He dragged his clothes on and exited the room. The hallway was silent, the wood floor shining in mid-morning sun. Annie had tactfully disappeared, something she had a proven talent for doing. He also knew she would conveniently reappear if you happened to need her. She had almost magical qualities as a housekeeper.
Now he wished to hell that he didn’t know about all the other qualities she possessed. He’d much rather not have felt the velvet texture of her skin under his fingertips. He’d rest a lot easier not knowing that her breath tasted like honeysuckle, or that her eyes turned that particular shade of sea-foam blue when she was aroused.
Rarely did he pack anything when he came here for the weekend. He had a closet full of casual wear that he pulled from. All he needed was his wallet and keys, which he found in their usual place on his study desk. Pocketing them with relief he strode for the side door, where his car stood ready to drive him back—at high speed—to normalcy.
* * *
The screech of tires on gravel confirmed what Annie had hoped for and feared. Sinclair was gone. She leaned against her bedpost for a moment, letting the odd mix of emotions flow through her. Her body still hummed and throbbed with the sensations he’d unleashed only a few minutes earlier. She could still feel the urgent impression of his fingers on her skin as he drove her to unknown heights of pleasure.
She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. Why? And why now? Everything had been going so smoothly. She’d set up a savings account and a budget and was socking money away at an impressive rate, with the goal of buying her own forever home. Her own mini-Drummond mansion, where she could build her own self-contained world. She’d even found a fun sideline making crocheted cuffs and scarves to sell on the internet, with a view to being fully self-employed one day. Maybe she’d even own her own shop. All of this was largely possible because she was alone here 95 percent of the time, while the illustrious Drummonds lit up Manhattan or visited their homes in warmer or more fashionable places. This job was a dream for someone who simply wanted peace and quiet in return for some dusting and polishing. The fact that it paid well and came with a full slate of benefits was almost ridiculous.
And now she’d ruined everything.
She peered out the window toward the driveway, to see if she’d imagined the car leaving. No, the expanse of gravel was gray and empty, the old oaks standing guard on either side. Sinclair had sped back to his other life, and no doubt to all the women who awaited him there.
Drawing a breath down into her lungs, Annie stepped out into the hallway. Her own bedroom was on the ground floor, near the kitchen, away from the family suites. The house was empty and quiet as usual, but somehow the peaceful atmosphere had been whipped into a frenzy of regret. She headed along the downstairs corridor, where everything looked oddly normal, to the fourth spare bedroom—the one they hardly ever used—where they’d…
She pushed on the door gingerly, afraid of what she might find behind the polished oak. Her heart sank at the sight of the rumpled bed, one pillow flung carelessly aside and the sheet pushed to the end of the mattress. Her eye was drawn to the stack of rich Victorian dresses piled on the stark wood chair. The closet stood open where she’d hung the dress he’d buttoned onto her, then peeled off her. It looked so innocent draped there over the hanger. She could hardly blame a dress for what she’d done.
Two decorative embroidered pillows, scattered in the heat of their passion, lay on the floor. Where had the passion come from? She’d harbored fantasies about Sinclair almost since she first met him. Who wouldn’t? He was tall, dark, handsome and filthy rich, for a start, but he was also such a perfect gentleman, so quietly charming and old-fashioned. A chivalrous knight in twentieth-century garb. Always polite and thoughtful to her, as well as his wealthy guests. It was impossible not to dream about him.
She picked the pillows up and automatically plumped them, then put them on the dresser. She could hardly put them back on this chaotic bed. She’d have to strip the sheets and wash them. She couldn’t resist sniffing the pillowcase before she removed it. Faint traces of Sinclair’s warm, masculine scent still clung to the white cotton. Her eyes slid closed as she let herself drift back for a second to the blissful moments when he’d held her in his arms.
Idiot! He probably thought she was a “fast woman.” Which, apparently, she was. They’d gone from playing dress-up to the bed in less than five minutes. It didn’t get much faster than that.
