The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  Shane squeezed his shoulder. “A mess it certainly is. And you couldn’t talk her into leaving all this to someone who might have a clue in hell what to do with it?” He’d said it lightly, but Hal’s smile evaporated, and his expression grew quite serious.

  “You might have given up hope for reconciliation, but she never did. She certainly expected to have more time to make that happen, but she hadn’t been idly waiting for you, either.” He lifted a hand to stave off Shane’s reply. “I won’t sugarcoat it, she was furious over your continued defection. She wasn’t used to being thwarted. Considering all she’d done for this family, to have you toss it in her face as if it meant nothing, you who were the last of the actual Morgan line, with Morgan blood running in your veins . . .” He broke off, shook his head. His faded eyes were suspiciously bright when he looked back at Shane. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I guess I haven’t come to terms with this as well as I’d hoped. I just thought you should know that contrary to her occasionally vilified and, I’ll admit, well-earned public persona, she was quite human, and quite capable of being hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Shane asked incredulously. “Did she ever stop to think about what she was doing to me? She asked for all this when she married my grandfather, and after his death she willingly took on the role of family matriarch, with a vengeance that was purely her own, I might add. I was never given that kind of choice. Did she ever once ask about my hopes, my dreams? We both know the answer to that. She and I didn’t have conversations, Hal. She dictated, and I was supposed to prostrate myself at her feet in abject appreciation of all she had planned for me. It didn’t matter if they weren’t my plans, or if I’d be miserable carrying them out. It was always her way or the highway.” He held Hal’s gaze, but worked hard to soften his tone. “So I chose the only route I could. I don’t regret that.” He touched his arm. “I’m truly sorry if that hurts you. That’s the last thing I want. But she’s not the only one capable of being hurt.”

  Hal held his gaze for an interminable number of seconds, but said nothing else. Instead, he stepped back and gestured for the other man to come over. “Shane, this is William Baxter. He’s been overseeing your grandmother’s affairs since I stepped down.”

  Shane shook the man’s hand, appreciating the no-nonsense grip. With Shane and Hal already on the verge of acting like overemotional fools, they’d both likely need someone with a little objectivity. “Nice to meet you. I appreciate all the hard work you’re going to have to do to help me sort this out.” He looked to Hal. “I do appreciate this. More than you can know.”

  Hal nodded. Shane forced his shoulders to relax, then smiled and motioned to the workers carrying in what looked like enough flowers to decorate a Rose Bowl float. “Now, would someone like to tell me what in the hell is going on around here?”

  Darby wasn’t sure what she’d expected while waiting for Stefan Bjornsen to disembark the plane at Reagan National. The Swedish version of her father, she supposed. An older man, probably blond gone to white, in that dashing Scandinavian way, with a cool smile and sharp blue eyes that didn’t invite much in the way of bullshit. She’d already decided that, while she’d do her best to be civil and maintain her end of the conversation, she wasn’t going to sweat it out much beyond that. She was here to be glorified arm candy, nothing more.

  She had that charity event to escort him to this evening, which would keep them from having to make too much small talk. Of course, she was nervous about having to introduce him around to a bunch of people who were going to be more interested in sizing her up and gossiping about her surprise return the moment she turned her back. Well, screw them, she thought defiantly. Dad’s big deal or no, she wasn’t going to prostitute herself any more than she already had. Next time, her father could get on a goddamn plane in time and play host himself.

  She’d be polite to Mr. Bjornsen, shepherd him around, then hustle him over to Four Stones as early tomorrow as possible. If she had to spend a couple of days in a family mausoleum, better someone else’s than her own. Surely Stefan would migrate to his own kind, allowing her to hide somewhere and count the minutes until her father showed up to take over. Then she could head west. Home. To peace and solitude.

  Shane flashed through her mind and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be at the charity event tonight. Or at the Belmont party this weekend. He’d said they weren’t done with each other yet. And if the amount of time she had spent thinking about what they had left to do with each other was any indication, she agreed with him. She wished she knew how to contact him, tell him where she’d be, finagle him an invitation to Four Stones or something. That would certainly give her something interesting to do while she waited for her exit cue.

