Chapter Nine

“Chop chop, people, we’ve couture to capture!”

Leading her trio of contestants, including Greg, down palm-tree-lined Rodeo Drive, Francesca called out the scripted line, which didn’t make a great deal of sense beyond its alliterative appeal. Beginning at the opposite end of the three-block stretch of designer and haute couture boutiques and shops, Deidre led a similar foray.

For the next several hours, camera crews would shadow the two teams as they went from shop to shop. Inside each preselected store, stationary crews awaited their arrival. Once there, the contestants would attack the racked clothing in a choreographed fashion feeding frenzy, although in reality Francesca had preselected three outfits for each—casual, business casual, and formal. While she’d striven to give each of her Cinderella men the benefit of her fashion expertise, she’d chosen for Greg with particular care, pulling items from Tom Ford, Giorgio Armani, and Ralph Lauren.

Reaching the entrance to Ralph Lauren, she made a show of greeting the sales associate, although they’d already met at the walkthrough that morning, before turning back to her posse of protégés.

“Long before Shakespeare had his character Polonius proclaim, ‘The apparel oft proclaims the man,’ the ancient Greeks wrote, ‘The garment makes the man.’ I’ve always preferred the proverb ‘The tailor makes the man’—or the woman, as the case may be. More often than not, how we present ourselves on the outside announces how we feel about ourselves on the inside, too.”

Out of the blue, Greg spoke up, “What about the admonishment against judging a book by its cover?” Mild though his manner was, there was a bite to his tone—and a challenge in his gaze meeting hers.

Modulating her voice, she answered, “People are not books, and whether we are right or wrong to do so, we all prejudge based on appearances—even you.”

That shut him up—for now. He’d as good as admitted to figuring her for a bitch before they’d even met—based solely on her publicity picture.

Addressing the group, she gestured to the racks. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

As rehearsed, the contestants rushed forward, the cameras following. Controlled mayhem ensued, each contestant eventually “finding” the pre-chosen clothing, the hangers marked by contestant ID, and making his way toward the dressing rooms.

Once they emerged, Francesca’s work would begin in earnest. In the style of What Not to Wear, she would join each contestant at the bank of full-length mirrors and narrate the merits of his current ensemble.

The contestants filed out from the changing area, Jonas and Hadley walking side by side, Greg coming out last. Francesca caught her breath. She’d known the royal-blue cashmere crewneck and pleated gabardine pants would look wonderful on him but…wow. The sweater’s color, in combination with his deep blue eyes and dark hair, was even more flattering than she’d anticipated.

By lottery, he ended up going first. Stepping up onto the carpeted pedestal, he turned back to her, waiting. Belatedly Francesca realized she’d stayed put, mutely staring. She followed him over on jellied legs.

Taping. Reality television, Project Cinderella. Paycheck, a huge one, provided you don’t muck it all up.

She needed to say something, preferably something smart-sounding or even funny, only she couldn’t seem to locate her bloody tongue. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Sean mouthing a curse. Bollocks! She had stage fright—or something like it, something worse. A nervous breakdown came to mind.

Greg stepped in, his ad-libbed lines covering an otherwise embarrassing silence. “As you can see from what I’m wearing, Francesca’s fashion sense is pretty impeccable. Just over a month ago, I was a card-carrying member of the brown shoes with black socks club. Now look at me, at us all,” he generously added, opening his arms to indicate the other contestants standing off to the side. Eyes meeting hers in the mirror, he prompted, “Francesca, walk me through again why this look works—and it is working, right, because you know me, I can’t tell. Hey, if it were left up to me, I’d probably just go naked.”

Imagine them in their birthday suits, she’d told him on the day at the press confidence. Was he pitching her antidote back to her now? She ground in a groan. Mentally peeling off Greg’s clothing presented no problem at all. As amazing as he looked in the outfit she’d selected, all she could think of was how very much more amazing he would look out of it.

