The Glass Shoe (2 page)

As co-host for the evening along with Thomas Brewster, Ryder did his duty and, for the most part, enjoyed it. Everyone at the ball had learned to dance immediately after the first uncertain steps of childhood, so it was a pleasure to have such accomplished partners. A few mothers, hoping perhaps for something more lasting than a dance, steered their unmarried daughters his way, but Ryder, experienced, coped easily and with disinterested courtesy.

The ball began well. It was nine-thirty, and all the guests had made their way down the marble steps to the dance floor in the garden. Stealing a break from dancing, Ryder was standing on the far side from the steps, watching the couples moving decorously and half listening to the music. Even as his brain registered from which musical this particular tune originated, he looked up toward the steps—and lost all interest in music.

Ryder was striding toward the steps before he consciously realized he was even moving, his eyes never leaving the delicate enchantress who was moving gracefully down the steps.

He didn't know why, not really. There was nothing logical about his reaction to her. He wasn't particularly susceptible to feminine beauty, so it wasn't that. And he had already danced with a number of ladies who were strikingly beautiful. Granted a moment to think about it, he would have admitted a preference for brunettes or.
even
more, for redheads. So his desire to go to her was somewhat baffling. Still, he felt no inclination to resist his own impulse.

He decided vaguely that the music must have gotten to him. Or maybe the absurd crown he wore.

She saw him, hesitated almost imperceptibly, and then continued toward him.

He reached the bottom of the steps first, and waited.

The ball gown she wore was a soft pink, the spangles on the full skirt catching and reflecting the light in a brilliant shower of stars. Above the skirt, pink silk molded her impossibly tiny waist and caressed the full curves of her perfect breasts. The neckline was off-the-shoulder and its standup lace trim framed the creamy flesh of her shoulders and throat. Her slender, graceful neck was bare of jewels and needed none; only diamond earrings glittered at her lobes. And the fragile silver webbing of a diamond tiara, like a crown, caged her golden hair in an upswept style that was the essence of femininity.

A black butterfly mask hid much of her face from him, but he could see the gleam of brilliant blue eyes, and below the mask the lips were delicate, curved in a secret, enigmatic smile.

He had already seen the glass slippers on her small feet, but he had needed no confirmation of who she was tonight.
Cinderella.

Without a word Ryder offered his hand when she reached him, and he was oddly moved to feel her elegant fingers quiver in his gentle grasp. He lifted them to his lips, still silent, and then led her out onto the dance floor.

He was beginning to understand how Prince Charming had felt.

She went into his arms naturally, gracefully, and danced as though the music were a part of her. She seemed content to be silent, but Ryder was not. However, though it was highly unusual for him and not a little surprising, he found himself considering and rejecting various comments and questions before he voiced them. He was astonished to realize that he felt like a boy on his first date, tongue-tied and terrified of making a mistake.

"You dance well," he finally offered in a sincere but decidedly lame attempt to break the silence between them.

"Thank you." Her voice was husky, musical; the glance she sent upward held a laugh.

Ryder smiled. "Does it show so plainly?" he asked in mock resignation.

"Does what show?"

"My lost wits."

She laughed very softly. "I've noticed nothing missing. Perhaps you just mislaid them?"

"No, I'm afraid they're lost for good. After all, how often does a man find Cinderella in his arms? And I'm at a disadvantage too. You can hide behind your mask, but I'm not wearing one."

"You're one of the hosts."

"It's a stupid rule. Take off your mask," he urged her.

"Not until midnight."

Ryder thought about it, keeping step perfectly with the music without having to pay attention. "
Cinderella
 
ran
away," he said finally. "I recall that distinctly. She left on the stroke of midnight, and the poor prince was desolate."

 
"It served him right," she said solemnly. "Princes always have things too easy."

"Dragons," he protested.

"The dragons always lose," she pointed out.

"Because princes are heroes."

"And usually not very bright," she said gently.

