Once Upon A Kiss...: The Cinderella Act / Princess in the Making / Temporarily His Princess

For dinner, Annie prepared one of Katherine Drummond’s favorite meals, seared salmon with blackberry sauce, accompanied by tiny new potatoes and crisp green beans from the local farmers market.

“How lovely! Obviously Sinclair remembered to tell you we were coming. I’m never sure if he will.” Katherine shot a doting glance at her son.

Annie smiled, and avoided looking at Sinclair as she served them. Experience had taught her to be prepared for almost anything. And she did get real satisfaction from doing her job well. The room glowed with fresh beeswax candles handmade by a local artisan, and the windows sparkled, letting in the warm apricot light from the evening sun. If anything about the house was the least bit unwelcoming or unpleasant, it wasn’t from lack of effort on her part.

She leaned over Sinclair to top up his white wine. His dark hair touched his collar, in need of a haircut. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered its silky thickness under her fingers.

An odd sensation made her look up, and meet Vicki’s curious violet gaze. She turned away quickly and topped off Katherine’s glass, then Vicki’s. Had Vicki noticed her looking at Sinclair?

“It doesn’t seem entirely fair for Annie to be running around topping things off when she made this lovely meal.” Vicki’s silvery voice rang in the air. Annie winced.

“She’s right, of course,” chimed in Katherine. “Annie, dear. Do bring a plate and join us. We’re just family tonight, after all.” She reached across the table and took Vicki’s hand.

Vicki’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she held Katherine’s hand and smiled. “You’re so sweet.”

Annie hesitated, humiliation and mangled pride churning inside her. She’d been enjoying this meal as the server, but sitting down at the table with them opened all kinds of uncomfortable doors. How would she know when to get up and bring the next course? Should she join them for a glass of wine, or stick to water so as not to burn the chocolate soufflés? “I already ate, thank you.” The lie burned her tongue.

“Do join us anyway, won’t you?” Katherine indicated the empty chair next to Sinclair. “I’m dying to hear how your investigations in the attic are going.”

Annie pulled out the chair, which scraped loudly on the floor, and eased herself into it, as far away from Sinclair as possible. He hadn’t looked up from his salmon. Had he even glanced at her once all evening?

Better that he didn’t. She couldn’t bear the thought of him looking at her with disgust and disbelief at his lapse of judgment. “I’ve gone through quite a few of the old boxes and trunks. I’ve made an inventory. Shall I get it?” She itched to get up. At least her notes would give her something to do with her fingers.

“No need for that right now. I’m guessing you haven’t found the cup piece yet.”

Annie shook her head. “I’m looking at every item I pick up to see if it could possibly be part of a cup, but so far nothing even comes close. I don’t suppose there’s a description of it?”

Kathleen sipped her wine. “Only that it’s silver. It isn’t jewel-encrusted. In fact we suspect it’s not silver at all but pewter or some base metal. Odd, really, that something so precious to them would be so valueless.”

Vicki leaned back in her chair. “It demonstrates an awareness of human nature. If it had real value, someone might have melted it down or pried the gems off to make earrings. By making it valueless to anyone but the family, they ensured its survival. Was it contemporary to when the brothers sailed from Scotland?”

“We don’t know.” Katherine took a bite of her green beans. She ate very slowly and cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure whether the food was poisonous or not. Probably an effect of her illness, but it didn’t help Annie’s already frayed nerves. “The cup could be much older than three hundred years if it was passed down through the Drummond family before they came to America. No one knows where the legend about it first came from. When I first married Steven, Sinclair’s father …” she looked at Annie “… his mother was still alive and loved to tell stories of the family history. She often wondered aloud whether it was time for us to put some serious effort into finding the cup.” She raised a brow. “Her own marriage wasn’t a happy one, and all of her sons—including my own husband—were rather wild.”

She looked thoughtfully at Sinclair for a moment. He appeared to be engrossed in cutting a potato. “Since then I’ve often wondered if finding the cup would somehow shift the course of fate and make life easier for all members of the family.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Vicki. “The legend says it will restore the fates and fortunes of the Drummond menfolk, and I think as women we all know that makes life easier for us, too.”

