Operation Cinderella (19 page)

“No drugs, but you could say I’m high on the truth—and looking around the table I can see there’s zero tolerance for the truth here, which is a big reason I’m resigning, effective immediately. My resignation e-mail will land in your inbox by lunchtime.”

Starr scowled. “Not so fast. What about the expense monies you burned?”

Macie shrugged. “You can take it out of my final paycheck. If that doesn’t cover it, I’ll break my 401K. I guess that’s all I have. Oh, one more thing. Thanks for the last five years.” Her gaze floated back to Terri, whose trembling lower lip made Macie want to cry, too. Determined to hold it together, she went on. “I’ve learned a lot and I’m going to miss you guys—I’m also going to miss our Fine Wine Fridays and Sushi Saturdays. Those were really great morale boosters even if they were cons to keep us here working after hours, but it’s all good. Ciao.”

She allowed herself one last look around the conference table of stunned faces and gaping mouths and then she turned and walked out.

The only thing left to do was clear out her office. It was amazing how such a spacious office could contain so very little of her—another framed picture of Stevie, another of her and Pam at the beach a few years back, a Depression Era bud vase she’d found at a flea market, a Container Store plastic bin of random beauty products, including several bottles of nail polish. All in all, packing took under twenty minutes and most of that time was spent staring out the window.

At least I had a great view.

Picking up the full banker’s box, she took one last look around and backed out into the hallway—where she collided with Francesca.

The box slipped from her hold, the contents spilling onto the carpet. Macie dropped to her knees to retrieve the scattered articles. So did Francesca.

“I got this,” Macie said, deliberately letting her hair fall over her face.

“Don’t be absurd. I ran into you.” In the midst of picking up the chards of the broken bud vase, Francesca froze. “Bloody hell, I knew I’d met you before!”

Macie opened her mouth to deny it, but what was the point? “I’m the features editor here. Or at least I was until twenty minutes ago.”

“They must not pay you terribly well if you have to moonlight as a housekeeper.” Glaring, she demanded, “What were you doing in DC at Ross’s?”

Now that there was no longer any reason to hide, Macie met her green-eyed gaze head on. “That’s really my business.”

She started up but Francesca’s hand clamped down on her forearm. Gaze narrowing, she said, “I’m warning you, if you do anything, anything at all, to harm Samantha or Ross, you will discover just what a perfect bitch I can be. “

Shrugging her off, Macie picked up the box and stood. “You don’t have to worry. You may have trouble believing it right now, and I don’t blame you if you do, but I love them both with all my heart.”

Francesca followed her to her feet. “Why should I believe a bloody word you say?”

Hugging the box against her, Macie paused to ponder. “Ross and Sam taught me to believe in love again, in fairy tales and Happily Ever Afters. I owe them for that—and so much more.”

She shoved the box under her arm and walked away toward reception, leaving Ross’s ex staring after her. Reaching the exit, she realized it was true. She did believe in love and fairy tales and Happily Ever After endings again.

Just not for her.

…

Resisting the lure of a mega bucks salary increase designed to get him to renew his contract, Ross gave notice that the Friday broadcast would be his last. In lieu of his usual “Ross’s Rant,” he used the time to thank not only his sponsors but his listeners.

“I’m not leaving to go on to ‘bigger and better things’ as some may speculate, but instead to work on becoming one of you all—a better listener. While I’m getting there, I’ll be signing off the radio waves and closing down my website, at least for now.”

Afterward, feeling strangely at peace, he cleaned out his desk, including getting busy with the paper shredder—talk about catharsis.

“We’re gonna miss you around here, Ross.”

Engrossed in packing, Ross lifted his head to see the station manager standing in his open office doorway. “Hey, Dale, I didn’t see you there, buddy. Come on in.” He beckoned the older man inside.

“You sure you won’t reconsider?” Dale asked, pulling on one handlebar of his old-fashioned mustache. “I know the bigwigs would love to keep you around.”

Ross shook his head. “It’s gratifying to be wanted but I’ve had a good run. Now it’s time to get back to the classroom.” For the first time, he noticed the rolled-up cylinder tucked beneath Dale’s arm.

