Cinderellie!

by Carol Grace

  "You could say that. I'm the chef, yes," she said coolly. As you would know if you'd paid any attention to me when I came into your office that day.

  "Sorry if I startled you by bursting in here," he said. "Sure you're okay?" He put his cool palm against her flushed forehead. "You feel feverish. Maybe you ought to lie down for a while."

  "Lie down?" She choked on her own words as his touch soothed her burning face. "I'm cooking for a party of thirty. Your party of thirty. Are you sure you think I should lie down?"

  He dropped his hand. "Well, if you're sure you're all right."

  "Of course I'm all right. Are you all right?" she asked politely.

  "Fine." He frowned. "I've met you before, haven't I?" Again he gave her one of those long looks that made her feel as though she'd been stripped of her costume and stood there shivering in her sports bra and all-cotton bikinis. "Who are you?"

  Ellie took a deep breath to calm her nerves. "I assume you're referring to the costume. I'm Cinderella, or I was this afternoon."

  "Well, Cinderella, I'm Jack Martin and if you're waiting for Prince Charming, you've come to the wrong party. There are princes, but none of them are particularly charming. They don't need to be. They're multimillionaires. What I came in to tell you is my housekeeper's been called away tonight unexpectedly otherwise she'd be glad to give you a hand. Sorry about that."

  "And now, assuming that there's been no major damage and neither of us has a concussion or memory loss, I hope it's not asking too much to get this show on the road. It's seven-thirty. Where the hell are the crab cakes?"

  "They'll be out in five minutes," she said smoothly, with a glance at the oven timer. "Any other questions?"

  "Yes. Are you sure we haven't met? You look so…never mind. Tell me, who are those two useless dimwits out there, Cinderella, your ugly stepsisters?"

  "I wouldn't call them ugly," Ellie said, relieved he still didn't recognize her. "But they are my stepsisters."

  "I asked for professional party planners, and I've got the crew from some damn fairy tale. I suppose you have to be out of here by midnight or you turn into a pumpkin."

  "It's the coach that turns into a pumpkin," Ellie said tartly. "You ought to brush up on the classics."

  "Yeah, right," he said. "Just as soon as I get through this week. There's a lot riding on the success of this event. But this is just the kickoff. Tomorrow we get down to business and it lasts all week—seminars and PowerPoint presentations and show-and-tell to get these guys to part with some of their millions. Food and drink oil the joints. I've done enough of these to know that. Hannah Armstrong, that's my housekeeper, will be back tomorrow to work her magic in the kitchen. All I ask is that you make an impression tonight. God knows I'm paying enough for your effort. I've got to put these guys in the mood to invest in some of my ventures."

  None of which are restaurants, she thought. "All guaranteed to bring in zillions of dollars," she muttered with just a tinge of sarcasm.

  "Nothing's guaranteed. It's all risky. I've won some and lost some, but I make a judgment and then I go with my gut feelings," he said. Then he braced his hands on the counter and studied her face for a long moment. She held her breath. Yes, he'd gone with his gut feelings about her and her restaurant and then he'd turned her down. The temperature in the kitchen rose about ten degrees as he continued to stare at her, and it had nothing to do with the oven.

  Jack Martin might be a money-grubbing businessman, but with his strong jaw, commanding presence and broad shoulders, there was no denying he was one hot man. Too bad he was rich and obnoxious. Otherwise she'd suggest he take a look at her stepsisters. Maybe he'd like one of them. It would serve him right, getting involved with April or May.

  The tension rose along with the temperature as the silence lengthened. She needed to get back to work, to check on the crab cakes in the oven, but she couldn't tear her gaze from his. She couldn't think of a thing to say, and it seemed he couldn't, either. She had a baguette in front of her that she was preparing to slice, but she was afraid her hands weren't steady enough to chance it. Why didn't he leave and let her get back to work?

  "I know you from somewhere," he said at last. "Where was it, the Bartlett party?"

