Cinderella and The Playboy

“Of course,” she repeated, laughter erupting in her throat. She couldn’t help it. It was all so ridiculous. She came to her feet and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I have to decline.”

He studied her for a moment. “Believe me when I say that you will be well compensated.”

She stood there, blank, amazed. “You’re asking me to go away with you for the weekend and lie about who I am.”

He nodded casually, confidently, as though he’d asked this of a million different women—a million different times—and every one of them had said yes. Well, she wasn’t like other women and she wouldn’t help C. K. Tanner with his deceitful little plot in a million years.

“My answer is no.” She turned and pushed her cart out the door, calling back in the most professional voice she could under the circumstances, “Good day, Mr. Tanner.”

Abby McGrady sure had spunk, Tanner mused a few hours later as he opened his door and ushered the private detective into his office. And he didn’t know too many women like that. He was rarely surprised by people—even more rarely rejected by them.

And in less than ten minutes Miss McGrady had accomplished both.

She intrigued him. And there was certainly no denying his attraction to her—in spite of that “I just baked fresh cookies and you need to call me if you’re going to be late” home and hearthiness. Spending three days and nights pretending they were man and wife would only be possible if he kept reminding himself how much like oil and water they truly were.

Of course, first he had to get Abby to agree to come with him.

Tanner motioned for the detective to take a seat. He’d given the man just three hours to find out as much as he could about Abby McGrady. Tanner already knew she had the right qualifications—smart, quick and attractive—all musts for a good corporate wife. She needed some help with her wardrobe, but that could be taken care of in an afternoon. But her most valuable asset was the fact that her personal—and inexplicable—dislike of him would keep their arrangement totally professional, and that’s what he needed more than anything—no strings.

“Her full name is Abigail Mary McGrady,” the detective began, his gaze focused intently on the paper in front of him. “She’s an aspiring artist. Graduated Los Angeles School of Fine Art in 1998. Teaches an art class Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at the Yellow Canyon Community Center. Miss McGrady has a small apartment close by in West Hollywood where she grows roses in pots on her deck. She buys mint-chocolate-chip ice cream every Friday night after work and she turns twenty-five October the seventh.”

“That’s this Sunday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually I did find out something that might be helpful.”

As he listened to the detective, Tanner felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile.

Two

The note that had been taped to the door at the start of class was permanently tattooed in Abby’s mind.

To all art students and staff:

Unfortunately, due to an overwhelming demand for computer courses, we are forced to cancel art classes for the semester. Next week will be your final class and prorated refund checks will be mailed to you. We are doing our best to bring back this art course next semester. Please accept our sincerest apologies.

Yellow Canyon Community Center

What else could go wrong today? Abby wondered as she waited for her students to finish a watercolor exercise. First she’d spilled coffee all over her boss’s desk, then he’d proceeded to ask her to pretend to be his wife for the weekend. And, worst of all, for just a moment when she’d been hypnotized by his gaze, she’d actually been tempted to say yes. With the way her life had been going lately, a weekend of adventure with her gorgeous boss just didn’t sound like a fate worse than death.

But that was her lonely heart talking. When her brain wrapped around the fact that this guy was not only a cocky Casanova, he was also her boss, she’d straightened out.

It would be just business, he’d told her earlier that day. Well, of course it would be just business. The man went out with supermodels and actresses who wore Gucci and smelled like eight-hundred-dollar perfume, not a clumsy mail girl who wore clothes from the secondhand store and considered Ivory soap her signature scent.

But one question still lingered: Why her? With all the women who drooled over him, why had he asked her?

Abby sighed and shook her head. It would remain a mystery. By now Mr. Tanner had probably forgotten her name—forgotten she even existed—and found someone else to play his wife for the weekend.

“Everyone done?” she asked the class when several faces appeared over the tops of their easels.

They all nodded.

She exhaled heavily as she stared at the dejected expressions on their faces. “The center can make more money with computer classes, you guys. And this is a slow time of year for them.” She smiled weakly. “But I’ll figure something out, I promise. Give me a week.”

“I can’t afford lessons anywhere else,” one student said.

“Shoot, I can hardly afford them here,” another added.

Abby nodded. “I understand, but—”

“What if they were free?”

The husky baritone came from the direction of the doorway. The entire room turned to stare, including Abby. Her eyes widened and her heart slammed against her ribs.

C. K. Tanner stood in the doorway, his eyes set on her.

Gone was the pinstripe suit. Jeans and a simple sweater had taken its place. Simple. Hah! Nothing on or about C. K. Tanner was simple, Abby thought wryly, wishing she’d fixed her hair or worn something nicer—something from a boutique.

He moved into the room with the confidence of a general. Tall, dark and sexy as all get-out. And the way he fitted into those jeans had to be illegal, she mused, then quickly told that half of her brain to shush.

“My name is Tanner,” he informed the class. “I’m a friend of Abby’s.”

“Go, Abby,” one female student hooted.

Everyone laughed. Abby’s cheeks burned.

“He’s not a—” she stuttered, then frowned at him, whispering, “I haven’t changed my mind, sir.”

“Hear me out, Abby,” he whispered back. “There’s an element to this proposal that might interest you.” He plunked down beside her on the desk and addressed the class. “I’m here to offer all of you,” he glanced over at Abby, “and you, too, of course, a building where you can hold your art classes. As for the rent—”

“Here it comes,” muttered one of the students.

“It will be a dollar a month,” Tanner finished.

Silence. All twenty students stared openmouthed at Tanner, then at Abby, then back again.

Abby’s muscles felt like water, but her temper was piqued. The man had some nerve. How dare he come in here and raise her students’ hopes like this. How dare he come in here and make their teacher’s pulse race. She jumped off the desk and motioned for him to follow. “Come with me,” she said, the sound of hoots and catcalls following them as she pulled him out of the room.

Once out in the hallway, Abby whirled on him, ready to give him what for. But her heel caught on the doorsill and she pitched forward into his arms.

Her cheeks flamed. Why did her clumsy nature have to show itself every damn time C. K. Tanner was near? Was she cursed?

“I got you,” he said in a husky whisper, tightening his hold on her.

Man, he felt good, she mused, steadying herself on her feet. All solid muscle and formidable strength.