The Cinderella Rules Page 7

  Instead, like a good little Cinderella, Darby did as she’d been relentlessly trained to do for the past eleven stores and made at least a cursory look around for a dressing-room assistant. She knew all about department-store hierarchy now. Chosen for their eye for both clothing and wallet size, trained to be obsequious and ingratiating, it behooved the well-dressed woman to avail herself of their innumerable skills . . . not to mention take advantage of the fact that they would happily play gopher and bring endless other sizes and colors upon request. Darby wondered how they’d do mucking out stalls. Now that was the kind of dedicated assistance she could really use.

  Mercifully, Darby didn’t see one around. Possibly because she didn’t look like she’d bring a decent commission. Despite the amazing transformation that had already taken place from the neck up, from the neck down, she was still a fashion train wreck. Well, okay, there had been a few changes below the neck, too. None of them visible to the public eye. She was still trying to forget about those.

  Although she had to admit that even the heavy fabric of her jeans felt good on her smoothly waxed skin. She could only imagine how the silk was going to feel, and found herself eyeing the lingerie department across the way.

  Disturbed by the odd sensation that overcame her, one that felt a little too much like yearning, she poked her head in the dressing room area and called, “Yoo-hoo?” More to make sure none of the little fashionazis were around than because she wanted their help. Having been in the trenches for hours now, Darby was certain they were all trained in guerilla-ambush warfare. All while wearing sensible heels and trim, form-fitting skirts. The Army Rangers could take notes.

  No answer. She breathed a sigh of relief. She would just let herself into one of the little rooms, and dress and undress herself. Like an actual grown-up. The dressing rooms in this store were completely private, with nice, thick paneled doors. A few moments completely alone. Heaven!

  She headed to the far end and jiggled the doorknob on the last room. It was locked. Well, she was certainly not going to let that little guerilla technique deter her. She slipped her credit card from the purse Melanie had forced her to buy—apparently the back pocket of her jeans was never to be used to actually carry anything, especially her wallet. So why did they have them? she’d wanted to know. All she’d gotten was a silent stare and a small sigh.

  She stuck the card between the door and the jamb and jiggled, swearing a little when the lock didn’t pop right away. At this rate, she was going to chip her nail polish. Jesus Christ, what have they done to me, she silently swore. Worrying about nail polish, for crying out loud. Of course, it was only because she’d have to subject herself to having them done all over again if so much as one flake chipped off, and listen to yet another lecture on cuticle maintenance.

  “Well, Blanca del Carmen #8 better damn well last me through the weekend,” she groused, “because I’ll die before I let one of those sadists come near me or my cuticles with another emery board or those vicious little cutters.” She jiggled the card again, swore again as the silk shirts began to slide off their hangers. Juggling her items, she jumped and almost dropped everything when someone spoke directly behind her.

  “Maybe I can be of some service?”

  Apparently Nordstrom’s was quite liberal, was all she could think. Because the guerilla ranger behind her was definitely not female. Perhaps the idea was that if a man fawned all over her selections, it would encourage her to buy more clothes. She was forced to admit that, if the voice was anything to go by, they might actually be onto something there.

  She shut down that train of thought. It was embarrassing enough being caught breaking and entering—though she was pretty sure dressing rooms were exempt from that law—she would not be caught drooling over a male dressing-room attendant like the country-hick rube she obviously was. Her attitude kicked into automatic fallback mode. Which was always defense. “Do you really think these doors have to be kept locked?” she started, whipping around, silk shirts clasped to her exfoliated bosom. “Honest to God, it’s not like your clientele is going to—Shane?”

  “Hi.”

  That cocky grin she’d actually lost valuable sleep over was every bit as sexy as she’d recalled. Maybe more. “Nordstrom’s sales would skyrocket if they let someone like you loose in the dressing rooms,” she murmured to herself. Hell, one hour with him and half the departments would be nothing but empty swinging hangers. Starting with lingerie.

  “I’m only here as your personal attendant.” He picked up the corner of one of the shirts in her hands, and let the silk drift through his fingertips. “Nice choice. Need some help with trying this on?”

  “I, uh—” The look in his eye, and the way that silk slid through his fingers, robbed her of every snappy comeback she could think of. The very idea of both silk and those rough and rugged hands of his caressing her skin at the same time, left her speechless. Not to mention a bit breathless.

  He plucked the credit card from her fingers, reached around her, and without taking his eyes off of hers, popped the lock.

  “After you?” he asked, eyes full of mischief . . . and a few other things.

  Things that had her clearing her throat, suddenly desperate for a sip of water. Or him. “I, uh—”

  “You know, I’d have thought Mercedes and crew would have worked on that speech problem you seem to be having, before cutting you loose in public.” He lifted up a long strand of blonde hair, which now swung in a straight, shiny sheet, cut just below her shoulders.

  It was the first time since she’d watched in horror as Andre, one of Glass Slipper’s scissor wizards, lopped off eight inches of her hair without so much as batting one of his thick, lush eyelashes—much less asking her permission—that she’d wanted to do anything other than grieve.