The trick still worked, not brilliantly but sufficiently for her to click back into gear. “Yes, well, this look exemplifies the Ralph Lauren brand. The cabling on the jumper—sorry, sweater—is classically chic and at the same time fashion-forward.” She still felt like a zombie, but at least her mind and mouth had resumed rudimentary working. “Beneath Greg has on the classic-fit mesh polo. This sport shirt has been a wardrobe staple for male casual wear since it debuted in 1972.” She dropped her gaze. “As you see, the pleated pant front flatters a more slender waistline and accentuates the very nicely shaped…posterior.” She hesitated and then knelt at his feet, both A and B camera operators following her to the floor. “For the trousers, I elected to go sans cuffs to further elongate the line of Greg’s…legs. The shoes I see now aren’t quite right. I think a loafer would serve better, perhaps one with an interesting texture, faux alligator or perhaps snakeskin…”

She fumbled through the rest, not daring to try rising lest she fall on her face. Sean’s call of “Cut!” was akin to someone tossing her a lifeline. “Everybody, take ten,” he ordered, scraping a hand through his hair.

Francesca started up on wobbly legs. A hand, Greg’s, shot out toward her. She hesitated, then took it, her cold fingers wrapping about his palm.

He helped her up, holding on to her as she navigated the step down. “Are you sure you’re okay?” The look on his face seemed to say he’d willingly be there for her always, anchoring her whenever she floundered, if only she’d let him.

Face warm, she nodded, letting go. “Yes, quite.”

“I’ll change, then,” he said, turning toward the dressing room area.

Coming up to Francesca, Sean hissed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is, pull it together!”

Beyond embarrassed, she nodded. “Right, I will, sorry.”

He stalked away, and Cindy materialized at her side with a bottle of water, a spare director’s chair, and a sympathetic smile. “Don’t let Sean get to you. Jerry’s been pushing for cost cuts on the postproduction side, and he’s under a lot of pressure to shoot the last tapings as clean as possible, all the story producers are. But that’s not your problem. Once the film editors get through with the footage, you’re going to come across like the total pro you are.” She unfolded the chair and set it down.

Francesca subsided into the cloth seat. “Thanks, Cindy, but professional is the very last thing I’m feeling at the moment.”

“Can I get you anything? A Motrin, maybe? Red Bull?”

Francesca shook her head. “I’m fine. I just need a minute to…regroup.”

“Good news, you’ve got ten of them,” Cindy said with a wink. “Holler if you change your mind about needing something.”

“Thanks.”

Cast and crew milling about her, Francesca acknowledged that her moments-ago meltdown was a wake-up call in every way. All these weeks, she’d worked so terribly hard at persuading herself that Greg was nothing more than a means to evening the score with Deidre, and perhaps with Freddie, too. But there was nothing mercenary about her feelings for him, not anymore. Watching him parade about Westwood the other day with Brittany and Kimberly had shown that the emotions he raised in her were decidedly romantic.

The only question remaining was what to bloody well do about them.

Sitting on set with Franc in their slipper-shaped chairs waiting for the contestant talent competition to begin, Francesca resisted the urge to nibble her nails. Even though the segment was being taped, not aired live, film editing could do but so much to camouflage poor performance. There was a great deal at stake. Based on the poll of studio-hired beta testers, viewers were strongly expected to dig Greg as the underdog. According to the focus group feedback, he had That Thing—an individuality, a genuineness that made it easy for strangers to connect with him. In the unreal world of reality TV, he had all the makings of a genuine star.

They were closing in on their mutual goal—and he had worked so bloody hard! She couldn’t bear the thought of anything spoiling his chances.

Each contestant would have eight minutes to sing, dance, recite, or juggle his or her way into viewers’ hearts. As determined by a random number generator, Greg would go on last. First up was Hadley, who showcased his talent for competitive eating by ingesting an enormous number of hot dogs, sliding one after another down his long, skinny throat, seemingly without chewing. Watching him clear platter upon platter proved on par with rubbernecking past a motoring accident—as much as Francesca might wish to look away, she couldn’t. Jonas’s fishing demonstration, which included an inflatable kid’s pool and a Styrofoam drink cooler as props, threatened to put them all to sleep.

