Cinderella and the Playboy (7 page)

Jennifer lingered a moment, her gaze tracing the beard-shadowed line of his jaw, the black lashes fanning against his olive skin and the sensual curve of his mouth. The white sheet was bunched at his waist, leaving the powerful muscles of his upper body and arms bare.

Reluctant to leave him, she forced herself to turn her back and pad silently into the bathroom where she’d left her borrowed clothes earlier. Dressing quickly, she slipped through the connecting door to the hall and let herself out the front door of Chance’s town house.

As she hurried down the street on her way to the bus stop on the next block, she was assailed by a barrage of memories of the hours spent with Chance.

He was a man she could easily fall in love with, she realized. She hoped fervently that she hadn’t already done so—because she knew there wasn’t, could never be, a future for them together. She reached the end of the block and a bus wheezed to a stop, the doors opening. She climbed the steps, determined to put Chance Demetrios out of her mind.

Whether she could put him out of her heart remained to be seen.

Chance knew the moment he woke that Jennifer was gone. He swept his hand over the sheet but felt no warmth left by her body. He sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face, then tilted his head, listening. The complete silence was broken only by the soft ticking of the bedside clock.

“Damn it,” he said into the stillness. He’d wanted to take her home. He hadn’t counted on being so relaxed and wrung out from making love this morning and last night that he’d sleep through Jennifer’s leaving.

Nails clattered on the oak flooring and Butch nosed the hall door open wider before bounding across the room, tail wagging. He laid his head on the bed, big brown eyes pleading with Chance.

“What?” Chance groaned. “I suppose you want to go out?”

The big rottweiler barked, one sharp, approving sound that made Chance wince.

“Not so loud, buddy,” he muttered. “I’m getting up.”

He tossed back the sheet and sat on the edge of the bed.

Butch barked again and nosed the sheet a few inches
from Chance’s hip, burrowing beneath the sheet until his head was out of sight beneath white cotton.

“Hey, cut that out.” Chance tossed the sheet aside. Silver glittered and he pulled the sheet aside to find a necklace peeking out from under the pillow. He grabbed the chain and locket just before Butch could reach it. A low whine rumbled from the dog’s throat and his brown eyes were reproachful. “Oh, come on.” Chance ran his hand over Butch’s head and scratched him behind his ear. “You know this is Jennifer’s. And you know you’re not supposed to have it.”

Butch plopped down on his haunches and eyed the locket, dangling by its chain from Chance’s fingers.

The oval-shaped locket had a delicate latch. Chance felt as if his fingers were giant-size as he carefully maneuvered the tiny mechanism. The locket opened and he held it on his palm. One side held a photograph of a little girl, her impish face smiling up at him. The other half held a tiny curl of auburn hair, gleaming brightly against the silver metal.

Cute kid. I wonder who she is?
He ran the pad of his index finger over the small, bright curl.
And I wonder if this is her hair?

He had no answers, but he was going to ask Jennifer as soon as he saw her again. There were lots of things he wanted to know about her. Their one date—
and the best sex he’d ever shared—had only led him to be more intrigued about her.

Butch whined and nudged his damp nose against Chance’s knee.

“Okay, big guy,” Chance told him. “I’ll let you out.”

He grabbed his jeans from the closet and pulled them on. Then he jogged barefoot down the stairs and through the kitchen to open the back door. Butch barreled happily past him and out into the small backyard.

“I’ve got to teach him better manners,” Chance muttered to himself. He turned back into the kitchen to make coffee—and wondered if Jennifer was thinking of him, as he was thinking of her.

Jennifer stepped out of the silk slacks and folded them atop the hamper. She knew by the label that the slacks had probably cost more than her monthly salary, the nubby raw silk pure tactile pleasure to touch.

I’ll drop them at the cleaners after work tomorrow,
she thought.
Along with the top. Then I’ll mail them back to Chance.

