Operation Cinderella (10 page)

Sam released Macie’s hand at last. Now that she was neither cast out nor killed, she looked like she might dissolve into a puddle at any time.

Flexing numbed fingers, Macie looked to Sam and said, “I think we can work with that, can’t we, Sam?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Mouth trembling, she asked, “For how long?”

“For as long as I say,” Ross snapped. “Now come here. Come
here
.”

Slowly she got up from her place and rounded the table. Stopping in front of him, she lifted wary eyes to his. “I’m too old for a spanking, right?”

He released a weary breath. “I don’t know about you, but I surely am. And I know we could both use this.” He opened his arms—and enfolded his daughter in a seriously huge hug.

Samantha sobbed into his chest. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

Patting her back, he said, “I know you are, honey.”

Looking on, Macie felt as if her heart were squeezing in on itself. Whatever else Ross Mannon was—conservative talking head, sexist pig, the man who might yet get her fired—he was also a really good father. And he deserved to hear it.

She waited until Samantha went to her room before saying, “You’re an awesome dad.”

He grimaced. “Thank you, that’s nice to hear. Especially when a healthy portion of the American public will probably end the week thinking I’m a pedophile.”

“I mean it. Sam’s lucky to have you. After today, I think she realizes that, too.”

Leaning back in his chair, he stared at her for an unnervingly long time. Finally he said, “How do you do it, Miss Gray?”

“Sir?”

“How do you manage to make me feel better in the midst of one of my blackest moments?”

Embarrassed by receiving praise she so clearly didn’t deserve, Macie got up to clear the table.

“No, leave it.” Mannon waved her back into her seat. “Talking to you is a hell of a lot better than any therapy.”

Warmed, still she forced herself to remember that she had dirt to find—and a story to write. “What would you know about being in therapy?”

The second the words were out, she felt her face flame. Open mouth, insert foot much? He’d already revealed to her that Sam was seeing a psychologist. Christ, he’d even included the weekly “doctor’s” appointment in the schedule he’d given her.

“That was tactless of me. I am so sorry.” Crazy as it might be, she really was.

He shrugged. “Actually Sam’s mom and I logged in some time in family counseling after the divorce, trying to work through our ‘anger issues’ as the therapist called them, so we could co-parent Sam.”

Remembering the lipstick smudge, she said, “I guess therapy worked.”

He hesitated. “It helped some but what helped more than anything was the two of us talking one-on-one. Late one night when we were both really stressed out and fed up, we called a truce, sat down over a pot of coffee for me and tea for her, and made a pact. No matter how many hours it took or how tired or pissed off either one of us felt, we didn’t get to leave until we’d fixed things to the point where we could be good parents to Sam.”

“That’s really inspiring.” It was.

“I thought we had a pretty smooth sailing arrangement until Sam showed up here in the middle of the night. I’d started to lose hope—and then you came to us. I know you haven’t even been here a full week, and yet already I’m beginning to wonder how we ever got along without you.” The warm look he sent had her heart turning over—and her guilt ratcheting.

Speaking over the lump lodging in her throat, she said, “I’m just the housekeeper. I don’t do anything special.”
Other than working double time to ruin your life…

But Mannon was adamant. “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Gray. Everything you do is special.”

…

The awards dinner was on Saturday, just three days away. Almost a week had passed, and Ross had yet to ask Martha Jane to go. Sure, he’d been busier than a one-armed bandit, staying late at the station and putting out the last of the fires over that damned blog, but if he were honest with himself, it wasn’t time he lacked. It was courage.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen countertop one evening in the wake of yet another mouth-watering meal, he wondered what the hell he was afraid of. He was Ross Mannon, the same Ross Mannon whose voice and opinions found their way inside tens of thousands of American households every week. So, why was he suddenly acting—and feeling—like a sweaty-palmed high school kid about to ask out the prom queen?

“Miss Gray, you have a minute?”

Martha Jane closed the cupboard on the coffee cup she’d just put away and turned to him, piercing him with her blue-gray gaze. How did women do it, stand there looking so serene and cucumber cool when the man was sweating bullets into his shirt collar?

“Certainly, what can I do for you?” she asked.

