The Cinderella Deal (3 page)

“Except she tells lies for a living.”

“She tells
stories,
” Julia corrected Linc with some heat. “Unreal but not untrue, that’s what Daisy says. And anyway, it’s not like you’re lily-white here, bud. You’re the one who created the Little Woman Who Could.”

Linc exhaled in frustration.

“I can’t believe you lied in the first place,” Julia went on. “I would have said it wasn’t possible. You really are a stick-in-the-mud, but maybe this will break you out of that rut—”

Linc glared at the phone. “I like my rut. I have to go. Good-bye.”

“Because you really are solidifying before my eyes—” Julia said, and he hung up.

Oh, God. He let his head fall back against the leather chair back. Three days and no fiancee. He was in big trouble, and his only hope was a nutcake. There had to be a better way. The last thing he needed was to pin all his hopes for the future on Daisy Flattery.

He got up and got himself another beer.

virtues. And Julia had said she was straight as an arrow, and he trusted Julia’s judgment if not her restraint. Daisy Flattery was about six inches shorter than he was, with a round midwestern body; if he put her in one of those old-fashioned flowered dresses, Crawford might go for it. Since she seemed to hate him for some reason, she’d probably have to be in desperate need of money before she’d agree to spend any amount of time with him, but she didn’t look rich. Desperation could drive a person to do things he or she would never contemplate ordinarily.

I should know,
Linc thought gloomily, and stared at the ceiling.
Make a note to call Julia about the Flattery woman,
he told himself, and then realized that he didn’t have time to make notes. It was Tuesday. He was due in Prescott on Friday. He felt dizzy for a moment, and realized it was because he was holding his breath, his response to tension for as far back as he could remember. “Breathe, Blaise,” his football coach had yelled at him in high school the first time he’d passed out during a game. “You gotta keep breathing if you want to play the game.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose and then stretched out his hand for the phone and punched in Julia’s number.

Five minutes later, Linc was listening to Julia laugh herself sick. “You told them what?” she gasped at him when she could talk. “I can’t believe it.”

“Knock it off,” Linc said. “It’s not funny. This is my career at stake here.”

“And we all know that’s more important to you than any of your body parts.” Julia snickered. “I love this. You want me to be the little woman? No problem. I’ll get one of those dweeby little dresses—”

“No.
” Linc broke in before Julia could get too attached to the idea. “I need a professional liar, somebody who won’t start giggling when the chips are down.”

“Daisy.” Julia’s voice went up a notch in approval. “She’s wonderful, absolutely trustworthy.”

“Except she tells lies for a living.”

“She tells
stories,
” Julia corrected Linc with some heat. “Unreal but not untrue, that’s what Daisy says. And anyway, it’s not like you’re lily-white here, bud. You’re the one who created the Little Woman Who Could.”

Linc exhaled in frustration.

“I can’t believe you lied in the first place,” Julia went on. “I would have said it wasn’t possible. You really are a stick-in-the-mud, but maybe this will break you out of that rut—”

Linc glared at the phone. “I like my rut. I have to go. Good-bye.”

“Because you really are solidifying before my eyes—” Julia said, and he hung up.

Oh, God. He let his head fall back against the leather chair back. Three days and no fiancee. He was in big trouble, and his only hope was a nutcake. There had to be a better way. The last thing he needed was to pin all his hopes for the future on Daisy Flattery.

He got up and got himself another beer.

Daisy spent the next morning trying to drum up work and failing miserably. When she got home, the kitten had escaped and was sitting on the doorstep waiting for her. So was the landlord, a man Julia called Grumpy Guthrie.
Oh, no,
Daisy thought, and then straightened her shoulders and went to save her cat, marching past the dark-haired thug from upstairs who was washing his nasty black car. She disliked his car almost as much as she disliked him; it looked like something Darth Vader would drive.

Guthrie pointed at the kitten as if it were a cockroach. “That’s a cat.”

“Yes, I know.” Daisy took a deep breath and then smiled at him. Daisy knew she wasn’t beautiful, but God had given her something better than beauty—a glowing, wide-mouthed, man-melting smile, courtesy of her mother and a long line of southern belles who’d dazzled their way through history. It was her only physical weapon, but it never failed her. It didn’t now.

Guthrie smirked at her.

Behind her she heard the cat kicker turn off the water just in time for Annie to tear out one of her ungodly meows.

Guthrie flinched. “Daisy, you’re a month behind on the rent, and you’re not allowed to have pets.”

“I know.” Daisy pumped out more wattage on her smile. “You know I’ll pay the rent. I’ve lived here for eight years, and I’ve never let you down, have I?”

Guthrie closed his eyes. “No, but the cat—”

“I’m only keeping the cat until its owners get back,” Daisy said truthfully, since she was sure Annie’s owner would never get back to this apartment house. “It’s a very valuable cat, you know.” She dropped her voice to make Guthrie a conspirator with her. “One of a kind. An Alizarin Crimson. Very unusual voice. Don’t tell anyone, or there’ll be catnappers all over the place.” Guthrie blinked and she let her voice go back up to its natural register. “I’m sure Julia won’t mind, and the people upstairs will never know. It’s such a
little
cat.”

