The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  “I think I get it,” he said with an easy smile. “Your sister, does she live here, or with you?”

  “Here.” She paused, then shrugged. “She and Dad don’t have it smooth, by any means, but she pushes him to deal with her. I guess I have to give her credit for at least trying to make him be a parent to her.”

  “And the playing dress-up part?”

  Now her expression grew distinctly affectionate and warm. “Oh, she was born to the role. She runs rings around the Washington society set. I think she sees it as some kind of grand game.”

  Shane thought he detected a slight shudder, and smiled. So they were both escapees of their respective upbringings, albeit for entirely different reasons. His grandmother had tried to mold him into a heartless, greedy mogul, and her father wanted a malleable Barbie doll instead of a real woman with real needs. Kindred spirits, of sorts.

  “I still say you could knock them on their asses, just like you are.”

  “Only if you mean that literally,” she said dryly. “I figure I’m better off taking all the help I can get.”

  Maybe it was the hint of vulnerability mixed up with all that tough talking, but it was at that moment that he knew he was going to do something rash. And here she’d made it all the way to the driveway uncorrupted, too. Shane slid off his seat and angled his body onto the seat next to her.

  She raised her eyebrows at the move, but didn’t react otherwise.

  “I’ve always been a firm believer in having no regrets,” he told her. “Which is why I’m going to apologize up front.”

  “For what?”

  “Kissing you.”

  Her eyes widened, but her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Oh, really?”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely.”

  “So why bother to apologize? You’re clearly not going to be sorry.”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  Her eyes flashed, and where he’d expected to see perhaps some sort of distaste or discomfort that would make him back off . . . he saw interest. Blatant, direct interest. “Does any woman say no to you?” she asked.

  “About kissing? Or generally speaking?”

  “Anytime speaking.”

  “Not usually. No.”

  “Did you ever think maybe it was time a woman did?”

  “Long past time, definitely.” He smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. Women aren’t the only ones who get by for far too long on good looks and a bit of charm.”

  “So why don’t you stop allowing it to happen?”

  “I find that life tends to be easier when I go with what works.”

  She shook her head with a sigh. “It’s hard to argue with success, right?”

  “Something like that. So, are you saying no, then?”

  “I don’t recall being asked,” she said, then grinned and shook her head with a little laugh. “You know, this has got to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.”

  He couldn’t respond. He was still basking in the sunlight of her full, unadulterated smile. It truly was a wondrous thing. “If I said you were absolutely stunning when you smiled, would you—”

  “Be flattered?” She surprised him by appearing a bit wistful.

  It did something to his insides, something he, even with his experience, wasn’t all that familiar with. And wasn’t sure he liked. “I was going to say punch me. But flattered would be much better.”

  “Well, I’ll hate myself for admitting it, but given how I felt when I climbed in here . . . probably, yes.” She gave him a look. “Charm wins again.”

  He shifted closer. “Does it?”

  Now she snorted. “Don’t push it.”

  He reached out and pushed a stray knotted strand of hair away from her face. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Or knee him in the balls. “You are stunning, you know,” he said. “Smiling or not.”

  “Now you’re definitely pushing it. Or just full of it. Or both.”

  “It’s my greatest downfall.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek. Pushing it, I mean.” He trailed his finger across her lips. “Although some would say it’s both.” He pressed at the lush center of her lower lip, pushed his finger just the slightest bit between her lips. Thinking she’d most likely bite him, he was surprised when she inhaled with the slightest of gasps. His body tightened almost painfully. “I’m dying to taste you,” he murmured, and thought it was highly probable he’d never been more sincere about anything in his entire life.

  “Then I suppose you’d better just take your chances,” she said, her voice the tiniest bit shaky. “You can tell me later if you regret it.”

  The driver killed the engine. And he knew their time together was over. “Definitely no regrets,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Cinderella Rule #3

  Failing that last rule, regroup quickly and put your best foot forward. Take care to keep your mouth closed while doing so. Better to bite your tongue . . . than risk swallowing your foot. And darlings, a bright smile covers a multitude of believed sins.

