Operation Cinderella

by Hope Tarr

  She hadn’t expected him to be so heart wrenchingly humble, so scathingly self-honest. Certainly she hadn’t expected him to have an actual sense of humor! The words complete package came to mind but she shoved them aside. She couldn’t afford to let herself like Ross Mannon. More than any other foreseeable flaw in her plan, liking this man would seriously mess with her mission—and her mind.

  “Dr. Mannon, why are you telling me all this?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Because I want to be upfront with you about what you’re signing up for if you accept this position.”

  Heart drumming, she asked, “Are you saying the job is mine if I want it?”

  His gaze, disarmingly earnest, met hers. “Yes, Miss Gray, that’s exactly what I’m saying.” One corner of his mouth lifted in the sexy half smile that in the course of the afternoon had come to feel so very familiar. “The question is what do you say?”

  Her fluttery stomach stilled, her heart lifted. Ross Mannon was hiring her! Operation Cinderella was taking off! Whatever test he’d put her to, she’d apparently passed—with flying colors. With his gaze holding hers, she felt as if the magic wand was being waved, the coach rolling forward. Suddenly life was, if not exactly enchanted, good again for the first time in a very long while.

  She smiled and stuck out her hand. “How soon can I start?”

  Chapter Four

  Macie had returned to New York that evening and gotten directly to work—packing. Once she had, all the moving parts of Operation Cinderella had fallen into place as if by magic. Her assistant editor, Terri, had just split with her roommate and was looking for a short-term place to stay. In exchange for watching her apartment, taking care of Stevie, and keeping her lone plant alive, Macie had handed over the keys rent-free. Even packing, which she’d dreaded, had proven a cinch. Except for her laptop, new clothes, and what she’d come to think of as her red Cinderella slippers, there wasn’t much else she needed to bring.

  Saying good-bye to friends was a lot harder. Franc and Nathan had treated her to dinner at her favorite Murray Hill Indian restaurant on her last night in town. She used her morning train as an excuse to make an early night of it, but the truth was she wanted to log in some quality snuggling time with Stevie, AKA Stevie Wonder, before leaving. Since she’d sprung him from the city shelter last year, they’d been pretty much inseparable. A scraggly adult street cat with one eye missing and the other badly infected, he’d been deemed “unadoptable” and slated for euthanasia. Fortunately, the euthanasia tech had called in sick the day Macie had walked by after work. She’d taken one look at Stevie, crawling to the front of his rusted metal cage to butt his little black-and-white head against her hand, and had fallen head-over-heels.

  Too bad it wasn’t that easy with men.

  Sitting in a coach class Amtrak car bound back for DC, she acknowledged that D Day had arrived. There was nothing left to plan and a hell of a lot yet to do. Lost to her thoughts, the three-and-a-half-hour train trip slipped by.

  This time Stefanie met her at the gate. Her dark hair gathered into a thick braid and a baggy sweater and jeans covering her curvy figure, Stef hadn’t changed much since their college days. Obviously the same couldn’t be said for Macie. Stef would have walked past if Macie hadn’t reached out and tapped her on the shoulder.

  Staring from behind tortoiseshell framed glasses, Stef said, “Mace? Is that you?”

  “In the freakin’ flesh.” Macie let go of her suitcase handle and opened her arms.

  They hugged, and suddenly it was as if they were back in college, roomies and best friends forever. Pulling back, Stef gave her a friendly once over. “You look great. The last time I saw you, your hair was…magenta, I think.”

  Macie grinned. Being a style chameleon was a point of pride. “What can I say? I like to keep my friends on their toes.”

  “Your e-mail said you’re here for six weeks on some kind of undercover assignment. It must be pretty high end to require a personal chef.”

  Macie spotted a Starbucks. “How about I buy you a coffee and we can talk about the details?”

  Stefanie smiled. Along with sweets, caffeine was her weakness. “Make it a tall mocha with whip and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  A few minutes later, settled in at one of the café tables with her luggage crowded around them, Macie ran down the basics of Operation Cinderella.