Among the women, Kimberly’s rendition of Gwen Stefani’s “The Sweet Escape” was the standout. Patti’s tap dancing routine revealed an out-of-character enthusiasm but still fell far short of fabulous. Last on, Brittany had displayed a truly impressive gift for glass orchestra, playing a Bach fugue using only water-filled wineglasses as instrumentation.

Finally Greg’s turn came around. Watching him emerge from behind the pink stage curtain, Francesca held her breath.

Franc nudged her. “Relax, he’s going to be splendid.”

“I hope so.”

Unlike Franc, she knew in advance what Greg’s performance would be—a medley of ABBA songs. She’d tried talking him out of it, but he’d been adamant, so much so that she’d begun to wonder whether his adoration of the pop band went deeper than a preference for sappy lyrics and catchy beats.

Smirking, Deidre pushed past to take her place at the far end of the row. “This should be interesting,” she added, slipping into her seat.

“Look what the catwalk dragged in,” Franc quipped in a carrying voice, earning Francesca’s grateful smile. Although she could handle herself, it was nice to have a friend minding her back.

Deidre’s smile flattened. “Your roots are showing, Rusty.”

Frowning, Franc reached up to touch his hair, in perfect place as always. “I might say the same of yours, but it’s too white to tell.”

Determined not to let Dee get under her skin, Francesca directed her attention back to the stage. Greg walked out to the center. The fruits of their Rodeo Drive shopping expedition were in full bloom on his buff body. He’d chosen the custom-fitted, long-sleeved, navy sueded broadcloth shirt and the slim-fitting jeans from the other day. Giorgio Armani ankle boots in beautifully crafted rich chocolate-colored leather rescued the jeans from boredom. He certainly looked good. Now he only needed to sound good as well.

He reached for the mic, taking it from the stand. “Before I begin, I want to dedicate this set to Mary Catherine Knickerbocker—that’s my mom.” Casting his gaze upward, he said, “Mom, I’m no Benny Andersson or Björn Ulvaeus, but I know you’re up there listening and that you’re proud of me anyway. Love you!”

Oh, Greg! Moved, Francesca reached up and wiped the tear from her eye. Silent, Franc passed her a pack of tissues.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her eyes fixed onstage where the recorded music began.

Greg started off with the slow, soulful “I Have a Dream,” and suddenly Francesca realized he wasn’t lip-synching at all. He was singing—and rather well. From there, he segued to the faster-paced, more upbeat “Mamma Mia,” his deliberately comical dance routine taking him across the stage and back again. It wasn’t precisely professionally choreographed—but it was bloody good.

Suddenly the comedy switched off—and the sexy turned on. Watching him swivel his hips Elvis-style, imagining those hips rocking against hers, Francesca felt herself flushing—not only her face but her entire body felt warm and prickly and…alive.

Gregory Knickerbocker could move!

Beside her, Franc shifted forward in his seat. “Well done, Greg!” he said beneath his breath.

The music switched out again, this time to “Take a Chance on Me.”

“Honey I’m still free, take a chance on me.” Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Greg’s gaze seemed riveted on her throughout the song.

“Hmm, hmm, hmm,” Deidre said, making a show of smacking her lips. “Nerd Boy has some moves on him. Now, if only he can cook…”

Refusing to respond to the taunt, Francesca stiffened. “Hush!”

She’d wanted Greg to win, but until now she hadn’t given much thought to what his success might mean. Once the show aired, he’d likely have to beat women off. She didn’t see Deidre as his type, but then she hadn’t thought of her as Freddie’s, either.

The medley ended. Perspiration streaking the sides of his beaming face, Greg stepped back from the microphone and took a bow.

Never more proud, Francesca rose. Franc followed her to his feet as did the other coaches. “Bravo. Bravo!” She clapped on, palms stinging.

