The Big Bad Wolf Tells All
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Donna Kauffman

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CINDERELLA RULE #2

A good first impression is critical.
Life allows very few do-overs. Don’t waste yours unnecessarily.

—Vivian dePalma, co-founder / Glass Slipper, Inc.

Shane Morgan had been a very bad boy. Well, actually, that depended a great deal on who you asked.

He stepped off the curb in front of Dulles International and was about to sling his heavy duffel bag into the trunk of the Washington Flyer, when he spied a man with a glass slipper in one hand and an extremely unhealthy looking woman in the other. He had no idea what was going on with the woman, but he sure knew exactly where the glass slipper came from.

Momma Mercedes.

He grinned, knowing how much she hated that name, but for the first time since word had gotten to him about Alexandra Morgan’s untimely demise, he was actually happy to be back home. Of course, how untimely his grandmother’s death was also depended a great deal on who you asked.

He tossed an apologetic smile at the cabbie, grabbed his duffel and loped easily across the blacktop, darting around people and weaving through traffic with ease, despite the heavy load on his back. His varied and colorful careers did come in handy on occasion. Stamina was never going to be an issue. Physical stamina, anyway. Psychological stamina? Well, now that he was home, he was about to put that to the test, wasn’t he?

“Hold up,” Shane called out to the driver as he closed the rear door to the limo. He wondered for a split second if the ashen-faced woman inside the limo had known his grandmother, if she was in mourning for the late, great Alexandra Morgan. But in those clothes she hardly looked like anyone who ran in Alexandra’s circle. Besides, the funeral had been two weeks ago. And, in any case, if she was here merely to pay her respects, Mercedes wouldn’t be sending her a slipper.

No, she was definitely a client. And he’d never seen one more desperately in need of the inimitable services of Mercedes and her two cohorts, Aurora and Vivian.

The driver turned to face him as he rounded the hood of the stretch limo. “May I be of some service to you, sir?”

Shane chuckled and gave the older man a good hearted clap on the shoulder. “Mercedes always did believe the snootier the better,” he said. “It was one of the few things she had in common with Big Al.”

“I beg your pardon, sir? Big . . . Al, sir?” He said the latter like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Big Al was Shane’s personal pet name for his dear departed granny. Probably best not to share that, even with the Glass Slipper hired help. If it got back to Momma M, she’d rap his knuckles or worse. The fact that he’d long since reached the age of majority and was well past the knuckle-rapping stage didn’t matter much where his former headmistress of a godmother was concerned. He didn’t mind all that much. She was the only one who’d ever attempted to keep him on the straight and narrow. She’d even had a modicum of success at the task on occasion.

She and Alexandra had been students together at the Hedgely School for Young Ladies many years before. His godmother had gone on to run the private New Hampshire school, which made her the obvious choice for ring leader of the eccentric triad that founded and ran the life makeover empire. And, just as obviously, her hoity-toity spare-the-rod-spoil-the-debutante background had been a blueprint for Glass Slipper’s employee training manual.

Alexandra had gone on to marry industrialist Grayson Morgan, taking over his empire after his death at age forty-five of a heart attack. Some said the heart attack had something to do with the dancer who’d supposedly accidentally discovered his body—in her own bed. Shane had never known the man, but he did know Alexandra, and had found himself understanding at a fairly young age what might have driven Frank into almost anyone else’s arms.

Shane supposed he should count himself lucky Mercedes had had a soft spot for Alexandra’s only child, Francine Morgan-Lovelle—his mother, and another Hedgely alumnus. Maybe because he was the only one who could charm a smile out of her. Or even bothered to make an attempt at it.

Of course it was usually accompanied by a long-suffering sigh, but then, he was well used to those. He’d been grateful more times than he could count to have Mercedes Browning on his side. Which had generally been on the wrong side of Alexandra Morgan. His grandmother had never forgiven him—the last in line for inheriting the Morgan family dictatorship—for refusing to let her turn him into her little empire building clone. And she’d certainly never forgiven Mercedes for championing Shane’s desire to set off on his own the instant he was old enough to do so.

