by Carol Grace
If Hannah were here she'd rustle up something for him. But she'd called earlier to say that she'd broken her ankle and would have to stay off it for the rest of the week.
At the time he didn't know who to call to replace her.
Now he knew.
Cinderella.
The next morning Jack called the number for Hostess Helpers but only got their answering machine. Frustrated, he tried several more times. When he still didn't get an answer, he started the seminar he was hosting at his house and then drove like a madman to their office on Union Street. He'd left a number of messages on their machine and had not received an answer. Was that any way to run a business?
He parked in a tow-away zone, got out, grabbed the glass slippers in one hand, slammed the door of his BMW and ran to the storefront office. The glass door that was inscribed with the slogan—"Hostess Helpers—For All Your Party Needs—We Make It Happen!"—was locked. It was nine-thirty, for God's sake. He peered into the empty office and banged on the door. A moment later, a well-preserved woman of about fifty came to the door. It must be the same woman he'd talked to on the phone when he'd arranged the party, but if she'd been at his house last night, he hadn't seen her.
"Sorry, we're not open until ten," she said, her lips arranged in a forced smile over tobacco-stained teeth.
"I'm looking for Cinderella," he said, holding up her glass slippers.
"Hah," said the woman, opening the door and reaching for the shoes. "I'll give them to her."
"No way," he said, stepping back. "I have to see her in person. About a job."
"Won't you come in?" the woman said after studying him for a long moment and obviously deciding he was worth her time. In seconds, her expression changed to one of exaggerated sweetness. "I have two other daughters who are available for parties or various affairs."
"Uh-uh," Jack said, picturing the two useless look-alikes from last night. "I want Cinderella. Just for a week. Can you tell me where to find her?"
The woman sighed loudly, then went to her desk and thumbed through an appointment book.
"Birthday party, 441 Lake Street. Outdoor, treasure hunt, trampoline. Ten to one. But I'm telling you, she's nothing by herself. She's part of our team. I'm afraid I can't…"
Jack didn't wait for her to finish her sentence. It took him only a few minutes to drive to 441 Lake Street. It was not yet ten o'clock, so there were no kids in sight. But the Hostess Helpers van was parked in the driveway, and behind a hedge, and he could hear the whir of a motor. He opened a gate and walked around the side of the house. There she was, pumping air into the inflatable trampoline with a long, snakelike hose and a motor.
The sound of the motor was so loud she didn't hear him arrive. She was wearing a pair of slim-fitting black pants and a yellow sweater that hugged her curves. Her blond hair made him think of sunshine even on this overcast San Francisco day. He took a moment to appreciate the view of those incredible legs and shapely breasts. This was the third version he'd seen of Cinderella. It took him a few minutes to adjust to the change.
Business, he told himself sternly. If she were some ordinary woman, and he wasn't in the middle of this project, he might ask Cinderella out. He'd impress her with a high-priced night on the town, take her back to his place as per the usual Jack Martin scenario, lure her into bed, then tactfully get rid of her before she got any ideas of permanence.
But this was no time for fooling around, especially not with her.
"Hey, Cinderella."
"What do you want?"
"Forgot your slippers."
"Keep them. They're too tight."
"I came to ask a favor."
A strange expression came over her face. He couldn't tell if it was anger, surprise or disgust. Maybe a combination of all of those plus a hint of suppressed satisfaction. What had he done to deserve any of those?
"Look, what is it? You're not still mad because I turned you down are you? I thought I explained that."
"Yes, you did," she said briskly. "You explained it quite well."
Maybe it was the way he'd explained it. What was he supposed to say? People who want to borrow money to start a restaurant or any other small business have to be able to take the truth when it's presented to them or they're never going to make it.
"If I hurt your feelings I'm sorry."
"You think my feelings were hurt because you called me a nobody?"
Had he really said that? "I was speaking as an investor. Of course you're not a nobody. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It's clear you're a somebody."
"Thanks." Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"Look, it's a dog-eat-dog world out there," he said, "in case you haven't noticed. I thought it was best you heard it from me. Because getting turned down happens to everyone, some more often than others."
"Even you?"
"Of course. Despite my diligence, I've put together deals that had fallen through. And I've pushed my investors into ventures that had failed despite their bright promise. Next time around they're more likely to turn me down. Oh, yes, it's happened to me."
But not this time. This time he'd put together a winning group of companies that were sure to succeed. All he had to do was to convince the big guns who were at that very moment a captive audience in his house, their mouths watering, waiting for a delicious lunch. He had to provide one, and not only lunch, but dinner and breakfast and so on for the rest of the week. On top of the gourmet food, he had to give them an enticing array of ventures to sink their teeth into. He had the show-and-tell lined up; that was no problem.
The problem was the food. And that problem could be solved by the vision standing in front of him, bursting with health and energy, and looking like an advertisement for some kind of party equipment. The only thing standing between him and success was this woman.
He didn't know her very well, but he knew what made people tick. Money. He was going to make her an offer she couldn't refuse. If she did, he had no backup. The look on her face, the determined way she held her shoulders reminded him of that day in his office. It threw a scare into him. Because it told him she could refuse if he didn't present it in the right way. Just as he'd refused her. He knew she hadn't forgotten that, and that it still rankled.
