The Glass Shoe (3 page)

Amanda Wilderman didn't believe in princes.

And yet here was a prince.
A handsome, humorous, charming man who kept her on her toes with his sharp intelligence.
And he hadn't the faintest idea who she was.

But then something happened that she hadn't anticipated.
A very simple and natural thing, given a man and a woman virtually alone together in a moonlit garden.
And now she didn't know how to answer his question.

"I warned you I wasn't a gentleman," he murmured.

Amanda might have anticipated the kiss, natural under the circumstances. But her reaction to it went far beyond anything she could have predicted. She'd been kissed before, and by some "gentlemen" for whom the art was their stock-in-trade; but she had never felt anything like what she felt when Ryder kissed her.

His lips were hard, warm; there was no attempt to gently seduce or charmingly sway. He was no supplicant. He kissed her as if she were his for the taking, as if there were no need for preliminaries between them.

A wave of pure raw heat swept over Amanda, as if she'd stepped out of a cool room to stand under the blazing sun of a hot summer day. It was a shock at first, and her hands lifted to push at his shoulders. But before she could even try to escape, a second wave of pleasure shuddered through her. She was hardly aware of a soft sound purring in the back of her throat, and didn't realize that she had moved until she felt the heavy silk of his hair under her fingers and the hard strength of his arms around her.

Those sensations gave her the willpower—albeit, just barely enough—to push herself back from him and try to turn away. But he refused to release her completely, drawing her against him and holding her firmly.

"Let me go," she ordered him huskily, staring down at the arms around her waist. She could feel the hard strength of his body at her back, and fought desperately to ignore the weakness of her own.

He kissed the nape of her neck, and said somewhat thickly, "It must be the moonlight. Do you think that's it, Cinderella? Moon madness?"

"Definitely," she managed to say with a shaky laugh. Then she caught sight of the luminous dial of his watch, and a chill chased the last of the cobwebs from her mind.

Eleven-thirty.

Where had the time gone? Until that moment she had half made up her mind to end the farce at midnight. But she couldn't. When her mask came off, everything would change. Her own guard would go back up, because, of course, Ryder would change once he knew who she was. The unburdened pleasure of strangers would be gone.

She couldn't see it end, not like that.

"Now I know how the prince felt," Ryder said. "I could get obsessed about you."

Amanda felt a pang, and recognized it somewhat ruefully for what it was. She hadn't expected it to be painful to have awakened interest in a man from behind the anonymity of a mask.

"You've let the moonlight go to your head," she said. "And so have I."

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"I guess not." This time Amanda managed to pull completely away from him. It was time; she had to leave while she still had the willpower for it. But how could she distract him? She took a few steps to a handy bench and sat down, adding in a light tone, "You've also forgotten your manners."

"Have I?
In what way?"

"You haven't offered me champagne," she said reprovingly.

He stood gazing down at her for a moment,
then
said, "More evidence of moon madness. Would you care for a glass of champagne, milady?"

"Very much.
Thank you."

"And will you wait here for me?"

"I promised I wouldn't leave." She wasn't lying, after all, she reassured herself. She had promised not to leave at midnight. And she wouldn't.

"Good enough. I'll be right back."

Amanda sat perfectly still until he was lost to sight on the other side of the shrubbery. A glance around was enough for her to orient herself, and she offered silent thanks that she was familiar with the garden. She picked a path that would take her around the makeshift ballroom as quickly as possible, then removed the glass shoes, snatched up her skirts, and ran.

She held the shoes tightly in one hand, unwilling to drop them despite Samantha's gentle request to the contrary.
Her
only other thought was to get away as soon as possible, and she took a shortcut through the Brewster house that led straight to the front door, racing past a number of startled servants.

Some of them had been en route to the ballroom with their hands full of various things. Amanda heard at least one crash from behind her and winced, but didn't stop.

She burst out the front door and caught a glimpse of the white limo waiting at the bottom of the steps. But before she could make good her escape, a very large and very old gentleman dressed all in white, like a Kentucky colonel, crossed her path.