Okay, so maybe he’d hightailed it out of Washington a bit shy of being technically old enough, but he’d been to boarding schools in three different countries before he’d had his first kiss. He knew how to get around, just as he knew it was better to survive by his own wits at the age of seventeen than possibly end up doing life for finally snapping under the relentless pressure and murdering his only living relative. Or worse, agreeing to become something just like her. Apparently, Mercedes had agreed, because she had been the one who’d funded his first foray into the real world, sans trust fund. It had been the start of a life filled with absolute freedom and adventure. One he was still enjoying to the fullest thirteen years later.

Yes, he was very lucky to know Momma M. And he’d learned never to question luck, to merely accept it with grace and gratitude. Because it sure as hell beat the alternative. And Lord knew the Morgan clan, despite their wealth and power, had more than their share of the alternative.

He held out his hand, which the gloved, liveried driver inspected with distaste—or would have if his impeccable training had permitted it. And, admittedly, Shane’s hands had been put through a wringer or two. Hands with character was how he liked to think of them; the various shiny patches, calluses, and not quite straight pinky finger were badges of merit, of a life lived to the fullest. No pampered, buffed, manicured hands for him, thanks. “You mind if I hitch a ride back to Fairy Godmother Central?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“One of those fairy godmothers is actually my real godmother,” he explained. “Mercedes Browning. She was a close friend, or as close a friend as my grandmother was capable of having, to Alexandra Morgan.”

Recognition dawned in the older man’s eyes. Followed swiftly by a brief flash of unmitigated curiosity. That last part didn’t surprise him. Shane supposed even Mercedes’ rigid training couldn’t prevent the guy from wondering why the much-vaunted black sheep of the Morgan clan had finally returned to the fold. “I’ll be glad to ride in front. Your client will never know I exist.”

The driver raised an eyebrow. This one made it clear his rather tarnished reputation had also preceded him. He wondered if it was his reputation for somehow always ending up at the center of things when they went south . . . or his reputation with women, which, now that he thought about it, also tended to head in the same general direction. He supposed it was likely a combination of both.

“I’ll keep quiet as a lamb,” he promised, raising his hand in the universal gesture of faith. Not that he expected the old guy to have any. Which wasn’t all that annoying. He’d learned a long time ago to have enough faith in himself so that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. “Go ahead and radio in and ask, if it will make you feel better. I’m sure my godmother won’t mind, though.”

The man said nothing, but stiffly moved around to the driver’s side and slid in. Shane thought for a moment he was going to close the door right in his face and drive off, leaving him standing there with all of his worldly possessions slung over his shoulder. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” he murmured. But the old man picked up a small, wireless radio and punched in a number.

Shane smiled and shifted his duffel off his shoulder as he hiked to the back end of the mile-long car. While he waited for the driver to pop the trunk, he lifted his face to the blue skies overhead, letting the warmth of the June sun beat down on him. Home again.

Since the day after college graduation, he’d done his best to be just about anywhere in the world but here. And for close to ten years, he’d done a damn fine job of it. And had been just about everyplace there was to be but here. Now he was back. With a whole lot of shit to be faced. Home. Damn.

Well, at least the sun felt good on his face.

The trunk clicked and Shane waved the driver back as he hoisted his bag inside the trunk himself. He glanced at the rather battered leather satchel and army issue canvas duffel already residing in the cavernous interior. Not the usual set of matched luggage Glass Slipper, Inc. drew as clientele. Sure, his godmother did life makeovers, and this woman certainly looked like she had a lot of room to work with, but someone had to pay the tab. He grinned and snapped the lid down. Probably Aurora’s doing, the old softy. Shane wouldn’t be surprised if she’d conned Mercedes into taking on some kind of pro bono deal, where the client paid later, after her life had improved. Whether it was getting that high-profile job—or snagging a rich husband. Because while his godmother firmly believed in helping those who were willing to help themselves, she expected to be compensated well for her services.

