Читать книгу Cinderella and The Playboy - Laura Wright - Страница 11

The note that had been taped to the door at the start of class was permanently tattooed in Abby’s mind.

To all art students and staff:

Unfortunately, due to an overwhelming demand for computer courses, we are forced to cancel art classes for the semester. Next week will be your final class and prorated refund checks will be mailed to you. We are doing our best to bring back this art course next semester. Please accept our sincerest apologies.

Yellow Canyon Community Center

What else could go wrong today? Abby wondered as she waited for her students to finish a watercolor exercise. First she’d spilled coffee all over her boss’s desk, then he’d proceeded to ask her to pretend to be his wife for the weekend. And, worst of all, for just a moment when she’d been hypnotized by his gaze, she’d actually been tempted to say yes. With the way her life had been going lately, a weekend of adventure with her gorgeous boss just didn’t sound like a fate worse than death.

But that was her lonely heart talking. When her brain wrapped around the fact that this guy was not only a cocky Casanova, he was also her boss, she’d straightened out.

It would be just business, he’d told her earlier that day. Well, of course it would be just business. The man went out with supermodels and actresses who wore Gucci and smelled like eight-hundred-dollar perfume, not a clumsy mail girl who wore clothes from the secondhand store and considered Ivory soap her signature scent.

But one question still lingered: Why her? With all the women who drooled over him, why had he asked her?

Abby sighed and shook her head. It would remain a mystery. By now Mr. Tanner had probably forgotten her name—forgotten she even existed—and found someone else to play his wife for the weekend.

“Everyone done?” she asked the class when several faces appeared over the tops of their easels.

They all nodded.

She exhaled heavily as she stared at the dejected expressions on their faces. “The center can make more money with computer classes, you guys. And this is a slow time of year for them.” She smiled weakly. “But I’ll figure something out, I promise. Give me a week.”

“I can’t afford lessons anywhere else,” one student said.

“Shoot, I can hardly afford them here,” another added.

Abby nodded. “I understand, but—”

“What if they were free?”

The husky baritone came from the direction of the doorway. The entire room turned to stare, including Abby. Her eyes widened and her heart slammed against her ribs.

C. K. Tanner stood in the doorway, his eyes set on her.

Gone was the pinstripe suit. Jeans and a simple sweater had taken its place. Simple. Hah! Nothing on or about C. K. Tanner was simple, Abby thought wryly, wishing she’d fixed her hair or worn something nicer—something from a boutique.

He moved into the room with the confidence of a general. Tall, dark and sexy as all get-out. And the way he fitted into those jeans had to be illegal, she mused, then quickly told that half of her brain to shush.

“My name is Tanner,” he informed the class. “I’m a friend of Abby’s.”

“Go, Abby,” one female student hooted.

Everyone laughed. Abby’s cheeks burned.

“He’s not a—” she stuttered, then frowned at him, whispering, “I haven’t changed my mind, sir.”

“Hear me out, Abby,” he whispered back. “There’s an element to this proposal that might interest you.” He plunked down beside her on the desk and addressed the class. “I’m here to offer all of you,” he glanced over at Abby, “and you, too, of course, a building where you can hold your art classes. As for the rent—”

“Here it comes,” muttered one of the students.

“It will be a dollar a month,” Tanner finished.

Silence. All twenty students stared openmouthed at Tanner, then at Abby, then back again.

Abby’s muscles felt like water, but her temper was piqued. The man had some nerve. How dare he come in here and raise her students’ hopes like this. How dare he come in here and make their teacher’s pulse race. She jumped off the desk and motioned for him to follow. “Come with me,” she said, the sound of hoots and catcalls following them as she pulled him out of the room.

Once out in the hallway, Abby whirled on him, ready to give him what for. But her heel caught on the doorsill and she pitched forward into his arms.

Her cheeks flamed. Why did her clumsy nature have to show itself every damn time C. K. Tanner was near? Was she cursed?

“I got you,” he said in a husky whisper, tightening his hold on her.

Man, he felt good, she mused, steadying herself on her feet. All solid muscle and formidable strength.

Get a hold of yourself, Abby. The guy’s a corporate jerk.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Tanner?” she asked, once she was free from his grasp and a few feet away.

