The Cinderella Rules

by Donna Kauffman

  When her grandfather had been alive, he’d talk about his only daughter often, regale Darby with stories of her wild and woolly youth, growing up out West. Darby had yearned to hear them all, but had resisted talking about her mother herself for a long time. Slowly her grandfather had worn down her resistance. He’d understood enough to leave her memories alone and intact, allowing her to grieve in her own way. Instead, he’d wisely chosen to reveal the parts of her mother that she didn’t know, poke at her natural curiosity, at that connection she’d felt went deeper than mother and daughter.

  Darby wondered now if she’d ever truly shown him the depth of her appreciation for . . . well, for everything he’d given her. But most especially, new memories of her mother. From stories, to old photos, to the rare home movie. She’d come to cherish them all. She found herself staring at the copse of woods beyond the back fields and wondering if the trails were there. They were probably long overgrown. And for the first time, she wished she could stay, just a little bit longer, and go find out.

  She abruptly turned from the window, cursing under her breath. Damn Pepper for making her come back here. She didn’t want this. Any of this. She should have been more prepared for the onslaught of emotions. She’d been so caught up in the battle of the hormones, and thoughts of clashing once again with her father, dredging up all the bad blood between them along with the memories of the fractious time spent here just before she’d left, that she hadn’t stopped to think what coming home again would do to her in regards to memories of her mother.

  And she wasn’t thanking Pepper for that, either.

  She set her mug down on the tray and crossed to the bed with renewed focus on packing up and getting the hell out of here.

  There was a tap on her door. She sighed and dumped the petticoats in the box before quickly crossing the room. “Yes, Raj?” she said as she opened the door, only to find it wasn’t Raj coming back for her breakfast tray. Her stomach dropped even as her pulse spiked. “Mr. Bjornsen.”

  For some reason, standing across from him in her father’s huge house, with staff running around everywhere, felt a great deal more intimate than either time they’d shared a limo. Perhaps it was the fact that he was casually dressed, wearing black Dockers and a deep blue crewnecked pullover that only enhanced his shoulders, his chest, and, well, his overall goldenness . . . while she was in her bathrobe, with a pale face and her damp hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head.

  Or maybe it was the fact that his natural intensity made her heart race regardless that she didn’t want it to . . . and made her very aware that her bed was only one room away.

  “Stefan, please,” he said, holding her gaze. He waited a beat, and she realized he expected her to say it.

  “Stefan,” she managed, a little irked at his overt manipulation, but unable to ignore the muscles that twitched when he smiled in response.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your privacy,” he said, sounding totally sincere, though she doubted he was remotely remorseful. “I wanted to make certain we were on schedule.”

  “No problem,” she said, damning that hint of breathiness in her voice, all the while knowing perfectly well he could have checked with any of the staff, or contacted her on the house phone to get that information. She also knew that he expected her to step back and invite him into her rooms, rather than keep him standing in the hallway.

  She hadn’t considered her suite intimate. The sitting room alone was about half the size of the main floor of her ranch house. And yet, her feet remained where they were, one hand on the door, the other on the frame. “Everything is running smoothly. I’m just finishing up packing.”

  “Ah. Well, then, that is good.” His gaze very casually dipped to the deep vee of her belted robe.

  She fought the urge to take her hand off the door and pull the lapels closer. And thanked God the terry cloth was thick enough to disguise the fact that her traitorous nipples were now standing at full attention.

  “I also wanted to apologize for abandoning you last night,” he added.

  “No apologies necessary. I’m well aware of how business opportunities have to be taken advantage of when they arise.” She thought of her childhood, her father constantly leaving at all times of the day or night. She’d lost track early on as to how many times her mother had returned home alone from this function or that.

  She thought of her run-ins with Shane, and decided that some personal opportunities were also best taken advantage of when the moment presented itself. She fought to keep the resulting smile from curving her lips. At least the tightening in her breasts felt more loyal now. Which was curious, since she didn’t owe either man her loyalty.

  See me again.

  The echo of Shane’s words from the night before, the seriousness of his declaration, played through her mind and made her wonder about that sense of loyalty. Odd how easily and naturally she’d fallen in with him, her fellow rogue black sheep. She forced herself to glance up at Stefan, and thought, conversely, how uneasy her reaction to this man made her feel.

  “I imagined you would understand,” Stefan murmured, drawing her attention to those chiseled lips. “Still, I felt badly for leaving you behind. Were you able to rejoin Mr. Morgan and Ms. dePalma?”

  Darby blinked, breaking that almost hypnotic spell he seemed to so effortlessly weave around her, whether she wanted him to or not. Something about those bottomless eyes. His question caught her off guard, and she couldn’t quite tell if he was merely being polite, or if there was something else going on behind the casual question. Of course, why would there be? Just because he and Shane had played their stupid little testosterone games last night, she didn’t seriously believe he really cared who she saw or when she had gotten home. Sure, his arrogance and his inscrutable demeanor rubbed her the wrong way, but there was no denying a lot of the rest of him could seriously rub her the right way, if she let it. Let him. Not that she was going to. Not only was juggling two men and all of Washington society well beyond her limited resources, but he was way too intimidating to consider toying with, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. Not really. With his privately owned jet and personal chefs, his secret morning meetings and enigmatic behavior, he was way out of her league, and she gladly admitted it.

