The Reluctant Cinderella (11 page)

He took her soft shoulders, floated her up a little, until he could kiss that smooth, steam-wet throat of hers. Obligingly, she tipped her head to the side to give him easier access. He nipped where he kissed. She made a small, pleasured sound. He said, “Anything is possible.”

Lazily, she rolled until she was facing him, her breasts lightly touching his chest, the curls between her thighs brushing that part of him that was rock-
hard all over again. “I'm nuts for you,” she said, and floated up to kiss his lips.

“Nuts is good,” he told her decisively, when she drifted slightly away again. Her expression changed, a slight frown taking form between her brows, her mouth tightening a fraction. He commanded, “Whatever it is, tell me….”

“Oh, it's nothing….”

He didn't believe her. “It's something.” Under the water, he touched her breast. She gasped. And he touched her lower—much lower, parting the weightless, floating curls and pressing a finger at her most sensitive spot. When she gasped again, he repeated, “Tell me.”

She tried to look firm. “Not when you're touching me like that. I can't think when you do that.”

Reluctantly, he took his hand away. “Now. Tell me.”

She floated away—and he let her. She seemed to need the distance right then. At the other end of the tub, she turned, leaned back against the marble rim and faced him. “When you still lived in the neighborhood, before your breakup with Carly…” The words lost momentum. She fell silent, her sweet face pink—with the heat of the water? Or something else?

He nudged her knee. “Say it.”

She had her arms out to the sides, her hands gripping the tub rim a little too hard. “It's really dumb. And embarrassing. And it also makes me wonder about myself, a little. About my own motives, you know?”

“This doesn't sound the least bit dumb to me. It sounds like something you really want to tell me.”

“Oh, Greg…” She seemed to lose her nerve. And then she sucked in a big breath and blurted, “I had a crush on you. I did. Even though you were married, even though whenever you looked at me, you looked right through me, still. I used to…” She bit her lower lip. “Oh, this is too dumb….” She wandered off into silence again, her eyes shifting away.

Greg waited. He knew her well enough already to know that there were times when she needed stumble around a little, to find her own way to wherever she was going.

“Okay,” she said bleakly at last. “It was like this. You hardly realized I existed, but I was always fantasizing what it might be like, if you weren't married…. If by some miracle you would notice me…”

He understood then. “Megan. It's not your fault that Carly and I broke up. Not your fault by any stretch of a wild imagination. You had nothing to do with any of that.”

“Oh, I know. I know I didn't. But I did lie to myself, when Carly said she'd get me that interview with you. I told myself the crush I had on you was long over. But then, the minute I saw you, sitting behind that big glass desk of yours…”

He said it again. “Not your fault.”

She was shaking her head. “See, though. If I had been honest with myself—”

“What? You would have told Carly no thank you,
turned down a major opportunity for Design Solutions, because of the possibility that you and I might end up right where we are now?”

She thought about that, chewing her lip some more, looking conflicted and very cute, with the tops of her creamy breasts showing above the water and her hair a wild tangle of curls, drops of water caught in it, twinkling like diamonds. “Okay,” she said at last.

“Okay, what?”

“I would have told myself that it didn't matter if I had a crush on you, because you'd never shown any interest in me and there was no reason to believe you suddenly would.”

“And you would have come to the interview.”

“Right.”

He lifted his hand from the water and held it out to her. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before laying her fingers in his. Once he had hold of her, he sat a little higher in the tub and reeled her in, turning her so that she was tucked against his chest as before. He smoothed her wild hair aside and kissed her ear. “Stop beating yourself up. That's an order.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I like the way you say that.” He cupped her breasts. They were so gorgeous. He loved the way they filled his hands. She gave a tiny little moan and let her head fall back on his shoulder. Her hair trailed, clinging to his chest, floating on the water, foaming out around them.

He rolled her nipples and scraped his teeth lightly
along the moist, sweet, peach-scented flesh of her neck. “Moan like that again,” he whispered.

And she did. Repeatedly.

 

When morning light came pouring in the tall windows, Megan rolled her head on the pillow to find Greg right there beside her, awake already, watching her.

He guided a hank of hair out her eyes. “You look so trusting when you're sleeping.”

She curled on her side facing him and reached out to stroke a slow hand down the muscular shape of his arm. He was so warm. Brown-gold hairs dusted his forearm. “It was…all real, wasn't it? Last night, I mean….”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Better than my wildest fantasies….” She couldn't help giggling. “Well, okay. The truth is, my fantasies weren't all that wild.” She blew out a big, fake sigh. “Lack of experience. It's a terrible thing.”

“You were amazing,” he said. And she knew he meant it.

He drew her to him, cradled her in those big arms. The sheet slipped down. They made love again in the bright light of morning. Megan lost herself in the heat and the wonder of it.