Talk about your loaded question.

He hesitated. His hands hadn’t been this sweaty since he’d first struck up the nerve to touch a girlfriend’s breast. “I have something to ask you, a favor really. First, though, I want you to know it’s perfectly okay for you to say no.”

She sent him a gentle smile. “Maybe you should just tell me what it is?”

“I have this…thing coming up on Saturday night, an awards banquet and well, it’s not really the kind of event you go to alone. Not that I
can’t
go by myself—I can—it’s just that I was wondering—”

“Dr. Mannon, are you by chance asking me to go with you?”

“I guess I am. But look, if I’m out of bounds here, you just say the word and I’ll back off. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Asking out his housekeeper, his hot, young housekeeper…if there was ever a textbook setup for a sexual harassment suit, this had to be it.

As if reading his mind, she said, “Easy, professor, I’m not about to hit you with a sexual harassment suit if that’s what you’re worried about. And yes, I’d love to go.”

The relief rushing him was beyond reason. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he’d been dreading going dateless.

“That’s terrific. Only I don’t know how much fun you’ll find it. It’s one of those stuffy formal affairs, an awards program with speakers. We’ll be sharing a table with six others, so it’s not like you’ll be stuck with just me.”

She looked amused. “Thanks, but I wasn’t worried. I assume it’s black tie?”

“Yes,” he admitted, feeling so much like his former pimply-faced teen self that it took a conscious effort to keep from shuffling his feet. “I hope that doesn’t present a problem.” He paused, thinking he should probably offer to pay for a dress but at a loss as to how to offer without offending her—or embarrassing them both.

She saved him with a single headshake. “I’ll pull something together.”

“Thanks, you’re saving my life here. We don’t have to stay all that long, just until the awards are handed out.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you going if you dislike it so much?”

“Because, I’m uh…” He hesitated, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. “I’m receiving one of the awards.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow, congratulations. May I ask in what category?” He hesitated and she let out a light laugh. “If you’d rather, I can wait and read it in the program.”

“Republican of the Year,” he admitted, feeling shy—make that mortified. His work life was one thing, but socially he’d always been more of an introvert.

“That’s quite an…honor.”

He shrugged, feeling his ears heat. “Ordinarily I would skip it and let them send me the trophy or plaque or whatever the hell…heck it is by mail. But in light of the situation with the blog post, the network is pretty insistent that I go. Considering the money and man hours Sam’s escapade has cost, I can’t very well bail.”

“I see.”

“It won’t really be a date. You’ll be my dinner companion. And of course I’ll compensate you for your time.”

Her smile thinned. “You want to
pay
me to go out with you?” The color flooding her face confirmed he’d stepped into a pile of it. “Please understand, Dr. Mannon, I’m happy to be your dinner companion for the evening, but I wouldn’t dream of billing you for my time.” He started to protest, but she silenced him with a look. The only other woman who’d ever pulled that off was his mom. “It’s not every day that a girl from Heavenly, Indiana, gets to rub elbows with Washington’s power elite. Really, it’s you who’ll be doing me the favor, giving me the chance to play Cinderella for a night.”

Ross hadn’t quite looked at it like that. “Well, if you’re sure I won’t be imposing.”

“Not a bit. I can hardly wait to tell the folks back home.”

…

The first of the “folks” Macie called was Franc. Cuddled up under her comforter several hours later, she whispered into her cell phone, “It looks like Maddie’s shoes will be getting a test drive after all. I’m going to a ball, or at least to a banquet, on Saturday.”

“That’s great, love, who with?”

It was a natural question. People didn’t typically attend banquets without a plus one. Still, she took a moment before admitting, “Ross Mannon.”

She thought back to his earlier shyness, which she’d found refreshing, endearingly so. Then again maybe playing shy was his M.O. and hitting on the help his secret weakness. Samantha had mentioned someone named Mrs. Alvarez. Visions of a Jennifer Lopez lookalike flashed through Macie’s mind and inexplicably she felt…jealous. She made a mental note to look up Ross’s former housekeeper, maybe have a chat with her, assuming she was still in the area.

Franc sighed. “I’ve seen his photos. He’s yummy.”