  The obvious route would be to contact Mercedes. “Botox to that,” she said, straining to see if Bjornsen was in the crowd coming through the doors leading from Customs. The driver at her side held a tasteful sign so that Stefan would be able to find them, but Pepper had said that the one thing their father insisted upon was the personal touch, which meant showing up at the airport. Darby sighed and shifted her weight. Her flat shoes felt weird to someone used to boots. Her clothes didn’t feel right, too slippery against her arms and legs. So different from cotton. And everything had to be all tucked in and pleated just so. Then there was the blazer with the lightly padded shoulders, making her feel like a defensive end for the Broncos.

  And it only got worse. Tonight she actually had to wear a dress.

  Just as she decided to retaliate by sleeping in ratty sweats and the oldest, baggiest T-shirt she owned, the crowds shifted in front of her. And a stunning, godlike creature of a man strolled through, parting people like Moses parted water. He was tall, easily topping her by a good couple of inches. His hair was the palest of blond, straighter and silkier than her own, although Darby was certain he hadn’t had to pay to have his done. He wore it startlingly long, almost to his shoulders. The look made his face seem all the more angular and striking; his mouth as ruthlessly chiseled as his cheekbones and jawline.

  He wore his suit with almost negligent elegance. He wasn’t remotely rugged, but in his very refinement, the almost casual way his clothes hung on his lean, lanky body with effortless perfection, he seemed somehow all the more alpha male.

  Darby tried to drag her gaze away from him, if for no other reason than to observe him with whoever it was he was here to meet. Probably a woman. She couldn’t even imagine what he’d be like as a lover, although she couldn’t deny, as her gaze drifted to his hands—long, elegant . . . and ringless—that she was imagining it all the same. Cold and distant, as his coloring would suggest? Or ruthlessly skilled and determined.

  She shivered a little, deciding it had to be the latter. He looked far too self-assured to settle for less than explosively satisfactory sex.

  And then he was stopping in a direct line right in front of her. Oh, God, he’d caught her staring. She quickly glanced away, at some oblivious point behind his shoulder, looking for the older gentleman she was expecting to appear. The older gentleman she wouldn’t be fantasizing about as a lover. Jesus. First Shane in the dressing room and now she was having some Nordic God fantasy in an airport. Take her out of her element and she apparently became a raving slut. Or maybe she just needed to get out more back home.

  Wait. Her gaze swung back to the man as it all clicked into place. Into horrible, can’t-be-happening-to-me place. Nordic God. Nordic. As in Scandinavian. “Oh, shit,” she murmured beneath her breath. Pepper said he was a business partner of Dad’s. That meant sixties. Maybe late fifties. This . . . this . . . golden-maned, romance-cover model was, at best, mid-thirties. And he was looking her way.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Apparently, she’d been blocking the sign bearing his name. Because he was headed right toward her.

  It occurred to her that she should be rejoicing. If she was going to have to squire someone around, better Cover Model God than some old geezer, right? Not right. She was suddenl
y excruciatingly aware of every inch of satin and lace binding her body. And all the other non-Darbylike layers that covered them. She wasn’t herself, and this whole charade would be a lot easier to pull off if she could just be an actor in costume. Genderless, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t want to deal with being aware of herself as a woman, a sexual being. It was going to be hard enough to play this game. Hard. She forced a little swallow down her suddenly dry throat. Lord have mercy on her Cinderella slutty soul.

  It flashed through her mind that she hadn’t been all that concerned about sexual awareness with Shane. But then, she didn’t have to impress Shane, did she? He’d liked her pasty and pale, wearing six-year-old jeans. She didn’t have to fake anything to show her interest in him. And it wasn’t that she planned to show any interest in Bjornsen, either. She’d just feel a hell of a lot more self-conscious now while she did her little hostess-gig thing.