Her frog was a frog no more, but a Cinderella Man well on his way to winning his crown. Considering all the successes he’d already racked up in his real life, he’d wear it with grace. Misty-eyed, she couldn’t help feeling proud of the small part she was playing in coaching him behind the scenes. She’d helped unveil a prince. Only seeing him on stage, she was no longer certain that his “fairy god-mentor” was all she wanted to be.

Before leaving for the day, Francesca sought out Greg to congratulate him. She found him in craft services enjoying a well-deserved snack.

“You were wonderful,” she said, walking up. “I couldn’t leave without telling you that.”

“Thanks,” he said, knocking back a swallow of Gatorade. “I guess all those years of messing around with my karaoke machine paid off.”

“It would seem so. You gave a perfectly polished performance, not a trace of stage fright from what I could see. Did you imagine everyone naked?” What had begun as advice was now their private joke.

Lowering the sports drink, he swallowed hard, staring deeply into her eyes. “Not…everyone.”

Surmising his meaning, she bit her lip. “About the ABBA, you were right. It was the perfect choice.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. I figured if I followed my passion, I couldn’t go wrong. It’s the philosophy I used when I launched my first start-up, and that seems to have gone pretty well, so I figured this would, too—though I probably shouldn’t quit my day job just yet.” He laughed.

Francesca joined him. Turning serious once more, she said, “I really loved the dedication to your mum. It…touched me.”

“Thanks.” He drew a deep breath as if bracing himself to continue. “Toward the end when she was in hospice, the only thing that made her smile was listening to ABBA. I’d play their greatest hits CD and no matter how badly she’d slept the night before or how much pain she was in, she’d hum along. After she…died, my dad told me why. They’d met in high school at a neighborhood roller skating rink. The first song they ever couples-skated to was ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen.’ Their first real date was a concert by an ABBA cover band, the same band that later played at their wedding reception. Those were really happy memories for her, I guess. Listening to ABBA brought her to a better place, a place where there was no cancer and no pain and no having to say good-bye to the people she loved.”

Tears welling, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.” Or do, especially about you, me, us.

He hesitated, toeing the Masonite floor with his designer shoes. “Say you’ll dance with me.” He looked up at her. “We never did have that practice session you promised.”

“Based on what I saw onstage earlier, you hardly need coaching.”

“Then don’t make it about coaching. Make it about having fun. We’ve worked really hard these past weeks, you as much as me. I’d say it’s time we reward ourselves without cameras or other people watching. So what do you say, Francesca, do we have a date?”

Heart beating fast, she nodded. “Yes.”

His smile sent her heart somersaulting. “Tonight, eight o’clock?

“Sounds perfect.”

“I’d like to take you out to dinner and a club or have you over to my place, but obviously those aren’t options right now. Does your hotel suite have enough floor space?”

Francesca hesitated. She’d lived long enough to know the message that her letting him into her hotel suite would send. “It does—and an impressive room service menu as well.” It seemed Starr’s vintage scarlet slippers would be put to work after all.

His grin grew. “Sounds like we’re set.”

Sean walked up to them. Scarcely sparing Francesca a glance, he turned to Greg. “Congratulations, you were awesome. You really brought it home out there,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Thanks, man, that means a lot.”

“Listen, there’re some people I want you to meet, some of our bigger investors.” He glanced over his shoulder to a quartet of dark-suited men all wearing guest passes. “Jerry heard how great your performance went and suggested I have you join us for a drink.”

“Sure, happy to.” He sent Francesca an apologetic look. “Catch you later.”

“Of course.”

Watching him walk away to join the group, she released a sigh. Whether they needed the dance practice or not, whether Greg won or lost Project Cinderella, she wouldn’t miss tonight’s “date” for anything.

Not for the whole bloody world.

