The Reluctant Cinderella (3 page)

“Thank you, Jerry.” Greg pressed some bills into the driver's palm. “We'll be awhile. I'll call for you when we're ready to go.”

“Good enough, Mr. Banning.” Jerry tipped his chauffeur's cap and got back behind the wheel.

After the heat of the summer day, the restaurant was cool and dim and inviting. The hostess called Greg by name and took them to a corner table. Even with half of Manhattan out of town, the place was almost full. “Must be popular,” Megan said to Greg once the hostess had left them.

“It is. Deservedly so.” The wine steward appeared. He and Greg conferred briefly. The steward nodded and left, reappearing a moment later with bottle of chenin blanc. There was pouring and tasting. Finally, the wine guy left. Greg held up his glass. “To Design Solutions. Much success.”

Oh, well. One glass wouldn't hurt. And she was pretty much finished working for the day, anyway. She touched her glass to his. “To success.” She
sipped. The wine was excellent. “Umm. Wonderful. Too wonderful….”

“Is that bad?”

She couldn't help laughing. “Not in the least.”

He leaned a little closer across the snowy white tablecloth. “You are amazing. You know that?”

A curl of alarm tightened inside her. She ordered it gone. He wasn't putting a move on her. No way. It was just a compliment. No big deal. “People from the neighborhood are always surprised when I happen to run into them during working hours.”

“On Danbury Way you always seemed so…”

She laughed again. “I believe the word you're looking for is shy? Or maybe bland? Or just plain dumpy…”

He pretended to look injured. “Did I say that?”

“You didn't have to—and I confess, okay? In the neighborhood I do like to, er, play it low-key.”

He sipped from his wine. “Why?”

“Habit, I guess. And, oh, I don't know. Everyone at home sees me a certain way. And I don't disillusion them.”

“But if it's not the real you…”

It seemed so natural to lean toward him, to brush the back of his hand with light fingers, to enjoy the lazy, pleasured feel of that brief touch. “But it is the real me.”

He frowned, though his eyes had a teasing light in them. “Then who is it I'm sitting across from right now?”

She shrugged. “This is me, too.”

“Ah,” he said, but he still looked doubtful.

She explained further. “They're
both
me. I guess this is more the
new
me—and at home, I'm pretty much the
old
me. If that makes any sense.”

“I'll take the new you.”

Before she could come up with a suitably lighthearted reply, the waiter appeared.

After they ordered, Greg asked how she'd come to live over her sister's garage. She explained about wanting to put everything she had into starting up her company. “That was three years ago,” she said. “And Angela and her ex, Jerome, were calling it quits. My moving into the apartment at her house worked out for everyone. Angela and the kids can use the extra money I pay in rent, and I get a nice, reasonably priced place to live. I can zip back from Poughkeepsie at four most days and stay with the kids after school until Ange gets home from work. Then, if I have anything that won't wait, I hop the train and head back to the office to put in a few hours in the evening.”

And why was she telling him all this? As if it mattered in the least to Greg Banning how she and Angela juggled child care and the necessity of bringing home a paycheck.

He remarked in a tone that said he really was interested, “Sounds like a tight schedule.”

“It is. For both Angela and me. But we manage….”

“You're smiling. I think you love your sister a lot.”

“Yeah. I do. She's my best friend.”

“Any other sisters? Brothers?”

“Nope. Just the two of us—in fact, I was adopted into the Schumacher family when I was eleven and Angela was thirteen….” It had been a very tough time, those first years after her parents died. Megan had been bounced from one foster home to the next.

“Your birth parents?”

Was this getting just a little too personal? Probably. But then again, none of it was any deep, dark secret. “I was seven when they died. We went on a family vacation in the Bahamas—my parents, my brother and me. Mom and Dad rented a boat and took us out on the ocean. A sudden storm blew in. The boat capsized. I survived by catching a piece of driftwood and holding on until help finally came. My parents and my little brother…not so lucky. They said it was a miracle that I lived through it, that they even found me….”

Funny. After all these years, it still got to her, to remember the ones she'd lost so long ago. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear her mother's warm laughter, see her father's loving smile. She'd adored her bratty brother, Ethan, even though he could be so annoying.