 

Later, she wrapped herself in Greg's terry-cloth robe and he pulled on an old pair of sweatpants. They went to the kitchen to scare up a little breakfast.

He had eggs and half a loaf of bread—and coffee, which he ground fresh and put on to brew. They worked together. He made the toast, she scrambled the eggs. They were just sitting down to eat when the downstairs intercom started buzzing.

Greg sent her a wry grin, but stayed in his chair. The intercom buzzed again. She gave him a look. He shrugged. “I was thinking maybe I'd just ignore it. Whoever it is wasn't invited.”

Then the phone—the land line on the counter—rang. Greg threw up both hands. “Fine, fine.” He pushed back his chair and went to pick it up. “Hello.” He listened. He didn't look particularly happy to hear from whoever was on the other end. He dropped into his chair again, sent Megan a quick glance and a shake of his head. Definitely not happy with whoever was calling.

Carly,
she thought, her heart sinking.
Please, please don't let it be Carly.

“Sorry,” he said into the phone, sounding much more irritated than regretful. “You never said you were coming by this morning…. Hold on.” He punched the mute button. “It's my mother,” he said grimly.
Not Carly,
Megan thought.
Good.

“She's downstairs and she wants to come up.”

“Come up? Now?” Megan hadn't reached the point where she'd even considered meeting Vanessa Banning. And if she
had
considered such a meeting, she would never in a million years have chosen for it to happen when she was sitting at Greg's breakfast table, wearing his robe—and nothing else.

“I'll get rid of her.”

“Wait…”

He scowled. “There's no reason we have to deal with her right now.”

Megan swallowed. Hard. “Yes, there is. She's your mother. It's rude to just send her away.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Sometimes, with my mother, you have to be rude. Otherwise, she'll roll right over you. And she can't expect to show up out of nowhere and be welcomed with open arms.”

“Of course she can. She's your mother, Greg.”

“I promise you. She's not like any mother
you've
ever known.”

Megan popped to her feet. “Just see if you can stall her for a minute or two. Give me time to get dressed. And would you…put on a shirt, maybe?”

He looked at her, frowning. Finally, he nodded. “All right. If you're sure….”

She wasn't. But still, she turned toward the living area and started snatching up her scattered clothes.

G
reg was right.

Megan had never seen a mother quite like Vanessa Banning. She was tall and willow-slim, with gleaming, chin-length auburn hair and amazing, totally wrinklefree, translucent skin. She wore a simple cream-colored linen dress. And pearls—a single, perfect strand. She had the grace and assurance of a woman born to privilege, a woman utterly at ease in her rightful place at the top of the society food chain.

She came breezing in with a charming smile. “Well, and here I am.” She turned her smile on Megan, who had thrown on yesterday's wrinkled clothes, wore no makeup and knew she looked like
just what she was: the woman who'd been making wild love with Vanessa's only son all night long. “And this is…?”

Greg made the introductions. “Megan. My mother, Vanessa. Mother, Megan Schumacher.”

“How lovely…” Vanessa extended a smooth, perfectly manicured hand. Megan took it and found it cool as marble. “…to meet you.”

Greg said, “Coffee?”

Vanessa gave a regal nod. “I'd adore a cup.”

Megan let go of that cold, smooth hand. “Are you hungry? We can whip up some—”

“No.” Vanessa waved the pale hand that Megan had just released. “Thank you so much, but just the coffee. Black.”

Greg poured his mother a cup and they all three sat at the table. “So, Mother,” he said, looking kind of weary all of a sudden. “I thought you were up at the Montauk house.” He explained to Megan, “My mother spends her summers in the Hamptons.”

“Ah,” said Megan, just to say something.

Greg asked Vanessa, “What brings you to town on a Sunday morning?”

“Oh, nothing special. Your father's in Boston. I came in yesterday to do a little shopping. And this morning, well, I thought I'd just drop by and see how you're doing.”

Greg looked—what? Guarded? Disbelieving? Megan didn't get it. Aside from a certain oh-so-well-bred coolness of manner, Vanessa had been perfectly polite, even friendly.

He said, “Doing just fine. Mom.” The way he paused before the word
Mom
made it seem like a dig.

“Well, yes,” said Vanessa, her charming smile unwavering. “I can see that you are.” She sipped her coffee and swiveled her head Megan's way. “Now, Megan. I want to know all about you.”

“Mother.” The word was a warning.

Vanessa laughed, the sound clear and musical. She waved her graceful hand again. “Darling, don't be a bore. I'm sure Megan doesn't mind answering the basic questions.”

Megan spoke up. “I don't. Really. I don't mind at all.”

