The Cinderella Seduction: A Suddenly Cinderella Novel (Entangled Indulgence)

by Tarr, Hope

  Stefanie hesitated before admitting, “July second.”

  Macie handed back the phone. “That’s…not a lot of time.”

  Her friend was right. One measly week to transform herself into a svelte Greek American princess wasn’t much, but given that was all the time she—they—had, she might as well make the most of it. Once he went back to Greece, she’d be free to turn back into a pumpkin, or at least a laidback personal chef who wasn’t always the best about remembering to shave her legs.

  Macie pushed back her chair and stood. “Come on, Stef, unless someone spots me a wand, we have some major shopping to do.”

  …

  Over the plane’s crackling intercom, the captain announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our descent to Kennedy International airport shortly. Please resume your seats and fasten your seat belts.”

  Awakened, Mara lifted her head from Nick’s arm. “Are we there yet, Papa?”

  He reached down between their seats and retrieved his mother’s parting gift, a classic Raggedy Ann doll, from the floor. Tucking the doll into Mara’s pink backpack, he said, “Not quite, darling, but we are very close.”

  The captain’s intercom announcement had saved him from having to wake her. One’s first view of the New York skyline was not to be missed.

  From across the aisle, the gabby grandmother from Brooklyn who’d earlier talked Nick’s ear off about her first holiday to Greece leaned toward them. “You poor little mite, you look beat,” she said, shoving her face up to Mara’s. “I betcha you’ll be glad to see your mommy.”

  Horrified, Nick opened his mouth to intercept but Mara did so first. “My mommy doesn’t live in America. She lives in Heaven.”

  The woman’s face fell. “Oh, I’m so…s-sorry,” she sputtered, looking quickly away.

  Fuming, Nick looped an arm about Mara, hugging her close. She snuggled against him, and together they turned toward the window. As annoying as the intrusive comment was, it reopened an internal dialogue Nick had begun having more and more of late. Did he have a duty to marry? Not for Costas International—his fecund sisters had well-established the next generation—but for Mara? Based on the hints his mother had begun dropping, she had several candidates under consideration, all from wealthy Greek families, their reputations and lineages above reproach.

  But Nick wasn’t interested in entering into another business alliance. When—or if—he wed, his bride must be not only a wife to him but a loving mother to Mara. And there was another criterion he was as yet reticent to voice for fear of seeming—and feeling—foolish.

  She must be someone with whom he could fall deeply, passionately in love.

  After years of irresponsibility and selfishness, did he even have the right to hope that such a pure and perfect union might be within his grasp?

  The clouds parted and the New York skyline came into view, a harbinger of hope, a beacon of new beginnings. Or perhaps those were simply the fancies of a sleep-deprived traveler. Either way…

  “Look, Mara, below is the city of New York.”

  For the next several minutes, he occupied himself with pointing out several well-known landmarks. Smiling at Mara’s oohs and ahhs, he promised himself that just as soon as this trip to the States concluded, he would give serious consideration to his marital situation.

  …

  “It’s not like I’m marrying the guy,” Stefanie protested as she and Macie stood side by side, raking the sale rack at Ann Taylor on Alexandria’s North Washington Street.

  Until now, Stefanie had always considered “shop till you drop” to be a meaningless cliché. Not so now. Shopping bags brimming with previous purchases sat parked at their feet. Her arms ached and so did her arches. Her growling belly begged for brunch.

  Macie pulled a cream-colored shift dress off the rack, held it up to Stefanie, and shook her head. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look amazing—for yourself, not for anyone else. Though of course, if this Costas guy should happen to be smitten and sweep you off to his yacht or castle or wherever Greek tycoons live, that wouldn’t suck, either.”

  Stefanie snorted. The sort of Happily Ever After ending Macie described was reserved for fairy tales—and those blessed to be born into petite, princess-size bodies. “Just for the record, in my next life I’m coming back as a size two.” Why was it that clothing store changing rooms were invariably outfitted with florescent lights and the equivalent of fun-house mirrors?

  Macie’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding? I’d kill for your body. You’re like a Greek American version of that actress who plays Joan on Mad Men.” She shoved the discarded dress back on the bar and continued riffling through.