They tangled unaccountably, and Amanda felt one of the shoes slip from her grasp.

"I am sorry," the old gentleman said in a gentle, apologetic baritone. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, of course not," she replied distractedly,
then
caught the sounds of approaching footsteps hurrying in her wake. Where was the shoe? Her skirt was so full she couldn't see—"

"Oh, hell," Amanda muttered, and fled. She raced down the steps and dove headfirst through the open door of the waiting limo.

The old gentleman, large, bulky, smilingly benign, chuckled softly as he gazed down at the delicate glass slipper.

"Now then," he murmured to himself.

And with a speed and silence astonishing for a man of his size and age, he faded back into the shadows.

"I see you dropped it," Samantha said.

Amanda sat up and stared at her cousins. They looked very solemn. No doubt, if she could have brought herself to look at the driver—who had lost no time in closing the door, getting behind the wheel, and driving away from the house—he would have looked solemn as well.

Amanda felt like an utter fool.

She didn't try to pick herself up from the floorboard. The position, she thought, was eminently suitable. She tossed the remaining shoe into Samantha's lap. "Here. If I ever see that thing again, I won't be responsible for what happens to it. Understand?"

Samantha certainly did understand, and swiftly hid the shoe away in her voluminous shoulder bag. "Didn't you enjoy the ball?" she asked guilelessly.

Gritting her teeth, Amanda said, "Oh, of course. I even danced with your prince.
Which means that all debts are now paid in full.
"

"But what happened?" Leslie asked.

"I dropped the damned shoe" because somebody ran into me," Amanda muttered.

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

"Nothing happened," Amanda said. "I went, he saw, we danced. End of story."

Leslie was about to demand more details, but Samantha elbowed her surreptitiously and said in a soothing tone, "All right, Manda. All debts paid. But at least tell us if you had a good time."

After a moment Amanda said, "I enjoyed it very much. It was interesting to be somebody else." Then she cleared her throat strongly. "I don't know what possessed me to run like that. I should have just stayed and taken off the mask." She took it off then and frowned at it. "Anyway, it's over now, arid that's that."

"Of course," Sam said.

A couple of hours later Leslie crept into her sister's room, and found Sam sprawled out on her bed wearing an overlarge football jersey and a grimace.

"In case I haven't mentioned it before," Leslie said, "stop kicking and elbowing me!"

"Then stop blurting out things when you shouldn't," her sister returned, unrepentant.

"Ill
admit
that it would have been a mistake to tell Manda that Ryder Foxx actually prefers redheads, but there was no reason for you to elbow me in the car."

"Manda didn't want to answer your questions, couldn't you see that? It was best to let it drop. For the time being, that is."

"I guess you're right."

Samantha grunted abstractedly,
then
said, "This is going to be more difficult than I thought."

"Why? You said that if Manda left the party still masked, it'd be a good sign."

"Yeah—and she dropped the shoe, which is another good sign."

"She said somebody ran into her."

Samantha gave her sister a superior look. "She wouldn't have dropped it if she hadn't wanted to. That was just an excuse. Trust me."

Leslie did trust Samantha. "Okay. So why is it going to be more difficult than you thought?"

Chewing on her thumbnail, Sam said, "Because Manda's so convinced that no man could possibly love her for herself. I hadn't realized how strongly she felt about it."

"Ryder Foxx doesn't know who she is," Leslie said.

In a suddenly practical manner Samantha said, "Yes, but I doubt he fell in love with her at the party; that would be just a bit too much to hope for. I'm sure he was intrigued, and he'll probably try to find out who bought the shoes and where the costume came from, but that isn't enough."

"I think it's too much," Les said with some feeling. "If he finds out we were behind this whole thing—"

"I told you not to worry about it. Everything's set up on the contingency that he does try to find out. And anyway, we're going to keep them both so busy they won't have time to wonder about glass shoes or anything else."

