The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Hope Tarr. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams

  Cover design by Liz Pelletier

  ISBN 978-1-62266-070-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2013

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: GQ, Carolina Herrera, Stella McCartney, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Birkenstocks, Macallan 25, Angry Birds, iPhone, Old Spice, Marvel Comics, Pepto-Bismol, Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, People, Us, MTV News, TMZ, The Associated Press, CNN, Facebook, Nikon, Top of the Rock, Saks Fifth Avenue, Android, Syfy, Project Runway, Twilight Zone, What Not to Wear, Dancing With the Stars, Miss Manners, The Secret, Metallica, Gore-Tex, Google, “Super Trouper,” ABBA, “Take a Chance on Me,” Ferrari, Beverly Hilton, Jacuzzi, Masonite, Oscar, Tech Museum, Kmart, James Bond, Lanvin, Ralph Lauren Notorious, Botox, Sony, “Waterloo,” Disney, Cruella de Vil, Chanel, Pellegrino, Coke, Zumba, Per Se, Eleven Madison Park, Gilt (but see note in text), French Laundry, Wheaties, Styrofoam, Skechers, Grey’s Anatomy, Survivor, Polaroid, “Mamma Mia,” Jeopardy!, Beatles, Spago Beverly Hills, Man v. Food, Muscle Milk, PowerBar, Lois Lane/Clark Kent/Superman, Milk Bones, South by Southwest, World of Warcraft, Halo, UCLA, Les Miserables, Gold’s Gym, “Lay All Your Love on Me,” Espresso Profeta, iPod, Victoria’s Secret, Bruin, Hollywood Forever Cemetery, Tom Ford, Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, Motrin, Red Bull, “The Sweet Escape,” “I Have a Dream,” Gatorade, “Dancing Queen,” Vivienne Westwood, Wine Spectator, “Cuando,” Wikipedia, YouTube, Guns N’ Roses, “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” Scrabble, Parcheesi, Twitter, “Gangnam Style,” Nikon, Skype, Kama Sutra, La Perla, Formica, Python, Ruby, Magic Mike, Perrier, Barbie, Morgan Library and Museum, Museum of Modern Art, Elie Saab, Givenchy, Cessna, Rainbow Room, “Moonlight Serenade,” Peter Pan, The Devil Wears Prada, “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,” Benji, Frankenstein, American Museum of Natural History, iPad, The Princess and the Pea, McGraw-Hill, Cinderella, Diesel, Wolfgang Puck, Gramercy Tavern, Hulk, Pretty Woman, Polonius.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Raj, whose beautiful vision of Cloud Flyer is on loan for this book.

  Prologue

  CLOUD FLYER HEADQUARTERS, SILICON VALLEY, FOURTEEN MONTHS EARLIER

  “Mr. Knickerbocker, be reasonable. When you agreed to grant GQ an interview for their February feature, surely you must have known they’d want your photograph?”

  British-born fashion photographer Francesca St. James paused for breath. For the past ten minutes, she’d been speaking not to a wall but to a broad—if somewhat thinly fleshed—set of shoulders.

  “I agreed to be interviewed—period.” Cloud Flyer founder and CEO Gregory Knickerbocker sat at his computer with his back to her, body language so blatantly rude it set Francesca’s teeth on edge.

  His tech start-up might be the hottest new social media community since Facebook and he the latest addition to that year’s list of top ten tech CEOs, his net worth in the vicinity of thirty billion dollars, but for the present he was her subject only, photographing him for GQ magazine her sole reason for flying out on a red-eye from New York. Beyond getting the cover shot, nothing else mattered—nothing.

  Since she’d arrived, he’d done everything to thwart her, beginning with keeping her and her team waiting in the lobby despite their prearranged appointment. Jet-lagged and fed up, Francesca had bypassed the front desk, the flip-flop-wearing receptionist, and the party in progress and taken the stairs up to the suite of second-story offices. She’d spent the time since talking herself blue in the face.

  Digging in her heels, she insisted, “No magazine will run a feature story without a photograph.”

