Dani Sinclair - Secret Cinderella

Someone had walked across the carpeting with wet feet.

He gripped the pan firmly while his heart tried to drill through his chest. His palms slicked with sweat. He gazed about slowly. The bedroom was empty. So was the spacious walk-in closet.

He crossed to the master bath. The large room was a hedonistic delight. The tub sprawled on a raised dais, twice as wide and half again as long and deep as a normal tub. Jets were built into the sides so it could be operated as a whirlpool. A sinfully appealing skylight loomed overhead and there was a separate, oversized shower with multiple heads so that water could run freely over a person from both sides—or two people could share as he and Shereen had done on more than one occasion.

An enormous double vanity filled the far wall with mirrored glass. The glass was partially fogged. His blurred image stared back at him.

Running a quick finger over the inside of the tub he discovered it had been wiped but was still damp. The unmistakable scent of Shereen’s favorite bath oil mingled in the air along with the odor of nail polish remover. That was what his subconscious had tried to alert him to when he started up the stairs. Those odors shouldn’t have been there. Shereen hadn’t used the large bathroom in more than a week.

He strode back to the bedroom. This time when he surveyed the room, he did so slowly, taking in small details. His muscles contracted the moment he spotted his wallet and key case on the tall dresser. Roderick didn’t need to open the expensive leather. It seemed inevitable that his money would all be inside.

He lowered the pan. Red-stained tissues were clumped in his wastebasket. Ridiculously, he was glad. The nail color had been all wrong on her. But how had the little thief gotten past his unbeatable security system?

His legs carried him to the large guest room. He slapped the wall switch. Nothing happened. The lamp on the nightstand must have been turned off at the base. It didn’t matter. The light from the hall was adequate.

The first thing he saw was the sparkly green material lying in a heap on the floor.

The second thing he saw was the body on the bed.

Mel awoke from a dreamless sleep to adrenaline-pumping fear. A large shadowy shape loomed over her. With a startled cry, she rolled away from the threat, off the other side of the bed to land on her feet. She crouched there poised to fight or flee while her brain attempted to assimilate what was happening.

A startled masculine oath ripped from the shadow’s throat. He half raised an object in his hand defensively at her cry and Mel came all the way to consciousness as memory clicked into place. She was in the guest bedroom in the town house belonging to Roderick Laughlin III. The shadow could be no one else but her host.

Actually, as her heart continued to thud a staccato beat, she wasn’t sure which of them was the more startled by the situation. She’d been taught that taking the offensive was always the best policy so she gave vent to the panic that had clawed the back of her throat.

“You idiot! You scared the heck out of me!”

He lowered the object slowly. “What?”

“You could have given me a heart attack! You should have called out or something. Don’t you know you should never startle someone awake? I thought you were an intruder.”

Speechless, he remained unmoving.

As her vision penetrated the darkened room, his shocked expression drained the remainder of her fear. She had no idea what time it was, but it felt very late, or very early, depending on the point of view. The house was dark and Roderick Laughlin still wore his tuxedo—right down to the perfectly knotted tie at his throat. Mostly backlit by the hall light, he stood there gripping what looked like a frying pan. The image was so ludicrous, Mel couldn’t help it, she giggled.

“Sorry,” she apologized quickly. “But you look ridiculous holding that skillet. Were you going to bean me over the head or did you come to offer me breakfast? Because if you’re cooking, I’m eating.”

His eyes blinked shut for a moment. “Oh, hell. You’re a fruitcake.”

“I most certainly am not!” She aimed a finger at his chest. “Listen, buddy, I’m not the one dressed in a tuxedo holding a frying pan in my guest room in the middle of the night. It is still the middle of the night, isn’t it? What time is it? And what are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you and the model be ringing in the new year at her place all night?”

He shook his head like a fighter who’d taken one punch too many.

“How did you get in here?” he growled.

Uh-oh. Dangerous territory.

“Like any normal person. Through the front door. I, uh, sort of borrowed your keys.”

This time when he shook his head, she realized he’d recovered. He’d moved beyond shock to a deadly calm.

“How did you get past my security system?”

“Oh, that,” she stalled.

“Yes, that.”

When no suitable answer came to mind, Mel gave what she hoped was a negligent shrug and started moving around the bed. “You need a better system.”

He tensed.

“There is no better system,” he gritted out. “Who the devil are you?”

“Really?” she asked dubiously even though she knew darn well what he’d said was true. She’d never come across an alarm system quite like his before. Even her father would be impressed. The dratted thing had nearly defeated her.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, it did take me several minutes to disconnect and reconnect without tripping the interrupt circuit.”

“That’s impossible,” he stated flatly.

Shrugging, she offered him a saucy grin. “If I were you, I’d make the company refund your money.”

His voice dropped another octave. “I own the company that created that system.”

“Oops.” And didn’t that just figure. Maybe she should try inserting her other foot. “Better send your people back to the drawing board.”

He closed his mouth with a snap. His gaze swept her with a force that was nearly tangible. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but abruptly he tensed even further.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

Mel pushed self-consciously at a flopping sleeve and glanced down at the white linen, thankful to see the material was draped decently to midthigh. Everything was properly covered so she tried for a wry smile.

“Sorry. I couldn’t find any pajamas.”

As though afraid he might be tempted to use it, he set the frying pan on the rumpled bed with exaggerated care.

“I don’t wear pajamas,” he said starkly.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured when I couldn’t find any. Normally I sleep nude, too, but I didn’t feel right doing that here…you know, being a guest in your house and all.”

“You are not a guest,” he enunciated carefully. “You are a common thief.”

And that raised her Irish once more. “I may be a lot of things, pal, but I am in no way common. And I haven’t stolen a thing from you,” she fired back. “I even replaced the ninety bucks I borrowed for cab fare.”

“Ninety dollars! What did you do, take a tour?”

“Hey! In case you’ve forgotten, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

Besides, she’d taken a series of cab rides because her car had refused to start again, but there was no point mentioning that little fact. Or how incredibly lucky she’d been to find even one cab let alone several still operating as the weather worsened.

She spread her hands. “So I was gouged, sue me. Between the holiday and the snow, I was hardly in any position to argue prices. I know I shouldn’t have borrowed your wallet and your keys, but I did return them, so no harm done.”

“And my shirt?”