"On behalf of princes everywhere," Ryder said, "I resent that."

"I'm not surprised. But it's true. Think about it for a minute. Would you carry a glass shoe from house to house, having promised to marry whomever it fit?"

"She had very tiny feet," Ryder explained.

"A number of women have tiny feet. I wear a small size myself—and there must be a dozen women here tonight who could wear these glass shoes of mine."

He considered that. "You have a point. I'll admit that the prince might have found himself married to the village shrew. But it turned out all right."

"Yes.
Happily ever after."

Ryder heard the rueful note in her voice, and his own tone became more serious. "So you believe Shakespeare more than fairy tales
? "
Put not your trust in princes'?"

The music stopped just then, and she stepped back,
then
gave a slight curtsy. "Cinderella knew only one prince," she said lightly. "If she'd known a few more, she might have been more wary. Thank you very much for the dance, Mr. Foxx."

"Oh, no," he said, catching one of her hands and tucking it into the crook of his arm. "We aren't finished yet."

As he led her toward one of the garden paths, she protested, "You can't leave the dance floor. You're the host."

"I've done my duty. Now I plan to enjoy myself with a Cinderella who doesn't believe in princes."

Amanda was more than a little surprised, but she made no attempt to escape him. It appeared that she had indeed caught Ryder Foxx's interest—but not in the way that Sam and Les had hoped for. Of course, they hadn't expected Amanda's own bitterness to filter through Cinderella's masquerade.

At that moment, for the first time, Amanda decided simply to enjoy the evening... to be the innocent, trusting maiden she was supposed to be. Every woman should have the chance to be Cinderella for one night, she thought somewhat wistfully. Yes, every woman deserved the chance to possess a starry-eyed faith in princes and love and happy endings. What was wrong with that for just one night?

So, quite without being conscious of its existence, Amanda allowed the chip on her shoulder to fall away. She was Cinderella, walking beside a tall, dark, and handsome prince through a moonlit garden on a magic night when impossible things were possible.

"You're very quiet," he said as they strolled down the neat path of the formal garden.

"Now I've lost my wits," she murmured, and felt a dim astonishment at the shyness she heard in her voice. Shy? Amanda Wilderman?

They had reached the center of the garden, where wrought iron benches ringed a tri-level stone fountain. The gentle splash of the water was soothing, and the music from the dance floor no more than a soft counterpoint.

Amanda sat down, grateful to be off her feet; the custom-made shoes were comfortable, certainly, but since she usually scorned high heels, they were still a trial. She was too conscious of Ryder's closeness as he sat down beside her.

"Tell me who you are," he said quietly.

She looked at him. The moonlight stole color, but his face was revealed clearly, even starkly, by the light. It was a lean face, handsome by any standards.
A wide, intelligent brow, high cheekbones, firm jaw.
His striking pale gray eyes were colorless in the moonlight, but the unusual vividness of them still was obvious.

Amanda drew a short breath. "Tonight I'm Cinderella," she said.

"Who will you be tomorrow?"

"Someone else."
She hesitated,
then
said, "That doesn't matter."

"But—"

"Please. I don't want it to matter."

"So you are hiding behind the mask?"

Amanda laughed softly.
"Of course.
I crashed the party."

It was a reasonable explanation. The guest list for this event had been decidedly exclusive. And it wouldn't be the first time that a gate-crasher had taken advantage of a masquerade.

"I won't tell anyone," he promised solemnly.

"A true gentleman.
Thank you."

"If you remove your mask, that is."

She laughed again. "I take back the first part; gentlemen don't resort to blackmail."

"Don't let the costume fool you," he said. "I'm no gentleman." He captured one of her hands and held it against his thigh firmly. It trembled in his grasp, and the impulse to remove her mask himself died before he could make the attempt. His free hand had half lifted toward her, but he slowly lowered it again.

Hearing her soft sigh of relief, he said, "You wouldn't have stopped me."

"No. Either you believe in the magic or you don't."