  Stefanie snorted. “Christina Hendricks has curves; I have flab.”

  Macie sent her the familiar exasperated look. “All she has that you don’t is self-confidence and a personal stylist—only now you have me in your fashion corner. That’s half the battle won.”

  Stefanie wasn’t so sure. It was one thing to wear comfortable clothes and practical shoes and absolutely no makeup and convince the world that she didn’t care how she looked, but if she were to make an actual effort and fail… Imagining the jibes from Jacquie and the girls sent heat striking her cheeks.

  Courage petering, she said, “Maybe this is a mistake. You know the old saying about how you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear? I’m betting that goes for the whole sow, not just the ear.”

  She let out a laugh but Macie didn’t join her. “That is so not funny. I’ve been listening to you put yourself down since college. Enough already.”

  Chastened, Stefanie nodded. “Sorry, you’re right. Bad habit, I guess.”

  Macie turned away from the clothing. “It is, so break it. Speaking of which, maybe we should take a time-out.”

  Stefanie perked up. “There’s a new gelato place I’m dying to try. It’s walking distance, so we won’t have to move the car,” she added as an enticement. As in DC proper, parking along Alexandria’s tony historic district streets was at a premium.

  “That sounds nice, but unfortunately we don’t have time.”

  “We don’t?” Stefanie’s stomach mutinied, letting out another rumble.

  Macie shook her head—and shuttered her gaze. “Nope, we don’t.” The telltale gesture tipped Stefanie off that a confession was coming.

  “Why is that?”

  “While you were in the changing room, I sort of…booked you an appointment at my day spa.”

  Oh, was that all? “You mean like for a massage?” She’d been so tense ever since her pop’s visit. Having a professional knead away the knots sounded all kinds of heavenly—not gelato, but a close second.

  Macie hesitated. “Not…exactly.”

  Her gaze slid away but not before Stefanie caught the telltale glimmer. She knew that look. It was the same face her friend had worn last summer when she’d talked Stefanie into helping her fool Ross into thinking she was a housekeeper instead of an undercover reporter on a muckraking mission. It spelled trouble, pure and simple.

  Summoning the firmest voice she could find, she said, “I think you’d better tell me exactly what you have in mind.”

  Macie scooped up their shopping bags and steered them toward the counter. “I’ll explain on the way over.”

  …

  “Ahhhh!”

  Stefanie shot up from the treatment table. So much for the day spa’s touted “ouch-less waxing.” She heaved a quaking breath, feeling as if a sheet of her skin had just been ripped off. Then again, looking down at the raw, salmon-pink stripe bisecting her pelvis, it kind of had.

  Posting guard by the door, the room’s only exit, Macie chuckled. “Look on the bright side—no more razor bumps.”

  Eyes watering, Stefanie shook her head. “Are you crazy? Razor bumps don’t hurt like this! I’ll never complain about shaving again.”

  Macie sent her a smug smile. “You won’t have to. Sheila’s fantastic. Her treatments always last me a solid th
ree months.” She exchanged smiles with the spa technician standing tableside.

  Wearing a white lab jacket and disposable gloves, Sheila dropped the used waxing cloth in the chrome trash can. “It is true. I am very thorough.”

  Stefanie stared between them. “You do this every three months?” Assuming she survived, she didn’t plan to repeat the experience—not ever.

  “No pain, no gain,” Macie affirmed with a matter-of-fact nod.

  Pressing Stefanie back down onto the tissue-paper-covered pillow, Sheila cooed, “Relax, missus, I use only the soft cream wax. Beeswax based, all natural, no synthetics. Is gentle, no?”

  “No, it’s not gentle at all.” Stefanie stared down at the remaining strips yet to be pulled and swallowed. If this was what the soft wax felt like, she didn’t care to come into contact with the hard stuff. “Maybe we should, uh…stop now?”

  “Nice try.” Grinning, Macie turned to the technician. “Sheila, take it away!”