  “No, I didn’t,” she responded, relieved it was the truth. That hooded gaze saw far too much. “As it happens, I left after intermission. It’s been a hectic week and I thought it wise to get some rest before embarking on our weekend at Four Stones.” That sounded cool and polite.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Morgan’s ancestral home, I believe. Interesting that he didn’t realize we are to be his guests.”

  It was as if he were purposely plucking at her nerves. Was he merely toying with her, or did he not have any clue just how hard it was for her to maintain her end of this little game? “He’s just recently back in town, settling his late grandmother’s estate,” she told him. “I don’t believe he has had the time to look over guest lists and the like.” She hoped she wasn’t speaking out of turn, revealing that bit of information, but she couldn’t see how it would matter. After Shane’s appearance last night, it was probably all over town that he was back. Surely Stefan would hear the whole story within minutes of getting out of the town car at Four Stones, anyway.

  “You’re old friends, then?” She must have looked surprised at the question, because he added, “You two seemed rather . . . chummy. Yet Ms. dePalma implied that you were recent acquaintances, so I was a bit confused.” He waved his hand. “None of my business, of course.”

  It wasn’t, and his interest could be just polite chitchat. Or simply one man sizing up his supposed opponent. She’d never considered herself that much of a prize. Unless this had something to do with her father . . . and their deal. That stopped her short. Did Stefan think Shane was a possible business opponent? That she was warming them both up for her father? Ew. But it would explain his little game of one-upmanship last night. “Speaking of Four Stones,”
she said, blatantly changing the subject and not caring how obvious she was. “Did you see your costume? Of course, you don’t have to wear it if you’re not comfortable with that, but—”

  “Are you dressing for the event?” He glanced past her into the sitting room, his gaze probably taking in the pile of linen and silk, easily spotted through the open door to her bedroom. When he looked back at her, the corner of his mouth tilted just enough for one dimple to come out of hiding. “I believe I’d enjoy having you on my arm, in all your ruffles and lace.” Now his gaze dipped downward again, his smile coming out in all its full glory. And damned if it didn’t pack quite a punch. “Or out of them.”

  Ah. So now the cards were clearly on the table. Pepper would be able to handle this. Hell, she could handle Stefan, Shane, throw a dinner party for fifty, and be the belle of the ball at Four Stones without having to so much as reapply her mascara. Darby, on the other hand, felt fortunate if she got lucky once a solstice, and that with a guy who remembered to take his socks off first. And she’d forgive him that, if he remembered to wipe his boots before coming into the house.

  What saved her was the stray thought that maybe he was only seducing her to get ahead in the duel he believed he might be engaged in with Shane, for her father’s favor. Meaning that bedding her was merely a way to . . . close the deal. So instead of yanking the belt from her robe and begging him to take her, take her now, she smiled coolly and said, “I mentioned to the host that we’d had our costumes delivered, so he’s expecting us to dress.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, the amused smile remaining, even as that always surprising boyish charm of his flickered off. “Then dress we will. I’ll look forward to it.”

  She resisted the urge to rub her arms as the hairs on them lifted. The energy coming off of him was definitely sexual, and also . . . something else. She wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting. “Great,” she said, her social polish slipping a little as he continued to keep his gaze locked with hers. She cleared her throat and did some serious regrouping. “Just ring the valet when you’re ready, and he’ll take everything out to the car. We should be able to get under way in an hour or so.”

  “Excellent.” Yet he stood there, stared, waited . . .

  She shifted instinctively back. “I should finish up my packing,” she said, swearing silently when the words sounded a bit unsteady, even to her own ears. The man could really wear on a girl’s reserves.

  “Of course.” He stepped back then, and Darby had to work not to visibly exhale in relief. “I’ll see you out front.”

  “Yes. Right.”

  He paused, his eyebrow cocking just slightly.

  It took her a moment to comprehend the meaning, and she was tempted to just shut the door in his face. Instead, she pasted on her very best fake society smile, certain he saw right through it, and for once, hoping he did. “Stefan.”

  He grinned, giving her the full double-dimple treatment and she hated herself immediately for wanting to forgive him almost anything because of it. It really was a very effective weapon. She’d just have to remember it was exactly that. A weapon.

  “I’ll be waiting for you. Darby.”

  She managed to hold on to her smile until she closed the door. Then she immediately leaned back against it and blew out a very long breath. “I really need to get back home. Where the air is clear and the men are uncomplicated.”

  Cinderella Rule #11

  Social functions are really just business functions dressed up in fancy clothes. You can still enjoy yourself, and you should. All work and no play can make Cinderella a tedious young lady. However, never forget that your actions in the ballroom might reflect on your advancement in the boardroom. In other words, be careful who you tango with, honey.