Following his gaze, Dale unfurled the magazine. Not just any magazine but
the
magazine:
On Top
.

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Legal thought you might want this back. I guess it’s just a memento now, huh?” He handed it over.

Reaching out to take it, Ross said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

He’d turned the issue over to the legal department on the morning when the blog purporting his porn surfing had broken. Funny, the incident seemed years ago now, rather than just a few weeks.

Dale pushed away from the desk against which he’d been leaning. “Well, I’d better head home. The traffic out to Fredericksburg isn’t getting any thinner with me sitting here. You take care, Ross.”

“Thanks. You, too, Dale.”

Ross waited for Dale to go. Shredding the magazine wasn’t necessary, but it would no doubt feel damned good. He tore off the cover and let the shredder do its thing. Yep, that
did
feel good. He yanked out several pages. The editor’s column, “Meet the people who keep
On Top
on top,” caught his eye. Curious about who would work there, he skimmed the bios of the key editorial staff. The publicity photo of the features editor, Macie J. Graham, grabbed his attention. Not his type, but still a pretty woman—or at least she would be if she deep-sixed the Goth look and got herself a decent hairstyle, some non-black clothing, and softer makeup. With her porcelain perfect skin, high cheekbones, and lush mouth, she could pass for MJ’s evil twin. Heart beating double-time, he held out the magazine, his gaze freezing on the photo. Macie J. Graham. Martha Jane Gray. MJ? A freaky coincidence, it had to be, and yet…

An inner voice told him he’d be a whole lot happier if he just let sleeping dogs lie, but that wasn’t who Ross was. It never had been. He
had
to know. He swiveled in his chair and reached for the computer keyboard. Fingers clumsy, he typed the magazine URL into his browser. Within seconds, the home page for
On Top
was loading onto his computer screen, a flourish of red and black lettering with its unmistakable logo. Scrolling down the navigation bar to “Contact Us,” he found Macie Graham’s direct e-mail address among the listings and typed a quick one-liner. Less than a minute later, her auto-reply landed in his inbox: “I am out of the office on extended leave and unable to reply to your message. If you require immediate assistance, please contact Terri Green at…”

It took every ounce of Ross’s self-control to keep from hurtling the laptop across the room. His so-called housekeeper had been playing him for a fool, and he’d been too busy falling in love with her to notice. Worse yet, she’d been out to ruin him. It must have been her who’d leaked Sam’s web surfing exploits. Raking hard fingers through his hair, he asked himself what else she could possibly have on him. Before she’d blown into his life, he’d been living like a damned monk, and even in Texas, his sporadic dating had been strictly on the up-and-up.

Yet even now that he’d seen the proof with his own eyes, he found it almost impossible to reconcile the bloodthirsty bitch who’d apparently do anything to get her story with the tender, caring woman who’d made hot chocolate for his kid when she couldn’t sleep, soothed him after a hard day with little more than her presence, and treated Sam’s Social Studies project as though it were her number one priority on earth.

God, Sam!
That must be it, the dirt she’d dug up on him. In helping out with Sam’s family tree project, she’d found out about his daughter’s illegitimate birth. He didn’t give a damn about his own reputation, but he’d hunt her down and wring her neck if she wrote even one word that hurt his baby.

First, though, he’d have to find her.

…

Macie was crashed on the couch in her apartment when Franc used his spare key to enter.

She started, surprised to see him. “I thought maybe Terri had forgotten something,” she said in response to his raised brows.

Her former assistant editor, now also former friend, had apparently reconciled with her roommate—or so she’d said. Given how she’d avoided looking Macie in the eye as she’d packed, Macie surmised the speedy decamp had more to do with her persona non grata status than an end to New York real estate woes.

With Stevie sprawled atop her, she went back to watching
The Voice
—with the volume off.

He closed the door behind him and crossed to the coffee table. “Love, you look as though you’ve been exhumed. Say something.”

She dragged her gaze from the TV. “I quit the magazine and I’m leaving New York.”