…

Standing outside the door to Francesca’s hotel suite, one hand wrapped around a bottle of top-shelf pinot noir, Greg gave himself a moment before knocking. He wanted this night to be perfect in every way, not only for him but for Francesca. He only hoped the surprise he’d had delivered earlier hadn’t in any way offended her. A text message had confirmed that his rush order had been delivered two hours ago.

He glanced down at his suit, single-breasted and from Tom Ford. He was in no danger of turning into a clotheshorse, but the gray wool had a silky, lustrous sheen that he couldn’t help appreciating. Even though his usual mode of dancing involved shag carpeting and bare feet, the crocodile moccasins were actually pretty comfortable. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

He drew a deep breath, raised his fist, and knocked.

Francesca called out, “Come in. It’s open.”

He stepped inside the foyer, drawing the door behind him. “You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” he admonished, feeling all kinds of protective toward her. “What kind of a New Yorker are you?” he added, softening the rebuke with a joke.

Laughter served as her reply. “One who’s apparently been in LA overly long. I’ll be out in two ticks. Make yourself at home. There’s a bar if you’d like a drink.”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Greg looked around the living room area, elegant if not especially homey. The suite was predictably posh with sumptuous furnishings and appointments, multiple plasma TVs, and sliding glass doors leading out onto a spacious balcony with both mountain and city views.

The sound of a throat clearing had him turning back around. Francesca stepped forward from the alcove and Greg caught his breath. The ruby-red Vivienne Westwood gown he’d chosen molded to her beautiful body in all the best places, the strapless bodice showing off creamy shoulders and a mouthwatering swell of cleavage. According to the online description, the tapered, floor-length skirt had a hip-high side slit that Greg couldn’t wait to see in action.

He ran his gaze over her, awed that this gorgeous woman was his date for the night. “You look…amazing.”

“Thanks,” she said, smoothing a palm over the skirt. “Since you not only purchased it but also went to the trouble to have it sent over in time for tonight, I thought I owed you a grand entrance at the very least.”

He shrugged, as though buying beautiful gowns for beautiful women was something he did every day. “I owed you a dress, remember? I’m guessing those spaghetti sauce stains didn’t come out.”

Francesca’s nod confirmed it was so. “Vivienne Westwood is one of my favorite designers. How did you know?”

“You mentioned it in a blog interview you gave to a fashion e-zine a while back. Once I had the names of a few designers you liked, it was easy to go to their websites and see who had brick-and-mortar stores nearby.”

“And my dress size?”

He hesitated, not wanting to come across like a stalker. “The studio wardrobe people have it on record. I had Cindy get it for me.”

The tiniest trace of a worry line materialized on her forehead. “She didn’t ask why you wanted it?”

Wishing he could smooth the mark away with his lips, he shook his head. “Since we brought Bosco back to her, I’d say we’re both pretty much golden.” He ran his gaze over her again, stopping at her feet. “I probably owe you shoes, too, but there was no way of guessing your size. Looks like you have that covered. Those are pretty. Obviously I’m flying blind when it comes to this fashion stuff, but the velvet is a pretty close match to the dress. Did you just get them?”

Her mouth curved in a secretive and very sexy smile. Holding out one velvet-clad foot, she shook her head. “No, I brought them with me. They’re vintage from the thirties and on loan from a friend.”

Several small steps brought her inside the room—and closer to him. “I don’t typically accept expensive gifts from men, and I am most definitely not used to being dressed by one.” For a fleeting few seconds, he wondered if he’d offended her, raised her feminist hackles or whatever, but the subsequent smile she sent him washed those and other fears away. “It’s rather a nice change,” she admitted.

Relaxing, he said, “I wanted to do something nice for you, so if it helps, think of this as my way of saying thanks for coming out to meet me for all those predawn Muscle Beach mornings. Most coaches are compensated for their time. You’ve been helping me for all these weeks out of the goodness of your heart.”

Her smile dimmed, but perhaps that was only a trick of the low light. “And it seems you’ve come bearing more gifts.” She glanced down to the wrapped wine bottle he’d all but forgotten he still held.