  Dubbed the “Media-Shy Mogul” and the “Camera-Shy CEO,” until now Gregory Knickerbocker had refused to give interviews or to appear on camera. His CFO, a pricey PR firm, and his personal entourage of programmers served as the collective face for Cloud Flyer’s corporate brand. But now that the company had reached the milestone of a hundred million users, he’d appeared to have a change of heart. This present profile piece for GQ, his media debut, was a huge coup, not only for the magazine but for Francesca—provided her photographs and byline were part of it.

  “Why not?” he asked, still staring at the screen.

  Did he really mean to go on fighting her on this? Choking back her frustration, Francesca dragged a hand through her hair, belatedly recalling that she’d pinned it back in preparation for working.

  Fingers catching on a clip, she answered, “Because it’s…just not done.”

  He swiveled in his office chair to face her. Progress? “So make an exception.”

  She ran her gaze over him, wondering again what the bloody big deal was. He wasn’t the Elephant Man for Christ’s sake. Give the mop of thick black hair a good shearing and take away the thick-rimmed eyeglasses and baggy clothes topped off with the ubiquitous gray hoodie, and Mr. Knickerbocker had the makings of quite a good-looking man.

  “That’s not in my purview, Mr. Knickerbocker. I’m a freelancer.”

  A freelancer who always got her shot—always. That this impossible man might be the black mark on a decade’s career record of unbroken successes was not to be borne.

  Softening her tone, she tried again. “Cloud Flyer is a global company now. Just this morning you, or rather your spokesperson, announced your intention to go public before the year’s end. Don’t you wish to celebrate your success?”

  His even gaze met hers again. “I am celebrating.”

  She glanced beyond him to the screen of Greek-to-her functions and variables. “By…coding?”

  He unfolded his long-boned body from the chair and stood. Reaching his arms over his head in a stretch, he said, “By doing what I love, what took Cloud Flyer from a crazy idea I had in my head back in college to what it is today.”

  Doing her best to ignore the sweatshirt rising above his navel, revealing a flat belly dusted with dark hair, Francesca said, “Yes well, I can see how busy you are, and I assure you I’ll be fast. You won’t even know I’m here.” She sent her camera case a sidelong glance, hands itching to take out the Nikon. Still zipped, it sat on a chair.

  A groan greeted that promise. “Oh, believe me, I’ll know.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she sallied forth. “We can shoot using natural light if you prefer.”

  Dark brows lifted. Sending her a quizzical look, he lowered his arms to his sides. “You say that like it’s some sort of concession.”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  Planting his hands on his trim hips, he tilted his head to one side as she sometimes
did when mentally mapping out the angle of a shot. “You’re offering me natural light to incentivize me into letting you take my picture, but the fact is sunlight, solar power, is one of the few free natural energy sources. It’s not really yours to give. The next thing I know, you’ll be offering me air, too.”

  He was eccentric, Francesca got that, but then he wouldn’t be the first boy genius entrepreneur to have a touch of a Peter Pan complex. The environment he’d created all but screamed “bats in the belfry!” Searching for possible backdrops, she cast her gaze about the emptied room, not a private office but rather a huge communal workspace of whiteboards, desks, and meeting tables; the latter covered with craft paper, much of it doodled on. Bowls of crayons and colored markers were set about. A mural of a cloud-filled sky took up one large wall. More clouds were painted on the high ceiling and stenciled into the glass partitions—Neverland, indeed.

  “Image—fashion—is part and parcel of Gentleman’s Quarterly’s mission. If you’ve ever picked up a copy from a newsstand or…” She paused, glancing at the glass-topped desk, devoid of a blotter or so much as a slip of paper, and amended, “Read it online, you know that’s true.”

  He rolled his eyes. Even outlined by the ludicrous frames, they appeared lushly lashed—and deeply blue. “Do I look like I’m into fashion?”

  Francesca hesitated. Striving for diplomacy, she admitted, “I have a stylist with me.”

