Cinderella and The Playboy

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.