He grinned. “Well it looks as though I’m saving your neck—and your class. Now they have a space.”

She glared at him. “How did you know we needed a space?”

He shrugged. “Does it really matter? The point is you need one.”

Abby couldn’t refute that inescapable logic. “I guess I don’t need to ask why you’re doing this. But right now my students are wondering why. And I’m sure some of them have some pretty…obscene guesses.”

He raised a lazy brow. “Like what?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Why do you care so much about what people think, Abby?”

“Why don’t you care more?” She looked directly at him, choosing her words carefully. “Look, Mr. Tanner, I don’t understand this. Why me? You must have a dozen women who would do this for you.”

“I need a stranger,” he said simply. “I have no wish for anyone to know about it, nor do I want my…” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for just the right word. “I don’t want my female friends thinking the words C. K. Tanner and marriage belong in the same sentence. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid I do.”

“Here. Maybe this will help you decide.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

With great reluctance she took it and peeked inside with as much unease as if it held a snake.

“It’s a contract and keys to a warehouse space downtown.” He rubbed his jaw. “You can pay me the twelve dollars in advance or at the end of the year. I don’t care.”

She pulled out the small set of keys, shock slamming through her. A whole building for a year for twelve bucks. What on earth did he expect her to do on this weekend? There had to be more to this than—

As if reading her mind, he answered her silent queries. “Three days. That’s it. I’ll probably be down at the plant most of the time. You won’t have to see me very much.”

That should have reassured her, so why was every traitorous part of her balking at the notion?

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he continued. “In the bathtub—whatever makes you comfortable.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever makes me comfortable?”

“Trust me, Abby, you have nothing to worry about.” His voice was resolute, his eyes sincere.

She buttoned and unbuttoned the collar of her sweater nervously.

He glanced down at the keys in her hand. “I’m sure you could find many uses for that space.”

Darn right she could. That warehouse would save her art class. And with her own space she could hold classes on weekends for kids, for anyone who wanted to learn. But at what price? She’d be breaking a vow she’d made to herself years ago that she’d never let another Richie Rich invade her life. They were bad news. There was also the added discomfort of having to lie and deceive people she hadn’t even met.

But the students, the kids. That was almost worth it. “You’ll sleep in the bathtub?” she asked skeptically.

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Somehow she doubted he’d ever been a Boy Scout. “Three days?”

He nodded. “Plus time for your makeover and your briefing.”

“I have to get a makeover?” she stammered in bewilderment. “What briefing?”

“You need to know all about me, Abby. My habits, likes, dislikes.” He hesitated, giving her an appraising look from the tips of her vintage saddle shoes to the top of her unruly mop of hair. “You’re a beautiful woman, Abby. God knows why you’d want to hide it. But I think I know someone who can help us with that.” He retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow afternoon at one.”

A knot formed in her stomach. “What about work?”

“You have the next two days off.” He regarded her with serious eyes. “Courtesy of the boss. Oh, and Abby, I’d like to keep this arrangement confidential.”

“Wait just a minute. I haven’t said I would—”

He grinned. “Yes, you have. I saw it in your eyes when you held the keys to your new warehouse space.”

She ground her teeth, knowing he was right and wishing with all her heart that she could just toss those keys right back at him. But the students, she thought, glancing through the window. They depended on her. And not only that, if she agreed to this farce, her children’s program could start immediately.

She looked back at Tanner. His brown eyes practically bored straight through her. Her pulse sped up and she felt sixteen and breathless. The kind of man she’d always vowed to stay away from was going to be her “husband” for three days.

“There will have to be some conditions,” she said firmly.

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you a list tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait.” And there it was. That damn half smile again. “’Night, Abby.”

She watched him as he walked down the hallway, cell phone to his ear. Completely unruffled and utterly pleased with himself.

She shook her head, pretty sure she’d just made a deal with the devil. And if he took her soul, she prayed he’d leave her heart intact.

“Are you sick or something?”

Abby rolled her eyes at the suspicious tone in Dixie’s voice. It was lunchtime at Tanner Enterprises, and Abby had expected her friend’s call, but she hadn’t expected the overwhelming desire to tell Dixie about the upcoming weekend with their sexy boss. But unfortunately Abby knew she couldn’t say a word.