  …

  Wednesday, July 2

  Caught up in a whirlwind week of makeover madness, the Big Day snuck up on Stefanie before she knew it. Too nervous to sleep beyond a few hours, she rose early, made a pot of coffee, and started cooking. By three o’clock, the prep work and most of the precooking were completed, the loaves of country-style bread set on racks to cool, the grape leaves stuffed and laid out on their serving platter in the refrigerator, the lamb marinating in preparation for roasting.

  Thank goodness her father and Jacquie would be hosting the welcome dinner. Converting the downstairs of her 1870s Federal-style pied-à-terre into a commercial kitchen had saved her having to rent a separate commercial space, but it didn’t leave much room for entertaining, certainly not for a sit down dinner. Her family’s stately home in northwest Washington’s tree-lined Cleveland Park would make a far more fitting venue for a visiting Greek tycoon born to champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

  Preparing the food was the easy part. Getting herself ready provoked significantly more anxiety. More than once, she regretted refusing Macie’s offer to come over and help with her hair and makeup. Still, she had to fly solo sooner or later. Her eyebrows had been threaded, her armpits, legs, and…lady garden waxed to pristine smoothness. The triangle between her legs, winnowed to a narrow landing strip, was still slightly pink and sensitive, but if she were honest, she had to admit that the pruning, along with her new blush-worthy Victoria’s Secret bikini-style panties, made it mentally easier to slip into her seductress role.

  She stepped out of the shower, bundled herself into her terrycloth robe, and walked up to the mirrored vanity. Using kitchen utensils was second nature but styling products and tools still felt foreign in her hands. She picked up the rounded styling brush and the hair dryer and got to work, mimicking the movements Macie’s DC stylist had taught her. Switching off the dryer, she admitted the result was surprisingly good.

  Chopped to just below shoulder length and with her formerly heavy bangs swept to the side and softened into face-framing layers, her new haircut made her look and feel like a different person—a woman a visiting Greek tycoon might find worthy of a second glance, maybe even more. Bolstered by the beaming smiles of Macie and the stylist and the fizzy wine they’d fed her, she’d even let herself be persuaded into “playing with color.” The caramel highlights were a subtle touch that added texture and volume to the cut’s chic simplicity. Given she’d be serving food, she settled on a softly upswept French twist, following Macie’s suggestion to loosen a few face-framing tendrils.

  Next was makeup. Surveying the baffling array of brushes, she took a deep breath and dove in. Twenty minutes later, she stepped back to evaluate her handiwork. The smoky shadow and smudged liner accentuated her eyes, which until now she’d always thought of as “boring old brown.” Freed from glasses and framed by mascara-lacquered lashes, they didn’t look boring at all but large, even luminous. A dusting of blush brought out cheekbones she hadn’t realized she had. Lining her lips with a peach-colored pencil and filling in with like-colored lipstick made the mouth she’d always thought of as too wide look lush instead.

  A spring in her step, she padded out into the bedroom. The lapis-colored belted swing dress was an eye-catching alternative to black with a similar slimming effect, or so Macie had said. Unused to wearing anything remotely fitted, she’d required considerable coaxing to even try it on but had been pleasantly surprised. The dress had seemed to peel off ten pounds.

  She took a deep breath and unbelted her robe. Letting it slide, she reached for the dress. She stepped into it and brought it up over her legs, buttocks, and shoulders. She reached for the zipper tab and, out of habit, sucked in her stomach. There was no need. The zipper glided effortlessly upward, its metal teeth closing without a hitch. Letting out her breath, she stuck her feet into strappy white kitten heels and stepped up to the full-length mirror anchored to the closet door.

  “Wow,” she said, belatedly realizing she’d spoken aloud.

  She scarcely recognized herself. The polished, put-together woman who stared back at her might not be a perfect ten, but she was…inviting. She hadn’t dropped a pound and yet for the first time in her adult life she felt genuinely sexy and pretty.

  Keeping watch on the time, she went downstairs to begin boxing up the dishes. In the midst of doing so, her cell phone sounded. The theme to Zorba the Greek identified the caller as her pop.

  Holding the phone to her ear and pulling plastic wrap over a cheese and olive platter, she said, “Hey, Pop, I’m getting ready to leave in a few.”

  “Stay put.”