  Not surprisingly, Stef seemed more than a little shocked. “Okay, let me see if I get this straight. You’re going to move into this guy’s home by pretending to be his housekeeper and then snoop around until you dig up enough dirt to make it newsworthy?”

  Macie nodded. “Basically, yes.” Hearing it from her friend’s lips, her mission didn’t sound especially noble.

  Stef licked a dab of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth before answering, “Look, Mace, you know I’m the last one to rain on your parade, but how do you plan to pull this off? The last time I visited you in New York, you had a six-pack of Diet Coke and a jar of mayonnaise in your fridge—and the mayo had expired.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “So you need me to be your shadow chef,” Stef said.

  Macie nodded. “The building has a service elevator. We just need to smuggle you and the food up without being seen. Mannon e-mailed me a copy of his weekly schedule and from what I can tell he’s a creature of habit. During the week, he’s at work until six, and the kid is enrolled in prep school, plus she’s signed up for a shitload of extracurricular activities that’ll keep her out of the condo. We just need to work out a system where you drop off dinner by, say, four o’clock, and then I warm it up later.”

  Stef’s eyes widened. “That’s at least two hours between delivery and serving! It’s really hard to keep meat from drying out, and sauces get lumpy once—”

  “Hey, he’s not expecting Emeril, just someone who can cook the basic dishes.”

  Stefanie sighed. “But food, even simple food, is so much more than sustenance. Eating is a sensual, social experience. A communion that engages the body and soul…”

  Macie sipped her soy latte and let her friend rhapsodize. For Stefanie Stefanopoulos food wasn’t just food. It was passion. Macie had listened to various versions of this lecture for the four college years she and Stef had roomed together. Ordinarily a rule-abiding good girl, Stefanie had smuggled a hot plate and microwave into their dorm room and had used the contraband equipment to create savory snacks from odds-and-ends pilfered from the dining hall or purchased from a nearby convenience store. Now equipped with a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen and the finest farm-to-table ingredients, Stef should have been living a gourmet fairy tale—except there was no prince to partake of her fabulous feasts, only her widowed father and his second family: a step-monster and her two surly gremlin girls, all perennially on various dreary diets.

  “What about the weekends?” Stef asked.

  Macie hesitated. “I’ll have to figure that part out once I’m there, but I’m guessing he probably works a lot, maybe even goes into the office for a few hours. If he were home, he wouldn’t need to hire someone to keep tabs on his kid, would he? And what kid on the planet doesn’t like pizza? Oh, by the way, she’s a vegetarian.”

  “Good to know.” Stef eyed her. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No,” Macie admitted, “but that never stopped me before. And this time I have a budget to back me up. I’ll pay you double your regular fee.”

  “Thanks, but don’t worry about it. I always end up making too much of everything anyway. Maybe your magazine could make a donation to the homeless shelter where I usually drop off the extra food?”

  Macie beamed. She couldn’t vouch for On Top but she would make the donation herself. “Consider it done!” Taking down a major conservative pig and feeding people. Operation Cinderella was turning into a mission of mercy all around.

  “Before I forget…” Stef reached inside her pocket and pulled out a white business card
bearing the logo of a dancing broom. “A friend of mine runs a housecleaning service. Her crew does an excellent job and her people are all super trustworthy. Tell her I referred you, and she’ll give you a discount.”

  Macie took the card and dropped it inside her bag. “Thanks, Stef, you’re the best. I only have one more question.”

  Stef grinned. “Let me guess. What’s for dinner?”

  .

  Mannon had arranged for Macie to pick up a spare key at the front desk. She made a mental note to have copies made for Stef and the housekeeping service and then headed for the elevator. A uniformed doorman with a broad, pleasant face and white hair took charge of her luggage, steering her toward the resident lift. She tipped him a five, wondering if that was not enough, too much, or just about right. For a while now, she’d fantasized about what it would be like to live in a doorman building. Now that she was, for the next six weeks at least, she felt shy about it.