“Abby, spill it,” Dixie demanded. “I can’t remember you ever taking a day off since you started here.”

Abby sank deeper into her wicker chair as she stared out at the neighborhood’s midday activity from the tiny deck attached to her tiny apartment. “I have a really bad headache, that’s all,” she quickly explained. It was the truth actually. A headache that hadn’t gone away since yesterday’s mail route had taken an unusual little twist. Well, a major upset actually. And now here she was, waiting for C. K. Tanner to pick her up for a makeover.

She was crazy to agree to this. Truly. No matter how they dolled her up, she wasn’t sophisticated or chic. She was the poor relation at best, and she wondered if she’d get through this weekend without serious damage to her self-respect.

If she could just forget this whole thing, she would. But last night she’d told her students that their class would continue. And this morning she’d called every last parent on her waiting list to tell them that their children would have a place to study art. The deed was done.

She was so deep in thought, she barely heard Dixie ask what she was doing for her birthday. “So, Abby, what’ll it be? Chippendales or club hopping?”

Birthday. Oh, Lord. Sunday. She’d be in Minnesota. Thank God her parents were out of town and they’d had her birthday celebration last weekend. Having to make excuses to them would be virtually impossible.

“I’ll be hiding under a rock,” she muttered, her mind searching in vain for another excuse when Dixie came asking again—which, of course, she would.

Dixie snorted. “Why you hate birthdays I’ll never know. Perky people are supposed to love birthdays.”

“I like other people’s birthdays. It’s just when I’m the one getting older—”

“You’re turning twenty-five, for goodness sake.” Dixie sighed. “I don’t think that qualifies you for Grandma Moses status yet.”

Abby laughed. “It’s not a vain, getting-wrinkles sorta thing, Dix. It’s a productive thing. I really wanted to have the art center up and going by now. And—”

She halted midstream. Having her very own art center was exactly what was happening. No more excuses or feeling sorry for herself. She was going to have her dream fulfilled—and all because of C. K. Tanner.

“You’ll get there, Abby,” Dixie was saying. “One day at a time, you know? Hey, I know what would make you feel better.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“A date,” Dixie exclaimed. “Better yet, a man.”

“What’s the difference?” she couldn’t help saying.

“A thousand miles, hon.” Dixie chuckled. “A man sticks around—he’s a boyfriend, a husband.”

Down the street the wind kicked up leaves with a flourish, announcing the arrival of a gleaming black Mercedes that Abby could only assume was C. K. Tanner’s. This was a modest neighborhood, where understated Spanish homes sat quietly bracketed by smallish apartment complexes. It was a tan Ford kind of neighborhood, not a luxury full-size.

Abby felt her heartbeat pick up speed as the car slowed to the curb in front of her apartment. The windows were tinted a light smoke color, but she knew it was him. The driver’s side door opened and he stepped out, looking unbelievably handsome. Damn him.

You need a man, a husband, Dixie had said. Abby stifled a laugh. If her friend only knew that she was going to have a husband for three days, and it was none other than the mail room’s fantasy, C. K. Tanner.

“Listen, I’d better go,” Abby said, coming to her feet and stepping back into her apartment. “I’ve got to take some, ah…some more aspirin.”

“Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Ah…I’ll see how I feel.”

“Sure you don’t want me to bring you anything? I have an hour for lunch.”

Abby’s stomach dipped as she heard Mr. Tanner’s footsteps heading down the hall. “No, thanks. I’m good. Just lots of bed rest.”

“All right, hon. How about a birthday lunch with the girls and me on Monday, then? We’ll continue the celebrating.”

“Perfect.”

“And don’t think you’re getting off the man subject so easily.”

A knock at the door caused her to jump. “Sure thing, Dix. I’ll call you.”

She ran to the door, swinging it wide. “I’m sorry for not meeting you downstairs, sir, but…” Her words trailed off as she took in the man leaning against the doorjamb.

“No apology required,” he said, his smooth baritone filling the space between them.

Her stomach dipped. “Would you…ah…like to come in?”

“Sure. For a moment.” He inclined his head. “See how my wife lives.”

