The Cinderella Rules Page 8

  “It might almost be worth it.”

  “You doubt I can?”

  “Right now, I don’t doubt anything about you.”

  She grinned and sidled closer to him, until her nipples brushed oh-so-tantalizingly against his own.

  He grabbed her hips and yanked her hard against him. His mouth was on hers at the exact instant her fingers fisted in his hair. He lifted her off the ground, surprising a grunt out of her, then spun her so her back was against the wall. She wrapped her mile-long legs around his waist and he thought he would come right there. He’d never wanted to be naked so badly in his entire life.

  Their mouths remained mated and they battled for control of the kiss. He wrapped one arm tightly around her back so he could shove her shirt off altogether, then eyed the chair in the corner, wondering if they’d both fit. He was thinking he’d take her right up against the goddamn wall instead, when a knock came at the door.

  They both froze, trying like hell to rein in their gasps.

  “Darby?”

  “Shit,” Darby whispered shakily. At his questioning look, she added, “Melanie. Perky Personal Shopper From Hell.”

  Shane just grinned and pumped against her, making her catch her breath. She nipped at his lip in retribution, but he was grinning even as he nursed the sting with his tongue.

  “Yes?” Darby finally managed. She tried to wiggle free, but that only served to enflame them both. Shane clamped her hard against him and pushed her tighter up against the wall. The action drove him up against her again, making them both bite back moans.

  “Is everything fitting okay?” Melanie called out.

  Darby’s gaze met his, and it took a Herculean effort for them both not to burst out laughing. Shane wiggled just a little, prompting a fierce look from Darby. But, he noted, she didn’t try to unfold herself from her current position, either.

  “Fine,” Darby finally gritted out.

  “Are you sure? You sound . . . Do you need me to help with . . . anything? I can come in and help out.”

  Shane merely gave her a questioning look.

  “That is so not funny,” Darby whispered.

  He shrugged. “I’m not really into threesomes anyway.”

  She puffed out a small snort. “Liar. All men are into threesomes.”

  “Did you say something?” Melanie called. “I know silk can be difficult to get off and on. Really, it’s no problem if you need me—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Darby said rather abruptly, as Shane had started to kiss her neck again, tugging her earlobe between his teeth, nipping her just enough to make her twitch.

  “How is the silk looking against your skin?”

  Shane drew a tanned hand over her breast, trapping her nipple between two fingers. “Silk,” he whispered. “Yum.”

  “F-fine,” Darby stuttered, as he slowly licked his finger again, then drew circles around her nipple. “Stop it,” she whispered fiercely.

  “How can I when you like it so much?” Shane whispered back, the epitome of earnestness. “Unless you’d rather go back out there and shop some more.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I’m still—trying to decide,” she called out to Melanie, swallowing a low groan when Shane wet his fingers again. “I am so going to pay you back for this,” she threatened.

  “Promise?”

  She returned his wicked smile, and started to move against him.

  “Stop now or we’ll both need a wardrobe change,” he warned her.

  “Are you sure you’re okay in there?”

  The knob turned and they both went totally still. “Really, I’m fine,” Darby called out, sounding only marginally panicked. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the handle went still again.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s locked,” Shane said softly.

  “Pretty sure?” She instantly unwrapped her legs, and they both sighed rather wistfully when she eased out from between his body and the wall. Both of them stood on shaky legs.

  “I’m almost done. I’ll be right out,” she told Melanie hastily, eyeing the doorknob.

  Shane pouted. Darby stuck her tongue out at him. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and she bit back a laugh.

  He shrugged. It was a gift, what could he say?

  “Well, I did pick a few other things out for you,” Melanie was saying. “I just thought they’d be perfect with your hair and skin tone. I hope you don’t mind. Would you like to look at them?”

  Shane nodded and pushed her to the door, even as she was refusing.

  “I don’t know,” Darby was saying. “I really think—”

  “Just give them a look. If you don’t like them, don’t try them on.”