Not much remained to her of the day she had lost them. She recalled that the sun had been shining when they set out. The sky had darkened. And after that, she had only a series of vague, awful impressions of clinging to that bit of driftwood in an endless, choppy sea, calling for her mother, her
father and Ethan until her throat was too raw to make a sound….

Greg's big, warm hand settled over hers on the white tablecloth. She looked down at it—tanned, dusted with golden hair, strong and capable looking. It felt really good, to have him touching her.

Much, much
too
good…

She eased her hand away, picked up her wineglass and knocked back a giant-size gulp.

Greg's dark eyes held sympathy and understanding. “What a horrible thing to happen—to anyone. But especially to a little girl.”

She beamed him a determined smile. “Well. I got through it. And eventually, the Schumachers adopted me. Angela and I hit it off from the first. And then, three years later, our parents divorced. It was pretty bad, especially for Angela, who'd had just about the perfect childhood up till then.”

And come on. Megan had said way more than enough about herself and her childhood. “What about you?” She was reasonably sure he had no siblings, but she asked anyway. “Brothers? Sisters?”

He was shaking his head. “I'm an only. I grew up in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. Big rooms in that brownstone. And high ceilings. Kind of empty, really. And very, very quiet.”

She sipped more wine. “Your parents still live there?”

“Yes, they do.”

“You wanted brothers, didn't you? You wouldn't even have minded a sister or two.”

“Yeah. I wanted a houseful of brothers and sisters. Didn't happen, though. Truthfully, for my mother, one child was more than enough.”

Vanessa. That was his mother's name. Megan knew this because Carly had told her. Carly said Vanessa was tall and slim and very sophisticated. And difficult to please. “Greg's mother never did like me much,” Carly claimed. “Not that she's happy about Greg wanting a divorce. Vanessa doesn't believe in divorce, so she's on my side for once. But it's not for my sake or anything. It's just the principle of the thing, you know? She's always made it painfully clear that she would have preferred if Greg had married some rich Yankee woman from Vassar or Bryn Mawr, instead of me….”

The waiter appeared with a pair of calamari salads. He set the plates before them, poured them each more wine and then was gone.

Megan picked up her salad fork and popped a bite into her mouth. She wasn't a big squid fan as a rule, but the salad was wonderful. She chewed and swallowed, thinking about Carly, feeling just a little bit guilty about the way things were going here. This was a business lunch, and nothing more. But somehow, it was a business lunch that felt way too much like a date.

They both concentrated on the fabulous food for a moment or two, in a shared silence that was surprisingly companionable. Megan sipped from her water glass and decided a change of subject—away from the personal and more toward the professional—was in order.

She suggested, “We haven't set a date and time for our next meeting.”

He sent her a look, one that heated her midsection and curled her toes in her best pair of shoes. “We aren't finished with this one yet.”

She toasted him with her wineglass. “I like to plan ahead.” And she took another sip, though she knew she shouldn't. She was on her second glass and the world was looking a little bit soft around the edges. Plus she was smiling way too much. That always happened when she drank more than one glass of anything with alcohol in it. She became a smiling fool.

Greg took a sip, too. “Okay. Tell me what you've got in mind.”

Firmly, she set down her glass. “A formal presentation. With my entire team there—and anyone from Banning's who you think should be in on the final decision.”

“That sounds like the next step to me.”

“I'd love it if you and your people would come up to Poughkeepsie for the presentation.”

“You want it on your turf.”

“I do.” She was grinning again. Much too widely. But somehow, she couldn't—or wouldn't—make herself stop. “Would that work for you?”

“When?”

“A week from today. Say, 10:00 a.m.?”

“That's quick.”

“We're not only good, we're efficient.”

“I like efficiency.” His eyes said there were other
things he liked, things that had nothing to do with updating Banning's brand.

She remembered her objective. “So…?”

He nodded. “Next Monday at ten in your offices. That should work. I'll need to check with the others, confirm that they can make it.”

“I'll have my assistant call your assistant, just to firm things up.”

Those dark eyes gleamed. “You mean to make certain the date and time get on my calendar.”

She shrugged. Eloquently. “Well. There's that, too.”