She shook her head and yanked the pillow from its case. Would she ever be able to look him in the face again?
* * *
Annie was hugely relieved when Sinclair didn’t arrive the next weekend. She followed his instructions and continued sorting through all the old stuff in the attic. After a couple of days she’d found so many intriguing items that she decided to start an inventory. There was no sign of the cup fragment yet, but she found all sorts of other things that would probably make jaws drop on Antiques Roadshow, and it would be a shame for them to rot away for another three hundred years because no one knew they were up there.
The inventory also kept track of how much stuff she’d looked at, when it seemed like she’d barely made a dent in the piles of belongings stacked against each wall. She didn’t want Sinclair to think she was slacking off now that she’d slept with the boss.
The memories made her cringe. He hadn’t called, but then why would he? He’d already apologized for what he no doubt regarded as a disgusting lapse of judgment. What more was there to say?
Her heart could think of more things, but she told it to keep quiet. Sinclair Drummond could never have real feelings for her. In addition to inheriting money and estates, he’d started his own hedge fund business and made millions, which she’d read about in Fortune and Money magazines. As many articles as she’d read, Annie still didn’t even fully understand what a hedge fund was. Sinclair had a degree from Princeton University, and she had a high school equivalency diploma. He’d been married twice, and she hadn’t even had a serious relationship. They had literally nothing in common, except that they both slept under the roof of this house—her far more often than him.
Another week went by with no sign of Sinclair. Then the weekend loomed again. Friday evenings always made her jumpy. That’s when the weekend guests would show up. Usually there was warning, but not always. She kept the house in a state of gleaming readiness, basics in the fridge, fresh sheets on the beds and fresh beach towels at the ready, just in case.
In the past she’d waited anxiously near a window, hoping that Sinclair would show up, preferably without some gym-toned investment banker girlfriend in tow. Today she chewed a nail. What if he did turn up with a woman? Could she greet him with her usual smile and offer to take their bags, as if she hadn’t felt his hot breath on her neck and his hands on her bare backside?
When a car pulled in, her blood pressure soared. She immediately recognized the sound of Sinclair’s engine. Fighting an urge to go hide in the pantry, she hurried to the window. Please let him not have a woman with him. Spare her that at least, until she’d had more time to forget the feel of his lips against hers.
She cringed when an elegantly coiffed blonde alighted from the passenger seat. Thanks, Sinclair. Maybe he wanted to let her know, in no uncertain terms, that there was no possible future between them. Not that his hasty and apologetic departure two weeks ago had left any doubts on that score. Should she greet them at the door?
She wanted to run out the back door and head for the train.
You’re a professional. You can do this. She patted her hair and straightened the front of her clean pink-and-white-striped Oxford shirt. If he could pretend nothing had happened, so could she. Sooner or later they’d talk about it, and maybe they’d laugh.
Or maybe they’d never mention it. It would just be one of those wild, crazy things that happened.
Except that they usually happened to people other than her.
She pulled open the front door. “Good evening.” Bracing her
self against the supercilious presence of his newest lady, she nodded and smiled.
“Hello, Annie.” His rich voice stabbed her somewhere deep and painful. “You remember my mother, of course.”
Annie’s gaze snapped to the elegant blonde. “Mrs. Drummond, how lovely to see you!” Thin as a rail and tanned to a deep nut-brown at all times of year, Sinclair’s mother gave the appearance of being much younger than her fifty-odd years. She spent most of her time traveling on exotic art tours, and Annie hadn’t seen her for nearly eleven months. Now, in her neurotic state, she’d transformed her into an imaginary rival.
“Annie, darling, I do hope I won’t be a burden.” Her big, pale gray eyes looked slightly glassy, and her tan wasn’t quite as oaken as usual. “But the doctor says I’m out of the jaws of death and ready for some sea air.”
“Fantastic.” She hurried around to the trunk where Sinclair was retrieving their weekend bags. Then the rear passenger door of the car opened. She almost jumped. A tall, slender woman with dark hair climbed out, mumbling into a cell phone.