  Mannon’s handwritten note left out on the breakfast bar informed her that he’d be home at seven and that Sam was spending the night at a friend’s house to give her the evening to settle in. Considerate, she thought, and then told herself not to get bogged down by the sentiment. In all likelihood he’d made his plans for his convenience, not hers.

  She wandered about the condo, running her fingertips over counters and furnishings, imprinting the layout of hallways and rooms, the texture of fabrics and the placement of fixtures in her mind. The rooms were so spacious, the ceilings so high it was hard to believe she was in an apartment at all.

  She opened a door and instantly knew she’d stumbled onto Samantha Mannon’s room. It hadn’t been on the other day’s tour and now she saw why. Brimming with typical teenage clutter, it had all the usual adult crazy-makers—an unmade bed, piles of dirty clothes, and a damp bath towel scattered about. The mess didn’t bother Macie, but she supposed she’d have to get on the kid’s case if only for show.

  She messaged Stef to let her know she could safely push the dinner delivery as late as six, and then went to her room, an airy, pleasant space she’d glimpsed on her previous visit. The queen-sized iron bed was covered with a simple white duvet, the hardwood floor with a floral print area rug. The white shabby chic dresser and matching night table were devoid of decorative items. Roman shades dressed the double window. The latter looked out onto an interior courtyard, not the city skyline, though of course she was only “the help.” But as far as she was concerned the very best feature of her new accommodations was the en suite full bath. Being undercover was one thing, living with the subject of your investigation twenty-four-seven entirely another. Even Woodward and Bernstein had gotten to go home at night. The prospect of jostling for morning shower time with Samantha Mannon or her father, for that matter, had been worrisome, she admitted now. Bonus: she wouldn’t have to bother running out for a nightlight. She could sleep with the bathroom light on, as she did in her apartment at home.

  She hung her clothes in the walk-in closet, laid her folded things in the white dresser, and stowed her shoes, including the boxed vintage red heels, on the closet floor. Lastly she set Stevie’s framed holiday photo with “Santa Paws” on her night table. Tamping down a twinge of homesickness, she decided to relax with a shower.

  Staring into the steamed bathroom mirror sometime later, a fluffy white bath towel wrapped about her freshly washed hair, she drew a deep breath. The worst was over. She was here. She’d made it. Now all she had to do was be a good undercover reporter, which in this case meant slipping into the skin of the sweet, old fashioned girl she was pretending to be and staying there for the next six or so weeks. For some, that might seem like a tall order.

  For Macie, being someone else was what she did best.

  …

  Ross entered the apartment at a quarter to seven, thrumming with a vague yet persistent impatience. Even if he hadn’t stopped to confirm the new arrival with his doorman, the amazing smells wafting from his kitchen announced that he and Sam were no longer living alone. Martha Jane Gray had arrived.

  She met him in the living room, looking fresh and pretty in a cool cotton floral print he knew was called a sheath only because his ex was a fashion photographer and a committed clotheshorse.

  “You’re home early.”

  Her slightly husky tone had him thinking of sex, specifically the aftermath of sex, when bodies were sated and sheets damp and there wasn’t much left to say because it had all been said already—with actions not words. Sex might not be a distant memory exactly, but it had been a while since he’d had a woman in his life. Seeing Miss Gray moving about his home turf as though she lived here, which as of now she did, had him thinking it might be time to get back in the game—with someone closer to his age whom he didn’t employ.

  Grateful she couldn’t read minds, he set down his case. “The four o’clock staff meeting that always starts closer to five and never ends before seven was canceled.” He dropped the button fronting his navy blazer, eager to be free of the thing. “How was your trip down?” He was genuinely interested, but also desperate to distract himself from how delectable she looked and smelled and, no doubt, tasted. Bad Ross, really bad!