He was moving up to the front passenger door, when the rear window eased down . . . and the woman inside let her cheek rest on the open frame while drawing in a deep breath.

He stopped. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

She let out a yelp and snapped her head up, then immediately growled and pressed the heel of her hand to her apparently throbbing forehead. “First the slipper, now what?” she muttered, before gingerly looking up at him. The sun at his back had her squinting. “So who in the hell are you supposed to be? Prince Charming?”

Cranky and not afraid to share it. Shane grinned, liking her already. “Well, I’ve been called a lot of things, but generally that one doesn’t make the list. I’m just hitching a ride in for a visit with my godmother.”

She rolled her eyes. “What is it with you people? Isn’t that taking this whole fairy tale thing just a tad too far? It’s just a glorified charm school, isn’t it?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I think they’d take exception to that description. And please say you’ll let me be there when you share that with the group. But for the record I’m not a client. Mercedes Browning really is my godmother. Nothing fey about her, trust me.”

“Jesus,” she said, then blew out a long sigh and leaned her head back inside the car, closing her eyes. “Just shoot me now. And don’t worry, no court would convict you. It would be a total mercy killing.” She opened one eye and rolled her head toward him. “Honestly, though, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”

But she honestly didn’t look like she cared overly much either. He didn’t hold it against her. She looked like hell. Her long, thick hair, a heavily sun-streaked dark blond, had long since wrestled free of the braid she’d bound it in. Her eyes were an interesting shade of green-flecked hazel and looked huge at the moment, probably due to her otherwise wan complexion. Her arms were a deep, golden tan, the soft hair on them bleached blond with a light sprinkling of freckles that matched the ones scattered across her nose and cheeks.

He stuck his hand out. “Shane Morgan.”

She regarded him warily for a moment, then took his hand. Hers was clammy, which wasn’t a total surprise given her appearance. What was a surprise were the calluses and the natural strength of her grip, which came through despite the brevity of contact. He noted she had a few battle scars of her own. Intriguing.

He lifted her hand, then bowed at the waist before releasing it. “Black sheep of the East Coast Morgans,” he added. “Definitely more dark knight than prince charming. You must be Cinderella-in-training.”

“Darby Landon,” she replied evenly. “Black sheep of the East Coast Landons, currently feeling a lot more like a science experiment than Cinderella.”

He laughed, and found himself wondering what she’d be like when she wasn’t feeling the aftereffects of what he guessed was a good bout of airsickness. “You don’t sound too optimistic.” He nodded to the sleek limo she sat in. “But I guess that’s why you signed up for this ride. Well, trust me, the godmothers will have you—”

She managed a snort and straightened a little in her seat. “I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here under duress.”

He gave her a considering look. “Husband or boyfriend?”

She looked nonplussed for a moment, then finally let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “Nothing so simple. I could have said no to either of them.”

“You have one of each, do you?”

She paused and looked him over. “I’m beginning to realize the depth of my error with that prince charming crack. I was obviously blinded by the bright smile and flashy blue eyes. But then, I suppose you’re well aware of your impact on the fairer sex.”

“Now there’s a rather backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.”

“Something tells me you’ve heard more than your share of those, too.”

Rather than be turned off by her dry humor, he was only further intrigued. It had been some time since a woman looked at him as something other than potential orgasm provision material. Much less talked to him the way she was talking to him. He’d be the first to admit he was probably overdue. Okay, way overdue.

He let his grin be his answer. “So, if it wasn’t the hubby or the boyfriend who got you into this mess, who did? I know we only just met, but I sense you’re not generally pushed around much.”

“Generally, you would be correct,” she said. She sighed and slumped back in her seat again. “Sibling guilt.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t know much about that. My parents wisely gave up reproduction after I popped out.”