"And you do?"

"Tonight I do."

After a long moment he said slowly, "All right. But promise me you won't leave at midnight."

Amanda hesitated, but he had left her an out. She wasn't going to leave at midnight. She was going to leave before.
If, that is, she decided to finish her role the way it was written.
So she gave him her word. "I won't leave at midnight." And before his keen brain could begin examining that for a loophole, she added dryly, "The coach won't turn into a pumpkin, the horses into mice—or my gown into rags."

"Your fairy godmother must believe in overtime."

"She has a union."

To her surprise, Amanda thoroughly enjoyed the next couple of hours. Ryder Foxx was a charming man with a highly developed sense of humor, and was willing—at least until midnight—to accept his role in a modern fairy tale. They walked in the garden and talked, discovering that they shared a number of opinions and beliefs as well a quick wit and a somewhat ironic way of looking at the world around them.

They also disagreed amiably on a number of topics, which was another step in getting to know each other.

"Snails," Ryder said when the subject of culinary preferences came up.

"Yuk," Amanda said.

"You should try them."

"I have. That's why I said
yuk
."

He chuckled.
"Grasshoppers?"

"Don't tell me you've—"

"No. I just wondered if you had."

In an aggrieved tone she said, "If I don't like snails, what makes you think I'd like bugs?"

"Not even covered in chocolate?"

"Not even covered in gold."

"That," he said gravely, "seems to take care of gourmet delights. Shall we move on?"

"Please."

"Well then, let's hear your opinion on the state of the world."

"Ill
tell
if you'll tell," she said in a teasing tone.

He laughed again. "I get the feeling we agree. The world's going to hell, but with a little luck won't get there until the sun goes nova."

"That about sums it up. And if you want another pocket summation, I'm for space exploration, rainy days,
fewer
taxes, baby animals of all kinds, good books, museums, flowers left in gardens instead of stuck into vases, old movies, spicy food, and the poetry of Keats."

"And what are you against?"

"Snails and bugs being termed edible."

"I got that the first time," he said reprovingly, and the hand lightly holding her arm slipped down to warmly grasp her hand. "What else are you against?"

Amanda couldn't quite recapture her light tone. "Oh... music with words I can't understand.
Cruelty.
A social security system running out of money.
Hunting anything that can't shoot back.
Cheating at solitaire.
War.
People who don't signal before they turn."

His hand tightened on hers. "And princes?"

She was very conscious of the man walking beside her, aware that something was happening between them. It was unexpected, and she couldn't quite define it. She felt uncertain, a little breathless, oddly excited.

"No," she said finally. "I'm not against princes. I just don't believe in them. How can you be against something that doesn't exist?"

"You have to believe," he said slowly.
"Somewhere inside you.
Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

She drew a breath. "But I'm not myself tonight. I'm somebody else. And she believes in princes."

For a long silent moment Ryder walked beside her, wondering why her denial affected him so strongly. He grew curious then about who had destroyed her illusions so thoroughly, and why the very thought of someone doing that to her made anger rise in him. He felt oddly that she was somehow unreal herself, that she was wearing more than a mask as a disguise. And when he spoke at last, he was surprised at the words that emerged.

"Does she believe in love?"

"I suppose she does." Her voice was low, curiously tentative. "I suppose she has to. She's a... a piece of a story about love and princes. What else has she got to believe in? It's all she is."

He stopped walking suddenly and turned to face her, his hands lifting to her shoulders. "What if I want her to be more than that?" he asked quietly.

What if I need her to be a flesh and blood woman?"

Amanda had been the focus of a man's charm before, but it had been many years since she had been able to accept that charm at face value. Her illusions had begun crumbling before she had left her teens, when her first serious relationship had ended badly, and the years after that had done nothing to shore up fragile ideals.

She had tried not to become cynical, but had finally come to the conclusion that either she'd had enormous misfortune in the men she met, or else it truly was impossible to encounter one solitary individual who had no interest in her money.