“I won't forget. Not this time. How could I? After all, it's an appointment with you.”

An appointment with you….

His tone
was
personal. And so was that gleam in his eyes. Megan knew she should say something, should make it clear right then and there that, for Carly's sake, she could never allow anything personal to go on between them. At the very least, she should sit up straight, stop leaning toward him across the table, stop smiling into those beautiful eyes of his.

But she said nothing. And she went on smiling, went on leaning eagerly toward him, went on wishing with every fiber of her being that he wasn't Carly Alderson's ex.

G
reg wanted to stay in that restaurant forever, to sit across from Megan and stare into those clear green eyes, to listen to that slightly husky voice of hers and try to make her laugh. She had the best damn laugh, free and full-throated.

But after she refused dessert and finished her coffee, well, he could see that she thought it was time to go. He called Jerry and paid the bill and they went out into the glaring brightness of the afternoon.

“Take the limo,” Greg said.

She looked adorably bewildered, those round, soft cheeks slightly flushed, and confusion in her eyes.
“But there's no point. I can catch the train right here at—”

“You're not taking the train. Jerry will take you home to Rosewood—or on up to Poughkeepsie, if that's where you're headed from here.”

“Oh, I couldn't….”

He caught her hand. Heat sizzled up his arm. “Yes, you could.”

She swallowed, pressed those sweet lips together—and then broke into a smile. “Well, okay then. I'll take the limo gladly. And thank you.” Since he still held her hand firmly in his, she shook it, pumping her arm up and down with great enthusiasm.

He finally got the message and reluctantly let her go. “You're welcome.” He opened the limo door for her. She ducked inside. He shut the door. She rolled down the window and smiled up at him.

He passed her his card, the one with all his numbers on it—office, cell and home. “Next Monday.”

She took the card. “Ten o'clock.” Those lips of hers seemed to beg for a kiss.

“Gotcha.” He tore his gaze from her mouth to keep himself from doing something completely unacceptable. “Till then…”

She nodded and rolled up the window. He tapped on the passenger window. Jerry rolled it down. Greg passed the chauffeur another big tip. “Take Megan upstate. She'll tell you where.”

“Will do, Mr. Banning.”

Greg stepped back from the car. The limo rolled away from the curb. He stood staring after it until it turned the corner.

 

As the hot afternoon faded into a muggy evening, Greg began to wonder what the hell had gotten into him. Damned if he hadn't gone completely gaga over Angela Schumacher's sister. He'd come
that
close to dragging Megan out of that limousine and into his arms.
That
close to kissing her—a hard, long, wet kiss—right there on the street.

Maybe it was the wine….

But he knew it wasn't. He'd been long-gone over the woman from the moment he'd glanced up from his computer and found her standing in the doorway to his office. There'd been no wine then. He'd been stone-cold sober.

Unbelievable. Unacceptable. And impossible.

He was never going to go out with Megan Schumacher. She was from the neighborhood, for pity's sake. She lived three houses up from Carly….

No way. Couldn't happen. If he and Megan started seeing each other, there would be talk. And Carly would be hurt even more than he'd already hurt her.

Greg would never go back to Carly. It was over between them and had been for a long time. He did, however, feel a certain…tenderness toward her. A certain responsibility. She
was
a good woman, just not the woman for him. Somehow, sweet Carly Alderson had turned out to be the perfect wife. Greg
didn't want perfect. He'd
never
wanted perfect. He'd grown up with perfect and it was a cold, sterile way to live.

He knew that Carly had yet to accept that it was over. But in time, she would. Until then, though, he owed it to her to stay away, to keep himself the hell out of her life—which meant
not
dating someone she considered her friend. Whatever had happened to him at the sight of sexy Megan Schumacher, it couldn't be allowed to happen again.

Greg stood in the darkness of his apartment and stared out at the Manhattan night and considered calling Megan to tell her he'd changed his mind about using Design Solutions.

But no. That would not only be a bad business decision for Banning's, it wouldn't be right. Her work was top-notch. Her ideas were brilliant. She'd never been anything but strictly professional during the meeting and the lunch that followed.
He
was the one who'd come within an inch of stepping over the line.

