Cinderellie!

by Carol Grace

  "You still have your job."

  "Yeah, but you never know. You're only as good as your latest investment."

  "You seem to be doing all right. Nice house."

  "With a nice mortgage."

  "Still…"

  "I can't complain."

  "Your parents must be proud of you."

  "I wouldn't say proud. My dad expects a lot from me, always has. My mom…that's another story."

  She didn't say anything and neither did he. This was not the time for confidences, at least on his side. She only wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She'd already heard enough about his father. And she didn't need to hear about his mother. She was just making conversation.

  She handed him a large china soup tureen to dry. His fingers brushed hers. She felt a charge of electricity race up her arm. Had he felt it, too? A glance in his direction told her nothing. He didn't blink, didn't flinch. It was her, only her. And it was late. He was helping her, and she was grateful, but she was also tired and vulnerable. That's all it was.

  She washed the last pot, and he dried it.

  "Not to put any undue pressure on you, but I promised eggs Benedict for breakfast," he said.

  "That's no problem. I do a mean hollandaise sauce."

  "I can't imagine you doing a mean anything, Cinderella." He reached around her waist and untied her apron. His eyes gleamed and his face was so close to hers she was afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what she might see. Afraid of what he might see. Her heart pounded.

  The kitchen door burst open. "Jack?"

  Ellie stumbled backward.

  "Sorry to butt in."

  "That's okay, Rick." Jack's voice sounded tight.

  The man raised his eyebrows. "So this is your housekeeper? I thought she was older."

  "She is. I mean this isn't her. This is my…just a temp."

  You're just a temp, Ellie told herself. No more, no less. And don't you forget it.

  "And does your temp need a ride home? Looks like she's ready to collapse. That was some dinner, lady."

  "Thank you." Ellie leaned back against the counter, trying to get her breath back, trying to keep her knees from buckling.

  "I'm taking her home," Jack said firmly.

  "That's not necessary," she said. "I can call a cab."

  "I'll meet you out in front," Jack said. The tone of his voice was the one he doubtlessly used on businesses who dared try to do things their way and not his. It was a small thing, so she did what he said and met him out in front.

  "Where's your van?" he asked, looking up and down the street.

  "May came to pick it up. They need it this week. It's okay, I can manage."

  "You live with them?" he asked as he drove through the streets, the engine of his late-model BMW purring like a cat, all leather interior with heated leather seats and soft music coming from the speakers.

  "I have my own apartment in Noe Valley. Working and living with them would be a little much. Turn right at the next light. Third house on the right."

  He opened the door for her. "I'll come by and get you in the morning. Is eight too early?"

  "I can take the bus."

  "And if it breaks down or it doesn't come on time? How am I supposed to make hollandaise sauce? I'll be here at eight."

  "Better make that seven."

  "Deal."

  Jack watched her walk up the steps to the flat in the Victorian house. She didn't turn to wave or say good-night. But he stood there on the sidewalk, watching while lights went on on the third floor. A shadow passed in front of the window. Was it Ellie or someone else? She hadn't said she lived alone. She might have a boyfriend waiting for her up there. She'd never really said if she was married or not. He'd just assumed… The thought of some man waiting for her made his jaw tighten. Why should he care? Her private life was her own.

  He wondered what he'd gotten himself into. He wished he hadn't promised he'd invest his own money in her restaurant. He couldn't afford to get involved in anyone's life, especially not someone he was investing in. Damn. It was too late to back out now. If he got the funds he needed, then he'd owe it to her and he'd have to go through with it.

  There was something about her that worried him. More accurately, there was something about the effect she had on him that worried him more. She wasn't his type. Not at all. But when he looked in those big brown eyes, he forgot about his mission, forgot about the past, forgot about his future and only thought about her. Tonight he'd almost kissed her in the kitchen. He might have, if they hadn't been interrupted. What was wrong with him? Was he working too hard? Worrying about the project? Was that an excuse for losing his cool and contemplating kissing the kitchen help?