“I know how you love to match make, but this is
work
,” Macie insisted, wondering which of them she was trying hardest to convince. “I’m on assignment, remember? This dinner will be my first chance to observe him in the field among his peers.”

Franc chuckled. “Whatevs, Margaret Meade. Fill me in on the deets starting with what you’re wearing.”

“Good question,” she admitted. “Other than your shoes, I didn’t pack anything formal.”

“Sounds like little Miss Cinderella needs to take herself shopping,” he said.

“I’m going first thing tomorrow.”

Fortunately The Shops at Georgetown Park were a short drive away. Housed in a former nineteenth century tobacco warehouse in the tony Georgetown historic district, the upscale mall was certain to deliver on a banquet-worthy dress. Whatever she got, it would have to be killer, striking the perfect balance between subtle and sexy.

Because although Saturday night might not be a date in the true sense of the word, a part of her wanted Ross Mannon to wish it was.

…

Saturday night rolled around before Ross knew it. He’d delayed putting on his monkey suit—tuxedo—until the last possible minute, yet still he was the first one ready. Macie had disappeared into her room a little over an hour ago and had yet to surface. But he didn’t mind waiting. Black-tie affairs weren’t his thing, and award or not, he wasn’t in any rush to get to this one. Besides, hanging out gave him the opportunity to log in one-on-one time with Sam. Even though she was grounded, he wanted to make sure she didn’t feel shunned. Unlike the Internet, TV was still on the menu of sanctioned pleasures. He settled next to her on the sectional sofa to watch the movie she’d already started.

Caught up in
Back to the Future
, he lost temporary track of time. A soft, manufactured cough carried him back to the present. He looked back over his shoulder—and felt the breath rush from his lungs.

Martha Jane stood on the living room threshold wearing a little black cocktail dress and not much else. The hemline didn’t exactly qualify as a mini, but it hit above the knee. A twinkle caught his eye. Almost against his will, he followed the beacon downward, his gaze skimming long, shapely legs and trim ankles to slender feet shod in red high-heels beaded with brilliants.

Ross leaped up, the remote slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. “You look…”

Wow
came to mind, but he reminded himself that mature, mid-thirties men didn’t use words like that, at least not anymore. He drove his gaze back up to her face, doing his damnedest to bypass the swell of bosom set off by her dress’s modest scooped neckline, and confirmed it wasn’t only the shoes that sparkled. Her gaze meeting his had him thinking of sapphires.

“You look really hot,” Sam said for him, pulling her gaze from the TV and giving Martha Jane the once-over.

Martha Jane let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Sam, that’s very nice of you to say.” Composed as she was, Ross didn’t miss that she was blushing, an adorably endearing reaction given how gorgeous she looked.

The movie forgotten, Sam rose up on her knees and peered over the sofa back. “Those are really good shoes. Can I borrow them sometime?”

“Absolutely not,” Ross answered for her.

Martha Jane sent him a smile. “I hope this is formal enough.”

She gestured to indicate the simple but stunning dress. Or maybe it was just a regular dress and the thing that made it so eye-popping was that it was wrapped around her. She would look terrific in a bag—or, better yet, a bed sheet.

“You’re…perfect,” Ross said, his gaze going down to her legs.

Long and shapely, until now they’d been half hidden by the modest knee-length hemlines she usually wore. Their sudden bareness seemed to hint at a host of possibilities, most of them rated R. What would it feel like to slide a hand upward along her silky thigh and investigate whether or not the getup included lacey black garters? He jerked himself from the hinterlands of fantasy. What was the matter with him? This woman was his housekeeper and Sam’s de facto nanny. She’d kindly consented to help him out by being his dinner date for the evening. She deserved his utmost consideration, restraint, and respect, and instead he was behaving—misbehaving—like a hormone-crazed adolescent who’d just gotten hold of his first Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

The soft smile she sent him did funny things to his insides. “Thanks. So do you, very dashing.”

He tugged on his French cuffs though, like the rest of the tuxedo, they hit exactly where they were supposed to. Growing up, he’d never expected to own his own tux, let alone an Armani. Back then he would have assumed Armani was an Italian pasta dish.