Cinderella and The Playboy

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Heat surged into her cheeks at his suggestions, but she barely felt it through a bristling of indignation. “Excuse me for saying so, but I think it’s vastly important to remember that I am your employee, sir…ah…Tanner.”

“Sir Tanner.” He put on a good show of considering that as he let out the clutch. “I like it.”

Abby couldn’t help but roll her eyes as he pulled away from the curb, chuckling.

They were quiet for several blocks, but when Tanner entered the freeway, he broke the silence with business. “When we arrive at the house, you’ll have your makeover. I’ve allowed two hours for this. Then we’ll have a dinner meeting and get to know each other. I’ve decided that we will be newlyweds, just married and trying to keep it quiet. The press keeps tabs on my marital status, so I’ll tell the Swansons we eloped.” He barely stopped for breath. “This weekend, I feel the conversations should be primarily on business, but feel free to interject….”

As he continued to explain the details and events of the weekend, Abby began to drift off. She couldn’t help it—actually what she couldn’t help was staring at how his muscles tightened against the fabric of his jeans when he shifted gears.

She knew she had to get a grip and listen to his recitation on business protocol, but it was like being briefed by the Pentagon, for goodness sakes. She decided to find out some information that would really be helpful.

“So, who’s Frank Swanson?” she asked.

“Have you heard of Swanson Sweets?”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “I have at least one bag of chocolate mints and one box of dark chocolate-covered cherries in my fridge at all times.”

She had a nice laugh, Tanner thought as his gaze swept her lightly. It moved from high to husky like an ocean wave, causing his gut to tighten. But it was that kilowatt smile of hers—a smile that came from her eyes as much as it did her lips—that had him straying from his “this is just business” commitment. He’d have to watch that.

When the freeway came to an end, Tanner turned right—toward home—the ocean and beach to his left. Automatically he opened his window and breathed in the salty air.

“You must really love candy, huh?” Abby said.

He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”

“Then why buy the company?”

He laughed.

She opened her window, as well. “Okay, so maybe that’s a really naive question in your world, but I’d really like to know.”

He delivered his pat answer without giving it a thought. “It’s a profitable venture.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she was going to press him for more, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked back and forth from the ocean to the palm-tree-lined streets, then turned to him. “You live in Malibu?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just figured you for a Beverly Hills kinda guy, that’s all.”

“And what kind of guy is that?”

“One who likes to be close to town, close to the action and all the pretty—” she stopped short, her cheeks growing pinker by the second “—the pretty sights.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like the La Brea Tar Pits?” Even Los Angeles natives joked about the city’s lack of culture.

She was silent a moment before she said, “Maybe you should tell me a little bit about yourself so I’m not guessing. Tell me about your family.”

Tanner’s mind filled with sharp images he rarely acknowledged, much less talked about: the death of his mother; his workaholic, womanizing father, who had immediately shipped Tanner off to boarding school; his lonely childhood devoid of contact with his father, devoid of holidays in the family bosom; endless days and nights of learning how to control his emotions and become a ruthless businessman.

He cursed silently and told Abby McGrady all she needed to hear. “I’m thirty-two years old. I was born June twentieth in Manhattan. I run ten miles every morning, prefer whisky to wine and rarely go to bed before two in the morning.”

“Jeez.” Abby laughed softly. “Talk about a thirty-second life story.”

That was usually enough to satisfy most women he knew. Tanner pulled into his driveway, clearly marked by the Private Property and No Trespassing signs. Certainly it would be enough to satisfy a woman he was only going to know for the rest of the week. “All right,” he said, sending her a sidelong glance. “How about this for a revelation—this is my first marriage.”

She smirked at him. “No shock there, sir.”

“Abby,” he scolded.

But he got no response. She was staring, transfixed, out the windshield, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Full, pink lips that he wanted to run his thumb over to feel, then his tongue to taste.

But he wouldn’t.

He shoved all thoughts of her and him and lips and tasting away and helped her out of the car. “What do you think of the place?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she sounded a little sad.

“But?”

She raised a brow at him as they walked up the front steps. “But what?”

“I read people’s reactions for a living, Abby.” He held the front door open for her. “I can tell when someone’s not telling me the complete story.”

“It’s just…so enormous.” She glanced around, taking in the black marble floor, chrome and glass accents and circular staircase. “You live here all by yourself?”