  “This is very nice.” He let the hair slip through his fingers, much like he had the silk. “Though I liked it better all wild and sun-bleached.”

  “Lowlights,” she managed.

  His eyebrows quirked. Which somehow triggered her tongue to ON.

  “One of the many forms of torture some women apparently willingly subject themselves to,” she clarified. “They even pay for it.”

  “Lowlights,” he murmured, running the ends of her hair through his fingers again. “It just looks darker.”

  Darby finally smiled. “Apparently you can be too blonde.”

  “Really?” he asked in mock surprise.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Well, it’s stunning. But it’s not you.”

  It irritated her in some way, when it should have flattered her. After all, she agreed with him. Wholeheartedly. “Well, that’s what I’m paying them for. To not look like me.” Or act like me. Walk, talk, or think like me. She reined in the urge to huff.

  And then somehow they were backing up into the dressing room, and the door was closing behind her.

  “I know you are. I’m just saying that they’re messing with perfection. So it’s wasted on me.” He stepped closer to her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, silk shirts hopelessly crushed against her chest. “The princess turns back into a pumpkin shortly.”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the princess that turned into a pumpkin.”

  “One can hope,” she said, regaining her footing. Something about his cocky smile and gleaming eyes stirred her tongue . . . amongst other body parts. “Whatever the case, I only have to suffer the indignity till Sunday.”

  “That’s the part I really hate,” he said, quite seriously. “And the main reason why I’m here instead of where I’m supposed to be.”

  Now her eyebrow arched. “You wanted to take advantage of the three-day silk sale at Nordstrom’s?”

  His grin went blistering hot. “No, I wanted to hear that sharp tongue of yours. And, if I got really lucky, take advantage of it.”

  Her pulse spiked. “Really.”

  He stepped closer. “Definitely.”

  “And were
you going to wait for a formal invitation?”

  “I don’t believe in proper etiquette.”

  “Well, there’s a happy coincidence,” she said, tossing the shirts to the floral-print, stuffed chair in the corner, “because I’ve had it up to here with etiquette of any kind.”

  “God, I missed you,” he said, tugging her hard up against him.

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” she said, her voice just a bit shaky. “So shut up and kiss me already.”

  “You’ve got some of the princess rules down, I see.”

  She was dying to brush her lips against his. So close. “Which ones would those be?”

  “Commanding your royal subjects to do as you wish.”

  Her pulse bumped up another notch. “Are you mine to command?”

  He wove his fingers into her hair, tipped her mouth to his. “It’s beginning to look that way. Let me know if this satisfies.”

  She pulled back just a fraction, though it cost her. “You know, I just might be able to get used to this Cinderella thing.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. Now shut up, Your Highness, and let me have my way with you.”

  Cinderella Rule #5

  There is a time and place for everything. However, it always pays to be aware of potential. Any situation can yield amazing opportunities for those who know how to capitalize on chance.

  —MERCEDES

  Chapter 5

  Shane knew he was in deep trouble the moment his lips touched hers. But then, deep trouble was a place he’d landed in often enough. It didn’t scare him.

  Darby Landon, on the other hand, terrified him.

  She tasted raw, undiluted. Real. And goddamn if that wasn’t potent as hell. He wove his fingers through her hair. It felt like a silk waterfall. Erotic, tactile . . . but cool to the touch. He missed the heavy braided waves, made blonde by the heat of the sun. He had the sudden urge to drag her into the nearest shower and drench the straightness right out of her hair, until it sprang back to life beneath his fingers.

  He sank his teeth softly into her lower lip, then pulled it into his mouth, so full and perfect, taunting him. “You taste like something decadent,” he told her. “Forbidden, but too sinful to pass up.”

  She snorted and pulled away with a laugh.

  Smiling, he framed her face with his hands. “You really don’t take compliments well, do you?”

  “I do when I’ve earned them. When it’s about my horses, my work. But this?” She motioned to her face and body, then paused. “Okay, well, so this is no longer the real me. Maybe this me looks like some kind of dessert, but trust me on this, no one would typically think of me as being particularly sinful.”

  “I was talking about your mouth. And I say that exactly describes how you taste. No amount of face paint or hair dye changes that.”

  Her eyes widened, then darkened. And he found he liked that reaction. A lot. He grinned when she didn’t find a fast retort.

  “And, seeing as I’ve had a taste or two of you now—before and after, I might add—I feel qualified to make the judgment.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. Compliment accepted.”

  “Now there’s a graceful acceptance speech.” He chucked her lightly under the chin. “But I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Yeah? I’m all aflutter now.” She sounded breezy and unaffected, but the slight tinge of pink to her golden skin said otherwise.

  And who knew that making Darby Landon blush could be so much fun? Actually, he was beginning to think there was no end to the kinds of fun they could have together. He walked her back so she bumped up against the green-and-white striped linen-papered walls of the dressing room. “You’ll get plenty of practice. I tend to speak my mind. Who knows what else might pop out of my mouth?”

  She surprised him by grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him up against her. “I’m more interested in what I can pop into yours than in listening to ridiculous come-on lines.”