Annie felt a nasty jolt of realization. Katherine Drummond had brought Vicki here in the hope that she really would become a member of the family—as Sinclair’s next wife.

A cold stone settled in her empty stomach.

“There are all kinds of interesting things up in the attic,” she said quickly, anxious to pull herself out of a self-involved funk. “So far I’ve found everything from an old hunting horn to a huge pearl brooch. That’s what made me decide to make a list. It would be a shame for so many special things to stay buried.”

“Sometimes keeping things buried keeps them safe,” replied Katherine with a slightly raised brow. “Especially in the age of eBay. Though I imagine Vicki might disagree.”

Vicki laughed. “I believe in matching objects with their ideal owner.”

“Vicki’s an antique dealer,” explained Katherine.

“Though some people have other words for it.” Vicki lifted a slim, dark brow. “After all, value is in the eye of the beholder.”

“I thought that was beauty.” Sinclair said what were possibly his first words of the whole dinner. A hush fell over the table.

“Aren’t they really the same thing?” Vicki picked up her wineglass and sipped, gaze fixed on Sinclair.

Annie swallowed. Vicki oozed confidence, both intellectual and sexual. Of course Sinclair would be interested in her. She, on the other hand … “Let me clear the dishes.” She rose and removed two of the serving platters.

“Value and beauty often have no relationship at all.” She heard Sinclair’s voice behind her as she exited for the kitchen. “Some of my most profitable investments have been in things that no one wants to look at: uranium, bauxite, natural gas.”

“So you most value things that are plain and dull.” Annie cringed as if Vicki’s comment was directed at his interest in her. Not that he had any obvious interest in her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t looked at her at all since their perfunctory greeting.

“I most value things that are useful.”

“What are we going to do with this son of yours?”

Annie scooped leftover potatoes into a plastic container to save for her own dinner.

“Well, Lord knows I’ve tried to loosen him up over the years, to no avail.” His mother’s voice carried from the dining room. “I think this legendary cup may be our only chance.” The women’s laughter hurt her ears. She was so clearly not a part of this tight-knit group.

And she’d better go retrieve the rest of the plates. She entered the dining room quietly. Conversation had shifted to some upcoming party. For a split second she felt like Cinderella, destined to help everyone get ready for the ball, knowing she’d never get to go.

She picked up the untouched plate of bread rolls, and couldn’t resist sneaking the briefest glance at Sinclair as she lifted it off the table. When she looked up, their eyes met.

His cool, dark gaze sent a chill through her, at war with the swift, hot wave of attraction. Then he looked away. “I’m going sailing tomorrow.” He spoke in his mother’s direction. “I’ll be gone all day.”

“All the more time for Vicki and myself to make ourselves at home in the attic.”

Annie’s hands trembled, clattering the two plates she carried. Was she being ousted from the task of looking for the cup? She realized with a pang of disappointment that she’d come to feel quite proprietary about the attic and its trove of discarded treasures.

Which was silly. None of them were hers and they never would be. That blue dress hung in the closet a few yards away from where she stood, in the spare bedroom. For a few brief moments it had felt like hers, like she was meant to wear it. In retrospect it had been wearing her, and had turned her—briefly—into another person. Maybe it was better that she stay away from all this odd old stuff with mysterious powers.

She carried the plates into the kitchen, scraped them and put them in the dishwasher. Her ears were pricked for the sound of Sinclair’s voice, but all she heard was the chatter of the two women.

He doesn’t care about you. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. An act of madness.

“Annie.” His voice right behind her made her jump. She wheeled around and saw him standing, larger than life, in the kitchen. “We need to talk.”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed. Stress had carved a line between his brows. “When we can be alone.”

She nodded, heart pounding. Sinclair turned and strode from the room, his powerful shoulders hunched slightly inside his starched shirt.

He’d been so taciturn tonight, barely joining the conversation. Was he thinking about her? She rinsed the cutlery and put it into the dishwasher. For a while she thought he’d simply pretend nothing had happened. He made no contact with her after they’d made love and two weeks had gone by. She’d almost started to believe she imagined the whole, crazy thing.