  Even now he was inexplicably angry for the interruption in the kitchen when he should be grateful. Tomorrow he'd be careful. No more late-night sessions in the kitchen or anywhere else. Just get through the week. And if all went well, and he succeeded, he'd give her the money and leave her to start her restaurant. He wouldn't lean over her shoulder. He wouldn't be her board of directors. He'd take a backseat. He'd get on with his life. He'd call other women and he'd go out and socialize. Women who understood. Women who didn't look at him the way she did. Women who didn't encourage him to act like the kid he never was.

  But was that her fault or his that he had jumped around on a trampoline? Hadn't he really wanted to show her he wasn't made of stone? Hadn't he wanted to make her smile, even make her laugh? And standing there on the sidewalk, the collar of his jacket up against the wind, staring up at the third floor, trying to make out silhouettes behind the window, didn't he want to hear her laugh again?

  A lot of questions, but no answers. He turned away from her house, drove himself home and went straight to his office. There he tried to concentrate on figures, but all he could see was her figure. All he could think of was being interrupted by Rick. If Rick hadn't come into the kitchen, Jack might have violated all of his own rules and kissed his temporary cook. Good thing he hadn't. She might have been offended. Or she might have kissed him back.

  He didn't know which was worse. Either way it would have added a complication to their already complicated relationship. He gave up and went to bed, but not to sleep.

  Before Jack knew it, it was dawn, and he was up and on his way back to Ellie's house to pick her up. His cell phone rang while he was at the corner of Pacific and Divisadero.

  "Jack, how is everything going?" Hannah asked.

  "Fine, how are you?"

  "Oh, you know. It's hard to have to depend on others. I want to know how my replacement is doing."

  "Fine," Jack said carefully.

  "That's good to hear," she said. "I talked to her yesterday, and she sounds like a lovely girl. What does she look like?"

  "Tall, blond hair, brown eyes, slim, why?"

  "No reason. I just wondered. Anything wrong with her?"

  "Only that she's not you. Is that what this is about? You're afraid she'll replace you? Never. She has no desire to work for me. She wants to start her own restaurant."

  "She's not married, you know."

  No, he didn't know and he wasn't going to ask. "Right," he said. Was that a silent sound of relief inside his head? Of course not.

  "Do you like her?"

  "Of course I like her. Would I have asked her to help out if I didn't like her? She's nice and she's a good cook. Not as good as you, of course, but not bad."

  "There are other things, Jack, besides cooking."

  "I don't know what you mean. You wouldn't be matchmaking, would you, Hannah?" Hannah made no secret of her disapproval of Jack's lifestyle when it came to women—or work for that matter. She maintained that he worked too hard and went out with the wrong kind of women. He avoided bringing women to the house for fear Hannah would give them the cold shoulder. It wasn't hard to see where she was going with this conversation.

  "Matchmaking?" she sniffed. "Of course not. Well, I'd better go. I'll call you later. Just to see how things are going."
/>
  "Do that. And take it easy. Everything's under control."

  But he wasn't sure of that, especially when Ellie came down the steps of her house dressed in skinny jeans and a bulky green sweater that brought out flecks of green in her eyes he hadn't known were there.

  "What is it?" she asked. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

  "What way?" He tore his eyes away and opened the car door for her.

  "Like I'm some rare specimen you've got under a microscope."

  "Just wondering," he said casually. "If there is a Prince Charming."

  "Maybe somewhere, but not in my life," she said.

  "Not looking for one?"

  "No."

  "Playing the field?"

  "Like you do? Hardly."

  "What do you know about me?"

  "Just what your cook, Hannah, told me."

  "What did she do, warn you off?" He grinned at her as he swerved around a slow truck and sped up the hill toward Pacific Heights. "Never mind. You didn't need any warnings. You'd already made up your mind about me."

  "That wasn't hard," Ellie said. "But, actually, Hannah spoke highly of you," Ellie said, looking straight ahead.