  Shane ducked behind the door and opened it an inch before Darby could stop him. Her openmouthed shock was quickly replaced with a scowl and a leap toward the door, to keep Melanie from opening it farther. She stuck her hand out through the crack. “Okay.” She all but yanked the hangers into the room and slammed the door in Melanie’s face.

  “The colors are slightly warmer, but flattering, I think,” Melanie called out. “And the wider cut at the shoulder might be more your style.”

  “Thanks,” Darby said.

  “Take your time,” Melanie trilled. “I’ll be right outside if you want to show me anything.”

  Darby tossed the hangers onto the chair and began to fix her bra. “We can’t stay in here,” she told him quietly.

  Shane’s hand snaked out before she could cover herself up. “Wait.” Some of the shirts clung to the chair, the rest slithered to the floor in a pool of silk. Shane couldn’t help but picture Darby, naked and sprawled, hot skin splayed amongst all that cool, slippery fabric.

  Apparently, his expression gave away his thoughts, and for a split second, he saw her look at the silk with a hint of longing. He took full advantage of the momentary edge . . . and felt not a whit of shame for it. He took a step closer to the chair, pulling her with him.

  She shook her head, but didn’t fight him when he nudged her back until her boot heels hit the chair.

  He pushed off her shirt. “Take off your bra,” he commanded softly.

  Her eyes widened at the tone, but even as her gaze met his, she lifted shaky hands to do as he asked. His body leaped in response. She was strong, willful, and every bit as capable of running this show as he was. That was what made the act all the more sexually charged.

  She pushed her shirt off, then let her bra drop to the floor and simply stared at him. She wore faded jeans, cowboy boots . . . and skin. And he’d never seen anything so damn erotic in his life. He motioned to the chair behind her. “Sit.”

  Her eyebrows shot up a fraction, but she slowly lowered herself into the thickly padded chair. Something about those long denim-covered legs, sprawled so carelessly amongst all that silk, was ten times more arousing than seeing her fully naked. Although he wasn’t opposed to seeing her both ways in order to make a fair comparison.

  He stepped between her negligently spread legs and knelt. Her body tensed, but she remained carefully watchful, not moving toward him or shifting away, as he lifted the peach tank top.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, sucking in her breath a little as he draped the shirt across her naked upper torso.

  “Seeing what you look like in silk.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it again as he slowly drew the soft fabric down her body. “And?” she managed.

  “I’m not sure. I’m thinking I like you better out of it.” He slid the top back up over her stomach and breasts again, making them both shudder. “There is one thing I’m dying to know, though.” Without giving her a chance to ask, he bent over and took her nipple into his mouth.

  She jerked at the feel of him. “Shane,” she whispered, “you’ll ruin the shirt.” But she moaned as he slowly moved to her other nipple.

  “I’ll gladly pay for it. And get hard e
very time I look at it.”

  She stared down at him, then let her eyes drift shut and her head tip back as he went back to tasting raw silk . . . and naked Darby.

  “How does it look?” Melanie chirped through the door.

  Darby jerked hard at the sudden intrusion, but didn’t leap out of the chair. In fact, she grabbed Shane’s head and kept his mouth right where it was. “Not sure,” she managed. “Give me—dear God,” she finished beneath her breath as Shane swirled his tongue around her nipple. “A few,” she croaked out.

  “O-okay. You need another size?”

  “God, no,” she breathed. “This one is perfect.”

  There was a pause. “Well. Okay. I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love it,” she said, wholeheartedly.

  Shane lifted his head. “Naughty girl.”

  She paused, listening to the retreating sound of Melanie’s heeled shoes. “What can I say, I’ve been corrupted. It’s not my fault.”

  “Something tells me I’m not much to blame in that department.”

  She eyed him over the damp shirt. “You think I carouse in limos and pricey department-store dressing rooms on a regular basis?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “Exactly right.” Then she shot him a little impulsive smile. “Unless you’re involved, of course.”

  “Oh, absolutely. Then it’s entirely acceptable behavior. Encouraged, even.” He drew the silk down over her skin. “I simply meant that you are a woman with no pretense. And that you pretty much take what you want, when you want, without apology.”