She pulled the tank off over her head, folding it neatly atop the slacks, before she turned on the sink taps. Cupping her hands, she splashed cool water on her face, reaching blindly for a hand
towel. She blotted moisture from her skin before tugging the band from her ponytail. As it pulled free and let her hair tumble about her shoulders, she ran her fingertip over the base of her throat. The gesture was pure habit. She’d worn the locket with Annie’s picture and lock of hair since her daughter was born.

But this time…the chain wasn’t there.

Dismayed, Jennifer stared with consternation at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she’d been wearing it earlier in the day when she’d dressed to go out to brunch. Frowning, she mentally reviewed the afternoon and realized that the last time she’d noticed the locket was after they’d returned to the town house. Chance had rushed her upstairs and stripped off their clothes before tossing her on the bed. He’d joined her immediately and she remembered the slide of cool metal over her skin when Chance’s lips brushed the locket aside, replacing it with his mouth.

Maybe I lost it in his bed,
she thought. She hoped the locket had ended up tangled in Chance’s sheets rather than broken and lost on the street or the bus.

She would have to call Chance and ask if he’d found her missing locket. Misgiving warred with delight at the thought. She wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to walk away from him a second time.

The night with Chance was a fairy tale—a few days stolen for herself, Jennifer thought later that evening.

With Annie tucked into bed after telling Jennifer about the fun things she did with Linda’s children, Jennifer walked back into the living room and dropped onto the sofa.

She switched on the television, browsing through channels with the remote control and finally settling on a news station. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a white cotton camisole, she tucked her legs under her and stared blindly at the TV screen. She couldn’t make herself care about the political news or the latest scandal caused by a local state representative.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Chance.

It wasn’t just the sex—which had been amazing. It was his sense of humor, the discovery that they both loved or disliked some of the same movies. They’d argued hotly in defense of book titles the other had merely shrugged over but, each time, the contention had ended with laughter and kisses.

She’d never met anyone like Chance before.

And now that her night with him was over, she had to admit that spending time with him meant more to her than a brief, spicy interlude to her nonexistent dating life.

She had feelings for him. She wasn’t sure ex
actly what those feelings were, or how deeply they ran, but the ache in her heart wasn’t simple. That nothing could ever grow between them only made her chest hurt more.

There was no possible future between a waitress at the Coach House Diner and a doctor at the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Their lives were too different; the disparity in their background and income too great. She wouldn’t see him anymore, outside the diner.

Jennifer knew it was for the best but somehow the thought of going back to pouring Chance his morning coffee while knowing she’d never be more than a one-time date made her pain grow.

It’s no good yearning for the moon,
she told herself stoutly, wiping dampness from her cheeks.
I knew when I agreed to go out with him that it was a one-shot deal. No future dates, no building dreams of a relationship.

She switched off the television and the living-room lights, entering her bedroom where the bedside lamp threw a pool of soft white over her solitary bed.

It’s time for Cinderella to go back to her real life,
she told herself as she climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness except for the faint glimmers from the streetlights outside marking the edges of the window blinds.

Resolutely, she closed her eyes but when at last she slept, she dreamed of Chance.

Chance had barely shrugged into his lab coat on Monday when the phone on his desk rang. The caller was Paul Armstrong’s secretary, who relayed a message that he was needed in Paul’s office immediately.

Wondering what could possibly have happened to impact his research funding this time, he left his office and headed down the hall.

He tapped on the half-open door to Paul’s office and stepped inside. “Morning, Paul…Ramona.”

“Good morning, Chance.” Paul leaned against the front of his desk, hands tucked into his slacks pockets. Ramona Tate, the institute’s blonde, blue-eyed public relations expert—and Paul’s fiancée—smiled warmly.

Chance didn’t miss the worry on both their faces, however, and he mentally braced himself. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m afraid not,” Paul said grimly. “There’s no easy way to tell you this so I’ll just say it—a former patient has filed a paternity suit and named you as the father of her baby.”

Chance was stunned. Of all the possible subjects for bad news, this one had never occurred to him.