  “Good, thanks.” She moved toward him, her chin-length hair a glossy blond frame for her face, which wore just the slightest trace of blush and pale pink lipstick. “Allow me,” she said, slipping behind him.

  Female hands, light and competent, settled briefly on his shoulders, helping him off with the coat, an old-fashioned civility that hardly anyone practiced anymore. Taken by surprise, Ross tried again not to think about how good she smelled—was that really just soap and shampoo?—or the magic her slender fingers might work on other, more sensitive spots.

  She stepped back around to his front, the garment draped over her slender forearm. “Dinner will be ready in a bit. I hope you like pot roast.”

  Ross didn’t like pot roast. He loved it. “I didn’t expect you to cook on your first night,” he said despite being pleased that she had. She dismissed the notion with a breezy wave of one slender, subtly manicured hand. “Cooking helps me settle in. I’ll call you when it’s ready if that’s all right?”

  Ross nodded. “Great, I’ll be in my study.” He picked up his briefcase and started to leave.

  “Shall I make you a drink?” she called after him. “Vodka martini, isn’t it?”

  She was either too good to be true or working for that Christmas bonus months in advance. “Uh, that’d be great, thanks,” he said, wondering how she’d discovered his cocktail preference. That for sure wasn’t on his website. He started to add, “With a twist,” then broke off when her voice echoed his. “You psychic or something?” he half joked.

  “I wish!” She shot him yet another of those delightfully easy smiles. “But no, I read an article online where you were at some fancy fund-raiser holding a martini and…” Her voice trailed off and she looked down, long lashes sweeping the tops of her very high cheekbones. “I’m acting like a Fan Girl, aren’t I? I may as well admit it, I wrote it down in my day planner. I hope you don’t mind.” She bit on her full bottom lip, a mouth worthy of Angelina Jolie, and Ross felt his throat go dry.

  Fan Girl, huh? In her original e-mail, she’d said she liked his show, but he’d been too caught up in assessing her housekeeper potential to give the compliment much thought. “That’s very conscientious of you,” he said, equal parts flattered and embarrassed.

  She gestured with the arm from which his blazer was draped. “I’ll just hang this so it doesn’t wrinkle, and then I’ll bring in your drink.” She turned back toward the foyer.

  Like sex, it had been a while since someone had tried taking care of him. Not entirely sure how to behave, he started after her. “You don’t have to wait on me.”

  She whipped around, so quickly that they nearly knocked heads. Ross didn’t need a mirror to know his ears must be pink. He could feel the telltale burning at the tips. He glanced down at her, but her small smile was about as telling
as the Mona Lisa’s.

  “Gracious, that was close,” she exhaled, her free hand smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her impeccably pressed skirt. “It’s no trouble at all. Besides, you’re paying me, remember?” Her smile broadened, unearthing a dimple at the side of her chin.

  Fixating on that adorable dent, he said, “Well, if you’re sure.”

  Changing course for his study, Ross congratulated himself. It wasn’t often that it happened, but so far Martha Jane Gray was exceeding his expectations. The only possible pitfall was him. She was so charming and engaging and, okay, pretty, it would be all too easy for him to forget she was an employee and that he’d brought her here first and foremost for Samantha. Sam. Sobered, he stepped inside the room, crossed to his desk, and opened up his laptop.

  “I made it shaken, not stirred, James Bond style.”

  Ross nearly jumped out of his skin—his warm, tingling skin. He looked up to find her standing on his threshold, a brimming martini glass suspended in one slender hand.

  “That was fast,” he said, recovering what composure he had left. He was no James Bond but already he was wondering if Martha Jane wasn’t some kind of Wonder Woman.

  “I helped put myself through college by waitressing.” She crossed to his desk and set the drink down beside the blotter without spilling.

  “Impressive,” he said, not thinking of the drink. “Self-made men and women are the backbone of this country,” he added, both to set her at ease and because he 100 percent meant it.