“You see?” Vanessa flashed her son another cool glance. “She doesn't mind. At all.”

So Megan attempted to eat her lukewarm eggs and toast as Vanessa plied her with questions. Where had she grown up? Gone to school? Who was her family?

Megan took small bites so she could swallow quickly. She answered every question Vanessa threw at her. When she said she lived in Rosewood, Vanessa arched a perfect brow.

“Amazing. It is such a small world, isn't it? Greg's ex-wife lives in Rosewood. I don't imagine you've met Carly?”

Greg was scowling. “Megan lives on Danbury Way, Mother. A few doors down from Carly. They're neighbors—as I'm reasonably sure you already know.”

Vanessa didn't answer him. She went on smiling. She said she'd heard about the new contract Banning's had with Megan's company. “Gregory, Sr.,
told me all about that. He says you're very talented and we're so lucky to have found you. I understand Greg did that—found you?”

Greg set down his coffee cup. “Mother. Enough. Let Megan eat her breakfast in peace.”

Vanessa apologized. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Of course, of course.” She leaned a little closer to Megan. “But you know…how a mother is.”

Megan nodded. “I understand. I honestly do.”

Vanessa started to say something.

But Greg asked, “How was the ride down into the city?”

His mother sent him a look. “Uneventful.” Again she turned to Megan, but Greg asked another question before she had time to speak. She answered, brusquely.

And he came right back at her, using her own methods against her, peppering her with an endless raft of questions.

What had she bought during her shopping trip? How was the weather at the shore? Would his father be back in New York on Monday, as planned?

Vanessa answered him each time in as few words as possible: “Various items.” “Balmy.” “Yes.”

She would bite out the answer and start to turn to Megan—and Greg would hit her with another one. This went on for several minutes. Megan watched the exchange. The questions and answers flew back and forth so swiftly, she felt like a spectator at a Ping-Pong match.

At last, Vanessa set down her cup and stood. “Well. I suppose I must be on my way.”

“Too bad,” said Greg cheerfully—and leaped to his feet to herd her toward the door.

“So nice to meet you, Megan,” Vanessa called as he ushered her out of sight into the screened-off entryway.

“Bye,” Megan called.

She heard the door open and shut and then Greg reappeared. “She's gone.” He made a big show of wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Whew.”

Megan said, “Oh, come on. She wasn't so bad.”

“Because I never let her get rolling.”

“Really, Greg, she was kind of nice.”

“So was Ted Bundy, from what I hear.”

Megan carried their plates to the sink. “I'm serious. She's not that bad.”

“You're right. She's not. Carefully controlled. In very small doses. But you have to promise me never to let yourself be alone with her. Not until you and I have been together for at least a decade and there's nothing she can do to tear us apart.”

Together for a decade.
Of course, he was only teasing. But it did sound good.

“A decade, huh?”

Those dark eyes were gleaming. “That's what I said.”

“And what makes you so certain she'd want us apart?”

“Trust me on this.”

“But—”

“Tell you what. Let's forget about my mother—at least for today, okay?”

Megan considered for a moment, and decided he had the right idea. Grinning, she snapped her fingers. “Who?”

His smile was slow and oh, so sexy. “Exactly.” He came toward her. When he reached her, he cradled her face in his hands and she felt those lovely shivers all through her at the cherishing light in his dark eyes. They kissed. As always, the contact curled her toes and made her sigh in pleasure. When he pulled away, he said, “So what do you want to do today?”

An image of her desk at work popped into her brain—the overflowing in-box, the endless list of stuff that needed doing, ASAP. She pushed that image away. A girl deserved a couple of days off in a row every now and then. Especially if she had someone wonderful to spend them with.

She rested her hands on his chest and beamed up at him. “Let's start with another kiss and take it from there….”

 

They spent most of the day at the apartment, reading the papers, watching the Sunday political commentaries on CNN and PBS. And of course, making slow, amazing love….

Megan called Angela at three-thirty, just to check in. Angela said that Jerome was due back with the kids at five. “And I'm enjoying an hour and a half of beautiful peace and quiet until then. What about you?”

“I'm having a great time.”

“I know you are,” Angela said fondly. “I can hear it in your voice.”

“And I probably won't be home until late—unless you need me?”

“Nope. Everything's under control.”

Megan teased, “Easy to say now—when the kids are away.”

“Don't you worry about me. I'm Supermom, remember? Ask anyone in the neighborhood.”

Megan told her to call if she changed her mind. And Angela laughed and promised again that she'd be just fine.

At seven that evening, Megan and Greg left the apartment to eat at a restaurant he liked in SoHo. They got back at a little after nine. Megan said that she really had to be getting home.

But then Greg took her in his arms….