  She did, along with her assistant, both cooling their heels in the lobby on a ticking deadline clock. She’d asked them both to stay below, hoping Mr. Knickerbocker might see sense if she spoke to him in private.

  “Good to know.”

  Rounding the desk, he came toward her, closing the gap between them to mere inches. Francesca swallowed—hard. For the first time it occurred to her how utterly alone they were. Barring them, the room was deserted, everyone else having decamped downstairs. Blaring music, a cacophony of conversational chatter, and the occasional champagne cork popping suggested the party was nowhere near waning.

  She forced her gaze back up to his. Impossibly clear cerulean-blue eyes pinned her. A moist mouth mocked her. More than six feet of tall, lean man towered over her. Like a dragonfly trapped in amber, she was caught in place.

  He took another step, obliging her to back up—to the wall. “You get my picture, you leave, is that the deal?” Shaggy dark hair hung low over his high forehead, the ebony strands silken-looking and all but begging to be brushed back.

  Resisting the bizarre impulse to do just that, Francesca marshaled her marauding senses. “Yes.”

  She licked her lips, planning out the angles from which she would shoot him, how to make best use of the fading late afternoon light. She could already tell that, scruffy and unstyled as he was, the camera would love him. The cleft in his chin and the dark stubble blanketing his jaw added interest to a classically featured face.

  He drew back suddenly, and she felt as though an invisible cord had been snapped. “Okay, you’ve got it.”

  “I…do?”

  He nodded. “Sure, just give me a second. I need to send something.”

  “Y-yes, of course.”

  He reached into his sweatshirt and pulled out his iPhone. Thumbs working, he tapped out a text message. Hitting send, he pocketed the phone and looked back up at her. “Okay, we’re done.”

  “We are?”

  He nodded, his flashing smile making her heart flutter. “Take out your phone.” It wasn’t a request but an order.

  Only Francesca didn’t take orders. “Why?”

  His square jaw firmed. “Just do it.”

  Sidestepping him, she reached for the bag she’d set down on a nearby chair. Feeling around inside, she found her iPhone and took it out. Sure enough, she had a text message waiting from GKnickerbocker@CloudFlyer.com. Humoring him, she tapped on the photo link, and then waited a few seconds for the picture to load.

  It did, and she jerked up her head to stare at him. “If this is some kind of joke…”

  His face, oddly attractive and utterly slap-able, drew close to hers, his expression that of a kid who’d just said, Gotcha! “The magazine needs my photograph to run with the article? Well, this is me.”

  “But it’s your—”

  “Baby picture, yes, I know,” he said, backing way. “The deal we just struck was for a photo of me—you didn’t say anything about it being current. And just so you know, I’m also happy to provide my high school yearbook picture and oh, I have some great shots from sixth-grade computer camp—that was one hell of a wild summer. Feel free to shoot my assistant an e-mail if you want more.”

  Rage ripped through Francesca, supplanting the sensual awareness of a moment ago. “This is outrageous!”

  He turned toward the glass doors through which she’d entered and had the gall to grin back at her over his shoulder. “I’ve kept my end of our bargain, Francesca. Now I expect you to keep yours—and go.”

  “With pleasure!”

  Snatching up her camera case and storming out, Francesca allowed that she well and truly loathed Gregory Knickerbocker. Of all her subjects over the last decade, his was the one face she heartily hoped never to set eyes upon again.

  Chapter One

  ON TOP MAGAZINE, MANHATTAN, FEBRUARY 14, PRESENT DAY

  Francesca had never understood why so many women seemed to equate workout wear with an antidote to depression. How optimistic could one truly hope to feel whilst swimming in a shapeless jumper and baggy elastic-waistbanded trousers? So when she stepped off the elevator onto the eleventh floor of the McGraw-Hill Building quite alone on St. Valentine’s evening, she did so clothed in couture from head to foot. Her three-quarter-length belted trench was Carolina Herrera, the beaded champagne-colored chiffon sheath beneath Stella McCartney, and her evening bag Prada.

