Cinderella and The Playboy

“I’ll be hiding under a rock,” she muttered, her mind searching in vain for another excuse when Dixie came asking again—which, of course, she would.

Dixie snorted. “Why you hate birthdays I’ll never know. Perky people are supposed to love birthdays.”

“I like other people’s birthdays. It’s just when I’m the one getting older—”

“You’re turning twenty-five, for goodness sake.” Dixie sighed. “I don’t think that qualifies you for Grandma Moses status yet.”

Abby laughed. “It’s not a vain, getting-wrinkles sorta thing, Dix. It’s a productive thing. I really wanted to have the art center up and going by now. And—”

She halted midstream. Having her very own art center was exactly what was happening. No more excuses or feeling sorry for herself. She was going to have her dream fulfilled—and all because of C. K. Tanner.

“You’ll get there, Abby,” Dixie was saying. “One day at a time, you know? Hey, I know what would make you feel better.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“A date,” Dixie exclaimed. “Better yet, a man.”

“What’s the difference?” she couldn’t help saying.

“A thousand miles, hon.” Dixie chuckled. “A man sticks around—he’s a boyfriend, a husband.”

Down the street the wind kicked up leaves with a flourish, announcing the arrival of a gleaming black Mercedes that Abby could only assume was C. K. Tanner’s. This was a modest neighborhood, where understated Spanish homes sat quietly bracketed by smallish apartment complexes. It was a tan Ford kind of neighborhood, not a luxury full-size.

Abby felt her heartbeat pick up speed as the car slowed to the curb in front of her apartment. The windows were tinted a light smoke color, but she knew it was him. The driver’s side door opened and he stepped out, looking unbelievably handsome. Damn him.

You need a man, a husband, Dixie had said. Abby stifled a laugh. If her friend only knew that she was going to have a husband for three days, and it was none other than the mail room’s fantasy, C. K. Tanner.

“Listen, I’d better go,” Abby said, coming to her feet and stepping back into her apartment. “I’ve got to take some, ah…some more aspirin.”

“Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Ah…I’ll see how I feel.”

“Sure you don’t want me to bring you anything? I have an hour for lunch.”

Abby’s stomach dipped as she heard Mr. Tanner’s footsteps heading down the hall. “No, thanks. I’m good. Just lots of bed rest.”

“All right, hon. How about a birthday lunch with the girls and me on Monday, then? We’ll continue the celebrating.”

“Perfect.”

“And don’t think you’re getting off the man subject so easily.”

A knock at the door caused her to jump. “Sure thing, Dix. I’ll call you.”

She ran to the door, swinging it wide. “I’m sorry for not meeting you downstairs, sir, but…” Her words trailed off as she took in the man leaning against the doorjamb.

“No apology required,” he said, his smooth baritone filling the space between them.

Her stomach dipped. “Would you…ah…like to come in?”

“Sure. For a moment.” He inclined his head. “See how my wife lives.”

Wife! Abby cleared her throat, and tried to stop her gaze from raking over him as he walked confidently into the apartment. Black jeans encased his strong legs and a ribbed black sweater molded to his torso, accentuating his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Some odd sense of pride welled within her, as though he belonged to her, but she quickly pushed such a ridiculous thought aside. Remember why this man’s here—why he’s hired you, she chided herself.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Tanner?” she said, trying to sound light and cheerful. “Coffee, soda?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him walk around her apartment, looking at her knickknacks, artwork, furnishings and books, assessing. He stopped in front of one of her paintings. An abstract acrylic portrait of a man with normal features except for his eyes. Where pupils should have been there was only a deep shade of gray.

“This is an exceptional piece,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”

She grinned in spite of her nerves. “I am.”

He hesitated, his gaze remaining on the painting. “You’re very talented, Abby.”

“You sound surprised, sir.”

He shook his head. “Impressed. Maybe even the smallest bit envious. I can recognize extraordinary art when I see it, purchase a gallery filled with it if I wanted to, but—” he chuckled “—I can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Well, some people have the art gene and some have the business one, I guess.”

“You certainly have the art one in spades.” He moved closer to the piece. “And who’s the subject?”

“A man I knew a long time ago.” Abby went to stand by him. “He had trouble seeing.”

“He was blind?”

She nodded. “In a way.”

He turned to look at her then, his brown eyes probing, searching, making her uncomfortable in both mind and in body.

She swallowed and took a step back. “Shall we go?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and Abby went to gather her things.

They were out of the apartment, down the stairs and walking toward the car when Tanner moved slightly ahead of her to open the car door.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, trying not to sigh when she sat down on the plush leather seat. The interior of the car was immaculate: no candy-bar wrappers, no coffee cups. The leather looked polished, brand-new, and nary a dust bunny lingered on the dash, or in any crevice for that matter. Perfectly in order, just like the man.

He slid into the driver’s side and shot her a look. “You can’t call me ‘sir.’” He turned the key in the ignition and the car sprang to life, purring like a purebred cat. “I think it would be best from this moment forward if you called me Tanner.”

“Shouldn’t I call you by your first name?”

“No one calls me by my first name.”

Abby looked up at him curiously. He had his seat belt on, his gearshift in first and his gaze on her. “For the next several days you aren’t my employee, Abby. That’s certainly not the impression I want Frank Swanson to have of…” A smile tugged at his lips. “Why don’t you just call me Tanner, or if you feel a surge of bravery,” the smile widened, “honey or dear.”