But now he wanted to be alone with her. Wanted to talk to her. Her blood pumped harder. Worst-case scenario, he wanted to fire her. Best-case scenario?

She chewed her lip.

“Annie, darling, could you bring more Chablis?”

She wiped her hands on a towel and headed for the wine cellar.

Three

Sinclair usually preferred to help himself to some toast and coffee, but Annie never knew what guests might want, so she hovered in the kitchen ready to make an omelet or oatmeal. She wondered if Sinclair would come down first and they would have their talk before the others awoke.

To her dismay, Vicki was the first down the stairs, yawning, her sleek black hair knotted into a casual but elegant twist and her taut body showcased in skimpy capris and a cutoff T-shirt. “Morning, Annie. Is this where you ask me if I want breakfast?”

“You’re way ahead of me. What can I get you?” Annoying guests weren’t unusual. She managed a cheerful smile.

“Do you have any grapefruit?”

“I made a fruit salad of cantaloupe, grapes, honeydew and pineapple, but no grapefruit, I’m afraid. Would you like me to get you some?” Probably she was on some crackpot diet eating twenty-seven grapefruits a day and nothing else. She had that kind of body.

“God, no. Your fruit salad sounds fab. I’d kill for some scrambled eggs and bacon to go with it, if that’s a possibility. Any sign of Sinclair?”

Annie blinked. “Not so far.”

“Probably snuck out early to avoid us.” Vicki shot her a conspiratorial smile. “Not much of a people person, is he?”

Annie glanced up the stairs. Had Sinclair really left the house already? He did sometimes slip away right at dawn. She wasn’t sure where he went but he often came back wet, so possibly the beach. He didn’t do that when guests were staying, though.

She didn’t answer Vicki’s question. He seemed very good with people from what she could see. He wouldn’t have a successful investment company if he wasn’t a people person. “Do you like your bacon well-done?”

“That would be perfect.” Vicki wandered into the dining room and picked up the New York Times.

Annie headed for the kitchen. People like Vicki gave orders effortlessly. She’d been brought up that way. It was her own job to make sure those orders were carried out without a moment’s hesitation, even if she had to run out and wrestle down a pig to make the bacon.

Happily she was well prepared and kept the freshest local bacon on hand. Three rashers were sizzling on the stove and the eggs bubbling in a pan when the kitchen door swung open. Annie nearly jumped out of her skin, expecting to see Sinclair’s imposing form and stern gaze.

A smile settled across Vicki’s shapely mouth. “Goodness, you are jumpy. Expecting someone else?”

“No.” Annie answered too fast. She whisked the bacon and eggs onto a plate, hoping her red face would be attributed to the heat from the stove.

Vicki lounged in the doorway, watching her. “Sinclair is a dark horse.”

Annie burned to disagree, or at least ask why she would say such a thing, but her gut told her that would be playing into some plan of Vicki’s. “Will you take it in the dining room?”

“I’ll take it from you right here.” She thrust out her hands and took the fork and knife from Annie. “And thank you very much for making this. It looks yummy.” She flashed another oh-so-charming smile.

Annie let out a hard breath when the door closed behind Vicki. What did she mean by that comment? Did she suspect something between herself and Sinclair? Sweat had broken out on her forehead and she pushed a few strands of hair off it. Surely she hadn’t given anything away?

Katherine came down around 10:00 a.m. and ate a few bites of her custom-made muesli. “Has my son already abandoned us?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him all morning.” Annie refilled her juice. How had Sinclair managed to slip away? She’d been up since before first light. He must be very determined to avoid her. That didn’t bode well for their planned talk.

“I’m dying to head up to the attic, though I have to take it slow. The doctor says I’m not allowed to stand up for more than thirty minutes at a time.” She shook her head, and her elegant blond bob swung. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to do anything when you have to sit down every thirty minutes, but he is the top man in his field and I promised Sinclair I’d follow his instructions slavishly.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Weak.” She laughed a little. “I poop out easily. I’m supposed to eat all kinds of super foods to boost my energy but I don’t have any appetite, either. I might try acupuncture. A friend of mine swears by it.”