For the first time, the slightest quirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. A mouth he was just now noticing. And what a mouth it was. It was wider than the norm, with a clearly defined upper lip, but a sensuously fuller lower one. He wondered if she had any idea how clearly and with what great detail he could fantasize about making love to a mouth like hers. Given the arch look she was directing at him, he guessed not. Something told him Cinderella here had no idea what power she packed with those lips.

Tantalized now, and enjoying it immensely, he angled his head just slightly, curious about the rest of the package.

Then the driver popped up and looked over the roof of the car. “Sir?”

Shane acted impulsively. Some things, after all, never change. He opened the side door of the limo. “Your guest has invited me to ride in the back and keep her company.”

The driver shot him a dubious look. He wasn’t sure if he simply doubted Cinderella would be interested in spending even a limo ride with a guy like him. Or was worried that Shane would somehow corrupt her on the ride in. Again, it was probably a little of both. Smart man, Shane thought with a grin.

Before either of them could refuse, he slid into the limo as easily as if he’d been born to ride in one. Which, technically, he had. He just tried not to mention it much.

“Very smooth,” she said as he settled himself across from her. The expanse of carpet between them was wide enough for both of them to stretch out their legs. Which was a good thing, because hers were easily as long as his. And he topped six feet by a few inches. He openly sized her up and decided she was flirting with the six-foot mark herself. Amazon Cinderella. Then he took in the rest of her. The strong, tanned arms, the unprepossessing white T-shirt that he’d bet was more likely to sport a Fruit of the Loom label than Calvin’s or Ralph’s. Her lanky legs were sheathed in loose jeans that had to have come by their faded, battered look honestly. Equally battered western boots completed the ensemble. All she lacked was the sweat-stained Stetson and a bandanna around her neck. And he’d bet there was at least one of each back wherever she called home.

And damn if that didn’t turn him on.

The whole Cinderella in Chaps fantasy, sitting not three feet away from him. Funny how he hadn’t known he had one of those until just this minute.

“Assessment through?” she asked. “I had to change when I got off the plane. These are my carry-on clothes.” That smile teased the corner of her mouth again. “Which, amazingly, look a lot like my what-I-wear-on-airplanes clothes.”

He lifted his gaze easily to hers, not remotely abashed at being caught staring. Their verbal sparring had brought the color back to her cheeks. And that hollow, airsickness-bag look began to recede.

“Not much on flying, huh?”

“Gee, what gave me away?”

He managed a smile, though there was nothing cocky or arrogant about it now. “You’re not the only one here under duress.”

“Really.” She folded her arms, never once glancing at the crystal slipper she’d tossed on the leather seat next to her.

Cinderella in Chaps, indeed.

He shifted his full attention back to her. “My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago. I had to come back to settle the estate.”

She immediately looked contrite. “I’m so sorry.”

For some reason, he liked her better when she was snarky. Maybe he really was overdue for a little turbulence of his own. “Don’t be. We weren’t close. And she wasn’t that nice of a lady.”

Now her lips threatened to actually curve all the way into a smile, albeit a dry one. “Unlike her grandson, I’m guessing.”

He grinned. “Oh definitely. Her grandson is engaging, amusing, an all-around beacon of lightness. Hell of a guy.”

“Oh, she had more than one grandchild, then?”

“Nope, just the one.”

“Ah. Funny how I missed all that, then.”

“Bright, flashing smile probably blinded you to the rest of my shining attributes.”

“Oh, something blinded me all right.”

He laughed. “I’m glad I met you, Darby Landon of the East Coast Landons. I’ve been dreading this trip for two weeks, five hours and”—he checked his diving watch—“twenty-three minutes. Not that I was counting.”

“And I thought I had it bad with three days, six hours and”—she checked her own nonexistent watch—“four freckles past the hair.”

“Not much on schedules as a rule I take it?”

“My schedule is usually ruled by sun up, sun down, and how much daylight I get between the two. Everything else sort of comes along at its own pace.”