He nodded. Damn right he did. In fact, he’d never even brought a woman here. It was his place of solace, to relax, think.

He had a decidedly bacheloresque penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard that he usually used for entertaining. He could’ve taken Abby there. But he had neighbors who liked to gossip, and the Malibu house had just seemed more appropriate for her makeover and their dinner meeting.

He followed her with his gaze as she moved over to the fireplace and touched the empty mantle gingerly.

“You must not spend much time here.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There are no pictures or mementos or…anything.” She shook her head. “You should do something about that. It’s not fair to the house.”

He frowned. Not fair to the house? What the hell did that mean? His house was exactly as it should be: comfortable and functional. Just because he didn’t have a bunch of meaningless clutter on his mantel like at her place—art supplies everywhere, a million pictures of her family decorating her desk and tables.

He shook his head at her annoying observations. Never in his life had he met anyone who just said whatever was on her mind or asked whatever question popped into her head like she did. People who didn’t think before they acted were headed for disaster, didn’t she know that?

Hell, it was good that this woman was only going to be around for a weekend.

He nodded at the stairs. “Why don’t you go upstairs now, first door on your right. The team’s waiting for you.”

Her eyes widened. “The team? What team?”

“Your makeover team,” he said, turning to go.

“Wow,” he heard her say quietly. “It’s going to take a whole team?”

With his back to her, he couldn’t help but smile at her guilelessness.

“Hey!” she called to him. “I thought you might want to ask me a few questions about myself.”

“Later. At dinner,” he replied succinctly as he reached the door. “I have work to do.”

It was only partly a lie, he thought as he turned in the doorway and watched her walk up the stairs, her hips swaying gently with the movement. He did have work to do, always had work to do. But this time he was using it as an excuse to get away from the pretty redhead who was threatening to drive him crazy.

Three

“Darling, you have wonderful bone structure.” The makeup artist, who insisted on being called “La George,” clasped his hands together, a genuine look of relief on his face as he studied Abby’s features. “Not to mention a gorgeous head of hair.”

Wanda, the hairstylist, nodded and smiled. “You really do.”

Donald, the last member of the team, held several gowns up under Abby’s chin. “Great coloring. I think the green strapless to match her eyes. Let’s get to work, people.” He smiled at Abby. “You ready, Cindy?”

“It’s Abby,” she corrected gently.

He laughed. “Not today, darlin’. Today, it’s Cindyrella.”

Abby couldn’t help smiling at them, her team, so excited about their task. She tucked a wayward and very wet curl behind her ear, then pulled her robe closer around her. They were a nice lot and she wondered if they knew the reason for this makeover. She guessed not. C. K. Tanner wasn’t the most open person on earth, she thought, remembering his brief essay on himself in the car earlier.

Short and to the point, his little background report on himself probably left out some pretty interesting details.

But then again, she had some interesting details of her own she wasn’t about to share with him. Like how much that sophisticated, charming demeanor he displayed reminded her of the act Greg had used until she’d finally believed that he’d loved her, too, and had given him the most precious gift she could give a man.

She let out a sigh. Why was she even comparing the two people or the two situations? This wasn’t high school, and her boss had no interest in her other than business.

La George smiled down at her, his eyes glistening, lip liner poised and ready. Truly, this was no romantic endeavor. But if her makeover team liked thinking of her as Cindyrella, she wouldn’t enlighten them further. She’d let them have their fun, and maybe let herself have some, too.

As Wanda plugged in curling irons and blow dryers, Abby gazed about the room. If ever a storybook had come to life, with people, props and costumes, this room would have been beyond the author’s imaginings.

It was a den of some sort and quite different than the downstairs. Where that was modern and cold, this room was warm and inviting. Its very presence in the austere house made its owner even more enigmatic than before, and Abby wondered for a moment what else besides a cozy room lay hidden beneath C. K. Tanner’s cool, calm, collected and ultraprofessional exterior.

Tall ceilings, dark-blue wall hangings and worn, comfortable tan leather chairs. Bright sunshine blazed a trail to the spectacular ocean view from the windows that made up one long wall. A large, tan sofa with two cushy pillows tucked into its corners faced a brick fireplace several steps above the roomy dressing area, where Abby and the team were assembled.