Crossing the carpet to meet her, he held it out. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I shall. I’ll open it now.” She moved to the bar. Greg followed her over, loving how the gown hugged her hips as she moved.

Slipping the bottle from the fancy bag, she exclaimed, “What lovely wine! It’s one of my very favorites.” She whirled to face him. “How did you know that?”

“You said you liked pinot noir, and I…made a lucky guess.” Not knowing much—anything—about wine, he’d relied on the rave reviews at Wine Spectator rhapsodizing over its “finish” and “bouquet.” “If it stains your teeth, I promise not to notice,” he added, a not-so-thinly-veiled reference to their last time at Venice Beach. She’d ended that day by shutting him out and then sending him away. He wasn’t about to let her get away with that tonight.

She decanted the wine and then poured two generous glasses. Turning to face him, she held one out. “Shall we have this on the balcony?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, wrapping his fingers around the stemless glass.

He watched her walk ahead to the sliding glass doors, her gown’s side slit giving him a good glimpse of leg laid bare up to the thigh. Greg sucked in a sharp breath.

“It sticks,” she said, pushing harder.

Aware of the wine sloshing over her glass, he said, “Here, let me do that, but I’d better give you this.” He handed back his wineglass.

She took it, moving aside, and he pulled the door open. They stepped out onto the lantern-lit balcony. Pieces of patio furniture pushed to one side as if to make room. Now that the sun had set, the air was chilly, but the view still sublime. Lit votive candles had been scattered about, their flames flickering in the breeze.

Greg followed her over to the rail. “Take my jacket,” he said when he caught her shivering.

Turning to him, she shook her head. “I will not. You look too fabulous for that and so do I. Dancing will warm us up, but first what shall we drink to?”

“How about to happily ever after?” he suggested, watching her face.

She hesitated, her smile tentative, her beautiful eyes as yet unsure. “Very well, provided we also toast to your success today and to bravery and hard work reaping its due reward: winning your crown.”

Being here with you is winning, Greg thought but didn’t say. Certainly being with her like this made him feel like a king—or at least a highly hopeful prince-in-training.

They touched glasses. Mostly a beer man, he almost never drank wine. He did as she did, rolling his wine about the glass and then taking a sip. Swallowing, he fought making a face. The stuff tasted like he imagined sweaty gym socks would if wrung into a glass, but as long as she liked it, he would consider the absurd amount of money well spent.

“Lovely,” she said, licking her lips.

Imagining tasting her mouth and other parts too, Greg felt his temperature rising—and his groin thickening. “I’m glad you like it.” He smiled and forced down a second swallow.

“It is chilly,” she admitted, chafing her arm with her free hand. “Perhaps we should have that dance sooner rather than later.”

“Sure,” Greg said, striving to sound casual though he could hardly wait to hold her. He took the glass from her and set it aside with his, and then reached into his jacket pocket for his iPhone for the music he’d downloaded. Scrolling through his playlist, he found the piece he’d bookmarked earlier, “Cuando”—“When”—by the Puerto Rican artist Ivy Queen. He hit play and set the phone down. “Shall we?” he said, reaching for her hand.

She gave it, her slender fingers entwining with his, her lovely face relaxing into a smile—not the tight smile she sometimes wore on set but one that reflected in her eyes. “With pleasure.”

Called the Cuban Dance of Love, the bolero was the slowest and sexiest of all Latin American ballroom dances. Its slow and dreamy tempo and beautiful melodies seemed to evoke romance, or so the Wikipedia entry said, which was why he’d chosen it for his first dance with Francesca. Finding the accompanying music had required a bit more research, but he believed he’d picked the perfect piece, one that Francesca would appreciate.

The smoky-voiced vocalist sang, “Adam sinned because he loved Eve, the love of Celia and Pedro touched the stars, but only when you learn to value women, you can be happy…”

Her gaze widened. Her green eyes shone. She searched his face. “Oh, Greg, it’s…perfect.”