  "No."

  He snapped his fingers. "I know. You came to my office. You're the one who wants to start a restaurant."

  "You turned me down."

  "Of course I turned you down. I'm a venture capitalist. I'm not running a charity."

  "I wasn't asking for charity," Ellie said brusquely. "I intend to make money."

  "How? Do you know how many restaurants—"

  "Fail in the first six months? Of course I do. You explained to me very succinctly what I already knew. Thank you very much. But my restaurant is going to be—"

  "Different. Special. I know, that's what they all say, that their restaurant is going to make it where all others have failed. Or they would say if they got past my assistant. How did you get in, anyway? I don't see chefs or any other sole proprietors. It's a waste of time."

  "You made that perfectly clear. Don't worry about it." Yeah, like he was worried about her or her plans. "I'll get the money and I'll start my restaurant," she announced. "Without your help."

  "Good for you, Cinderella," he said without missing a beat. "Let me know how it turns out."

  Ellie pressed her lips together to keep from blurting that after tonight she would hopefully never see him again, never be subjected to further sarcasm or discouragement. Who needed it? And she was not about to tell him how she'd sneaked in to his office. That was her little secret. Instead she grabbed a pair of kitchen shears to energetically snip parsley for a garnish.

  He rubbed his palms together. "Now that we understand each other, I'll let you get back to work. Shall I send the stepsisters in to fill up the trays?"

  She nodded without looking at him.

  So went the evening. April and May came back with empty trays, giggling and oohing and ahhing about the quality of the house and the guests.

  "So," Ellie said to the two of them as she refilled their platters, "did you meet Mr. Right yet?"

  "Not sure," April said. "I heard someone say David Carter is the richest one in the room. But he's short and bald. And some other guy pinched my bottom when I bent over to pick up an empty glass."

  "He may not be the richest, but Jack Martin is the hottest. You know, the guy who's giving this bash. Isn't he to die for?" May asked April. "By the way, he was asking about you, Ellie."

  "Really?" Ellie's pulse ratched up a notch and her hands shook once again. Fortunately she was wearing rubber gloves and she didn't drop the glass pitcher she was washing. "What did he say?"

  "He said to tell you your crab cakes were excellent and he should know, since they're his favorite food and he's had them in every restaurant all over town."

  "Ah," she said.

  "Then he asked if you were free to do some special work for him. Why you, anyway?" May's forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown. "I said I was available, that we work as a team, but he seems set on you for some reason. I said he'd have to ask Mom. She does the scheduling."

  She might do the scheduling, but Ellie was not going to let Gwen schedule her to have anything to do with a man who thought she was a nobody. After tonight she hoped she'd never have to see him again…except for the day he walked into her hot new restaurant with his uppity friends and a high-society blonde on one arm and asked for a table.

  She'd take great pleasure in turning him away. "Sorry," she'd say. "I'm completely booked, Mr. 'I don't do restaurants.'"

  He'd look perplexed because he would have forgotten her again.

  And she'd say, "Remember me? I'm nobody."

  Then he'd slap his hand against his forehead when he remembered who she was and how he'd turned her down. Big mistake. Not that he'd care one iota that he hadn't helped a deserving person on her way up the ladder. Not that he'd even rejoice in the success of a plucky entrepreneur who'd done it on her
own. The only thing that would bother this guy was the loss of the chance to make big bucks on her endeavor.

  He'd see the crowds, he'd hear the ka-ching of the cash register, he'd see the happy customers wolfing down her specialties and paying top dollar for them. He'd know then he'd been wrong. She pictured the look on his face. Stunned disbelief. Disappointment. Humiliation. He'd pause in the doorway on his way out and give her one last pleading look. "Please," he'd say. "Let me stay. Just for one crab cake. Just one."