Annie’s heart sank. Just when she thought she’d dodged that bullet, here was the new girlfriend.
She reached for one of the expensive bags, but Sinclair muttered, “I’ve got them,” took them both and strode for the door. She quietly closed the trunk, painfully aware of how he’d avoided meeting her eyes.
“Mrs. Drummond, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea. If you’re allowed to drink tea, that is.”
She glanced back at the willowy young woman attempting to close the car door while juggling three large bags and her cell phone. It was probably in her job description to seize her bags with a smile, but she didn’t have it in her.
“Annie, dear, this is Vicki.” Mrs. Drummond indicated the girl, who looked up from her phone call long enough for a crisp smile.
Great. Vicki looked like exactly the kind of girl Sinclair didn’t need. Arrogant, cold and demanding. Shame, that seemed to be the kind of girl he liked.
Maybe he deserved them.
“Hello, Vicki. Let me take that.” Apparently she did have it in her, she thought, as she reached for the big silver bag with the D&G logo. Vicki, engrossed in her call, handed it over without a glance. Her sister always told her that she shouldn’t be waiting on these people hand and foot like an eighteenth-century parlor maid.
With a suppressed sigh, and of course, a polite smile, she led the way into the house, glad she’d kept it polished and ready as usual. Sinclair had disappeared, probably up to his room. With a heavy heart she climbed the stairs with Vicki’s bag in her hand. Vicki followed, laughing gaily into her phone. A glance into Mrs. Drummond’s usual suite confirmed that Sinclair had already dropped his mom’s bag on the bed. His room was the next one over, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if Vicki’s bag was supposed to go in there, too.
“You don’t think I’m going to sleep with Sin!” Vicki’s voice pealed down the hallway.
Annie wheeled around. Vicki strolled along the hallway laughing. “God, no. I don’t think I even slept with him when we were teens, but it’s so long ago I can’t remember.”
“Vicki can go in the blue suite,” said Mrs. Drummond.
“Perfect. Suits my mood.” Vicki stopped and rested a bag on her hip for a moment, giving Annie time to take in her skinny gray parachute pants and skimpy white tank top, with a strange silver symbol dangling from a chain between her high breasts.
Annie blinked. “Of course.” So Vicki wasn’t Sinclair’s new girlfriend. Apparently she was someone from his past.
“Vicki’s an old and dear friend of the family. I’m surprised you haven’t met her before, Annie.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of a visit to the Drummond manse,” said Vicki, hoisting her snakeskin clutch higher under her arm. “Funny how the years have slipped past. I’m thrilled to be here with you all.”
Annie caught what might have been the barest possible hint of sarcasm in her voice, and her back immediately stiffened. Was Vicki here to take advantage of their hospitality, then make fun of them? She certainly didn’t look like Sinclair’s usual friends, with their carefully coiffed blond hair and cashmere twinsets.
“And we’re thrilled to have you here, darling.” Mrs. Drummond walked up to Vicki, placed a hand on either side of her head, and gave her an effusive kiss on the cheek. Vicki’s eyes closed for a second, and her forehead wrinkled with a pained expression. Annie stood staring. She’d never seen such a display of emotion from Mrs. Drummond. “It’ll be like old times.”
“God, I hope not.” Vicki shook herself. “I do hate traveling backwards. But it is good to be among old friends.” She looked ahead down the hall. “Which is the blue one? I’m dying for a shower.”
Annie jolted from her semifrozen state. “Sorry, it’s this way. I’ll bring fresh towels. Do you need some shampoo and conditioner?”
“I’ve got everything I need except the running water.” Vicki’s gaze lingered on Annie a teeny bit longer than was conventional. Annie’s stomach clenched. She got a very odd—and not good—feeling about Vicki. Who was she, and why was she here?
* * *
For dinner, Annie prepared one of Katherine Drummond’s favorite meals, seared salmon with blackberry sauce, accompanied by tiny new potatoes and crisp green beans from the local farmers market.