Not only the artist’s message but his, he hoped, was clear. Francesca deserved to be with a man who would love, respect, and value her. If only she would see that man was him.

He took a moment to mentally rehearse the dance sequence. The first step was taken on the first beat, held during the second beat with two more steps falling on beats three and four. The basic step was a long, sweeping sidestep on the slow beat, followed by a rock step forward or backward on the quick-quick beats. Based on the YouTube video he’d studied, it didn’t look all that different from the old-school two-step he’d seen his parents dance around the living room every New Year’s.

He’d been practicing—and those sessions counted even if his partner was a broom. Sure, Brittany would have gladly stepped in and Kim too. But it wasn’t about that. He’d waited a long time to have his first formal dance. He didn’t want to share the experience with just anyone. He wanted to share it with the partner of his choice—and his choice was Francesca.

The moment she stepped into his arms, he knew it was going to be all right—really all right. His fingers firmed about hers, his other arm wrapping about her waist. She leaned her lithe body into his, trusting him to lead. Several movements had them circuiting the wide balcony. After the first few, Greg stopped counting.

Relaxing into the music, he drew her even closer. She melted into him—no offering up resistance, no more shutting him out. “You’re safe in my arms, Francesca,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.

She looked up and smiled. “I know that.”

The tempo slowed although Greg’s heart pounded. The big finish, the dip, was coming up. Strictly speaking, it was optional. The bolero didn’t require it. Should he go for it or play it safe?

Greg went for it.

Francesca followed him, her knee lifting to his shoulder, her heat searing his side, the dress sliding away. Out of the corner of one eye, he caught a glimmer of something sparkly, the beading on the red velvet slipper still planted to the ground. Like a friendly guiding star, the shoe seemed to wink at him, urging him to greater boldness.

Holding her suspended beneath him, his muscled arms more than up to the task, he slid his free hand along the length of her exposed leg, fingertips trailing the opening in the fabric from sensitive knee to smooth thigh. Her skin had warmed from the dancing. Resting his palm on the satiny spot, he took in the rapid fire rising and falling of her small and beautiful breasts, saw her eyes darken and her lips part, and suddenly he knew, he just knew.

She wasn’t only a crush. She wasn’t only a love. She really was his one true love, his soul mate. He didn’t have to wait for someday. He didn’t have to reach for happily ever after anymore. It was right here on this balcony, here and now and in his arms.

He lowered his head to hers until their mouths were inches away from meeting. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Glowing green eyes met his, warm and trusting and sure. “So are you.”

Showing through her sheer lipstick, the freckle on her bottom lip beguiled him. Inhaling her wine-spiced breath, he leaned in to kiss her.

The belted-out bars of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child o’ Mine” broke through the magic. Francesca started. She stiffened, the lazy-lidded look leaving her eyes. “That’s my phone—and Sam’s ringtone. I have to take it.”

For a sad few seconds, disappointment buried him like falling bricks, but of course helping her up was the only decent thing to do. “Sure, no problem.” He removed his hand from her leg and straightened, bringing her upright. Letting her go, he stepped back.

She rushed inside to catch the call. To give her space, he stayed outside, but he still couldn’t help overhearing.

“Darling, how are you? No, of course it’s a good time. I’m so pleased you rang. How’s school? How’s… You’re seeing someone? That’s…marvelous. What does your father think of him? You’re bringing him around for dinner with uh…them? That’s splendid. I only wish…I wish I could meet him, too. About summer break… Oh, I see. You’re quite certain you won’t have any time for the two of us to get away? The week before school starts in August? Yes, of course we can do something then. If that’s all you’ve got free, I suppose I’ll make do. What’s that? No, darling, I’m not angry, just…disappointed. Must you really dash off so soon? In that case, I shan’t keep you. Call me when you can, anytime…and…I love you, Samantha.”

Her sigh sliced through the silence. She came back out to the balcony, looking as though she’d been kicked. “Remind me where we were?” she asked, sounding as though her spirit had been sapped.