"Plan B?"

"No. No, I think we're going to have to skip directly to plan C."

Since the following day was Saturday, Ryder didn't feel the need to go into his office. He often did work on weekends, but he also had an office set up in his house outside Boston. He was there on Saturday, but he wasn't working. He was standing at the window, gazing out at a colorful profusion of fall leaves and wondering how in hell a man of his age and experience could be so idiotic.

As if pulled by a lodestone, he turned his back to the view outside and stared at his desk, where the symbol representing his idiotic thoughts rested.

A shoe.

A glass shoe.

He still couldn't believe he'd picked the thing up, much less brought it home with him. Surely the woman didn't think he'd be so besotted by one dance and a bit of moonlight in a garden that he'd lose his reason?

She didn't really think he'd cling to his princely role like a moron and charge all over Boston and half the Northeast in search of one pair of dainty feet?
Especially after she had mocked the very idea.
And she certainly couldn't believe that a couple of hours of conversation—fascinating conversation—and one kiss—an admittedly fiery kiss—could inspire in him a devotion so complete that he'd overlook the transparent ploy to gain his attention?

And it was a ploy, of course. What else could it be? Mysterious Cinderella shows up, uninvited, according to her, dances with Prince Charming and walks with him in the moonlight, melts in his arms for one kiss—one admittedly fiery kiss—and then flees before midnight.

Leaving a glass slipper on the front steps.

Questioned, the parking valet for the ball had said Cinderella's coach was a white limo. The modern version of a pumpkin and six white mice, Ryder assumed. But, sorry, sir, the valet hadn't noticed the tag number or anything memorable about the driver. The butler had not admitted her, he claimed, and so had seen no invitation.

After that Ryder had given up, drawing a mental line at questioning his co-host or the other guests. He wasn't, he'd told himself, that far gone.

He kept expecting somebody to offer the punch line of the damned joke.

He'd had a few lures cast out to him in his time, some of which had been rather creative, but women tended to be far more straightforward these days. He couldn't believe that any woman would go to the trouble and expense of a costume and rented limo just to rouse his interest. It was absurd. It was ridiculous.

It was working.

"Idiot," he muttered aloud to himself in the empty room, and went to his desk. He picked up the shoe and examined it minutely, as if he hadn't done it before. Just a pump-style woman's shoe made of glass. Water cushions in the bottom, fashioned in clear plastic. There was no logo or label anywhere, nothing to indicate the maker's name or business location.

But from how many places could one rent—or buy—glass slippers?

Ryder went around the desk to his chair and sat down, placing the shoe to one side. He looked up the number of the costume shop where his infamous tights as well as the rest of the costume had been rented, and placed a call.

The shop was open and likely doing a brisk business in returning costumes after the masquerade. Ryder asked for the manager, then waited and silently repeated to himself that he wasn't being at all idiotic about this.

"Yes, sir?" the manager inquired politely.

Deciding not to identify
himself
, Ryder merely asked, "Do you rent Cinderella costumes?"

"Yes, sir.
We have three in stock; they've just come back in today. If you'd like—"

"Are any of them missing the shoes?" He made the question as cool as possible.

The manager showed signs of losing his.
"Shoes?
No, sir.
The costumes were returned just as they were picked up yesterday."

"So you have three pairs of glass shoes in stock?"

"Glass?
Oh, no, sir. The ladies don't like glass. Dangerous, if I may say so.
And too uncomfortable."

Ryder resisted the impulse to tell him about shatterproof glass and water cushions while he gazed at what was definitely a glass shoe on his desk. "Cinderella wore glass slippers," he reminded the manager, trying not to laugh at his own absurdity in this.

Badly rattled by now, the manager said, "Well— um—we use fabric or leather shoes covered with sequins. They sparkle like glass." He seemed a bit aggrieved at the implied aspersion on the store's reasonable facsimile of a difficult
concept,
as if to say they'd done the best they could after all.