  Stefanie dropped the roll of wrap. “Why? I’m on my—”

  “I am stricken. I have a terrible flu.”

  “You sounded fine when we spoke last night.”

  His froggy voice didn’t fool her for a moment. He was faking it.

  “It came on very suddenly.”

  She tapped her recently manicured nails on the granite counter. “Hmm, you don’t say. What are your symptoms?”

  “Er…a terrible griping in my belly and…a fever, very high. Considering the circumstances, I’m putting myself and Jacquie and the twins under quarantine until this passes.”

  “Quarantine!” She nearly dropped the phone.

  “I cannot very well welcome Niko Costas into a hotbed of germs, now can I?” he said reasonably—too reasonably. “I am afraid you will have to host him at your house.”

  Stefanie groaned. “Pop, don’t do this to me.” It was one thing to take Costas around town, to flirt in the service of softening him up, but quite another to be left alone with him on the front lines, solely responsible for his care and feeding.

  “It is done,” he announced firmly, not sounding sick at all. “I’ve already contacted the car service with the change of plan and your address. The limo driver will pick him up from Dulles International as planned—”

  “The limo driver! You hired a limo?” Considering their money troubles, shouldn’t they be cutting back?

  Selective hearing was her pop’s specialty. As though she hadn’t spoken, he continued, “—and drive him directly to you. He should arrive soon.”

  Soon? Was it possible to have heart failure and a racing pulse simultaneously? “Pop—”

  “I must go. I feel another bout of the sickness coming on. We’ll speak again tomorrow. Good luck, little one.” He clicked off the call.

  Setting down her cell, Stefanie felt her frustration slide into panic. Her personal living area was limited to her loft, a barebones space furnished with a dresser, night table, and her bed.

  I could seriously use a hit of chocolate right now.

  There must be a bite of Bakers’ tucked away somewhere. Pawing through her pantry, struggling to remember where she’d deliberately hidden it from herself, she heard the front door knocker drop. Holy shit, it was him. Nikolaos Costas. It had to be.

  She closed the cabinet and drew a deep breath, forcing air into her seizing lungs. A second clang, this time m
ore of a slam, reminded her that her “guest” still waited and with less-than-perfect patience. She crossed the wormhole-riddled floorboards on wobbly legs, only now noticing how her fancy new shoes pinched. Her clammy hand curled around the cut-glass knob, slowly rotating it. She pulled back, the door opening on a squeal of rusted hinges and heat-swollen wood.

  Thickly lashed hazel eyes stared back at her. “Miss Stefanapoulous?”

  She opened her mouth to answer but a mute nod was the best she could manage. The paparazzi photos didn’t begin to do him justice. Nikolaos Costas had chiseled features and thick, dark hair, the latter worn layered and longish, the ends curling about the collar of his crisp white shirt. Olive-colored skin stretched over a high forehead, sharply boned cheeks, and a nicely squared jaw. Light lines bracketed his magnetic eyes and full-lipped mouth, suggesting that he was no stranger to smiling as well as in his mid to late thirties. And he was tall, at least six feet. Wearing her modest two-inch heels brought them at eye level.

  His mouth curved upward as if stunning women to speechlessness was a matter of course. Then again, from all she’d read about him, it probably was. “Good evening. I am Nikolaos Costas,” he announced, his accented voice deep and velvety. “We are expected, yes?”

  Lost in his eyes, it took a moment for his question to sink in. We? Stefanie stepped back—and stared down.

  A second pair of thickly lashed and openly curious hazel eyes looked up into hers.

  Shock slammed her. Her Greek player had a kid with him.

  The little girl, who looked to be about six or seven, was a feminized Mini Me version of Costas as well as a real cutie. Her brown hair was gathered into a single ponytail, the pink bow matching her dress. She held a Hello Kitty miniature purse in one hand; her other hand wound about Costas’s pinkie finger.

  “This is my daughter, Mara. I hope it is all right that I brought her.”

  Daughter? Daughter! Her playboy captain of industry was a…family man?

  Even though she’d surmised as much, his confirmation that he had not a niece or young cousin along but an actual…offspring sent Stefanie reeling.