“How lovely! Obviously Sinclair remembered to tell you we were coming. I’m never sure if he will.” Katherine shot a doting glance at her son.
Annie smiled, and avoided looking at Sinclair as she served them. Experience had taught her to be prepared for almost anything. And she did get real satisfaction from doing her job well. The room glowed with fresh beeswax candles handmade by a local artisan, and the windows sparkled, letting in the warm apricot light from the evening sun. If anything about the house was the least bit unwelcoming or unpleasant, it wasn’t from lack of effort on her part.
She leaned over Sinclair to top up his white wine. His dark hair touched his collar, in need of a haircut. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered its silky thickness under her fingers.
An odd sensation made her look up, and meet Vicki’s curious violet gaze. She turned away quickly and topped off Katherine’s glass, then Vicki’s. Had Vicki noticed her looking at Sinclair?
“It doesn’t seem entirely fair for Annie to be running around topping things off when she made this lovely meal.” Vicki’s silvery voice rang in the air. Annie winced.
“She’s right, of course,” chimed in Katherine. “Annie, dear. Do bring a plate and join us. We’re just family tonight, after all.” She reached across the table and took Vicki’s hand.
Vicki’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she held Katherine’s hand and smiled. “You’re so sweet.”
Annie hesitated, humiliation and mangled pride churning inside her. She’d been enjoying this meal as the server, but sitting down at the table with them opened all kinds of uncomfortable doors. How would she know when to get up and bring the next course? Should she join them for a glass of wine, or stick to water so as not to burn the chocolate soufflés? “I already ate, thank you.” The lie burned her tongue.
“Do join us anyway, won’t you?” Katherine indicated the empty chair next to Sinclair. “I’m dying to hear how your investigations in the attic are going.”
Annie pulled out the chair, which scraped loudly on the floor, and eased herself into it, as far away from Sinclair as possible. He hadn’t looked up from his salmon. Had he even glanced at her once all evening?
Better that he didn’t. She couldn’t bear the thought of him looking at her with disgust and disbelief at his lapse of judgment. “I’ve gone through quite a few of the old boxes and trunks. I’ve made an inventory. Shall I get it?” She itched to get up. At least her notes would give her something to do with her fingers.
“No need for that right now. I’m guessing you haven’t found the cup piece yet.”
Annie shook her
head. “I’m looking at every item I pick up to see if it could possibly be part of a cup, but so far nothing even comes close. I don’t suppose there’s a description of it?”
Kathleen sipped her wine. “Only that it’s silver. It isn’t jewel-encrusted. In fact we suspect it’s not silver at all but pewter or some base metal. Odd, really, that something so precious to them would be so valueless.”
Vicki leaned back in her chair. “It demonstrates an awareness of human nature. If it had real value, someone might have melted it down or pried the gems off to make earrings. By making it valueless to anyone but the family, they ensured its survival. Was it contemporary to when the brothers sailed from Scotland?”
“We don’t know.” Katherine took a bite of her green beans. She ate very slowly and cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure whether the food was poisonous or not. Probably an effect of her illness, but it didn’t help Annie’s already frayed nerves. “The cup could be much older than three hundred years if it was passed down through the Drummond family before they came to America. No one knows where the legend about it first came from. When I first married Steven, Sinclair’s father…” she looked at Annie “…his mother was still alive and loved to tell stories of the family history. She often wondered aloud whether it was time for us to put some serious effort into finding the cup.” She raised a brow. “Her own marriage wasn’t a happy one, and all of her sons—including my own husband—were rather wild.”
She looked thoughtfully at Sinclair for a moment. He appeared to be engrossed in cutting a potato. “Since then I’ve often wondered if finding the cup would somehow shift the course of fate and make life easier for all members of the family.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Vicki. “The legend says it will restore the fates and fortunes of the Drummond menfolk, and I think as women we all know that makes life easier for us, too.”
The Cinderella Act Page 3