The Big Bad Wolf Tells All

by Donna Kauffman

  “Sell the house? Why?”

  “I think Finn is about to ride off into the sunset. From a look at the glitter dripping off of Jacqueline’s hand the other night, he might not need financial backing to do it, but if he does—”

  “I don’t want you to lose the house, Riley. And I’m not exactly broke.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “It might just be a package deal.”

  They stared at each other stubbornly. “Why don’t we just wait until after dinner with them next week to discuss this,” he said.

  She sighed finally and relented. “I just don’t want you to lose anything else,” she said quietly, then reached up to stroke his face. “You’ve lost enough.”

  He kissed her then, and there was so much emotion in it, they were both a bit glassy-eyed when he finally let her go. “I’ve found you,” he said hoarsely, “and that’s more than I ever thought I’d have. I love you, Tanzanita Harrington. I want to have you in my life. For as long as you’ll have me in yours.” His lips curved in that sexy, boyish grin. “We can duke out who pays for what later, okay?”

  She was staring at him. “Say that again?”

  “I said I don’t care who pays for what. Except maybe the shoes. I’ve seen your closet.”

  She laughed. “Oh, like those hefty basketball shoes don’t go for a few bucks. I may not know Michael Jordan from Tiger Woods, but I do know how much his shoes go for.” She squeezed him tight. “But that wasn’t what I was referring to.”

  “I love you.”

  She sighed lustily and let her cheek rest on his chest. “Yeah. That. I don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of that.”

  He tipped her chin up. “I probably wouldn’t, either.”

  “You think?” she said, teasingly.

  Now he sighed. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”

  “Would I do that to the man I love?” Her eyes lit up then, and it wasn’t a teasing light he saw there. “I do love you, Riley Parrish.” She linked her arms around his neck. “And I might not know much about sports teams, but I do know we make a good team. I think I’m all done being a free agent. How about it? Will you take me as your first-round draft pick?”

  He laughed. “Is that a proposition?”

  She grinned. “No, that was a proposal.” She tipped up on her toes and whispered in his ear.

  He growled and scooped her up in his arms.

  “That,” she said with a satisfied grin, “was a proposition.”

  “Yes,” he said. “To both.”

  Happily Ever After. A fairy tale? Perhaps. But we keep getting married, hunting for it. Maybe it’s really just as simple as the species driven to propagate. Or maybe I’m a closet romantic coming out of the closet. I’ll have to ponder that while I ride off into the sunset.

  Oh, and by the way, does anyone have any handbooks on Football for Total Sports Losers? And while you’re at it, if you’ve got any suggestions on how to keep a two-ton, three-year-old pound puppy from crawling into bed every night, I’m all ears. He’s adorable, but hell on my sex life. One man in my bed for the rest of my life is all I need.

  About the Author

  Nationally bestselling author Donna Kauffman resides in northern Virginia, the alpha female living amongst her own personal pack of wolves (aka her teenage sons and husband). She has tried repeatedly, with little success, to instill at least a little sheep behavior in them. At this point, she’d be happy if they’d just put the seat down.

  Also by Donna Kauffman

  The Charm Stone

  The Royal Hunter

  Your Wish Is My Command

  Legend of the Sorcerer

  The Legend MacKinnon

  Yours 2 Keep

  With Kay Hooper, Marilyn Pappano,

  Jill Shalvis, and Michelle Martin

  Dear Tanzy Tells All,

  I read your latest column and I gotta tell you, we wolves aren’t all that thrilled with your decision to expose our dating and mating habits to the Little Red Riding Hoods of the world. Next thing you know they’ll all be heading off to church groups and Rotary Club picnics . . . and settling for other sheep. Where will that leave us? Preying on each other? Ha! I don’t think so. You know what happens when two wolves get all tangled up together?

  Okay, sure, it has its moments—if you don’t mind claw marks down your back. But we’d know each other too well and next thing you know, we’d end up with our own little den, starting our own little pack. . . . No, no, this is simply not going to work. Honestly, we like reading about your wolf pursuits, but can you leave the analysis out of it? Makes it kind of hard to cruise the herd, you know what I mean? I think you do.

  But, uh, hey, if you’re not doing anything Friday night . . . you can always give me a howl. My old claw marks are just about healed up.