  She pondered the statement, then nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  He grinned in feigned shock. “Wow.”

  She grinned back, totally unconcerned with the fact that she was sprawled half-naked across a few hundred dollars worth of merchandise. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”

  Shane stood and pulled her to stand as well. “Then I guess I’d better try like hell to keep up.”

  “If you dare.” She stepped around him and scooped up her shirt and bra. “I’m all done,” she called out loudly, in a voice totally inappropriate for a pricey department-store dressing room, then looked over her shoulder at Shane. “But I’m hoping we’re not?”

  Shane scooped up the rest of the shirts. “Oh, not by a long shot.”

  “Good.” She wriggled into her bra, slipped on her shirt, tucked it in, fluffed out her hair, then shrugged everything into place, without ever once looking in the mirror.

  Shane wondered if she had a clue how incredible she looked. He doubted she much cared. Which made her all the sexier to him. Earthy, natural. Raw. Wild. His, he mentally tacked on. For now, anyway. If he was lucky. He planned to be very, very lucky. “Hey.”

  She paused, her hand on the doorknob.

  Shane pulled the deep teal silk tank top from the pile in his arms and tossed it to her. “This one. Trust me.”

  She caught it one-handed. “That’s the oddest thing of all,” she responded. She sent one last glance his way. “Because I do.” The door shut between them before he could utter a response.

  Still wondering how in the hell she’d ended up with the last word, but smiling because of it, Shane put his shirt back on. And megamergers, inheritance headaches, and Scandinavian financiers be damned, he was going to see Darby Landon sprawled naked in silk again.

  After waiting a full ten minutes, he waltzed out of the dressing room. And stumbled right into a matronly department assistant.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said in her snootiest haute-couture tone. “But that is the ladies’ dressing room.”

  “Great. As it happens, it’s a lady I plan on dressing.” And undressing. He flashed her his most charming smile and dumped the entire load of shirts in her arms. “I’ll take all of these.”

  He pulled out his wallet. Another bonus for the day, he thought, as he bypassed his own cash and tossed his newly minted Morgan Industries corporate credit card on the counter. He’d finally found a worthwhile use for some of Big Al’s money.

  She didn’t recognize herself.

  Darby stood before the bathroom mirror as she packed up her array of “natural beauty enhancements” in preparation for checking out of Glass Slipper. The frosted glass bottles, stack of sleek compacts, canvas wrap stuffed with round brushes and vent brushes and blush brushes and every possible comb ever made—including one for her eyelashes, for God’s sake—all lay ignored, while she stared at the stranger staring back at her.

  “What have you done to yourself, Darby Landon?” she murmured. “Or should I call you Darmilla Beatrice?” She arched one perfectly plucked brow, amazed at the way it curved. “Why, how downright diabolical of you, D.B.” She pursed her lips, and put her pinky finger to the corner of her mouth. “Dr. Evil, I presume?”

  She tried out her newly acquired fake society laugh next, followed by the ever-so-sincere fake society smile. She swung her hair back over her shoulders—there was actually an art to that; she’d taken a class—then held out her perfectly manicured hand, ignoring tips she’d had redone twice already. If anyone came near her with another emery board, it was highly possible she might file someone to death.

  She stared at her face. Botox injections my ass, she thought, wrinkling, then smoothing her forehead. She’d be boiled in oil first. She forced her facial muscles to relax, then worked on making her smile just wide enough, but not too wide. She had to speak without interrupting the perfect line of her lips, jaw, and chin. Too wide and those creases popped up at the corners of her mouth and her chin appeared to double.

  The crinkles at the corners of her eyes had been carefully concealed with an amount of makeup normally reserved for circus clowns, but those deadly mouth brackets . . . She adjusted her smile until they faded. God forbid she look like she led any kind of a real life. Or at least one that a socially acceptable two-week, semiannual spa stay couldn’t reverse.