  —AURORA FAVREAUX, COFOUNDER GLASS SLIPPER, INC.

  Chapter 3

  His lips were . . . well, as perfect as the rest of him. And he definitely knew his way around a woman’s mouth. She tried—okay, for about two seconds—to just absorb the kiss without responding, determined not to react, just to see what he’d do. He was far too used to women swooning and sighing over him, and for some perverse reason, she wanted to be the one who didn’t. Except his kiss was as natural as his charm.

  And it undeniably went a long way toward taking the edge off the ugly stepsister vibe she’d been carrying around since the moment she saw that glass slipper. Okay, maybe for a while longer than that.

  His hand came up, slid beneath her heavy braid, and cupped the back of her head as he moved to take the kiss deeper. Now was the time to casually pull away, show him her studied indifference, maybe a little shrug when he lifted those charismatic brows of his, surprised at her lack of response. But who was she kidding? It had been a long time since she’d been kissed like this. Actually, it had probably been . . . never.

  So she let him past her lips, into her mouth, and grudgingly accepted that about the best she could hope for in terms of studied indifference was refraining from moaning wildly and ripping his clothes off. It wasn’t much of an edge, but she clung to it.

  And then he was lifting his head, taking his mouth from hers. “Cinderella packs quite a punch, glass slippers or no,” Shane said. The gravelly edge to his voice sent a hot thrill straight through her.

  “No regrets, then,” she managed, her own voice a shade rougher than she’d have liked.

  He held her gaze so steadily, she forgot where she was, what she was supposed to be doing, even her own name.

  “Only one.”

  She lifted her eyebrows in question, but he was already reaching for her. And this time when he took her mouth, there was nothing light or casual about it. This was no preliminary exploration, no assuaging of curiosity. If she thought she’d felt his hunger before, now she felt as if she were being consumed. Devoured, even.

  Her fingers found their way into his hair. Someone moaned, someone growled. Then he was pulling all five feet eleven inches of her across his lap as effortlessly as if she were . . . well, Pepper. It was a rather defining moment for Darby, yet she couldn’t stop to examine it. She was much too busy being insatiable.

  Unfortunately, being insatiable completely blocked out the sounds of the limo door being opened. More disappointing still, it wasn’t enough to block out the trio of gasps that followed it. And most mortifying of all, it was Shane who had to end their wrestling match.

  “Hi, Mama Mercedes,” he said, his smile as congenial as if he always greeted his godmother with a highly aroused, panting-for-air woman sprawled across his lap. Of course, for all she knew, maybe he did. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Not as long in some ways as others,” came the steady reply.

  Darby winced. Th
at autocratic tone of disapproval had to belong to no other than Mercedes Browning, head fairy godmother of Glass Slipper, Inc., according to the brochure Pepper had had overnighted to her, along with her plane tickets. Lovely first impression she was making on the former headmistress, too.

  You’re not being raised on a farm, Darby. Close the front door. Wash your face and hands. Do something with that rat’s nest of hair. And for God’s sake, try and look like something more respectable than a stable hand when you come down for dinner. Why can’t you be more like your mother, God rest her soul? She understood that appropriate attire and behavior must be suitable to the occasion. In this house, that means you act and dress like a lady, even if we both know otherwise. Is that so hard?

  The familiar childhood scolding, delivered as only Paul Landon III could deliver it, echoed through her mind. God knew she’d heard it often enough to commit every syllable to eternal memory, though it had been years since it had surfaced.

  She swallowed a sigh, but the hint of a rebellious smile swiftly followed. Because she had, in fact, spent the second half of her formative years being raised on a farm. And she knew with absolute certainty she was a better person for it.