  (Signed)

  One of the few remaining Big Bad Wolves, and proud of it

  The Big Bad Wolf Tells All

  leave you howling for more?

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next sexy,

  laugh-out-loud-funny romp from

  Donna Kauffman

  Coming soon from Bantam Books

  CINDERELLA RULE #2

  A good first impression is critical.

  Life allows very few do-overs. Don’t waste yours unnecessarily.

  —Vivian dePalma, co-founder / Glass Slipper, Inc.

  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 man with a glass slipper in one hand and an extremely unhealthy looking woman in the other. He had no idea what was going on with the woman, but he sure knew exactly where the glass slipper came from.

  Momma Mercedes.

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

  He tossed an apologetic smile at the cabbie, grabbed his duffel and loped easily across the blacktop, darting around people and weaving through traffic with ease, despite the heavy load on his back. His varied and 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, he was about to put that to the test, wasn’t he?

  “Hold up,” Shane called out to the driver as he closed the rear door to the limo. He wondered for a split second if the ashen-faced woman inside the limo had known his grandmother, if she was in mourning for the late, great Alexandra Morgan. But in those clothes she hardly looked like anyone who ran in Alexandra’s circle. Besides, the funeral had been two weeks ago. And, in any case, if she was here merely to pay her respects, Mercedes wouldn’t be sending her a slipper.

  No, she was definitely a client. And he’d never seen one more desperately in need of the inimitable services of Mercedes and her two cohorts, Aurora and Vivian.

  The driver turned to face him as he rounded the hood of the stretch limo. “May I be of some service to you, sir?”

  Shane chuckled and gave the older man a good hearted clap on the shoulder. “Mercedes always did believe the snootier the better,” he said. “It was one of the few things she had in common with Big Al.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir? Big . . . Al, sir?” He said the latter like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Big Al was Shane’s personal pet name for his dear departed granny. Probably best not to share that, even with the Glass Slipper hired help. If it got back to Momma M, she’d rap his knuckles or worse. The fact that he’d long since reached the age of majority and was well past the knuckle-rapping stage didn’t matter much where his former headmistress of a godmother was concerned. He didn’t mind all that much. She was the
only one who’d ever attempted to keep him on the straight and narrow. She’d even had a modicum of success at the task on occasion.

  She and Alexandra had been students together at the Hedgely School for Young Ladies many years before. His godmother had gone on to run the private New Hampshire school, which made her the obvious choice for ring leader of the eccentric triad that founded and ran the life makeover empire. And, just as obviously, her hoity-toity spare-the-rod-spoil-the-debutante background had been a blueprint for Glass Slipper’s employee training manual.

  Alexandra had gone on to marry industrialist Grayson Morgan, taking over his empire after his death at age forty-five of a heart attack. Some said the heart attack had something to do with the dancer who’d supposedly accidentally discovered his body—in her own bed. Shane had never known the man, but he did know Alexandra, and had found himself understanding at a fairly young age what might have driven Frank into almost anyone else’s arms.

  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 alumnus. Maybe because he was the only one who could charm a smile out of her. Or even bothered to make an attempt at it.

  Of course it was usually accompanied by a long-suffering sigh, but then, he was well used to those. He’d been grateful more times than he could count to have Mercedes Browning on his side. Which had generally been on the wrong side of Alexandra Morgan. His grandmother had never forgiven him—the last in line for inheriting the Morgan family dictatorship—for refusing to let her turn him into her little empire building clone. And she’d certainly never forgiven Mercedes for championing Shane’s desire to set off on his own the instant he was old enough to do so.

  Okay, so maybe he’d hightailed it out of Washington a bit shy of being technically old enough, but he’d been to boarding schools in three different countries before he’d had his first kiss. He knew how to get around, just as he knew it was better to survive by his own wits at the age of seventeen than possibly end up doing life for finally snapping under the relentless pressure and murdering his only living relative. Or worse, agreeing to become something just like her. Apparently, Mercedes had 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 thirteen years later.

  Yes, he was very lucky to know Momma M. And he’d learned never to question luck, to merely accept it with grace and gratitude. Because it sure as hell beat the alternative. And Lord knew the Morgan clan, despite their wealth and power, had more than their share of the alternative.

