Secret Cinderella

“Has anyone ever told you, you do sarcasm quite well? Look, it’s late and neither of us is thinking straight right now. Why don’t you go take something for your headache? I’ll make us a cup of hot chocolate to help us sleep. We can finish playing twenty questions in the morning.”

She moved to brush past him even though she’d known it wasn’t going to be that simple. He stopped her in her tracks simply by snagging her arm. The man had a powerful grip, but she was relieved to find he knew exactly how much pressure to exert to hold her still without hurting.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Mel froze and her heart pulsed a rapid staccato. Could he see through her brave talk? Did he know how badly she was quaking inside? She was totally in the wrong here and she knew it. He had every right to call the police and have her arrested. She had to keep reminding herself that any show of fear was a weakness that might just send his hand reaching for the nearest telephone. Best to keep him off base—if she could. “To your kitchen. I could use a pain reliever myself and I can’t take them on an empty stomach.”

This close to him again she realized that his tuxedo still held the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and a much stronger floral perfume odor that she wasn’t familiar with. The last wasn’t terribly surprising since it had probably come from the girlfriend and was bound to cost more than Mel would think of spending even if she wore perfume.

Dark, tired eyes stared down at her. They mirrored his headache and exhaustion, but once again she was reminded that this was no mark. Roderick Laughlin III was a formidable adversary.

“Look, trust me,” she told him, making no effort to pull away. “I’m not going anywhere dressed like this. We both need sleep.”

“Trust you?”

His lips curled cynically and his eyes bored into hers.

“Interesting concept…Mel. Tell me why I should trust a pickpocket who dresses like a whore and enters my house illegally in the dead of the night.”

Her body went rigid under the lash of his words. Before she could formulate a reply, he released her arm to rub at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Forget it. You’ve had plenty of time to strip the place bare if that was your intention. You’re right. I need sleep. I do not intend to stand here talking to a crazy person at this hour of the morning.”

“You know, a lesser person might take umbrage with that statement. I, however, will let it pass.” She reached down to lift the frying pan from the bed. “Have you eaten recently? I’m thinking maybe a light omelet and some hot chocolate.”

Mel started for the hall. She didn’t bother to turn around to see if he was following her. The answer was not in question.

His kitchen was a dream for someone who loved to cook. Real cocoa, whole milk, even marshmallows were available in his well-stocked pantry. She started warming the milk and returned to the refrigerator.

“Oh, my. I do love a man with a well-stocked larder. Leftover ham!”

“Mel.”

“And look at all these exotic cheeses! You even have fresh mushrooms and a green pepper. I may have to marry you. This is fantastic!”

“Mel,” he said again from the doorway. “I’m not hungry. It’s late—or rather, very early in the morning. I don’t want breakfast.”

“That’s okay. You’ll change your mind after you taste one of my omelets. I haven’t eaten since—you know, I don’t remember when I ate last. That means it’s been far too long. That canapé I snatched earlier doesn’t count as food. Nothing more than warmed cardboard with anchovies. You’d think a five-star hotel would hire better chefs. Not my problem, but it is annoying. Anyhow, we’ll sleep better if we eat, trus—honest. The omelet will only take a minute and the food will help your headache. Unless…you don’t suffer from migraines, do you?”

He looked affronted.

“Not normally,” he said pointedly.

She tossed him a saucy grin and removed the hot milk from the burner. “Here. Stir in the cocoa while I get the omelet started.”

For a minute, she thought she’d pushed him too far. Then, without a word, he took the pan from her, lifted the tin of cocoa and set about precisely measuring the powdery mix. Relieved to have passed that hurdle, Mel continued putting ingredients together.

As Roderick mixed the cocoa he wondered when he’d lost control of the situation. Then he wondered why he wasn’t more upset. He should be phoning the police, not standing here watching her move about his kitchen as though she owned the place. What was wrong with him? But even as he asked the question, he knew why he wasn’t reaching for the telephone. She fascinated him. He’d never met anyone remotely like her before. She’d roused his curiosity to fever pitch. Well, it would be fever pitch if he wasn’t so tired. And he couldn’t bring himself to believe she was any sort of threat to him. Undoubtedly foolish, but a risk he was willing to take to get to the bottom of the enigma called Mel. He set her mug of steaming chocolate on the island and leaned back against the far counter to sip from his own mug as he watched her work. Wringing her slender neck definitely held some appeal, but he found himself alternately bemused and mesmerized by the small dynamo moving so efficiently about his kitchen as if she’d been doing so for years.

Roderick took pride in the fact that he always maintained control. He was used to being in charge, used to issuing orders and used to being obeyed. His sister often claimed he was part robot. Too bad Pansy couldn’t see him trying to deal with this slip of a woman.

“What sort of a name is that for a woman anyhow?”

“Mel? It’s short for Melanie,” she told him sweetly.

He watched her lift the pan from the burner and flip the egg concoction with a deft flick of her wrist. The eggs rose several inches, turned over and settled back down again as neatly as anything he’d ever seen. Roderick was impressed despite himself.

“Have a seat,” she told him.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.” But he carried his mug over to the table anyhow.

“Fine, then you can watch me eat your share, too.”

Moments later she set half of a fluffy omelet in front of him along with a slice of lightly buttered toast. She settled on the chair across from him with her share.

Roderick Laughlin, wealthy, decisive chairman of the board of several dozen firms, picked up his fork and dutifully cut into the eggs. Cheese oozed from the center. It looked and smelled wonderful, he conceded. It tasted even better. Neither of them spoke until they had cleaned their plates.

“That was excellent,” he admitted. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“My grandmother taught me. Finish your chocolate while I clean up.”

“Leave it. My housekeeper will get the dishes in the morning.”

“Absolutely not. I clean up my own messes.”

Interesting. And telling, if true.

“Besides, if it keeps snowing like this, your housekeeper isn’t going to make it here in the morning. Don’t you give your help holidays off? Never mind. You just sit there,” she continued, hopping to her feet.

He’d forgotten Sal wouldn’t be in tomorrow, which only went to show how tired he was. But Melanie’s order to sit caused Roderick to raise an eyebrow in warning. “Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”

“Yep.” She lifted his plate and carried it to the sink.

“Is that why you aren’t married?”

Mel whirled, startled. “What?”

Absurdly pleased to have her on the defensive for a change, he watched her turn back to recover the fork she’d dropped into the sink.

“I’m wondering why a woman who can cook like this isn’t married.”

“Don’t ruin your image by telling me you’re some backward-thinking male chauvinist,” she said, bending to place the fork and the plate in the dishwasher.

“I won’t,” he promised, waiting to see what she’d do.

She tucked her loose hair back behind her ear and began scrubbing out the pan as he rose and sauntered over to join her at the sink.

“Why would any sane person choose to get married in this day and age?” she demanded.