  "She has to. She works for me. You didn't listen to her, did you? Even if she was sincere, that's just one woman's opinion. Most people think I'm a hardhearted bastard. Oh, by the way, you get tonight off. Part of the San Francisco experience I want them to enjoy is the symphony gala. It just happened to be this week, so I got tickets for the whole group. Expensive, but I think it will pay off."

  She nodded but she didn't say anything. She certainly didn't disagree with his description of himself as hard-hearted, probably because of that initial meeting. Since then he didn't think he'd acted like a jerk. But that was open to interpretation. It really didn't matter what she thought as long as she did her job. She didn't have to like him or approve of his lifestyle. He didn't care one way or another.

  He'd get out his little black book and round up a date for tonight. One that would turn heads with her perfectly coiffed hair; expensive, high-fashion dress and outrageous jewelry. Just the kind of woman he liked to be seen with. Not that he ever had much to say to any of them, but did that really matter? Not tonight it didn't. It was all about appearances.

  Chapter Four

  Ellie was already exhausted, and the day wasn't even half over. After she'd finished serving eggs Benedict to the group along with fresh-squeezed orange juice, she'd loaded the two dishwashers and started lunch preparations. A delivery truck brought boxes of fresh produce and she sniffed a box of deep-red, perfectly ripe strawberries appreciatively. The deliveryman asked for a check, and Ellie went to look for Jack. She tiptoed past the main room where the seminar was in progress, looked in but didn't see him. She paused outside his office and knocked softly.

  "Yes, what?" he said brusquely.

  She opened the door. Jack was sitting behind his desk, glowering at his feet, which were propped up on his desk.

  "I need a check for the green grocer. Fifty-three dollars."

  He scribbled his name and the amount on a check and slid it across the desk. "What's for lunch?"

  "Hearts of romaine with a Point Reyes blue cheese dressing and pasta pomodoro. Crème brulée with fresh strawberries for dessert. Is that all right?"

  "Of course it's all right." He twisted his pen between his thumb and fingers. "What are you doing tonight?"

  "I don't know. You just told me I had the night off. I haven't had time to make plans."

  "But you're going to, right?"

  Really, the man was unbelievable. What right did he have to delve into her personal life? She wasn't even his employee. She was just a temp. "Is this the way you treat Hannah?"

  "You mean with generosity by giving her the night off?"

  "I mean by prying into her affairs."

  He acted like she hadn't spoken. "I have an extra ticket for the symphony gala, fifth-row-center seats with dinner beforehand. All of the women I'd normally ask are busy and I thought you might want to—"

  "I'm busy," she said. Did he actually think she'd fill in at the last minute and hobnob with this crowd who might have seen her scrubbing pots and pans? She could just imagine the curious looks, the hidden smiles, the speculation.

  Who's that?

  What's she doing here?

  She's not even dressed right.

  No, it was out of the question.

  "But you just said you hadn't made plans," he said.

  She waved the check in her hand. "I just did. I have a date with a good book. Now if you'll excuse me, I can't keep the delivery boy waiting."

  To her dismay, Jack followed her down the hall to the kitchen, and watched the boy take his check and walk out the back door. Then he leaned against the door as if he had nothing better to do, his arms crossed over his waist, his hair looking as if he'd been raking it. When he wasn't looking smooth and suave in coat and tie, he looked disarmingly engaging. Either way he was a force to be reckoned with, and she'd be a fool to let down her guard. He could do some serious damage to her self-control.

  "Aren't you curious about the cuisine at the gala? After all, the caterer is Suzanne Pelletier, wouldn't she be one of your competitors?"

  Was she curious? Yes. Would she say so? No way. "Suzanne Pelletier my competitor? I don't think so. She's so out of my league. All I want is to open a neighborhood bistro, which you'd know if you'd listened to me. As you so kindly pointed out to me, I'm no celebrity chef. Nor do I want to be."

  "Still, you might want to check out the food. Her reputation may be all hype. It's got to be hard to put on a gala spread for two hundred in the foyer of the opera house. You'd better come along and see how she does it."