  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. Hands with character was how he liked to think of them; 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. “You mind if I hitch a ride back to Fairy Godmother Central?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “One of those fairy godmothers is actually my real godmother,” he explained. “Mercedes Browning. She was a close friend, or as close a friend as my grandmother was capable of having, to Alexandra Morgan.”

  Recognition dawned in the older man’s eyes. Followed swiftly by a brief flash of unmitigated curiosity. That last part didn’t surprise him. Shane supposed even Mercedes’ rigid training couldn’t prevent the guy from wondering why the much-vaunted black sheep of the Morgan clan had finally returned to the fold. “I’ll be glad to ride in front. Your client will never know I exist.”

  The driver raised an eyebrow. This one made it clear his rather tarnished reputation had also preceded him. He wondered if it was his reputation for somehow always ending up at the center of things when they went south . . . or his reputation with women, which, now that he thought about it, also tended to head in the same general direction. He supposed it was likely a combination of both.

  “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 and ask, if it will make you feel better. I’m sure my godmother won’t mind, though.”

  The man said nothing, but stiffly moved around to the driver’s side and slid in. Shane thought for a moment he was going to close the door right in his face 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. But the old man picked up a small, wireless radio and punched in a number.

  Shane smiled and shifted his duffel off his shoulder as he hiked to the back end of the mile-long car. While he waited for the driver to pop the trunk, he lifted his face to the blue skies overhead, letting the warmth of the June sun beat down on him. Home again.

  Since the day after college graduation, he’d done his best to be just about anywhere in the world but here. And for close to ten years, he’d done a damn fine job of it. And had been just about everyplace there was to be but here. Now he was back. With a whole lot of shit to be faced. Home. Damn.

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

  The trunk clicked and Shane waved the driver back as he hoisted his bag inside the trunk himself. He glanced at the rather battered leather satchel and army issue canvas duffel already residing in the cavernous interior. Not the usual set of matched luggage Glass Slipper, Inc. drew as clientele. Sure, his godmother did life makeovers, and this woman certainly looked like she had a lot of room to work with, but someone had to pay the tab. He grinned and snapped the lid down. Probably Aurora’s doing, the old softy. Shane wouldn’t be surprised if she’d conned Mercedes into taking on some kind of pro bono deal, where the client paid later, after her life had improved. Whether it was getting that high-profile job—or snagging a rich husband. Because while his godmother firmly believed in helping those who were willing to help themselves, she expected to be compensated well for her services.

  He was moving up to the front passenger door, when the rear window eased down . . . and the woman inside let her cheek rest on the open frame while drawing in a deep breath.

  He stopped. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  She let out a yelp and snapped her head up, then immediately growled and pressed the heel of her hand to her apparently throbbing forehead. “First the slipper, now what?” she muttered, before gingerly looking up at him. The sun at his back had her squinting. “So 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 make the list. I’m just hitching a ride in for a visit with my godmother.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What is it with you people? Isn’t that taking this whole fairy tale thing just a tad too far? 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, 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 and rolled her head toward him. “Honestly, though, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”

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

  He stuck his hand out. “Shane Morgan.”

  She regarded him warily for a moment, then took his hand. Hers was clammy, which wasn’t a total surprise given her appearance. What was a surprise were the calluses and the natural strength of her grip, which came through despite the brevity of contact. He noted she had a few battle scars of her own. Intriguing.

  He lifted her hand, then bowed at the waist before releasing it. “Black sheep of the East Coast Morgans,” he added. “Definitely more dark knight than prince charming. You must be Cinderella-in-training.”

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

  He laughed, and found himself wondering what she’d be like when she wasn’t feeling the aftereffects of what he guessed was a good bout of airsickness. “You don’t sound too optimistic.” He nodded to the sleek limo she sat in. “But I guess that’s why you signed up for this ride. Well, trust me, the godmothers will have you—”

  She managed a snort and straightened a little in her seat. “I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here under duress.”

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

  She looked nonplussed for a moment, then finally let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “Nothing so simple. I could have said no to either of them.”

  “You have one of each, do you?”

  She paused and looked him over. “I’m beginning to realize the depth of my error with that prince charming crack. I was obviously blinded by the bright smile and flashy blue eyes. But then, I suppose you’re well aware of your impact on the fairer sex.”