  Grasping on to that sliver of hard-earned pride, she acknowledged that there was no graceful way to extricate herself from the current situation. And no way to simply dissolve and disappear, either. So, as calmly as possible, she slid her body to the seat across from where they’d been tangled up in each other, and took a moment to pull herself together before turning to face her hostesses for the next five days. That is, if they didn’t bounce her out on her ass. Which, had she thought of it ahead of time, would have been a great strategy in getting out of the whole thing.

  Unfortunately, they were masters of the infernal, if-I-don’t-acknowledge-it-then-it-didn’t-happen facial expression. Even worse was realizing that almost two decades on the ranch hadn’t totally obliterated all of the snooty social skills that had been pounded into her, beginning at birth. She smoothly extended her hand to the driver when he offered to help her out, and just as smoothly ignored the women’s shared look of relieved approval before they introduced themselves.

  “I’m Mercedes Browning,” said the tallest one. She wasn’t quite on par with Darby’s height, but her attitude more than made up for their slight difference in altitude. “Welcome to Glass Slipper.”

  Darby took in her tailored navy-blue suit, her no-nonsense string of pearls, and ruthlessly coifed silver hair, then accepted the hand she extended, approving of the firm handshake. Even at a young age, Darby had detested those limp, helpless little society handshakes somebody had dictated that women must use in polite company. That “somebody” most likely being a man, of course. How easily threatened they must be, was all she could remember thinking at the time. Her opinion hadn’t changed much over the years. Although Shane had certainly rattled it a little.

  “I’m Aurora Favreaux,” said the second woman, the shortest of the three and easily the most accessible in demeanor. Plumper, and swathed in the sort of drapy chiffon scarf-type thing that made her look fragile and a bit ethereal, her hair was a soft golden halo around her exquisitely made-up face. Her eyebrows alone were works of art. Literally. Darby was pretty sure there was no actual facial hair involved. The wealthy Southern belle, she recalled from the brochure, who’d married into more wealth, along with Washington politics, at a young age and had become quite the society doyenne by the time she was widowed in her late forties. The elegant sprawling Victorian behind them had originally been her home.

  Aurora’s hands were spidered with blue veins, but whereas Mercedes’ hands had been somewhat rawboned, with short, buffed nails, Aurora’s were much smaller, softer, heavily jeweled, with what could only be called dragon-lady nails tipping each delicate end. The fact that they were painted a warm shade of peach did little to dispel the notion that, if riled, she could quite easily draw first blood. But her smile was warm, and her gray eyes twinkly. If any of them had an ounce of real fairy in them, it would be this one, Darby caught herself thinking.

  “Hello, I’m Darby Landon,” she responded, squeezing both of the hands that had been offered her, but easing up a bit on the pressure. More to keep from getting puncture wounds than because she thought the woman couldn’t handle it.

  “And I’m Vivian dePalma,” announced the last, and by far the most startling, of the three. What Mercedes lacked in flash and Aurora lacked in stature, Vivian more than made up for in both. She was the former Hollywood wardrobe fashionista, who dressed the stars and created the trends others tried to emulate. Which explained the outrageous shade of red hair and matching lipstick, but not the boldly colored caftan—in which not one of the swirly colors matched the tone of her hair, yet seemed an oddly perfect accompaniment to it—that ended abruptly just above the knee. The ensemble was completed by black hose and spindly high heels that Darby decided must have steel reinforcements. Because while the septuagenarian sported admittedly killer legs, from the hips up she was built like a fireplug.

  “Darby Landon,” she repeated as she shook the woman’s hand.

  Vivian had the firmest grip of the three—more a measuring squeeze than a real shake—and gave Darby a sharp looking-over before gazing quite directly into her eyes. “Welcome to Glass Slipper, sweetheart,” she said, her tone more closely resembling that of a diner waitress than a partner in a high-gloss business that had built its reputation on the ability to polish the tarnish off the less favored. Her exquisitely painted lips curved wickedly, and a bit of the devil lit her eyes. “Although I see Shane has already made you feel right at home.”

  “Ms. Landon,” Mercedes politely—mercifully—interrupted, “are these your only bags?”

