The Cinderella Act. Jennifer Lewis
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Still reeling, he sat up and held his head for a moment. Was he in the grip of madness? Perhaps the same tropical malady that kept his mother in a delirium for nearly a week?
Contraception. The grim thought stabbed at his already pounding brain. “I don’t suppose you’re … on the pill.” The unromantic utterance hung in the air like a poisonous cloud.
“Not the pill, but something similar. I won’t get pregnant.” Her silvery voice had shriveled to a tinkle. She climbed from the bed, back to him, still holding the coverlet about her naked body.
And what a body. He had no idea Annie was hiding such lush and inviting curves below her staid Oxford shirts and loose khakis. Desire snuck through him again, hot and unwelcome, and he pulled the sheet higher over his chest.
Annie had already tugged her rumpled shirt and khakis back on, and buttoned them with urgent fingers. He averted his eyes, cursing the demon of lust that had led him so badly astray. He’d better start exercising more regularly, and taking cold showers, to make sure nothing like this happened again. It was bad enough to be unprofessional in his own house, but what next, would he sleep with his administrative assistant, or the office receptionist?
A hushed curse escaped his lips, and Annie flinched. He startled, now aware that he’d added insult to injury. “I was cursing myself. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Me, neither,” she muttered, tucking her shirt in. She picked up the blue dress from the floor, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll hang this in the closet.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Her lush body once again hidden under her practical attire.
Sinclair drew in a slow breath. He had to get out of here and back to Manhattan—stat. Annie left the room and closed the door behind her. He climbed out of bed and pulled his clothes back on, still in a daze of confusion. As he reached for his shoes, he saw her ponytail holder where it lay on the floor. It must have fallen out of her hair, releasing her locks as they …
He shook his head. How could this happen? He prided himself on maintaining control in all aspects of his life. He glanced at the pile of dresses where they lay on a wooden armchair, the lush fabrics lifeless, so different from how that dress had looked draped over her sweet hourglass figure.
He hurled himself from the bed with another curse. Clearly he was in the grip of temporary insanity. He’d better bury himself in work and make sure neither his brain nor his body had time and energy enough for such foolishness.
He dragged his clothes on and exited the room. The hallway was silent, the wood floor shining in midmorning sun. Annie had tactfully disappeared, something she had a proven talent for doing. He also knew she would conveniently reappear if you happened to need her. She had almost magical qualities as a housekeeper.
Now he wished to hell that he didn’t know about all the other qualities she possessed. He’d much rather not have felt the velvet texture of her skin under his fingertips. He’d rest a lot easier not knowing that her breath tasted like honeysuckle, or that her eyes turned that particular shade of sea-foam blue when she was aroused.
Rarely did he pack anything when he came here for the weekend. He had a closet full of casual wear that he pulled from. All he needed was his wallet and keys, which he found in their usual place on his study desk. Pocketing them with relief he strode for the side door, where his car stood ready to drive him back—at high speed—to normalcy.
The screech of tires on gravel confirmed what Annie had hoped for and feared. Sinclair was gone. She leaned against her bedpost for a moment, letting the odd mix of emotions flow through her. Her body still hummed and throbbed with the sensations he’d unleashed only a few minutes earlier. She could still feel the urgent impression of his fingers on her skin as he drove her to unknown heights of pleasure.
She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. Why? And why now? Everything had been going so smoothly. She’d set up a savings account and a budget and was socking money away at an impressive rate, with the goal of buying her own forever home. Her own mini-Drummond mansion, where she could build her own self-contained world. She’d even found a fun sideline making crocheted cuffs and scarves to sell on the internet, with a view to being fully self-employed one day. Maybe she’d even own her own shop. All of this was largely possible because she was alone here 95 percent of the time, while the illustrious Drummonds lit up Manhattan or visited their homes in warmer or more fashionable places. This job was a dream for someone who simply wanted peace and quiet in return for some dusting and polishing. The fact that it paid well and came with a full slate of benefits was almost ridiculous.
And now she’d ruined everything.
She peered out the window toward the driveway, to see if she’d imagined the car leaving. No, the expanse of gravel was gray and empty, the old oaks standing guard on either side. Sinclair had sped back to his other life, and no doubt to all the women who awaited him there.
Drawing a breath down into her lungs, Annie stepped out into the hallway. Her own bedroom was on the ground floor, near the kitchen, away from the family suites. The house was empty and quiet as usual, but somehow the peaceful atmosphere had been whipped into a frenzy of regret. She headed along the downstairs corridor, where everything looked oddly normal, to the fourth spare bedroom—the one they hardly ever used—where they’d …
She pushed on the door gingerly, afraid of what she might find behind the polished oak. Her heart sank at the sight of the rumpled bed, one pillow flung carelessly aside and the sheet pushed to the end of the mattress. Her eye was drawn to the stack of rich Victorian dresses piled on the stark wood chair. The closet stood open where she’d hung the dress he’d buttoned onto her, then peeled off her. It looked so innocent draped there over the hanger. She could hardly blame a dress for what she’d done.
Two decorative embroidered pillows, scattered in the heat of their passion, lay on the floor. Where had the passion come from? She’d harbored fantasies about Sinclair almost since she first met him. Who wouldn’t? He was tall, dark, handsome and filthy rich, for a start, but he was also such a perfect gentleman, so quietly charming and old-fashioned. A chivalrous knight in twentieth-century garb. Always polite and thoughtful to her, as well as his wealthy guests. It was impossible not to dream about him.
She picked the pillows up and automatically plumped them, then put them on the dresser. She could hardly put them back on this chaotic bed. She’d have to strip the sheets and wash them. She couldn’t resist sniffing the pillowcase before she removed it. Faint traces of Sinclair’s warm, masculine scent still clung to the white cotton. Her eyes slid closed as she let herself drift back for a second to the blissful moments when he’d held her in his arms.
Idiot! He probably thought she was a “fast woman.” Which, apparently, she was. They’d gone from playing dress-up to the bed in less than five minutes. It didn’t get much faster than that.
She shook her head and yanked the pillow from its case. Would she ever be able to look him in the face again?
Annie was hugely relieved when Sinclair didn’t arrive the next weekend. She followed his instructions and continued sorting through all the old stuff in the attic. After a couple of days she’d found so many intriguing items that she decided to start an inventory. There was no sign of the cup fragment yet, but she found all sorts of other things that would probably make jaws drop on Antiques Roadshow, and it would be a shame for them to rot away for another three hundred years because no one knew they were up there.
The inventory also kept track of how much stuff she’d looked at, when it seemed like she’d barely made a dent in the piles of belongings stacked against each wall. She didn’t want Sinclair to think she was slacking off now that she’d slept with the boss.
The memories made her cringe. He hadn’t called, but then why would he? He’d already apologized for what he no doubt regarded as a disgusting lapse of judgment. What more was there to say?
Her heart could think of more things, but she told it to keep quiet. Sinclair Drummond could never have real feelings for her. In addition to inheriting money and estates, he’d started his own hedge fund business and made millions, which