He shoved a fist in the vicinity of his agape mouth. “Dear God, don’t say another thing.” He dropped down on the cushion beside her. “There’s a supposedly fabulous new absinthe bar in the Lower East Side. What do you say we go keep company with the Green Fairy and you can tell Uncle Franc all about it?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I hesitate to inflict myself on others right now.”

His face fell. “It’s the shoes, isn’t it? Maddie’s legend has turned into a curse. It’s all my fault. Well, mine and Nathan’s. Actually it’s mostly Nathan’s—he dragged me to that bloody fundraiser in the first place.”

She didn’t have the heart to admit she’d re-gifted the red shoes to a fifteen-year-old. Beautiful though they were, they were also inextricably linked with Ross and the Cinderella night they’d shared. She couldn’t imagine wearing them with anyone else.

He stood with a sigh. “I’ll pour us some wine.”

Macie didn’t much feel like drinking or having company, but watching him head for her small kitchen, she couldn’t seem to summon the energy to object. She’d been dead weight anchored to the couch ever since she’d quit the day before. She heard cabinets being opened, the sound of wine being uncorked, and lastly liquid sloshing into glasses.

Franc returned, carrying two very full glasses of pinot noir. “Inebriate,” he ordered, handing her one.

She shifted Stevie to the other cushion, sat up, and took the glass he handed her. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” he said, settling in beside her, “so basically you’re in love with Mannon and in all likelihood he’s in love with you but your Dark Secret is keeping you apart, am I right?”

“Yes, that’s basically it.” He made it sound so simple when it was anything but.

He leaned back against the cushion. “So what are you going to do about it?”

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing!” He sat up. “You mean you’re just going to let him go?”

“Pretty much that’s the plan.”

“Are you mad?”

Macie set her glass down atop the coffee table. “Crazy mad or crazy in love, it’s more or less the same difference.”

…

Ross may have given up on fairy-tale love for himself, but the last thing he wanted was to pass on his cynicism to Sam. At the same time, he had a duty to prepare her for the worst, including the very real possibility that she would soon see her name in print. During his drive home from the station, he’d racked his brain for the best way to handle things with her, but it wasn’t until he pulled into his reserved parking space that the answer hit him.

Tell her the truth.

He wasn’t looking forward to letting his daughter in on what a hypocrite he was, but he also knew it was far better that she hear the truth about her illegitimate birth from him rather than in a magazine or blog.

Moment of truth time, Mannon. Don’t blow it.

He knocked on her bedroom door. “We need to have a family meeting, okay?”

“Just the two of us?” She looked beyond him to the hallway, and he didn’t have to ask for what—
whom
—she searched.

“Yep, just you and me.” Six weeks ago that would have seemed like plenty, but now he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was missing.

Limping into the living room, she asked, “What did I do now?”

In answer, he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not anything you’ve done, baby. It’s what I’ve done. And it’s past time I came clean with you.” They sat down on the sofa.

Clearing his throat, he began. “You know your mom and I were seniors in high school when we first met.” Ross prided himself on plain speaking, but staring into his daughter’s big, wide eyes, tackling the topic of how he’d had premarital sex with her mother suddenly seemed a lot harder than he’d anticipated. His daddy had given him The Talk, a series of halting half sentences and oblique hand gestures that he’d taken in along with his first parentally sanctioned beer. Ray had pitched in, too, gifting him a bootlegged copy of
Debbie Does Dallas
, only the tape was so worn the frames flickered in and out like a relic from the silent film era. He felt a sudden flooding of compassion for his family—and a deep humility for his present ineptitude and past mistakes.

“Dad, it’s okay. I know.”

Taken aback, he said, “You know… Exactly
what
do you know?”

“I know I was born before you and Mom got married. I’ve known for a while—and I’m okay with it. I figured you’d get around to telling me someday—when you were ready.”

Pulling back, he stared at this amazing creature he’d helped to create and saw that she was a lot more woman than little girl. “You’re a pretty smart kid, you know that? Smarter than some adults around here.”

They shared a smile. Suddenly Sam sobered. “Daddy…there’s something I need to tell you, too.”

Just that morning he’d sworn to spend whatever time it took to become a better listener, and it looked like God was fixing to put him to his first test. “Okay, honey, I’m listening.”