He crossed toward her. “You were in my arms, and I was about to kiss you.”

“That sounds…nice.” She reached for her wine, stared at it, and then set it down untasted.

Nice—not the reaction he’d hoped for, but based on past experience, he knew it could always be worse—a lot worse. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shoulders dipping, she shook her head. Another sigh and then, “I just…miss her so very dreadfully.”

“I know you do. Come here.”

The command seemed to startle her. “Why?”

Greg blew out a breath. A few minutes ago, she’d put her body in his hands, trusting him implicitly. What would it take for them to get back there?

“Isn’t it obvious? I want to comfort you.”

She set her jaw, easily as stubborn as she’d been the first day they’d met at Cloud Flyer. “I don’t need comforting.”

Greg could be stubborn too. Coming closer, he shook his head. “Yes, Francesca, you do.”

“I’ll likely start bawling and once I do I’ll get mascara on your shirtfront and you all rumpled and—”

“I’m pretty sure I walked out of the womb rumpled. At least this time I’ll have a good reason.”

Greg opened his arms. She hesitated and then stepped into them, burying her face against the side of his neck. “I’m the world’s worst mother.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair. “The woman I just overheard talking to her kid on the phone sounded like a pretty amazing mother to me.”

“You only got the one side.”

“I heard enough.”

“She doesn’t want to go on summer holiday with me. The only bloody reason I agreed to the whole TV thing was so that I could afford to spend more time with her.”

“I didn’t know that.” Until now, he’d always assumed she must have plenty of money.

“None of it matters. I’m too bloody late. She doesn’t want me as her mum anymore.”

He smoothed a hand across her back, trying not to focus on how soft her skin felt beneath his fingers. “Once the show wraps in a few weeks, there’s no reason you can’t take some time and go visit her in DC. Or have her up to New York for a few weekends. Hang out at home, play tourist in your city, see some chick flicks, whatever. Just spend time. I’m betting that’s all she really wants from you.”

Francesca pulled back to look up at him. “You really are a lovely man. I hope you know that.”

Greg wasn’t sure about “lovely,” but he decided to view it as an upgrade. “I’d probably be a lot more convinced if you kissed me.” He reached out, his palm taking gentle possession of her jaw.

She rubbed her cheek against his hand. “I believe that might be arranged.”

This was it, their Cinderella moment in more ways than one. Heart pounding, he steered her face to his. Determined to take his time, he brushed his closed lips over hers, teasing and light. She moaned and pressed closer, her breasts chafing his chest, making him wish for fewer clothes and a warmer night.

Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, groaning when she reached up, her fingers threading through his hair, the nails gently grazing his scalp. He stilled his hand on her back, hesitated, and then slid it lower to her buttocks. His fingers curved, giving it a slight squeeze. She moaned, and he slid his tongue inside her mouth.

She tasted of the wine, more spicy than sweet, laced with a trace of mint, her toothpaste perhaps. Her tongue met his, hungry and eager. Touching her through the dress, he brought her breast into his hand.

Pulling back, she looked up at him. “Shall we go inside…to bed?”

Greg was seriously tempted. Thinking of the condoms he’d tucked into his wallet, still he shook his head. “Making love to you isn’t some milestone I need to rush to reach. Be honest—if it hadn’t been for that call from Samantha, would you ask me to take you to bed so soon?”

She bit her bottom lip, plump and pink from his kisses. “I would have at least waited until we’d had our romantic evening.”

“So let’s have it—and see where it leads.”

“Another go at dancing, then?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or teasing.

Greg groaned. “I think I’m done with dancing for the night.” Erect and throbbing, another turn at the bolero might just hobble him.

“What’s left? Scrabble, Parcheesi, chess?” she asked archly. “And don’t you dare suggest we watch TV!”

“I wasn’t going to.” He glanced over at their glasses. “I think we should have a refill on that god-awful wine, order room service, and sit down to talk.”