Once Upon A Kiss...: The Cinderella Act / Princess in the Making / Temporarily His Princess

Three sauce bowls, each with a tiny spoon, sat in the middle of the table, next to a dish of lemon wedges. Sinclair poured them each a flute of champagne. The opened oysters glowed intriguingly in the moonlight in their mother-of-pearl-lined shells. He picked up a shell and spooned one of the sauces onto it. “Open your mouth.”

She obeyed, her stomach clenching slightly, either because of the strange food or the prospect of Sinclair feeding it to her—or both. He tipped the shell toward her mouth and she gently sucked. The cool, oceany taste of the oyster met with a pleasantly sharp explosion of picante sauce on her tongue.

“Swallow.”

She swallowed, blinking at the strange sensation of the smooth oyster sliding down her throat. “That was different.”

Sinclair smiled. “Now you feed me one.”

“My duties as a housekeeper keep expanding in strange directions.” She glanced flirtatiously at him. She wasn’t sure why she kept reminding him—and herself—that he was her employer, but somehow it seemed preferable to having them both forget again. It made whatever romance they did share feel more … real.

“You’re not here as my housekeeper.” Sinclair obviously didn’t find comfort in her words. “But feed me an oyster anyway.” His voice contained a hint of suggestion that made her skin tingle with awareness. She reached for the plate and took one of the pearly shells. She surveyed the sauces. One looked tomatoey, like a cocktail sauce. One was thinner and a little darker, probably hot sauce. The other had herbs floating in it—garlic? She decided to go classic and squeezed a spritz of lemon onto the fish, then held it out. Sinclair’s lips struggled with a slight smile as he opened them for her to tip the contents of the shell into his mouth. Her fingers trembled but she managed to hold it steady as he slurped the oyster gracefully into his mouth and swallowed it. “Delicious.”

The satisfied look on his face suggested that it wasn’t only their appetizer that he spoke about. Some strange place way below her belly button shimmied in response. Was this the aphrodisiac effect of the oysters?

“Your turn.” Their champagne sat untouched as he fed her another oyster, then she fed him. Then he caught hold of her fingers that proffered the shell and kissed them, sending sparks of arousal dancing up her arm.

“You’re glowing tonight.” He spoke softly, serious.

“Like the oyster shells.” She said the first thing that came to mind. His compliment shocked and embarrassed her.

Those adorable smile crinkles showed around his eyes. “In most of the women I know, modesty sounds like they’re fishing for compliments. In you it’s far more annoying because I suspect you really mean it.” He kissed her fingertips again before letting them go.

“No one growing up in my family could suffer from a swelled head for long.”

He leaned forward. “I don’t know anything about your family, except that you need to buy your own house so you don’t have to live with them anymore.”

She laughed. “They’re not that bad. Just loud and bossy and funny. They’re nice, really, except Granny when she’s in one of her moods. She’s the dictator of the family and what she says, goes.”

“Partly because she owns the house everyone lives in.”

“Exactly.” She smiled. “You have personal experience with how that works.”

“I don’t have moods,” he protested. His eyes glittered with amusement.

“Not often, anyway,” she teased. “But if you did I’d have to put up with them, wouldn’t I?”

“Definitely not. I don’t encourage people to slink about like mute sheep. I wouldn’t have much of a business if everyone yessed me to death.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She had tiptoed around him for a long time. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t seemed to notice her before. Judging from his past wives, he was attracted to rather strong-minded women—even if he couldn’t actually stay married to them. “I’ll make a point of being more assertive. Then again, I’m not sure I need to be, since I do everything my way and you all seem to be happy anyway.”

A smile crept across his mouth. “Sounds like the ideal state of affairs. Obviously your way is perfect.” He tilted his head slightly, and held her gaze with those relentless dark eyes. “For me, anyway.”

Annie’s chest tightened inside her elegant gown. This sounded like some kind of major declaration. Or was it simply dinner-party chatter? She didn’t have enough experience to tell the difference. And Sinclair’s eyes were having a very unsettling effect on her.

He lifted both of their glasses and handed one to her. “To perfection. Long may it reign in castle Drummond.” She smiled and clinked her glass against his. The champagne contrasted pleasurably with the smooth saltiness of the oyster.

“Castle Drummond. I like that. The house doesn’t have a name, does it?”

“We’ve always called it Dog Harbor, after the town. It should, though. Anything that’s hung in there for three hundred years should have a name.”