Her stomach clenched. Again, she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off. Wife to millionaire playboy, C. K. Tanner.

“Chin up,” La George commanded, a powder puff in his hand.

Solid advice from the makeup artist. That’s exactly what she’d do. Because her future and the future of her art school were riding on it. She’d simply keep her chin up, be herself this weekend, do the best she could not to embarrass herself or Tanner and pray that the candy man believed them.

In the entryway mirror, Tanner straightened his chocolate-brown Armani tie, shrugged into the matching jacket, then glanced at his watch. Good God, two and a half hours. What were they doing up there? He’d knocked on Abby’s door more than twenty minutes ago, but Wanda had told him she wasn’t ready yet. He shook his head. She was already a beautiful woman—she didn’t need that much help, for heaven’s sake. He was almost afraid to see what they’d done to her.

Upstairs a door opened, and Tanner heard several voices whisper and giggle. Then the sound of high heels on the wood stairs echoed throughout the foyer.

“Finally,” he mumbled under his breath, then called out, “I don’t know if you’re a wine drinker, Abby, but I opened two—”

His voice broke off midsentence as he stared openmouthed at the vision that was slowly descending the stairs. Gone were the baggy clothes and the mop-top hair. Her green eyes flashed fire, reflected in the emerald silk dress cut just below the knee and just above the bust, accentuating a soft curve he’d only imagined she possessed. Her hair, which had usually been up or hidden, fell past her bare shoulders in rich, red curls. And then there was something he couldn’t have seen—Abby McGrady had legs that went on for days. Heat surged into him, circling, landing deep in his groin.

She reminded him of a damn Botticelli painting. Innocent and sexy at the same time.

She looked like trouble.

He muttered an oath as he realized for the first time what he’d done. He’d picked a woman who didn’t want him—a woman who aggravated and intrigued the hell out of him—a woman who was beginning to make him question his own rules about “good girls.”

She reached the bottom step, smiling at him a little nervously. “What do you think?”

Images of creamy skin, tangled limbs and red hair blowing in the ocean breeze flashed in his mind. Stay cool, boy, or you’re cooked. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, feeling in control once again. “You look fine, Abby.”

Abby felt her eyes widen, her cheeks turning instantly scarlet. She looked down at her shoes. Fine? She’d just spent hours being plucked and curled and powdered, and the man had the nerve to tell her she looked fine? She didn’t expect him to tell her she looked stunning or anything, but pretty would’ve done it, or really good.

Abby sighed inwardly. Oh, who was she kidding? She felt gorgeous for the first time in her life and she wanted him to tell her so. She wanted him to tell her that she looked beautiful—as beautiful as the models and actresses he dated. But what she got was “fine.”

He’s your boss, Abby. You’re not here to get compliments, you’re here to work.

Tanner raked a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “We should talk.”

“All right,” she said with the most professional nod she could manage.

“Dinner’s almost ready.” He turned and headed down the hall. “Come with me.”

Sure, this was a business thing, she reminded herself as she followed him down the hallway, through room after room. This wasn’t real. Tanner wasn’t her husband, this wasn’t her home, and she didn’t normally wear two-inch strappy sandals and a killer dress. But for the next several days she would, she did. She truly felt like a princess, and she was going to make the most of it.

“I’d like to show you something,” Tanner said moments later as she followed him into what appeared to be his office. It was a gorgeous room, she thought, if you like the cool, clean, sparse look. Tall ceilings, white walls, impersonal artwork and a stone fireplace that looked as though it had never held a fire. And once again, there were no special items, no photographs of anyone anywhere.

With its view of the ocean, open sliding-glass door and billowing curtains, she was certain she’d seen its like on the cover of Architectural Digest.

And what a view, she mused, stepping outside on the balcony and breathing in the sea air. The show that Mother Nature was putting on tonight was spectacular. Sheets of red blazed across the darkening sky like the fuel tracks of a fighter jet—its mirror image a cool pink displayed below on the ocean’s surface.

“Abby?”

She turned sharply, realized she’d been lost in thought and left the balcony. “You must love living by the ocean.”

He smiled and said, “I do,” then took out a velvet box from the top drawer and placed it on his desk. “I have rings for us.”

Abby froze. Rings? She hadn’t even thought about—