  He laughed against her lips as she crushed her mouth to his. His laughter quickly faded, however, as she slid her tongue into his mouth. He groaned, and accepted the invasion willingly. Damn if she didn’t know how to kiss a man. And damn if he could explain why the thought that she might have done this with someone else riled him up a bit.

  He was also startled to discover that her body aligned so perfectly with his. Knee-to-knee, hip-to-hip . . . and, most startlingly, pelvis-to-pelvis. A novel experience for someone his height.

  She wove her fingers through his hair, making his skin tingle as her short nails raked his scalp, then angled her head and took the kiss deeper. He’d thought to taunt her a little, tease her a little, brighten up both of their days with a little harmless flirtation, just for the sheer fun of it. Fun being in such short supply these past couple of days.

  But this . . . this hunger she’d spiked inside him . . . well, he hadn’t counted on that. Much less that he’d react to it like a man just rescued from a long stay on a desert island. Which he supposed he was, actually. But she made him feel downright . . . barbaric.

  He braced his hands on the wall beside her head and let his hips push more deeply into hers. She gasped at the feel of him, so perfectly fitted to her. And pushed back.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured against her mouth, then let his lips drift down her chin, which she oh-so-helpfully tilted, allowing him full access to the tender skin of her throat. “It’s insane how badly I want you.”

  “I know. Totally insane. Completely.”

  He parted the collar of her shirt with his teeth, his fingers curling inward as he kept his hands on the wall . . . and off of her. It was torture, but he was enjoying his exploration too much to compound it with any other sensation. Yet.

  He popped a button free with his teeth, then used his tongue to trace a narrow line down the exposed skin. Then he popped another one. And when her hands came up to help him, he took them and pinned them to the wall.

  “Awfully pushy,” she managed, but did nothing to dissuade him further as he popped another button, then nudged aside the cotton shirt so he could lick his way along the edge of her pale blue cotton bra.

  “I know it’s not—” She broke off, squirming beneath the torturous feel of his tongue, now tracing the lower edge of one cup.

  “I don’t care what it’s not,” he said. Pale blue cotton was pretty damn arousing at the moment. “It’s you. That’s all that matters.” He took the top edge of the bra between his teeth and pulled it down. It was tight and snug as it rubbed over her nipple, now hard and jutting out for him. He tucked the fabric beneath her breast, which plumped up and pushed forward. Right where he wanted it.

  “There truly is a God,” she murmured as he took her into his mouth and sucked, moving his tongue slowly, wetly around the engorged tip.

  Like hot velvet, he thought. Jesus.

  Her hips bucked wildly, and he wanted badly to feel them push up against his, where he was so hard and ready. But he couldn’t press up against her and take her gorgeous, perfect nipple in his mouth at the same time. Decisions, decisions.

  He slid their joined hands up over her head, which allowed him to straighten long enough to brush fully against her. They both gasped. Then he glanced at her face and thought he might drown in those eyes of hers. So bold, so honest . . . so full of want. For him.

  He took her mouth in a fast, hard kiss, pushing his hips tight up against hers and rushing them both fast beyond control. She pushed back just as fiercely. He drew one hand slowly down between them, his hips still joined to hers . . . and their gazes locked on each other.

  Neither said a word as he tugged the other cup beneath her breast, freeing it for his attentions. He watched her intently as he gently rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her pupils exploded, and her lips parted in a silent gasp. But her eyes remained open, and on him. Almost like a challenge. One he desperately wanted to be up to. Although up was not really an issue at the moment. He’d never been so up in h
is life.

  “You like my touch,” he murmured, dropping his mouth to hers. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

  She thrust her hips out, making him jerk and twitch. “I have a general idea,” she said, smiling against his lips. “You like my touch, too.”

  “Damn straight.” He brushed her tongue with his, then made her watch as he slid one of his fingers in his mouth, then another . . . then gently rolled her nipple between his damp fingertips. She all but growled when he licked his fingers again. “Equal opportunity,” he said.

  “Take off your shirt,” she demanded heatedly.

  He lifted a brow.

  “I want to feel your skin. On mine.”

  The command was too close to being exactly what he wanted to deny her. Or himself. He let go of her hands and yanked his shirttail from his pants. But before he could tug it over his head, she was shoving his hands away, a gleam in her eye. He liked that gleam. A lot.

  “Fair is fair.”

  He smiled and lifted his arms.

  She surprised him yet again by neatly maneuvering him against the wall as she tugged his shirt over his head. He was going to have to get used to playing with someone his own size.

  His bare back bumped up against the cool linen wall. His entire body grew harder still as she casually tossed his shirt aside, then just as casually studied the half-naked man before her. With her shirt hanging open, her breasts pushed up and out of the cups of her bra, and her straight, silky hair cascading over all that tawny bare skin, she looked like some kind of Amazon warrior queen. And he wondered why in the hell anyone at Glass Slipper thought they could improve on that. Or why they’d want to.

  “Nice,” she said, stepping forward. He lifted his hands. She shook her head and lifted her chin toward the wall above his head.

  He challenged her with a look.

  “Don’t make me make you,” she taunted.