"You've caught me at a bad time," she said with a glance at her watch. "Although it's nice to see you again and all that, I have a party to put on, and I really don't have time to talk about what I felt or didn't feel. There will be twenty-five kids coming in fifteen minutes. And this pump is so slow. Meanwhile I have to unpack the party favors."
He looked around at the vast expanse of lawn and the balloons tied to the trees. "So all this is just for a kid's party?"
"If they have a home party. This is a rather modest one. No clowns, no ponies, no acrobats. Some parents take the kids someplace where they play arcade games and eat pizza. I prefer the at-home parties, more personal and tailored specially for the birthday child. And not just because it's my job to put on the parties."
"I see," he said. And he did. She came across as sincere and definitely not the type to fake it for the sake of her job.
"Don't you remember the parties you went to? I suppose your parties consisted of miniature train rides and a hired magician on your estate," she said.
"Hardly. First, we didn't live on an estate. I lived with my father in a condo on Russian Hill, no upkeep, no grass to cut, no room for trains or ponies. And no time for birthday parties. My father had no idea when my birthday is, still doesn't. He thought all that kid stuff was a waste of time."
She blinked. Was she shocked or did she feel sorry for him? He didn't want her pity.
"I never missed them, either," he added firmly. "Or the yard or the bicycle or the pony rides. What I did get was tennis camp, ski lessons and a math tutor. So don't feel sorry for me."
Then he took the pump handle out of her hand. His fingers brushed hers and he felt a charge of electricity shoot up his arm. Must have been a loose connection from t
he wire to the pump. "Let me do that," he said.
She hesitated only a moment, then she shrugged and went to her van. When she came back, he'd gotten the inflatable trampoline up on its four corners, pounded the stakes in with a sledgehammer and tied the whole thing down so it wouldn't blow away. Then he squeezed through the mesh opening and went in to see what it was like inside.
"What are you doing?" she called from outside the structure.
"Testing it. It says on the tag it holds up to 350 pounds. Come on in, unless…"
"I don't weigh three hundred pounds," she said as her head appeared through the small opening meant for kids. "If that's what you're wondering."
"Didn't think so," he said, letting his gaze slide up and down her slender body. In that outfit she was wearing that day in his office, he hadn't been able to tell what kind of body she had, except for the legs, of course. He had a better idea today, and who could blame him for taking a minute to appreciate it. She was an interesting package of talent and looks. He wondered idly if she had a boyfriend. After a long silence, he remembered they'd been talking about weighing three hundred pounds. "Neither do I," he said.
"Well, are you going to test it or not?"
"You first." Not only had there been no birthday parties, but he'd never been on a trampoline before.
She jumped up and down a few times, her breasts bouncing in a tantalizing way. So tantalizing he stood staring, forgetting for a moment why he was there. To shake himself out of his reverie, he started jumping, matching his jumps with hers. She smiled. He smiled back. She jumped higher. If he was anything, he was a competitor. So he jumped higher than her. Her hair was flying around her face. She fell on her butt. Her face was flushed and she looked like a kid. He let himself fall down next to her. She laughed out loud, a throaty, bubbling sound. He laughed, too. He couldn't help it. It was ridiculous. It was contagious. All those childhood years he'd been expected to behave, to act serious, like a little adult. Maybe he had missed out on something.
He didn't know how long they would have stayed there laughing like idiots, as if he had nothing more important to do than bounce on a trampoline with a stranger, if they hadn't heard the children's voices.
"Oh, my God," she muttered, smoothing her hair. "They're here." She started to crawl on hands and knees to the exit.
He grabbed her arm. "Wait, I haven't told you what I want."
She shook his hand off. "I have to go."
"It will only take a minute." Afraid she'd take off, he talked faster. "My housekeeper broke her ankle. I need you to fill in for her for a week. To cook, three meals a day for seven days."
"That's what you came here for? I can't. I'm busy. I'm sorry."
"I'll make it worth your while. I'll pay twice what you're getting here or elsewhere." That was a safe offer. How much could a kids' party planner make?
"No." She was at the exit now, her hair tumbling around her face, her sweater bunched up so he got a glimpse of a smooth firm stomach and round hips.
"What do you want? Name your price."
Her forehead puckered. She cocked her head and looked him in the eye. What was she thinking? He had no way of telling. Something was going through her mind; he could tell by her expression. This wasn't the first time he'd seen her thoughts reflected in her face, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. She wasn't beautiful. Her mouth was too wide, her nose a little too short, but those big expressive eyes had him mesmerized. He found himself holding his breath, wondering what she was going to say. She had to say yes. He'd do whatever it took to convince her.
"Not now," she said at last.
"What do you mean not now? When? I haven't got much time."
"Neither do I, and I can't talk now. I'll come to your house when I finish the party. But I warn you, my price is going to be high."
He shrugged and watched her crawl out without another word. He heard her greet the party guests with genuine enthusiasm. And they responded. It was obvious she had a rapport with kids. Maybe she even had a few of her own. For all he knew she was married. Cinderella married? She didn't say anything when they talked about Prince Charming.