Wife! Abby cleared her throat, and tried to stop her gaze from raking over him as he walked confidently into the apartment. Black jeans encased his strong legs and a ribbed black sweater molded to his torso, accentuating his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Some odd sense of pride welled within her, as though he belonged to her, but she quickly pushed such a ridiculous thought aside. Remember why this man’s here—why he’s hired you, she chided herself.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Tanner?” she said, trying to sound light and cheerful. “Coffee, soda?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him walk around her apartment, looking at her knickknacks, artwork, furnishings and books, assessing. He stopped in front of one of her paintings. An abstract acrylic portrait of a man with normal features except for his eyes. Where pupils should have been there was only a deep shade of gray.

“This is an exceptional piece,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”

She grinned in spite of her nerves. “I am.”

He hesitated, his gaze remaining on the painting. “You’re very talented, Abby.”

“You sound surprised, sir.”

He shook his head. “Impressed. Maybe even the smallest bit envious. I can recognize extraordinary art when I see it, purchase a gallery filled with it if I wanted to, but—” he chuckled “—I can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Well, some people have the art gene and some have the business one, I guess.”

“You certainly have the art one in spades.” He moved closer to the piece. “And who’s the subject?”

“A man I knew a long time ago.” Abby went to stand by him. “He had trouble seeing.”

“He was blind?”

She nodded. “In a way.”

He turned to look at her then, his brown eyes probing, searching, making her uncomfortable in both mind and in body.

She swallowed and took a step back. “Shall we go?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and Abby went to gather her things.

They were out of the apartment, down the stairs and walking toward the car when Tanner moved slightly ahead of her to open the car door.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, trying not to sigh when she sat down on the plush leather seat. The interior of the car was immaculate: no candy-bar wrappers, no coffee cups. The leather looked polished, brand-new, and nary a dust bunny lingered on the dash, or in any crevice for that matter. Perfectly in order, just like the man.

He slid into the driver’s side and shot her a look. “You can’t call me ‘sir.’” He turned the key in the ignition and the car sprang to life, purring like a purebred cat. “I think it would be best from this moment forward if you called me Tanner.”

“Shouldn’t I call you by your first name?”

“No one calls me by my first name.”

Abby looked up at him curiously. He had his seat belt on, his gearshift in first and his gaze on her. “For the next several days you aren’t my employee, Abby. That’s certainly not the impression I want Frank Swanson to have of…” A smile tugged at his lips. “Why don’t you just call me Tanner, or if you feel a surge of bravery,” the smile widened, “honey or dear.”

Heat surged into her cheeks at his suggestions, but she barely felt it through a bristling of indignation. “Excuse me for saying so, but I think it’s vastly important to remember that I am your employee, sir…ah…Tanner.”

“Sir Tanner.” He put on a good show of considering that as he let out the clutch. “I like it.”

Abby couldn’t help but roll her eyes as he pulled away from the curb, chuckling.

They were quiet for several blocks, but when Tanner entered the freeway, he broke the silence with business. “When we arrive at the house, you’ll have your makeover. I’ve allowed two hours for this. Then we’ll have a dinner meeting and get to know each other. I’ve decided that we will be newlyweds, just married and trying to keep it quiet. The press keeps tabs on my marital status, so I’ll tell the Swansons we eloped.” He barely stopped for breath. “This weekend, I feel the conversations should be primarily on business, but feel free to interject….”

As he continued to explain the details and events of the weekend, Abby began to drift off. She couldn’t help it—actually what she couldn’t help was staring at how his muscles tightened against the fabric of his jeans when he shifted gears.

She knew she had to get a grip and listen to his recitation on business protocol, but it was like being briefed by the Pentagon, for goodness sakes. She decided to find out some information that would really be helpful.

“So, who’s Frank Swanson?” she asked.

“Have you heard of Swanson Sweets?”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “I have at least one bag of chocolate mints and one box of dark chocolate-covered cherries in my fridge at all times.”

She had a nice laugh, Tanner thought as his gaze swept her lightly. It moved from high to husky like an ocean wave, causing his gut to tighten. But it was that kilowatt smile of hers—a smile that came from her eyes as much as it did her lips—that had him straying from his “this is just business” commitment. He’d have to watch that.

When the freeway came to an end, Tanner turned right—toward home—the ocean and beach to his left. Automatically he opened his window and breathed in the salty air.

“You must really love candy, huh?” Abby said.