“Especially if it’s built of wood. I can’t believe those ceiling beams in the attic. That house was built to stand the test of time. Do you think part of that old cup is really up there somewhere?”

He shrugged. “Could well be. It has no value or function that would encourage anyone to sell it over the years, so unless it was thrown away at some point, it’s probably in there somewhere.”

He fed her another oyster, and she shivered slightly as the cool, liquidy flesh slid down her throat. The tender look in his eyes made the gesture seem almost protective. Don’t get carried away! This is just one night.

It was hard not to, though. She picked up another oyster and fed it to him. He held her gaze as he pulled it into his mouth, and a corresponding flash of awareness lit up her secret places. Energy was gathering here, swirling around them, drawing them closer together.

A waiter arrived at the table with an empty wine bottle and a broad smile. Annie and Sinclair both looked at him curiously. Then he pulled out two leaves of delicate paper and two golden pencils. “You are hereby invited to write a message to each other. Preferably something you’d never dare say out loud. You may share the message before you place it in the bottle—or not. All the bottles will be released into the ocean to travel around the world and take your messages to each other with them.”

Annie blinked. What would she never dare say out loud?

I’m crazy about you.

He probably knew that anyway.

Sinclair was frowning at his piece of paper. He glanced up at her with an odd look in his eyes. “Let’s write something and not show each other.”

“Okay.” Anxiety fluttered in her stomach. What if he said they wouldn’t look, then at the last minute they had to because of some party game? She picked up her pencil and chewed it thoughtfully. “At least they’re not making us write rhyming couplets.”

“True, though that might be fun.” He paused for a moment, then started writing, looking intently at his paper.

She couldn’t read the words, partly because a single candle on the table was their only light beyond the moon, and partly because his writing was worse than most doctors’. She turned to the blank square that sat mockingly on the table. A quick glance revealed that other guests at the tables around them were writing or even already squeezing their rolled-up papers into the neck of the bottle. “What if it ends up in the Great Pacific Plastic Patch?”

“What if it ends up in the hands of a lonely castaway on a remote Pacific island and gives him the strength to survive another month?”

“You apparently have a more romantic imagination than me.” She snuck a glance at him. He’d rolled his paper into a thin cylinder, held between his thumb and finger. “And now I’m really curious about what you wrote.”

He smiled mysteriously. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” His gaze lingered on her face for a moment, making heat rise under her skin.

Sinclair, I think you’re a very handsome and thoughtful man who deserves to live happily ever after (preferably with me). She wrote the last part so tiny there was no way anyone could read it. P.S. I love you.

She rolled the message up fast and shoved it into the neck of the bottle before anyone could pry it from her fingers and make her read it aloud. Her hands trembled with the power of writing exactly what she wanted to, and not settling for saying the sensible thing. If it came back to haunt her someday, so what? Right now she was living a dream, if only for a night.

Did she really love him? She had no idea. Lack of experience again. She’d certainly never admired and adored a man as much as she did Sinclair. And a simple glance in her direction from him made her palms sweat. If that wasn’t love it was something pretty close.

Sinclair pushed his message into the bottle and jammed in the cork their hosts had provided.

The waiter appeared again, and asked them to follow him. Annie rose from her chair, gathered her skirts, and she and Sinclair joined the other couples now walking across the broad sweep of lawn toward the Sound.

The moon cast an ethereal silver glow over the landscape. The lawn was a lush carpet underfoot and the slim beach at the shoreline glittered like crushed diamonds. Protected from the Atlantic by Long Island, the waveless water shimmered like a pool of mercury. Behind them the house resembled a fairy palace, its many windows lit and lanterns festooning the terraces.

As they grew closer she could see rowboats, almost like Venetian gondolas, lined up along a long, wooden dock. They bobbed slightly on the calm water. Attendants dressed in black brocade helped each couple into their own personal boat and gave the oars to the men, before pointing to a small, tree-cloaked island far out in the water.

“We’re supposed to row out there in the dark?” Each gondola had a lantern, hung from a curlicue of wrought iron, at its stern.

“It’ll be an adventure.” Sinclair’s low voice stirred something inside her. He took her hand, his skin warm and rough against hers. Her pulse quickened as they walked along the dock, amid laughs and shouts of mock distress from the other boaters. Sinclair and the staff helped her into the boat and seated her on a surprisingly comfortable plush seat, while Sinclair took up his place at the oar locks.