  She'd shake her head and smother a triumphant smile. He'd walk out the door, but once outside, he'd press his nose against the window and look in. There might even be tears in his eyes. Oh, the pleasure she'd get when it was payback time.

  "What are you grinning about?" May asked, giving Ellie a poke in the ribs.

  "Nothing. Here you go." Ellie held the kitchen door open, and her sisters trooped back out into the rarified atmosphere of the party.

  By midnight Ellie was exhausted. She could hear the guests leaving at the front door. She was packing up while April and May sat at the kitchen table drinking leftover champagne and chattering about the party, speculating about who was who and who had how much money. At least Gwen was helping fill the boxes with empty containers, because if she didn't, they'd be there all night.

  Gwen yawned and said something about getting too old for this party business. But she didn't ask her daughters to give them a hand cleaning up. It was Elbe's opinion that she'd spoiled them since day one, and it was a little late to retrain them now. Oh, well, if they found rich husbands, they'd have hired help and would never have to lift a hand.

  As she walked toward the van, she suddenly realized she was still barefoot and her stupid Cinderella slippers were back in the kitchen. She wouldn't go back. She might run into Him. She'd buy a new pair, ones that fit this time. As she pulled their van out of the driveway, her bare foot on the gas pedal, Ellie cast one look back at the house with its gaslights lining the walkway, and the porticos lighted by floodlights. She half expected to see Jack Martin standing on the front porch.

  She wasn't disappointed that he hadn't come to ask her in person if she was available for a new job. It just saved her the trouble of turning him down. So why was she looking for a glimpse of him before heading out to the street? Just curiosity, that's all it was. She was relieved the party was over. Relieved she'd never have to see him again.

  Chapter Two

  Jack Martin was just as relieved. Alone at last in his book-lined study, with the sounds of traditional jazz coming from the surround-sound speakers, he could finally relax. It had gone well, so far. But he'd learned not to count on anything until he had promises and signatures to back them up. He'd been disappointed too many times in his life to ever feel totally secure. It all went back to when he was nine and his mother had walked out on him and his father. She'd claimed that Spencer Martin put his business before her and her needs. She'd said she would come back for her son, but then she married someone else—who was there for her, she'd said, but someone who didn't want to raise another man's kid. By the time she'd finally returned and tried to rekindle a relationship, Jack no longer needed a mother. He'd been raised by a succession of nannies, and he was independent and self-sufficient, thanks to his mother's absence and his father's brand of absentee parenting. From an early age he'd absorbed his father's all-work-and-no-play work ethic and had taken over his father's spot in the investment firm when Spencer had retired.

  But even today his father still came down to the office, still looked over his shoulder and still gave him advice. Never invest in a one-man enterprise. Never invest in restaurants. Take calculated risks in the office, but never in your personal life. That's where I made my mistake. Only one, but it was a humdinger. He was, of course, referring to his marriage to Jack's mother.

  After all these years, Spencer was still bitter about his wife leaving him. Play the field, boy, he'd said more than once. Don't tie yourself down. Women don't understand what it takes to succeed. They want, want, want. They take, take, take.

  Jack did play the field, but not because his father told him to. It was just easier that way. Besides, what did he need a wife for anyway? Hannah ran his house better than any wife could. She was loyal, faithful, took a personal interest in his life but never interfered. Just a brief glance into the lives of his married friends and he was convinced, as he imagined even they must be, that he was one lucky guy.

  As much work as he had to do, he found himself thinking about Cinderella reappearing into his life. He hadn't recognized her at first, barefoot, wearing her ridiculous costume, with her blond hair pulled back from her face. The last time he'd seen her, that day in his office, her hair was hanging smooth and straight. So smooth his fingers itched to touch it, a move so out of character for him and so inappropriate he wondered if he'd had some kind of minor brain damage.

  At the time, she'd been wearing a short skirt and white shirt. From where he'd sat behind his desk he'd had a view of her long legs as she crossed and uncrossed them. Good thing he hadn't had to think of how to tell her no, because he'd been distracted by her legs and his brain definitely hadn't functioned well. Fortunately he had the answers down pat. It was a no-brainer.