He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”

“Then why buy the company?”

He laughed.

She opened her window, as well. “Okay, so maybe that’s a really naive question in your world, but I’d really like to know.”

He delivered his pat answer without giving it a thought. “It’s a profitable venture.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she was going to press him for more, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked back and forth from the ocean to the palm-tree-lined streets, then turned to him. “You live in Malibu?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just figured you for a Beverly Hills kinda guy, that’s all.”

“And what kind of guy is that?”

“One who likes to be close to town, close to the action and all the pretty—” she stopped short, her cheeks growing pinker by the second “—the pretty sights.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like the La Brea Tar Pits?” Even Los Angeles natives joked about the city’s lack of culture.

She was silent a moment before she said, “Maybe you should tell me a little bit about yourself so I’m not guessing. Tell me about your family.”

Tanner’s mind filled with sharp images he rarely acknowledged, much less talked about: the death of his mother; his workaholic, womanizing father, who had immediately shipped Tanner off to boarding school; his lonely childhood devoid of contact with his father, devoid of holidays in the family bosom; endless days and nights of learning how to control his emotions and become a ruthless businessman.

He cursed silently and told Abby McGrady all she needed to hear. “I’m thirty-two years old. I was born June twentieth in Manhattan. I run ten miles every morning, prefer whisky to wine and rarely go to bed before two in the morning.”

“Jeez.” Abby laughed softly. “Talk about a thirty-second life story.”

That was usually enough to satisfy most women he knew. Tanner pulled into his driveway, clearly marked by the Private Property and No Trespassing signs. Certainly it would be enough to satisfy a woman he was only going to know for the rest of the week. “All right,” he said, sending her a sidelong glance. “How about this for a revelation—this is my first marriage.”

She smirked at him. “No shock there, sir.”

“Abby,” he scolded.

But he got no response. She was staring, transfixed, out the windshield, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Full, pink lips that he wanted to run his thumb over to feel, then his tongue to taste.

But he wouldn’t.

He shoved all thoughts of her and him and lips and tasting away and helped her out of the car. “What do you think of the place?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she sounded a little sad.

“But?”

She raised a brow at him as they walked up the front steps. “But what?”

“I read people’s reactions for a living, Abby.” He held the front door open for her. “I can tell when someone’s not telling me the complete story.”

“It’s just…so enormous.” She glanced around, taking in the black marble floor, chrome and glass accents and circular staircase. “You live here all by yourself?”

He nodded. Damn right he did. In fact, he’d never even brought a woman here. It was his place of solace, to relax, think.

He had a decidedly bacheloresque penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard that he usually used for entertaining. He could’ve taken Abby there. But he had neighbors who liked to gossip, and the Malibu house had just seemed more appropriate for her makeover and their dinner meeting.

He followed her with his gaze as she moved over to the fireplace and touched the empty mantle gingerly.

“You must not spend much time here.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There are no pictures or mementos or…anything.” She shook her head. “You should do something about that. It’s not fair to the house.”

He frowned. Not fair to the house? What the hell did that mean? His house was exactly as it should be: comfortable and functional. Just because he didn’t have a bunch of meaningless clutter on his mantel like at her place—art supplies everywhere, a million pictures of her family decorating her desk and tables.

He shook his head at her annoying observations. Never in his life had he met anyone who just said whatever was on her mind or asked whatever question popped into her head like she did. People who didn’t think before they acted were headed for disaster, didn’t she know that?

Hell, it was good that this woman was only going to be around for a weekend.

He nodded at the stairs. “Why don’t you go upstairs now, first door on your right. The team’s waiting for you.”

Her eyes widened. “The team? What team?”

“Your makeover team,” he said, turning to go.

“Wow,” he heard her say quietly. “It’s going to take a whole team?”

With his back to her, he couldn’t help but smile at her guilelessness.

“Hey!” she called to him. “I thought you might want to ask me a few questions about myself.”

“Later. At dinner,” he replied succinctly as he reached the door. “I have work to do.”

It was only partly a lie, he thought as he turned in the doorway and watched her walk up the stairs, her hips swaying gently with the movement. He did have work to do, always had work to do. But this time he was using it as an excuse to get away from the pretty redhead who was threatening to drive him crazy.