“My kind of schedule.”

She said nothing letting her gaze travel over him instead. And she made no effort to hide the fact that she was checking him out, either.

“Conclusions?” he asked, after she’d finished her casual perusal. And damn if that didn’t make him stir a bit, too. He wished he had a Stetson of his own at the moment. He made do with casually propping one ankle on the opposite knee. It idly occurred to him that his hiking boots had seen almost as much wear and tear as her western ones.

“Not sure,” she replied. “I read horses better than I do people.”

“It’s been my experience that horses read people better than people read people.”

“You ride?” she asked, obviously surprised.

He could have told her that Morgans were to the saddle born. Only said saddle was generally on the back of a polo pony. He’d tried polo. Unlike his father and uncle, he’d never been much for it. He’d had a lot more fun the two seasons he’d spent on the bronc busting circuit. As a rodeo clown, not a rider. “Let’s just say I know which end of a horse to steer clear of.”

Now she smiled. And it was a thing to behold, really. “That would be both ends, on occasion. The trick is knowing which end to avoid at which time.”

“Yeah. I figured that out early on. And that being under the horse at any time was always a no-no.”

“Hey, you do learn fast.”

“I try.”

“I bet,” she said, half under her breath.

He thought about calling her on it, but the dry sentiment was too on target for him to do much with. And he suspected she knew as much.

“So, how many siblings are there in the East Coast Landon clan? Was it an older one or a younger one that put the bamboo shoots under your nails?” He held up a hand. “Wait, let me guess. The only people older than you that can usually wrack you with guilt are your parents. So I’m guessing younger.”

“I only have one sibling. And yes, you’d be right. She’s younger.”

“Oh, baby sisters. Say no more.”

“You speak with great authority, O single child.”

“No, I speak with great authority, O single male who has dated his fair share of both younger and older sisters.”

She arched a brow. Natural, unwaxed and unsculpted—and he’d seen enough to know the difference. Hers was all the sexier because of it. “That lived under the same roof?” she asked.

“Oh heavens no,” he said with mock savoir faire. Then he grinned. “They both had their own places by then.”

She just rolled her eyes, but he saw the tell-tale twitch of the lips.

“So what has baby sister conned you into?”

She didn’t answer right off, then sighed and said, “Playing chauffeur, hostess and all-around social ladder climber to a Swedish financier. He’s doing some deal with my father and I have to make nice.”

Shane’s brows lifted. “Sounds—”

“About as much fun as having skin peeled off my body in strips,” she finished. “I know. But baby sis needs her trust fund back and is currently out of the country, so I’m helping her out of a jam.” She shook her head, let out a little sigh. “I shouldn’t. I do it too often. But I can’t seem to say no.”

Shane grinned. “A handy piece of information to have.”

She merely gave him a look.

The car slowed as it pulled into a long, semicircular drive.

“Looks like we’re here.” He glanced out the window at the aging Victorian mansion that Aurora’s state’s attorney husband had left her when he died, some twenty years back. Shane had assumed, back when they started this venture, that they’d eventually move when the going got good. Something big and glitzy. But now that he looked at the place, with the fancy shutters, turrets and balustrades, all in a fresh coat of white, the deep front porch cloaked in a lush jungle of azaleas, the pristine and immaculately kept grounds, the sweeping old oaks and aging hickory trees . . . he realized that this place was meant to be Glass Slipper, Inc. And it suited Mercedes, Aurora and Vivian better than any pile of chrome and glass ever would.

An unexpected wave of longing washed over him, surprising him. Shocking him, really. But suddenly he was dying to see them, to listen to them take him to task for his renegade ways. To be enveloped by their elegant perfumes and bountiful bosoms—well, Vivian’s anyway—and made to feel . . . well, welcome. He didn’t realize how much that was going to mean to him. But it did. Because this was likely the only homecoming he was going to get.