  Darby turned to find the impeccably liveried driver holding her two pieces of quite unimpeccable luggage. She supposed she had Shane to thank for being beyond embarrassment at this point. “Yep, that’s it.”

  Their plucked, painted, and ruthlessly tweezed eyebrows lifted a mere fraction in response to her less than cultured reply, but she noted the mild disapproval nonetheless. Up again, down again, she thought. Well, her snooty-tooty training had only gone so far. If she didn’t need fine-tuning, she wouldn’t be here now, would she? Although she was pretty sure it would take more than these three to stamp out the stable hand in her. Lord knows, many had tried. Most of them employed by her father. All had failed.

  “You okay?” came a warm voice, just behind her left ear.

  She’d almost forgotten about Shane. Almost. But he obviously hadn’t forgotten about her. Out of their line of vision, he traced a single, blunt-tipped finger down her spine, making her work very, very hard at not visibly shivering at his touch. Rebel, indeed. She was way out of her league when compared with Shane Morgan, who was likely a veritable master of mischievousness. It probably wasn’t wise, but she envied him that skill.

  “That was the one thing,” he murmured so only she could hear. “My only regret. The embarrassment. But it was my only chance. And I figured you could handle it.”

  To both of their surprise, she laughed. “It was definitely a risk well worth taking,” she said, leaving it at that.

  He grinned. “Glad to hear it, Cinderella.”

  “I’m not—”

  But he was already being swept up in a hug by Aurora, being subjected to a very blatant once-over by Vivian, and was on the receiving end of a disapproving glare by Mercedes, who nonetheless hugged him tightly when it was her turn. Ah, Darby thought, unsurprised, his charm really does know no boundaries.

  She almost choked when Vivian’s hug ended with a little fanny pat.

  She caught Darby’s reaction and winked. “I’ve been patting this little tushie since it was in diapers. I see no reason to stop now.”

  Darby could only nod in complete understanding. It was quite the tushie, she agreed, now that she’d gotten a good gander at it. And if the welcoming committee had taken just a few minutes longer in getting out to the lim
o, she might have gotten her hands on it, too.

  Two young men, both wearing matching coral blazers, and a young woman in cool lemon linen, stepped off the shadowed veranda and came down the wide front steps, drawing the attention of the three Glass Slipper founders. Darby took the moment to study the trio, thinking that college surely bred some strange lifelong friendships, then ignored the tiny little twinge of regret that she’d turned down the opportunity to forge her own oddball sorority bonds. She smiled, thinking the menagerie she had back home was quite odd enough. And more to her liking, anyway.

  “Quite the troupe,” he commented, noting her gaze.

  Darby turned back, only to find herself momentarily alone with him, the driver having disappeared with their bags.

  “Yes, quite. The whole place is . . .” She glanced back at the house, the grounds, the quiet beauty and inviting serenity of it all, and didn’t know how to phrase her answer. For once, reality outshone the brochure. The house was stunning but not intimidating, the grounds ruthlessly maintained, yet lush and inviting. She felt less the science experiment and more spa vacationer for the first time since leaving home. Maybe this wouldn’t be so horrific an experience after all.

  “Not exactly what you expected?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. I saw the brochure, knew about the old Victorian house, but . . .” Her gaze drifted back to the women.

  “But you understand now why they don’t have their pictures on the website or in the brochure, huh? Not the traditional fairy godmother types, are they?”

  She smiled. “That pretty much pegs what I was thinking.”

  “You’ll do fine, you know.”

  She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I guess it won’t kill me to try, anyway.” Then she smiled. “But I’ve already made up my mind that my sister is going to spend some serious time in the barn, come the next foaling season.”

  Shane grinned. “Paybacks are supposed to be hell, after all.”

  “Exactly.” She turned to face the house, trying to absorb the peaceful vibe of her surroundings, and accept what lay ahead for her beyond those gorgeous stained-glass double doors. Anxiety curled in her stomach. “And we all have our own definitions of that, don’t we?”