At eleven-thirty, he called for a car. And it was midnight when he kissed her good-night on the sidewalk outside the door to his building, as Andy held the limo door wide for her.

She rode home in what could only be called a daze of happiness. Never in her life had she felt so…

Megan giggled, right there in the luxurious silence of the car. She simply could not think of a word fine enough to describe how incredible she felt.

The privacy window slid open. “What was that, Ms. Schumacher?”

“Nothing, Andy.” Only pure happiness. Delirious happiness.

“As long as you're all right.”

“I am, Andy. I'm very, very all right.”

 

Megan was up in the morning before dawn. She grabbed some coffee and headed for Poughkeepsie, where her in-box was invisible beneath the cascade of mail, where her computer waited, packed with project folders, each one demanding to be dealt with right now.

Greg called at nine. “Working hard?”

“You bet.”

“Can you get away tonight?”

Oh, how she wanted to. “I just can't. I've got to go down to Rosewood and watch the kids in the afternoon—and then I've got to get myself back up here. I'll be parked at this desk of mine well after nine tonight.”

“You sound frantic.”

“I'm not, not really. Just…regretful that I can't take you up on your extremely tempting offer.”

“Wednesday night,” he said.

“What about it?”

“Can you take Wednesday night off, do you think?”

She shouldn't. But she did long to see him…“Okay. I'll manage it somehow. I do have to watch the kids at four, as usual, though.”

“I'll be there.”

“‘There' meaning?”

“At your sister's place. Say, four-thirty?”

She warned, “Angela won't be home until a
quarter of six or so. It'll be you and me and three little darlings.”

“No problem. I'll get some quality time with the kids.”

That pleased her, a lot—that he wanted to come early and get to know the kids. Still, she teased him, “Quality time, huh?”

“That's right. And once your sister gets home, you're all mine.”

She was blushing, and she knew it. She put her hand against her cheek to cool the fire a little—and right then, Nancy, her assistant, appeared in the door to the hallway and signaled toward the meeting room, where Megan should have been five minutes again. Megan raised her index finger and mouthed, “One minute.”

Greg said, “Wednesday. I need a yes.”

“Yes. And I have to go….”

 

When she got home that night, he'd left a message on her apartment line. “It's Greg. I wish it was Wednesday….”

She almost called him. But it was ten forty-five. Even wild, mad lovers needed a little sleep now and then.

Tuesday, he sent flowers to the office—a huge crystal vase of stargazer lilies. She called to thank him. They talked for an hour about nothing in particular. She kept thinking that she really had to go…but somehow, she never did. Finally, he had a meeting he had to get to.

“Tomorrow.” He made the word a promise.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, and he was gone.

Again that evening, she returned to the office after Angela came home. Megan worked until ten. And by Wednesday, she was actually beginning to feel more or less on top of her workload.

She could afford to take the night off.

She left the office a little early, so she and the kids would have time to stop at Rosewood Market and still get back home to be there for Greg. They needed milk and eggs and cereal, among other things. With three kids in the house, supplies tended to run low about midweek.

They were barely beyond the market's big sliding doors when Olivia and Michael got into it over which of them would push the cart. Nowadays, the two of them vied for the honor, ever since Michael had decided he was much too grown up to sit in the cart seat—which used to be his favorite thing about shopping.

Not anymore, though. Now, he turned up his nose at the very idea. “That's only for little kids. I want to push. I'm old enough to push. Ask Mom. She lets me.”

“He pushed last time,” Olivia argued. “And he's too little to do it right, anyway.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

Anthony, in headphones with his Game Boy, as always, stood to the side, thumbs flying, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands, expression rapt.

“Am not!” Michael folded his arms hard over his small chest and stuck out his lower lip.

“Aunt Megan.” Olivia stomped her dainty foot. “It's my turn.”

“Is not!”

Finally, Megan got them to agree to share. Michael would push to the pasta aisle and Olivia would take over from there. After that, things went relatively smoothly. Megan had Olivia getting stuff off the shelves while Michael pushed—and then, when Olivia's turn came, she enlisted Michael's aid in filling the cart.

They did lose Anthony temporarily in the bread aisle. He forgot to keep up as he reached a new level in his game. But Megan ran back and found him. As always, when she took the kids anywhere, she found herself marveling at her single-mom sis, who managed to do a great job handling all three of them on a day-in, day-out basis. Raising three children, even with a husband to help, was not a task for the faint at heart.

And Greg said he wanted ten kids….

Truly. The man had to be either totally oblivious to the enormity of the job, or joking. She grinned to herself. He'd been exaggerating for effect, and she knew it.

The important thing was, he did want children and so did she. If this magical thing between them went all the way to the altar, she knew they had one important goal in common: kids and all the craziness, challenges and fulfillment the little darlings entailed.