  "Is that an order?"

  "Of course not. I don't order my employees around. I only suggest. And I suggest you be ready at six o'clock. I'll pick you up then." Without waiting for an answer, he strode out of the room.

  She stood there with her mouth open in disbelief. She didn't have time to argue with Jack. She had to make lunch. She put Jack and his gala symphony out of her mind. Or she tried to. He had a way of coming between her and the salad dressing, between her and the propane torch she used on the crème brulée. Not physically, of course, it was just the sound of his voice in her ear, the vision of his face, the determined set to his jaw that threatened her composure just when she needed it. He was determined? Well she was, too. And she was not going to be bullied into going out on the town with his crowd when she could curl up with a good book.

  She was wiping down the counters with a sponge after lunch when the phone rang. It was Hannah, Jack's housekeeper.

  "How are you feeling?" Ellie asked, perching on a stool.

  "I'm fine as long as I keep off my foot," she said. "Jack tells me he invited you to the gala tonight."

  Ellie sighed. Had he called everyone to tell them what he'd done and what she'd said? "Did he tell you I turned him down?" And did he tell you he doesn't take no for an answer?

  "Well, he said you weren't very enthusiastic. He's very disappointed. He needs a date."

  "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure he has a large selection of women to choose from. Why me? Why not them?" she asked Hannah.

  "I have to confess it was my idea that he ask you. Good food, good music. I thought you might enjoy it. I'd go in a minute. If I could walk, that is."

  Ellie didn't know what to say. She didn't want Hannah to think she was ungrateful. "It's not that I'm not grateful to you. I really appreciate the offer, but…uh, I wouldn't have anything to wear to a gala affair. I've seen the pictures in the society column— it's formal." There, that ought to do it.

  "Formal? Nothing to wear? I can take care of that. I told you I owed you for filling in for me this week. I'm looking for a way to repay you. I told you Clara can't cook, but on the other hand, she's a crackerjack seamstress. Mother taught one of us to cook and the other to sew. Clara can't cook worth a darn and I can't even sew a button on. Sh
e's here to take care of me, but that's a boring job. She needs a challenge. I need some fresh company. And you need a fairy godmother or two. So hustle on over here and we'll put something together for you."

  "Well, that's very kind, but…"

  "Not kind at all. Just practical and self-serving. How much time can I sit around and watch daytime TV? I miss Jack and I miss my job. Jack's life is always more interesting than a soap opera, and truthfully I need a distraction. I'm just being selfish, but somehow maybe I can pay you back for what you're doing for me this week. I'm bored. So is Clara. Yes, you are, don't deny it. She doesn't have any daughters or granddaughters to sew for. So you'd be doing us a favor. Now that lunch is over, and a delicious one it was, I'm sure, how soon can you be here?"

  What could Ellie say to that without sounding like a churlish, unappreciative girl? So she agreed to walk the five blocks to Hannah's apartment, in an hour.

  Hannah's apartment was on the fifth floor of a stately old stone building on the corner. Clara let Ellie in and led her down a long, narrow hall to the living room, which was small with a high ceiling and a huge bay window with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Ellie imagined Hannah would be small and round with apple cheeks, but even when seated on a leather couch with her leg propped on a footstool, Ellie could see she was tall and thin with short gray hair. There was a sewing machine in the middle of the room and a large wicker basket with reams of fabric spilling over the sides on the table.

  "Come in, come in," Hannah called, though Ellie was already in. "You must be Ellie. Turn around dear. See, Clara, I told you she'd be the chiffon type." She reached for a bolt of pale, soft fabric from the basket. "And tall enough to carry it off." Hannah beamed at Ellie as if she'd planned the whole thing. Maybe she had. Still, how could anyone make a dress in one afternoon?

  "Look at that hair," Hannah continued. "A few curls and it will be perfect with chiffon and ruffles."

  "I really don't think…it's not that I'm not grateful, but I don't think I'm the type." Not only was she not the ruffles and curls type, she was not the type for hobnobbing with high society.