  “Yes, hello,” she said, pretending to greet guests. “So wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Multiple Face-Lift, Mr. Stick-Up-Your-Ass. Please, won’t you come in and make yourself at home. Our little twenty-room cottage is ever so nice and cozy, after all.” She dropped her hand, and her game face. “If you like that down-home mausoleum feel.”

  In a few short hours she’d be returning to that very same cozy little mausoleum, where she would be forced to play hostess to a pretentious tightass, looking like . . . “Another pretentious tightass.” Dear Lord, have mercy on my plastic-coated, lacquered-up, foundation-covered soul.

  She grabbed a tiny rope-handled boutique bag and scraped all five hundred dollars’ worth of clown goop into it. She’d give it all to Pepper. Who was going to need it to hide the strangle marks after Darby got done wringing her neck. Darby sure as hell wasn’t planning on using it again. Surely she already had enough layers of crap on her face to last her through the weekend, as it was. She’d simply shower from the neck down and make sure she didn’t sweat. “Excuse me,” she said in cultured tones. “Glow. Become dewy.” Sounded like a condition requiring antibiotics.

  One thing was for sure, dewy or desert-dry, she wasn’t touching her face. Or her hair. Because the chances of her re-creating the Country-Club-Snotty-Bitch look she currently sported was pretty much nil. Glass Slipper didn’t employ an expert talented enough to teach her how to use a round brush or apply blended eye shadow. She was a woman who normally used Mane N’ Tail shampoo, for God’s sake.

  Her mother had died before teaching her oldest daughter the fine art of makeup artifice. Not that she had used her expertise much. She had never spent an ounce more time on her appearance than absolutely necessitated by her position. Of course, Laurel Stockton Landon had been the kind of rare beauty who could come straight from the barn, toss on a floor-length beaded designer creation, run a brush through her shoulder-length hair, dab on a bit of lip gloss, and totally wow the Capitol Hill elite. Nope, that little strand of DNA had flipped right by Darby. Pepper, on the other hand, had gotten
those little strands in triplicate. And she’s welcome to them.

  Darby resolutely turned away from the mirror. She did not, as instructed, check her “line”: make sure everything was tucked smoothly, and that there was no VPL. Of course, that faux pas could have been avoided if Darby had agreed with Melanie’s solution—the thong. Darby had informed her, quite plainly, that there was a better chance of getting her to agree to that Botox injection than there was of getting her to wear what amounted to a crotch stirrup.

  Melanie gracefully lost that battle—it would have been completely unseemly to lose any other way—but didn’t give up on winning the war. In fact, she’d gone on to navigate Darby through the selection of the icy peach raw-linen blazer, cream-toned light weave shell, and melon-toned cuffed trouser ensemble, with the kind of arbitration usually reserved for mediating the surrender of a small country. Darby had been assured the items were perfect for her coloring and sent just the right message. Which apparently meant that looking like orange sorbet was a good thing.

  Flipping off the bathroom lights, she stalked back into the main room—as well as one could stalk in barely heeled flats—and shoved the boutique bag into the one piece of luggage Team Fairy Godmother had coerced her into buying. She’d argued that it was only three days and surely no one was going to know whether her clothes had traveled east in a set of matching Louis Vuitton or her grandfather’s Army duffel.

  Mercedes had pressed her point by tossing out one of the many little rules they were always hammering her with; in this case, the one about how “one had to be prepared for any contingency.” Like what? Darby had wanted to know. Pepper was the one who flew to Europe for lunch on impulse. For Darby, an impulse action was buying strawberry jelly instead of grape. Which, as it turned out, didn’t taste nearly as good with super crunchy peanut butter. So much for giving in to her impulses.

  Which had her thoughts shooting directly to her most recent impulse . . . making her skin grow dangerously dewy. What had happened in that dressing room yesterday already seemed like a dream sequence. Surely that hadn’t been Darby Landon of the East Coast Landons, or the West Coast Stocktons, for that matter, ripping Shane Morgan’s shirt off and yanking his half-naked body against hers . . . in a public dressing room. The half dozen silk shirts that had been delivered to her room hours later assured it had indeed.