“That’s crazy,” he said when he could speak. “Totally insane. Who filed the suit?”

“Georgina Appleby.”

Chance bit off a curse.

“I know.” Paul grimaced, shifting to cross his arms across his chest. “The institute is behind you one hundred percent in this, Chance. Whatever we can do to help, we will. Just let us know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ramona said with sympathy. “The timing of this lawsuit is just terrible. You’ve barely had time to relax after proving how false those outrageous allegations were about funding for your research with Ted.”

“I have no doubt you’ll win the day in this, too,” Paul told him resolutely.

“Thanks.” Chance frowned and raked one hand through his hair, thinking out loud. “I should call my attorney. Has the institute been officially served with copies of the documents?”

“Yes. I had my secretary run a copy for you.” Paul picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Chance. He turned back to his desk and picked up a copy of the
Boston Herald,
passing that over, as well. “The newspapers already have the details.”

Chance took the paper, folded open to the society page. Heavy black marker circled two paragraphs of the
gossip column with quotes from Georgina Appleby. “She stops just short of slander,” he said grimly.

“No one who knows you will believe it,” Ramona stated firmly.

“Maybe,” Chance commented, rereading the last paragraph, coldly furious. “I’d like to take this to my attorney, as well.”

“Keep it,” Paul told him. “I read it on the way to work this morning.”

“I’d also like to take a short leave of absence to deal with this,” Chance suggested. “The smear against my reputation is probably unavoidable, at least temporarily, but I don’t want to damage the institute’s image with bad personal publicity.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Paul said.

“Thanks. My hope is that my attorney can expedite arrangements for an HLA paternity test. Once the results are back, I can prove the case has no merit and I can come back to work. Without being followed by reporters and bad press,” he added, shaking his head.

“Sounds good,” Paul replied.

“I didn’t get to see much of you at the Founder’s Ball,” Chance noted in a purposely abrupt change of subject.

“We saw you with a stunningly lovely blonde
woman,” Ramona commented, following his lead. “But you left before we had a chance to learn who she was.”

“I’m keeping her identity a secret,” Chance told her with a faint grin.

“Oh, yeah?” Paul lifted an eyebrow, the look he gave Chance speculative.

“Yeah.” Chance didn’t respond further, guessing that Paul had picked up on the possessive note in his voice. “How’s your mother, Ramona?”

Ramona brightened, exchanging a quick glance with Paul. “My half sister, Victoria, has agreed to donate bone marrow so I’m very hopeful that her prognosis will improve.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Chance told her. “Very glad.”

“Dr. Armstrong?” Paul’s secretary tapped on the door panel, then peered into the room. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but Senator Johnson is on the line. He wants to talk to you about a potential donation from a constituent.”

“I’m sorry, Chance. I have to take this call.” Paul pushed away from the desk.

“Of course. I’ll let you know about any developments.” Chance headed for the door.

“Take care,” Ramona called after him. “Remember, we’re here if there’s anything we can do to help.”

“I appreciate that.” Chance lifted a hand in reply
and left the office, striding down the hallway and back to his own office.

He shrugged out of his lab coat and pulled on his leather jacket. Within seconds, he left the office with the sheaf of lawsuit papers in his hand. His partner, Ted, was at his desk and apparently deeply immersed in a report when Chance paused in the doorway.

“Hey, Ted.” He waited until Ted looked up. “I’ll be out of the office for a few days but if anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

Ted blinked in surprise, frowning. “What’s up? You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Chance lifted the lawsuit documents. Ted’s gaze flicked to the papers and he frowned as he looked back at Chance. Before he could ask, Chance interrupted him. “Long story. I’ll explain later.”

“All right.”

Chance nodded and turned to leave, stopping when Ted called after him. “Hey, if you need me, call.”

Chance glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “I will. A guy never knows when he might need help disposing of a body. I’ll keep you on speed dial.”

Ted snorted and Chance strode off down the hall.

It was good to know he had friends who would stand by him if he needed help.