  She found herself wishing Shane was here, right now. He was the only one in this whole charade who understood how complicated and uncomfortable this was. On the other hand, she really didn’t want to juggle two alpha males at the same time.

  Bjornsen shifted his briefcase to his other hand and extended his free one. She refused to look at those long slender fingers again. Which wasn’t exactly a problem since she was caught up in his surprisingly dark eyes. He was so blond that his hair was almost like white gold, and she’d expected bright blue eyes. Bjornsen’s looked almost black. It was a very arresting combination. And a little . . . well, she wasn’t entirely sure. Unnerving, certainly.

  He smiled broadly and she was surprised to see a pair of dimples winking on either side of those sculpted lips. He hadn’t struck her as the dimply-cute type. But when he smiled . . . well, maybe cute wasn’t the right word. Boyishly charming, yet still predatory, was the definition that came to mind. She tried not to let her reaction show as he took her hand in his own. His wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t callused and rugged, either. Pampered, Darby thought, and let go as quickly as was acceptable.

  “Welcome to the States, Mr. Bjornsen,” she said. Hopefully all the noise and hustle of the airport masked the tight, squeaky element she heard, and subtly tried to clear her throat.

  “Please, call me Stefan,” he said, his accent strong, but his diction clear and sharp. He stepped back and gave her a clearly assessing once-over that was more than a little disconcerting. “Your father told me how lovely you were, but I had no idea. I was expecting someone . . . shall we say, a bit more of a child? And yet, you are all woman.”

  She most certainly was, as the tight, tingly ache in her breasts would happily testify. Not to mention the twitchy feeling she was getting down below. Damn silk panties. This was all Melanie’s fault. I am woman, hear me moan, she thought, disgusted at her lack of selfcontrol.

  “Penelope, is it?”

  The tingly twitches vanished. Oh, for God’s sake, no one had told him. She was going to kill Pepper. “Actually, I’m Penelope’s older sister. She was unfortunately detained on some . . . business.” She mustered up her best fake sincere smile. “I hope you don’t mind the last-minute substitution.”

  “Paul has another daughter?”

  Darby didn’t know why that stung. She was well aware that her father didn’t speak of her any more than she made a habit of talking about him. “I’m Darby. Sorry for the confusion. Have you known my father long?”

  It was as if his thoughts had drifted for a moment. His expression was remote, almost austere. Then he blinked those odd dark eyes of his, and his smile snapped right back into place.

  It always amazed Darby when people could turn their emotions on and off like they had some sort of internal Clapper.

  “For a short time only,” Stefan said, dimples flashing once again. “I cannot believe he forgot to mention someone as lovely as you, or perhaps it’s my own faulty memory.”

  He was being charming . . . and lying through his teeth. He’d expected Pepper Landon and Darby suspected, Clapper control notwithstanding, he wasn’t all that thrilled to find a pinch hitter in her place. What difference did it make? She might not be cute and adorable, but hell, she’d cleaned up all right. And arm candy was arm candy, right?

  However, just in case he had any ideas about tasting that candy . . . She planned on making a little international phone call to her sister as soon as she was alone. She didn’t care what Pepper might have done in her place, but for the time being, Stefan could just Clap Off any ideas he might have about this sister being his personal lollipop.

  “I spend most of my time managing my mother’s family property out West,” she said, putting her mind firmly back on the business-only track. She made the clutch call to stick as close to the truth as possible, yet still try to sound acceptable to a power player like Bjornsen. If he didn’t go for it, well, tough shit. This was the best she could do without a script or knowing all the facts. She stepped back as the driver commandeered the luggage cart from the skycap. “We’re slated to attend a charity function at the Kennedy Center tonight at nine,” she told him. “Unless you’re feeling jet-lagged, then we can always get you settled in at the house and—”

  He waved away her concern. “I fly like most people drive a car. Jet lag does not affect me.”