  Compared to galas held atop Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Seattle’s Space Needle, and New York’s Top of the Rock, all of which she’d attended in the last year, On Top magazine’s annual Valentine’s cocktail party was a modest gathering. As a work function, it was also one of the few Valentine’s events she could go to alone without appearing pathetic. If she truly couldn’t bear the boredom, she needn’t stay beyond the requisite hour. Such was the beauty of an open house.

  Handing off her coat and scarf to a waiting attendant, she darted a fast glance inside the double glass doors to the people-packed office reception area. Men and women wearing jeans and high-top sneakers mingled with those outfitted in tuxedos and floor-length gowns. Most guests were paired off, but then on this day of hearts and flowers, she’d hardly expected otherwise. For a fleeting few seconds, she regretted her Thanksgiving weekend breakup with her sous chef boy toy. Freddie, despite his myriad failings, had made a marvelous bit of arm candy.

  Shoulders back, head high. Deep breath, then one foot after the other…

  Francesca pulled back on the chrome door handle and entered, immediately engulfed by body heat and competing conversations. Perfumes ranging from designer to drugstore fought against a steaming garlicky dim sum cart, the cloying sweetness of wilting roses, and the sourness of perspiration. Dodging darting elbows and sloshing drinks, she made a quick circuit of the room, searching out familiar faces including a few she might wish to avoid. Spotting a chubby sixty-something man wearing a bad toupee and the modern-day equivalent of a leisure suit, an LA television producer for whom she’d once worked on a commercial, she cut a sharp left in the opposite direction.

  A glimpse of upswept red hair and a bark of laughter drew her attention to the room’s center, where the magazine’s managing editor, Cynthia “Starr” Starling, held court. Or at least, Francesca thought the petite redhead must be Starr. The radiant creature joined at the hip to a tall, vaguely familiar chestnut-haired hunk hardly resembled the hard-bitten newswoman who’d been a pain in Francesca’s posterior on more than one project. Gone was the scowl and stressed-out demeanor. Instead Starr seemed to glow with a soft, undulating energy. Could this be the same wo
man whom everyone on staff addressed as “Boss Lady” to her face—and “Iron Woman” behind her back?

  The man leaned forward and whispered something into Starr’s ear, lighting her porcelain skin a perfect candy-heart pink. Laughing, Starr reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He caught her hand in his, turned it palm-up, and carried it to his lips.

  Rapt with watching the loving exchange, Francesca felt a lump forming in her throat. Partnered or not, she’d always felt so dreadfully alone.

  I need a new life plan. But most immediately, I need a bloody cocktail.

  She began to forge forward to the bar when Starr spotted her and waved her over. Bollocks! Giving up on a proper drink for the time being, Francesca snagged a champagne flute from the tray of a circulating server and pushed a path toward her hostess.

  “Happy Valentine’s, sweetie!” Starr exclaimed, hugging her as though they were best mates.

  Stepping back, Francesca said, “Congratulations on the crush.” She gestured with her glass to indicate Starr’s black tulle and lace cocktail dress. “You look smashing. Dolce & Gabbana, isn’t it?”

  Before now, Francesca had only ever seen the managing editor in shapeless sweaters, peasant skirts, and the ubiquitous boots and Birkenstocks. Who knew she even had legs, let alone nicely shaped ones, shown off to perfection by the sheer lace-patterned black hose and scarlet velvet and rhinestone shoes? The latter looked to be from the art deco era, although Francesca couldn’t yet identify the designer.

  Starr nodded, her color deepening ever so slightly, and it struck Francesca that perhaps the other woman wasn’t so much bitchy as shy. “Sample sale.” She reached out to her date, her hand coming to rest on his forearm. “Do you remember Matt?”

  Francesca hesitated. Wearing a tweed blazer with suede elbow patches, jeans, and scuffed Western-style boots, Starr’s boyfriend struck her as being from the South or Midwest, definitely not a native New Yorker. Although they’d met before, she couldn’t recall the circumstances.