was an elbow taker. A steerer of women. Daisy removed her elbow from his grasp. “How about my place? Herbal tea?”

  He closed his eyes, said “Wonderful,” and followed her into the house.

  Linc stopped inside the apartment door. The place looked as though it had been ransacked. There were drawers open, papers everywhere, lampshades askew, books on the floor, and a huge black cat sprawled out in the middle of the mess, doing an excellent impression of death. Linc waited for Daisy to scream and call the police, but she just dropped the little calico cat into an overstuffed chair full of yarn and clothes and stepped over the black cat to move toward the kitchen.

  It must always look like this. How could she stand it?

  She pulled her bright blue velvet hat from her head, and her thick hair fell down in tangled little kinks, dark curls with deep glints of red against the bright, bright blue of her loose hip-length sweater. Under the sweater she wore an ankle-length skirt checked in hot rose and electric blue. Linc winced at all the color.

  Then she opened the refrigerator and got him a bottle of beer, and her approval rating rose.

  He took it gratefully. “No herbal tea?”

  Daisy grinned at him, a nice, cheerful grin with none of the dazzle of her earlier beam. “I thought you’d prefer this.”

  “I do. Do you have an opener?”

  Daisy took the bottle back and looked around absently for an opener. Not finding one, she hooked the cap on the edge of the counter and smacked it with her hand to pop it. Then she handed the bottle back.

  Linc checked to see if there were glass chips on the top. Remember, you need her. Be polite. “That was very efficient. Thank you.”

  He sat opposite her at the big round oak table. She turned on the stained glass lamp that stood to one side, and it cast a Technicolor kaleidoscope on the wall and ceiling. More color. Everywhere he looked, color and clash. How did she sleep in this place?

  “A business proposition.” Daisy tilted her head at him. “I’m not a businesswoman.”

  Linc studied her in the lamplight: masses of dark curls, big dark brown eyes spaced far apart over a blobby nose sprinkled with freckles, a wide, rosy, generous mouth. This woman looked so wholesome, she could sell milk to dairy farmers. If he put her in a real dress instead of clothes three sizes too big for her, she could pass for the girl next door. She wasn’t his type—he liked lethally elegant blondes, the tinier the better—but she was definitely Prescott’s type. He cheered up considerably.

  “I need a favor.” Linc leaned forward, exerting all his charm. “A practical, extremely confidential business favor.” He saw her draw her eyebrows together at the word “confidential,” and added, “It’s not illegal. And I’ll pay your back rent.”

  The eyebrows flew up. “That’s three hundred dollars.”

  Linc nodded. “I know. I’m desperate. I need a fiancée for twenty-four hours.” That sounded a little odd, so he clarified it. “Only a fiancée. A platonic fiancée.”

  “I understand that you’re not propositioning me.” Daisy folded her hands on the table like a polite child. “You can stop making that clear.”

  Linc relax
ed a little. “Good.” He took a swig of his beer, amazed at how much more difficult this whole thing was than he’d imagined. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of admitting what he’d done. It was also Daisy Flattery. There was something about dealing with this woman that reminded him of the way he’d felt messing around with the chemistry set he’d had when he was a kid. Volatile. Unpredictable.

  Her voice broke his train of thought. “Why do you need a fiancée?”

  He took a deep breath and told her, haltingly at first but then becoming more confident as he explained, and she didn’t throw him out or go off into fits of laughter.

  “You’re in a mess,” she agreed when he was finished. “But I don’t see how you think I could help you. I’m hardly the wifely type.”

  “No, but you could be for twenty-four hours. I’ll pay for a new dress. All you have to do is pretend to be the wifely type for the space of a speech and a cocktail party. I’ll have you out of there by Friday at midnight and back home by Saturday afternoon.”

  Her laughter spurted, something between a giggle and a snort. “So you pick me up out of the gutter, and I get a new dress, and I pretend to be something I’m not, and then at midnight I run away and turn back into a pumpkin.” Her grin widened. “It’s a Cinderella story.”

  “I guess so.” Whimsy was not Linc’s strong suit.

  “And you get the job of your dreams and the time to finish your book.” She tilted her head. “I like this story. Everybody wins.”

  “Even Guthrie,” Linc said. “He’ll get your back rent.”

  “And I get to keep Annie.” Daisy smiled at him, warm with gratitude. “That was nice of you to tell Guthrie you didn’t mind, since you didn’t know whether I’d do this or not, and you hate cats.”