  —VIVIAN

  Chapter 11

  Well, now, Shane Morgan, as I live and breathe. I was hoping to talk to you today.”

  Shane stifled a sigh. This time the speaker was an older man with white muttonchops, and a protruding belly that even Shane wasn’t fleet-footed enough to dance around.

  “Hello, glad you could come. Sorry, can’t talk business at the moment.” He shot the man his best grin. Probably closer to a clenching of teeth by now, but he was certain the man was too caught up in his own intentions to notice. “A host’s job is never done.”

  Proving Shane right, the man stayed right where he was and stuck out his hand. “Mort Jensen. Close friend of your grandmother.”

  Gee, where had he heard that before? Oh, right. From every other person who’d waylaid him since the first car had pulled up the drive a few hours earlier. Had one of them stopped to ask him how he was, what he’d been up to, how things were going? No, they’d tossed off a quick platitude about Alexandra, then launched into their business spiel, hoping he’d jump into this investment deal or that partnership plan. And that didn’t even begin to cover the ones who’d bypassed the pleasantries and simply asked him outright to write a check. He’d been asked to financially support every cause from saving the endowment to the arts, to building a new community shelter for transients. In Guam.

  “Her passing was such a shock to us all,” Mort said, shading the avarice in his little piggy eyes and pretending it counted as sincerity.

  Shane managed to keep his smile pasted in place as he gave Mort’s beefy hand a quick pump. “Yes, it certainly was.” Your fellow investors probably still haven’t recovered. He feinted left, and felt no shame as he ducked around Mort’s right when the man didn’t catch on fast enough.

  “I say, I wanted to discuss—”

  “Have another mint julep, Mort,” he called out over his shoulder. “Maybe we can catch up later.” His smile slipped as he worked his way through the milling groups that dotted the grounds of Four Stones. “Like in my next life,” he muttered. Was there not one person in all of Washington who could just come to a party to have a good time, and not work the crowd? Hell, he’d be happy if they’d just stop working the host.

  He maneuvered through another cluster, nodding and smiling once again, but not slowing down enough to be pulled into yet another discussion. He was on a mission. Find Darby.

  He hadn’t spied Bjornsen’s gilded mane floating above the crowd yet. His smile faltered briefly. Something about that guy still bugged him. Even Vivian had mentioned that, for all his charm, he seemed rather detached. Of course, Vivian wasn’t used to any man resisting her charms, Shane thought with a brief grin. And he might have chalked it up to the very male response of wishing Darby was going home with him . . . and not the Blond One. Except Darby had seemed uncomfortable with him, too.

  Well, the background report he’d ordered on Bjornsen might clear some of their suspicions right up. Of course, he was well aware that Darby might be pissed at his heavy-handedness, but she deserved to know exactly who she was tangling with, even if her father didn’t seem too worried about it.

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m doing this,” he muttered beneath his breath, jaws aching from smiling nonstop as he shook yet another hand, accepted another kiss on his cheek, and pretended to regretfully refuse to discuss how taking Morgan Industries public could boost his bottom line. He refrained from pointing out just whose bottom line the older woman was really concerned about. Jesus. How hard was it to disappear in a crowd this size, anyway?

  It shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes to skim over everything. Actually, Stefan had been a last minute add-on to some other reports he’d already ordered. He’d finally found time to sort through Alexandra’s personal files, and some of the notes he’d found on the Celentrex takeover didn’t add up with what the various teams of people, vying for top position on the deal, had been presenting to him ad nauseam all week. All that talk had been about the new fossil-fuel extraction technology. Only, in the sheaf of scientific data and engineering reports buried in her private files—which might as well have been in Greek for all he understood about matrixes and pegmatitic veins—the technology being discussed ref
erred only to “mineral resource” extraction. And if the mining report from Brazil was any indication, the first projected “resource” to be extracted was emeralds. Which weren’t a type of fossil fuel, the last Shane had heard.

  So he’d gone on a little digging expedition of his own, the results of which were waiting for him upstairs on his Morgan-procured laptop. But he was like the main act in a freak show. And it wasn’t just the business of doing business that was making him cranky. It seemed his bachelorhood was also the source of intense speculation. He’d caught women of all ages openly scoping him out, for what variety of reasons he could only shudder to think about.

  He’d almost made his way around the side of the house and to a lesser-used entrance into the sunroom that he prayed was unlocked. Still no sign of Darby and the Blond One. All he needed to do was duck behind a hedge, sneak inside, use the back stairs to the third floor and, voilà, he was alone. Until someone tracked him down, anyway. He’d be happy with fifteen minutes. Or however long it took to prove Alexandra was up to a whole lot more than helping resolve the world’s reliance on the Middle East for oil . . . and, while he was at it, whether it was simply the competitive Y chromosome that had him disliking Bjornsen, or whether the Blond One was a scheming player just like his grandmother. He didn’t know quite yet what he was going to do about the first part, if there really had been some other side deal in the works, but if the latter proved true, he’d take great enjoyment in showing Darby the proof, then kicking Bjornsen out on his smug, predatory ass.