Annie ventured into the conversation. “My sister tried it to give up smoking and it didn’t work. I blame my sister, though, not the acupuncturist. I think she was more determined to prove him wrong than she was to quit.”

Katherine’s warm smile lit up the room. “I’m determined to get well. I have far too much to live for. I haven’t even met my first grandchild yet.”

Juice sloshed in the jug as Annie’s hand jerked. Sinclair was Katherine Drummond’s only child so obviously her fondest dreams lay in his next marriage. A prospect that made Annie’s muscles limp with dismay. “That is something to look forward to.”

“What about you, Annie? Is there anyone in your life?” A blond brow lifted.

Annie froze. Did she also suspect something between her and Sinclair?

“You seem to live here so quietly and I worry that we’ve cut you off from civilization. Maybe you should try one of those online dating services.”

Annie’s heart sank a little when she realized it hadn’t even crossed Katherine’s mind that she and Sinclair might be involved. “I’m quite happy. One day my prince will come.” She smiled and hoped it looked convincing.

“These days it doesn’t pay to wait around for princes to show up. Better to go out and find one yourself before all the good ones get snatched up.”

Sinclair’s been snatched up twice, but he’s still available. She did not voice her thoughts. And really, was a man who’d been divorced twice such a good prospect? She suppressed a sigh. “I don’t have time for dating. I’m planning to take an evening course at the local college.”

“Really?” Katherine’s eyes widened.

Annie regretted her words. The plan was still half-formed in her mind and now her employer would probably worry about her slacking off in her duties. Why had she said it? Was she so afraid of seeming like a pathetic spinster who’d be polishing silver for the rest of her life?

“Nothing very demanding. I was thinking of learning a little about business.” She shrugged her shoulders apologetically. Probably better not to tell Katherine about her dream of opening a shop one day.

“I think that’s wonderful, Annie. If there’s anything at all I can do to help, a reference to get you into the program, or something like that. I’m sure Sinclair will be thrilled.”

She doubted Sinclair would feel such strong emotion on the topic. Though he might be happy to hear she was trying to broaden her employment prospects. He’d hardly want her hanging around in his house for years after they’d had that … accident.

That’s what it felt like. A sudden car wreck. Or maybe just a fender bender. Either way it had left her bruised and dented and unsure of her previously planned route.

“Thanks, can I get you some more toast?”

“No, thanks. I’d like to head up to the attic, if you’re ready.”

They spent the day rifling through the boxes and crates of old possessions. The space grew hotter as the day went on. Vicki was surprisingly quiet, examining objects with a studious eye, as if making mental notes about them. They found several pieces of eighteenth-century scrimshaw and a carefully packed box with two old Chinese vases, but most of the stuff was obviously worthless—boxes of celluloid shirt collars and scrofulous-looking moleskin hats. By late afternoon they were winding down their search. “I think it’s time for a glass of iced tea,” Katherine said, getting up from the folding chair Annie had brought up for her.

“You go ahead, I’ll be down in a minute.” Vicki’s nose was deep in a black trunk.

“Something interesting in there?” Katherine fanned herself with a slim hand.

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know if I find anything good.”

“Let’s go down, Annie.” Annie cast a backward glance at Vicki. It went against all her instincts to leave her here among the family treasures. “If you’ll just give me a hand down the stairs.”

With no choice but to help Katherine, Annie headed back into the house and spent the next hour making scones and spreading cream and jam on them, while listening for every slight hint that Sinclair’s car might be pulling back into the driveway.

Katherine was nodding off in a shaded armchair, and Vicki engrossed in texting on her phone, when she heard the purr of that familiar engine. Her heart immediately kicked into overdrive. She hurried into the kitchen so she didn’t have to watch him kiss Vicki warmly on the cheek. If he wanted to see her, he knew where to find her. She cursed herself for checking her reflection in the polished side of a stainless-steel pot and smoothing her hair back into its bun.

Heavy footfalls on the wood stairs sounded his ascent to his bedroom. She heaved a sigh of relief mingled with disappointment. Obviously he wasn’t burning with a desire to see her. She could easily go up there on the pretext of bringing fresh towels or collecting his laundry. In fact, on a normal weekend, she’d probably do just that.