“But they do know,” Guthrie said. “Dr. Blaise knows. He’s right here.”

Daisy turned to look at the cat kicker. He was as tall and broad and threatening as she’d told Annie, his hair thick and blue-black and his eyes dark and intense. He leaned on the car watching them, and he didn’t look angry, he looked calculating.

Daisy went for it. “Do you mind, Dr. Blaise?” She hit him with her smile in the best tradition of her ancestresses.

He blinked. And then he grinned at her. It wasn’t the usual feeble smirk that men gave her after she’d blasted them, it was a wide-awake grin. He had a great mouth for a thug. “I don’t mind at all, Miss Flattery. It’s an honor to have an Alizarin Crimson in the building.”

Daisy felt uneasy, but she wasn’t about to look a gift jerk in the mouth, even if he did kick cats. “Thank you, Dr. Blaise. That’s very sweet of you.” She smiled at him again, and his own smile widened.

Strange man.

“I’ll have the rent for you soon,” she promised Guthrie, and he went off, shaking his head.

Daisy scooped up the kitten and turned to go, but the cat kicker called her back. “Could I have a word with you, Miss Flattery?”

I knew it,
Daisy told herself.
It was too good to be true.
She took a deep breath and turned back, smiling her brains out, prepared to do whatever she had to do to keep Annie from becoming an orphan again.

He came out from around the car, dressed only in black sweats and incredibly old white sneakers. His broad body was beautifully proportioned, but it didn’t matter. Daisy knew about proportion from art class, but she knew about men from life.
Yes, he’s pretty, but forget it,
she told herself.
He kicks cats. He drives an evil black car. And Julia says he has track lighting.
Definitely not somebody she wanted to spend time with.

Still, she did need to be nice to keep her cat. She hit him with her megawatt smile again. He grinned back, immune. Oh, well. “Thank you so much for saving my kitten, Dr. Blaise. If there’s ever anything I can do in return…”

“There is. I have a business proposition for you.” His smile disappeared. “Strictly business.”

Daisy snorted mentally. It would be strictly business. He probably didn’t have the imagination to make a pass.

Which was a relief, because when she turned him down, he’d probably kick her cat. “Business, Dr. Blaise?”

“Linc.” He stepped closer and took her elbow. “Why don’t we go in and talk about it?”

Oh, great. He was an elbow taker. A steerer of women. Daisy removed her elbow from his grasp. “How about my place? Herbal tea?”

He closed his eyes, said “Wonderful,” and followed her into the house.

Linc stopped inside the apartment door. The place looked as though it had been ransacked. There were drawers open, papers everywhere, lampshades askew, books on the floor, and a huge black cat sprawled out in the middle of the mess, doing an excellent impression of death. Linc waited for Daisy to scream and call the police, but she just dropped the little calico cat into an overstuffed chair full of yarn and clothes and stepped over the black cat to move toward the kitchen.

It must always look like this. How could she stand it?

She pulled her bright blue velvet hat from her head, and her thick hair fell down in tangled little kinks, dark curls with deep glints of red against the bright, bright blue of her loose hip-length sweater. Under the sweater she wore an ankle-length skirt checked in hot rose and electric blue. Linc winced at all the color.

Then she opened the refrigerator and got him a bottle of beer, and her approval rating rose.

He took it gratefully. “No herbal tea?”

Daisy grinned at him, a nice, cheerful grin with none of the dazzle of her earlier beam. “I thought you’d prefer this.”

“I do. Do you have an opener?”

Daisy took the bottle back and looked around absently for an opener. Not finding one, she hooked the cap on the edge of the counter and smacked it with her hand to pop it. Then she handed the bottle back.

Linc checked to see if there were glass chips on the top.
Remember, you need her. Be polite
. “That was very efficient. Thank you.”

He sat opposite her at the big round oak table. She turned on the stained glass lamp that stood to one side, and it cast a Technicolor kaleidoscope on the wall and ceiling. More color. Everywhere he looked, color and clash. How did she sleep in this place?

“A business proposition.” Daisy tilted her head at him. “I’m not a businesswoman.”

Linc studied her in the lamplight: masses of dark curls, big dark brown eyes spaced far apart over a blobby nose sprinkled with freckles, a wide, rosy, generous mouth. This woman looked so wholesome, she could sell milk to dairy farmers. If he put her in a real dress instead of clothes three sizes too big for her, she could pass for the girl next door. She wasn’t his type—he liked lethally elegant blondes, the tinier the better—but she was definitely Prescott’s type. He cheered up considerably.

“I need a favor.” Linc leaned forward, exerting all his charm. “A practical, extremely confidential business favor.” He saw her draw her eyebrows together at the word “confidential,” and added, “It’s not illegal. And I’ll pay your back rent.”

The eyebrows flew up. “That’s three hundred dollars.”