  He didn’t say it as a boast, but casually, like a man who spent an inordinate amount of time in the air probably would. And yet, she got the distinct impression that he was not the type who admitted to weakness. Faulty memory, my ass, Darby thought, all the while maintaining the fake society smile. “Good. Then we’ll head out to the house. I can have something sent up to your room, as we won’t be dining until late—”

  He looked at her somewhat quizzically. “In Europe we dine a bit later than you Americans. Nine o’clock is quite acceptable.”

  And he assumed, as Paul’s daughter, she’d be aware of such things. Jesus, she was screwing up already. “Of course,” she replied, scrambling. “But with the long flight, I was just thinking you might be hungry. After all, we all know airline food is hardly haute cuisine. My father’s chef is—”

  “Wonderful, I’m certain. As is the one I employ on my private jet.”

  He owned a jet big enough to make transcontinental flights? How was she supposed to guess that? Again with the lack of information. Pepper had only given her flight info and social itinerary. She’d said Darby was to keep him happy—but not that kind of happy. Well, she wasn’t so sure about that. Pepper had some serious ’splaining to do.

  Because while he’d made the comment kindly enough, there was undeniable curiosity in his eyes now. Curiosity like a cat staring at a mouse. Just before pouncing on it. Making her feel uncomfortably exposed, both as his Washington escort, and as a woman. Worse, she wasn’t sure just which part he wished to exploit. Just what had his expectations been? Was he simply gauging her weak spots in hopes of finding a way to sweeten his end of the business deal with her father later? Or as a way to pass his downtime while waiting for her father to show up?

  Well, years of observing animal behavior had taught her a great deal about reading character. Four-legged and two. And she’d bet the farm that the two-legged animal in front of her likely categorized women as the weaker sex. Meaning the cat-and-mouse game was all about him trying to figure out how to play her to his best advantage. He’d probably realized—quite rightly—that whatever game plan he’d devised for Pepper was not going to work on big sister.

  What Mr. Bjornsen didn’t yet know, but would soon find out, was that Darmilla Beatrice Landon didn’t get played. Because she didn’t give a rat’s ass about the deal. Or putting in sack time with a guy just because he looked like God’s gift to the female race.

  Shane’s image floated through her mind. That situation was completely different, of course. Comparing Stefan to Shane was like comparing a sleek racing car to a muscled-up hot rod. One was all about finesse and subtle performance. The other was all in-your-face confidence and knock-your-socks-off power. Well, well. Perhaps she
’d been a power player all along.

  She stifled a knowing smile as she turned with Stefan to follow their driver out of the terminal. And if there was a bit more swagger to her step than was advisable, well, so be it. If she was forced to play the princess, then she was going to be Cinderella with an attitude. That was her power.

  If anyone thought they were going to use her because she represented the weakest link . . . they were about to discover they were messing with the wrong woman.

  Cinderella Rule #7

  On matters of importance, be aware that those closest to you may not possess the clarity of mind to provide an objective opinion. Don’t be fooled into mistaking words of the heart for wise counsel. When in doubt . . . get a second opinion from someone who doesn’t love you.

  —MERCEDES

  Chapter 7

  We’re having a what?” Shane paced the length of Alexandra’s formal library. He’d never understood why it was called the formal library, since the one on the opposite side of the house wasn’t exactly a warm and cozy little book nook, either.

  Hal calmly placed his briefcase on the small sitting table, clicking open both locks simultaneously. “The Belmont. Third leg of the Triple Crown. You might have heard of it.” A smile ghosted his thin lips. “Hell, for all I know, you’ve raced in it.”

  “I tried. I was too tall.” Shane was joking, but didn’t quite pull off the smile. He shoveled his fingers through his hair. By now it should be standing on end. “I guess I assumed that with Alexandra’s death, the show, as they say, would not go on.”

  His grandmother, despite her off-with-his-head dowager duchess mien, was quite well-known as one of the more prodigious Washington hostesses. The parties always had well-coordinated themes that no one else would dare attempt, and the guest lists were renowned for their diversity. No one dared not attend, whether it was a spring luncheon featuring an Alice in Wonderland croquet tournament or a black tie and white teeth vampire ball.