  Was he sorry he'd had to turn her down? Sure. Was he tempted to give her the money just because she was an attractive woman with legs that didn't quit and hair that looked like silk who believed in herself? Not for a moment. He liked women as much as anyone, but he'd never lost his head over one. They came and went, and he'd never shed a tear over any of them. He assumed they felt the same about him. He kept his priorities straight. Always had, always would.

  Still…he'd wondered about her. Where had she come from? And how in hell had she gotten in to see him when he never saw restaurateurs? Tonight when he looked into those soft-brown velvet eyes, it finally all came back to him with a jolt.

  To tell the truth, turning her down had bothered him more than he thought it would. More than it should have. It was such an obvious decision. But even after she'd left the office, he couldn't get her out of his head. He didn't know why she'd stuck in his mind, because he saw dozens of people every week, men, women—even attractive, ambitious women— but she wasn't like the others. And yet when he'd first seen her tonight, he hadn't made the connection.

  That day in his office she'd looked shocked when he'd told he wouldn't even consider investing in her restaurant. Her cheeks had flooded with color and he'd thought for a minute she was going to cry. Then she'd composed herself, stood up and marched out of his office as if she were going into battle. He remembered standing there staring at the closed door of his office wondering where she was going next. Now he knew.

  She was going back to making crab cakes and shrimp puffs for her stepmother's catering business. Seemed like a waste of talent, but what was the choice for a talented chef? Starting a restaurant required a large amount of capital, and was too risky. Even for someone who lived for risks like he did. Except in his personal life, of course. But then, some might say he had no personal life. And they wouldn't be far wrong.

  Before he'd had a chance to tell her that she was wasting her time that day, and his, too, she had sat on the edge of her chair, excitement and enthusiasm in her voice. Her dark eyes had been bright, a smile had played on her lips. Yes, she'd been excited about her venture, no doubt about that. But excitement didn't translate into practicality.

  So she was disappointed, but at least she had another job. She was a caterer. It was probably all there in her CV. He just didn't remember. Why should he feel guilty? He shouldn't. Dammit, he was in the business of making money for his clients, as he'd clearly explained to her. Why couldn't she understand that?

  Probably she'd thought he was coldhearted, just because he didn't offer her the money she'd asked for. What did she think, he'd be so blown away by the idea of a neighborhood bistro that he'd open his top drawer and write her a check on the spot? People had no idea that venture capitalists were only as good
as their latest venture. That his clients depended on his judgment and that a mistake in insight could cost him a loss of his investors' confidence and maybe even his job at the firm. He told himself he didn't care what she thought or even if she under-stood the principles he worked under. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been branded as heartless. And it wouldn't be the last. It didn't bother him. Not at all.

  He stood and stretched. He was having a hard time concentrating. Maybe a cup of coffee or something to eat. He'd been so busy working the crowd tonight, he hadn't had time to eat much beside one bite of those marvelous crab cakes. He went down the hall to the kitchen, but there was nothing left. Not a scrap. Couldn't they have left him something, considering what he'd paid for their services? He looked in the pantry, but it was empty. Except for a pair of glass slippers on the floor.

  He picked them up and looked at them. "You left your slippers, Cinderella," he muttered. "Hoping some prince would find them and come after you, ask you to marry him, or better yet, fund your restaurant?" That wasn't quite how the story went, but it was something like that. He wasn't a complete stranger to fairy tales. One of his nannies had read them to him when his father wasn't around. His father wanted him to read nothing but financial strategy and Horatio Alger books to inspire him, but the nanny had her own ideas.

  Jack looked around the kitchen, and in his mind's eye, he saw Cinderella there at the stove, her hair curling in tendrils around her face, wonderful smells coining from the pots on the stove and from the oven.