Megan deserved this opportunity. And he had zero doubt that once his father and the others saw what she could do, she would get the contract. They'd be lucky to have her.

Uh-uh. It wasn't Megan Schumacher's fault that Greg Banning had gone crazy over her. It was Greg's problem and he would handle it.

From now on, when it came to Megan, Greg was keeping his mind on business and business alone.

 

In Rosewood late that night, Megan lay in her bed and stared at the silvery half-moon out the window and thought the same things that Greg was thinking seventy-five miles away.

How could this have happened? She'd truly believed that the silly crush she'd once had on Carly's husband was over. And yet, since she'd left Greg on the street outside the restaurant, she couldn't stop thinking of him. His name played over and over in an endless loop inside her head: Greg, Greg, Greg…

Which was dumb, dumb, dumb. She didn't need a boyfriend. She didn't have
time
for a boyfriend. Her life was jam-packed and then some. She hardly had time to get her legs waxed. There wasn't a minute left over for romance—especially not for a romance with Carly Alderson's ex.

This was bad. Megan was way too attracted. Much more attracted than she'd been back when Greg and Carly were married. Then, it had only been a kind of now-and-then dreamy fantasy of what it might be like
if…

And now? Well, to reiterate: Greg, Greg, Greg…

But it didn't matter. This crazy feeling she had for him was going nowhere. When she saw him next Monday, she'd make sure it was business and only business.

Period. End of story.

 

“Pancakes, pancakes. I love pancakes….” Michael sang the words and then poked a great big wad of pancake, dripping syrup, into his mouth.

“Eeww,” remarked Olivia. “You've got syrup on your chin and it's rude to sing at the table.”

“We're not at the table,” Michael corrected with the pure and literal logic of a five-year-old, the words mushy with that mouthful of pancake. He swallowed. Hard. “We're at the breakfast counter.” Angela's roomy kitchen had an L-shaped eating area along one section of the main counter.

“It's the same,” insisted Olivia. “The breakfast counter is the same as the table when it comes to singing—so you just quit it.”

“Pancakes, pancakes,” Michael sang some more.

“Mo-om. He's sing-ing.” Olivia turned on her stool to stick her chin out at her mother, who stood by the electric griddle down at the end of the counter, flipping another batch of blueberry pancakes.

“Eat your breakfast, honey,” said her mother. “And Michael, stop singing and finish eating.”

“Humph.” Michael forked up another huge bite and shoved it in his mouth. Olivia flounced around to face front again and delicately picked up her own fork. Anthony ate in silence, staring at his plate.

The doorbell rang. Anthony's head jerked up. “It's Dad!” he crowed, brown eyes suddenly alight. “He's early.” Jerome was due at ten to take the kids to the Catskills for the day.

“Dad!” echoed Michael around a half-chewed lump of pancake.

“Gross,” muttered Olivia.

And then, in unison, all three kids announced, “I'll get it.”

“Stay put.” Megan slid her napkin beside her half-empty plate. “All of you.”

Olivia groaned. Michael shrugged. Anthony let out a big, fat sigh. But they all remained on their stools.

In the foyer, Megan pulled open the door and found Carly on the front porch looking absolutely gorgeous. Her blond hair fell in soft, perfect waves around her beautiful face, which glowed with just a touch of blusher and a dab of lip gloss. She was dressed in the spirit of the day, in trim, royal-blue capris and a curve-hugging white shirt. On her perfectly manicured feet she wore a pair of strappy red sandals. She carried a layer cake on a crystal cake stand.

The cake was almost as stunning as Carly, a good eight inches high and slathered in ivory-colored swirls of buttercream frosting, with an accurate depiction of an American flag drawn in colored icing across the top.

“Wow.” Megan was so impressed with the cake she almost forgot to feel guilty about going love-wacko over Greg. “
That
is beautiful.”

Carly blushed and smiled her prettiest smile. “I baked it for you and Angela and the kids. It's a red velvet cake. And if I do say so myself, it is delish. Where I come from, we would always have red velvet cake on Independence Day.”

Megan ushered her inside and shut the door. “Come on back to the kitchen. We're having blueberry pancakes. There's plenty. Join us.”

“Oh. No. Really. I can't. All I have to do is
look
at a pancake and I put on five pounds.”