But nothing would ever be normal again.

Softer footfalls on the stairs suggested Vicki heading up, too. Maybe she was going to throw her arms around Sinclair and beg him to tell her all about his sailing adventures.

Annie cursed herself for caring. Sinclair was never hers to be possessive about, not for a single instant. If she didn’t want to feel this way, she should never have let him kiss her. If only she could turn the clock back to that moment of madness when his lips hovered just in front of hers.

“He is one of the most insightful portraitists working today, but if you’re sure …” Vicki’s voice carried along the upstairs hallway later that afternoon. “Katherine, Sin doesn’t want to come with us. We’re on our own.”

“I keep telling him he should pay more attention to art, for its investment potential as well as its beauty, but he won’t listen. What time does it open?”

Annie listened to them plan their stroll through the village to the art opening and mentally calculated how long she’d be alone with Sinclair. Certainly long enough to talk. Probably long enough to get into a lot of trouble, too, but she had no intention of doing that again.

She prepped for dinner while the women primped themselves. Katherine was immaculate as usual, her golden hair cupping her cheekbones, dressed in a sleek pantsuit with a bold jade necklace. Vicki looked like she’d just climbed out of bed looking like a goddess, an effect that must take considerable effort. A diaphanous dress clung to her slender form, revealing long, graceful legs that ended in pointy ankle boots.

Annie resisted the urge to look down at herself. She was not in competition with these women. She was not even on the same playing field as them, and no one expected her to be. But then, why did her usual “uniform” of preppy classics feel dowdy and frumpier than ever?

She hid in the kitchen after the door closed behind them. If Sinclair wanted to talk to her he could come find her. And he did.

“I didn’t hear you,” she stammered, when she saw him standing, tall and serious, in the narrow doorway. The old colonial kitchen had been remodeled with the most extravagant chefs’ appliances, but that didn’t change the low ceiling and old-fashioned proportions that made Sinclair look like a giant, standing next to the hand-carved spice racks.

His hair was wet, slicked back but with a long tendril falling over his forehead. He wore a pale gray polo shirt and well-worn khakis, and she noticed with a start that his feet were bare. How could he manage to look so elegant and breathtakingly handsome in such casual clothing?

“Listen, Annie …”

Like she had any choice?

“About the other day.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to explain—”

“Me either,” she cut in. “It was very unexpected.”

He looked relieved. Somehow that hurt. Still, at least he wasn’t trying to act as if nothing happened.

“I think we should both forget that it ever happened.”

His mocking echo of her thoughts cut her to the quick. “Of course.” The words flew from her mouth, a desperate attempt to save face.

He could have left right then, the pact between them safely sealed, but he didn’t. He stood in the doorway, blocking her view of the hallway and—now that she thought of it—her only escape route. “You’re a nice girl, Annie.”

Oh no, here it came. The “don’t be too hurt that I’m not at all interested in you, some other schlub will be” speech. If only she could run from the room and spare herself his pity.

“You’re nice, too.” She cringed. It sounded like something a preschooler would come up with. No wonder he had no enduring interest in her—she sounded like someone who had the intellect of a turnip.

“Not really.” He rubbed at his chest with a tense hand, and she could remember the thick, taut muscle hidden beneath his gray shirt. She’d rested her cheek on his chest and sighed with sheer pleasure. Now his dark eyes looked pained.

He was probably thinking of his ex-wives. The last one had said all kinds of nasty things about him in the press after she realized she hadn’t been married long enough to get alimony. “I know you didn’t want to … do that.” She couldn’t even say it. What had they done? It wasn’t “making love” or “sleeping together.” Having sex. Pretty simple, really, but she still couldn’t voice the words. “I know you didn’t plan it and that you regret it.” She swallowed. What had possibly been the most perfectly blissful hour of her life was an embarrassing footnote in his.

“Exactly.”

His words sank through her like a stone. Why could she not shake the pathetic hope that all those kisses and so much passion had meant something to him? It seemed so strange that his breathless moans could be nothing more than a gut physical reaction.