She could be married. Why not? She was an attractive woman, very sexy when she bounced around and her hair came loose. Maybe she'd already found her prince and didn't feel like sharing that information with him. The thought made him feel strangely let down. Deflated, like the trampoline before he'd pumped it full of air. Married or not, she'd started the kids on a treasure hunt that gave him the opportunity to sneak out the gate without the hyperactive little demons giving him a second glance.
He got back to his house in time to check in on the seminar and order halfway decent take-out lunches. The group was in good spirits, having spent the morning being told about the opportunities to double their money in various high-tech fields like fiber optics. Jack wasn't worried about the presentations. He'd lined up an impressive list of guest speakers, who were all knowledgeable, stimulating and convincing.
But as he sat in on one of the lectures, he found his mind wandered. Where was Cinderella? Had he convinced her? She hadn't said yes, but she hadn't said no, either. Would she get there in time to make dinner? Hannah had planned all the menus and had all the ingredients on hand. All the woman had to do was follow the instructions. But if she didn't come… He didn't know what he'd do. It was too late to call another caterer. Restless, he ducked out of the meeting and walked outside to pace up and down on the sidewalk.
When he saw her van approach, his heart rate accelerated. She'd do it. She had to do it. He motioned for her to park in his driveway and he watched her step down gracefully. She was wearing khakis and a loose gray sweatshirt. He wondered what she'd look like in a backless black dress with that blond hair down on her bare shoulders. Where had that thought come from? The only thing he should be thinking was how she looked in an apron. She wasn't the type for black dresses, anyway, so he'd never know. If he got what he wanted, she'd be his cook for a week and that was it.
He made it a rule to never date anyone who worked for him. He'd been tempted. There'd been some hot women at the firm, but his father was right about not dipping his pen in company ink, and he hadn't regretted it. Why take chances, when there's a whole world of available women out there? Sophisticated ladies who understood that forever after, or even tomorrow or next week were not words in Jack's vocabulary.
He watched Cinderella walk toward him, her eyes locked with his, her step measured, and he couldn't tell from her expression what her answer would be. It had to be yes. Who wouldn't want to make more money? Unless it was attached to some hardship. This job wasn't. Unless she considered working for him a hardship. How could that be?
"Well?" he said, out of time and out of patience. He didn't have time to be charming, to beat around the bush and make small talk. "What's your price?"
"I want you to fund my restaurant."
"I can't do that. It's against company policy. My partners would think I'd lost my mind." Not to mention his father.
"Fine." She turned on her heel and started back to the van.
"Wait a minute. I'll triple your normal rate."
She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I don't care about the salary. Get someone else."
"I don't want someone else. I want you."
Her eyes narrowed. "Too bad."
He grabbed her arm for the second time that day.
"Wait a minute. You know I'm desperate. You're taking advantage of me. You're not playing fair."
"Fair? This is business. You're a businessman. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. You told me to name my price. I did."
"You're talking about hundreds of thousands. Even if I wanted to…"
"Which you don't."
"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't fund a restaurant. I have to justify my investments."
"I understand," she said, pulling away.
"All right," he said, feeling the heat and the pressure, seeing his whole week go down the drain unless he acted fas
t. "I'll make you a deal. If this week goes the way I think it will, and I get the results the firm wants, I'll fund your little restaurant with my own money. But make no mistake. This is not charity. You'll have to show a profit in six months or I pull the plug."
"And if your whole thing falls through this week, despite the food I make?"
He shook his head. "Then we're both out of luck. You, presumably, will still have your kiddie party gig, but I may not be so lucky. I'd take a big loss. My reputation would be in tatters. I could lose my job and my house…" He gestured toward the imposing facade of the house behind him.
"Oh," she said, glancing back at the house with a worried frown.
"Don't worry," he said. It bothered him more than it should, seeing those etched lines on her forehead, so much that he reached out to smooth them, though he knew he shouldn't touch her. "I won't be out on the street. I always land on my feet."
Ellie wasn't worried about his living on the street. She was worried about the way he made her feel when his thumb smoothed her sensitive skin. Get hold of yourself, she warned. He didn't mean anything by it. This is business.
"Does that change your opinion about me?"
"I don't know you well enough to have an opinion about you," she said. That was a lie. Of course she'd formed an opinion of him the first time she'd seen him—money-grubbing, hard-hearted, cold and mean. Then who was the guy who was bouncing up and down on the trampoline with her this morning? The guy who'd never had a birthday party and acted like he didn't care but really did. He had to care, unless he was made of stone. That guy was someone else, someone she didn't expect to see again. He was trying to charm her. Had he succeeded? No way. Well, maybe just a little. Just for a minute.
He shot her a half smile that said, "Oh, yes, you do have an opinion of me. Everyone does." He was perceptive, that was for sure. He had to be to be in the business of making people part with their money.
"So, Cinderella, don't go feeling sorry for me, even if everything crashes. I've stashed away something for a rainy day." He looked at the sky as if he wondered if this might be the day, then his gaze latched on to hers. "What do you say, Cinderella, are you a gambling girl?"