Megan, who always did a lot more than look at her pancakes, only shrugged and offered, “Coffee, then?”

“I'd love a cup. Yes.”

They went on to the kitchen, where Angela spotted the cake and said, “Oh, Carly, you shouldn't have….” Even the kids got all wide-eyed over it—well, except for Anthony, who only got wide-eyed lately when his mostly absent dad was at the door.

Carly took a stool, accepted a cup of black coffee and talked to each of the children in turn, asking them how they were doing and what their plans were for the day. Michael peppered her with a volley of questions. Olivia, whose rock collection was her pride and joy, solemnly explained that her grandpa had sent her a real quartz crystal, a big one, all the way from Arkansas. Even Anthony opened up to her a little. He said his dad was coming and they were going to the Catskills Game Park and maybe there would be fireworks after dark.

Carly was good with kids. Megan couldn't help wondering why she and Greg had never had any.

Not that she would ask. Oh, no. Not going there. No way…

The kids finished their breakfast, cleared their
places and ran upstairs to get ready to go. Angela served herself the final stack of flapjacks and sat at the counter while Megan got the coffeepot and gave all three of them refills.

Carly, sitting between Angela and Megan, sipped and said how good the coffee was, and asked Angela how her job managing that dentist's office was going.

Angela said it was great. “And I get holidays. All the good ones. What more can I ask for?”

Regular support checks from Jerome would be nice, Megan thought. But of course, her sister would never say that.

Megan knew what was coming. After a moment, it did.

Carly turned to her and sweetly scolded, “You didn't call me yesterday to tell me how it went. Did Greg hire you?”

Keeping her expression totally noncommittal, Megan shrugged. “Not yet. That was just the preliminary meeting. There will be a more formal presentation at my office next week, with my whole team involved. There'll also be Gregory, Sr., and a few vice presidents, I think.”

Carly let out a cry of delight. “Look at you. So calm and collected. I mean, you just said ‘Not yet.' Why, he
is
going to hire you, isn't he?”

“Surprised?” Megan couldn't help teasing.

“Well, I…I just…”

Megan smiled. “Hey. It's okay. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your setting up that interview.”
Too bad I went and fell for the guy you're still in love with….

“Oh, well.” Carly's thick lashes swooped down. “I was happy to do it.”

“I'm very grateful. The chance to land the Banning's account, that's a big deal for me.”

Carly sipped more coffee. “So tell me. How
is
Greg?” Her cheeks were pinker than ever and those Delft-blue eyes glittered with a frantic kind of hope.

“Well, of course, it
was
a business meeting,” Megan hedged, and felt like a low-down, backstabbing creep. “But he seemed well. You know, healthy. All that…”

On Carly's other side, Angela looked up sharply from her plate of pancakes. She'd always had a sixth sense about what was going on with Megan. Megan lifted an eyebrow and Angela lifted one right back.

Carly was oblivious to the sisterly signals. “Did he seem too thin? I worry, you know? That he's not eating right…”

“Uh. No. He looked okay. Fine. Really.”

“What did he say about me?”

Good googly moogly. Megan honestly couldn't recall his mentioning Carly's name once. “Nothing. Really.” Carly's face fell. And Megan heard herself adding, “He sends his regards, of course.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire…

“His
regards…
” Carly mulled that over for a moment, her full lower lip quivering just a little.

“Yes,” Megan said, so cheerfully it set her own teeth on edge.

Carly pasted on a smile. “Well. That's something. I guess….” She popped off the stool as if she'd been
ejected from it. “And you know what?” She tugged on the hem of her crisp white shirt. “I really do have to get going. I only meant to stay for just a moment. My, how the time does fly.” She was halfway across the kitchen already.

“Bye, Carly,” said Angela, with another sharp look at Megan. “Thanks again for the amazing cake. We will totally enjoy it.”

“My pleasure.” Carly's voice was tight. She ducked out through the dining room.

Megan trailed her to the door, where Carly paused, swallowed back the tears that were shining in her eyes, and asked, “Your next meeting with Greg and his dad and the executives, when is that?”

“Monday.”

“Well, you'd better call me afterward this time. Promise?”