Darby’s rustling as she pulled herself together dragged his attention from the window. “You can always walk away, you know,” he told her. “I’m sure this Scandinavian dude will be suitably impressed with you as is.” Hell, she’d blown him away, hadn’t she?

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, however sorely misplaced.” She stared out the window. “But the god’s honest truth is, I’m not sure I can pull this off. I’ve been gone from this world for a very long time.” She looked back at him. “And it’s important.”

“Not to you.”

“Yes, it is important to me.”

“The deal you’re supposed to seal is that big?”

She shook her head. “My sister is. I wasn’t always there for her.” A brief smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hence the guilt. But I can be there for her now. Or, at least, I want to be.”

Shane slid off his seat and angled his body onto the seat next to her. She lifted her eyebrows at the move, but didn’t react otherwise to his shift into her personal space.

“All you can do is what you can do,” he told her. “If it fails, you can say you gave it your best shot. And if your dad or sister bitches about the outcome, well, then next time they’ll have to clean up their own messes, won’t they?”

Darby smiled lightly. “I seem to recall having a similar conversation with my sister just—”

“Three days, seven hours and two freckles past a hair ago?”

“Something like that,” she murmured, her smile warm this time. Inviting.

And that’s when he knew he was going to do something rash. And here she’d made it all the way to the driveway uncorrupted, too. Oh well, there was nothing for it now. Unless she said no, of course.

“I’ve always been a firm believer in having no regrets,” he told her. “Which is why I’m going to apologize up front.”

“For what?”

“Kissing you.”

Her eyes widened, but to her credit, her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Oh really?”

“Oh yeah, definitely really.”

“So why bother to apologize? You’re clearly not going to be sorry, right?”

“Oh, I don’t believe so, no.”

Her eyes flashed then, and where he’d expected to see a bit of vulnerability, perhaps some sort of distaste or discomfort that would make him back off . . . instead he saw interest. Blatant, direct interest. Which honestly surprised him. And, god knows, aroused the hell out of him.

“Does any woman say no to you?” she asked.

“About kissing them? Or generally speaking?”

“Anytime speaking.”

“Not usually. No.”

“Did you ever think maybe it was time a woman did?”

“Past time, definitely.” He smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. Women aren’t the only ones who get by for far too long on good looks and a bit of charm.”

“So why don’t you stop allowing it to happen?”

“I find life tends to be easier when I let my natural talents lead the way.”

She shook her head with a sigh, but the smile came all too readily to that full lower lip now.

He spoke without thinking, not that thinking would have stopped him. “If I said you were absolutely stunning when you smiled, would you—”

“Be flattered?” she interrupted.

“I was going to say punch me,” he finished with a grin. “But flattered would be much better.”

“Well, I’ll hate myself for admitting it,” she said with a small sigh, “but probably, yes.” She gave him a look. “Your charm wins again.”

“Does it?”

Now she snorted. “Don’t push it.”

He reached out and pushed a stray knotted piece of hair away from her face. To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Or knee him in the balls. “You are stunning, you know,” he said, a great deal more seriously than he’d intended. “Smiling or not.”

“Now you’re definitely pushing it. Or just full of it. Or both.”

“It’s my greatest downfall.” He stroked his fingers along her cheek, across her lips. She inhaled with the slightest of gasps. His body tightened almost painfully. “I’m dying to taste you,” he told her, and thought it was highly probable he’d never been more sincere about anything in his life.

“Then I suppose you’d better just take your chances,” she said, her voice just the tiniest bit shaky. “You can tell me later if you regret it.”

Challenged, and loving the hell out of it, he leaned in closer. She remained just as she was. Unmoving, and unmoved, or that’s what she’d have him believe. He saw otherwise in those brackish eyes of hers. She wasn’t afraid of him. And wasn’t—he hoped anyway—planning to hurt him in any way.

She was waiting.

The driver killed the engine. He knew their time together was almost over. “Definitely no regrets,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.