# Cinderella and The Playboy

Laura Wright

The position: Hard-driving corporate powerhouse - and very confirmed bachelor - C. K. Tanner needs a "pretend" wife to help him convince an old-fashioned business associate that he's a regular, reliable family man.The unwilling candidate: Abby McGrady, a beautiful, independent young woman who works in the mail room and detests almost everything about her arrogant, insufferable - but drop-dead-gorgeous - employer. The complication: The two of them are all wrong for each other - but they can't keep their hands off each other, either. And the sparks flying are enough to make anybody want to turn a "temporary" partnership into the deal of a lifetime.

## Tanner Picked Up The Ring— An Exquisite Cluster Of Yellow Diamonds Set In Platinum— And Held It Out. “May I?”

He took Abby’s hand in his and slipped the ring on her finger.

What now? What was she supposed to say now, as his gaze blazed down into hers, gold fire and pure heat?

Somewhere a bell chimed. A soft, tinkling sound that barely nudged her from her dreamlike state.

He smiled knowingly. “Are you ready, Mrs. Tanner…?”

Her stomach flipped over at the intimate, husky sound of his voice. Soft, low, caressing…

She was falling hard and fast for this charade.

She needed to remember that Cinderella turned back into a poor servant girl at midnight—or in this case at the end of the weekend—and that the looks “Prince Charming” was giving her were only part of his act….

“Who could ask for more?

Romance, chocolate and a wonderful new voice in Silhouette Desire. You’re going to love Cinderella & the Playboy. It’s one sweet deal.”

—New York Times bestselling author

Debbie Macomber

Dear Reader,

What could be more satisfying than the sinful yet guilt-free pleasure of enjoying six new passionate, powerful and provocative Silhouette Desire romances this month?

Get started with In Blackhawk’s Bed, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH and the latest title in the SECRETS! miniseries by Barbara McCauley. The Royal & the Runaway Bride by Kathryn Jensen—in which the heroine masquerades as a horse trainer and becomes a princess—is the seventh exciting installment in DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS, about an American family that discovers its royal roots.

A single mom melts the steely defenses of a brooding ranch hand in Cowboy’s Special Woman by Sara Orwig, while a detective with a secret falls for an innocent beauty in The Secret Millionaire by Ryanne Corey. A CEO persuades a mail-room employee to be his temporary wife in the debut novel Cinderella & the Playboy by Laura Wright, praised by New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber as “a wonderful new voice in Silhouette Desire.” And in Zane: The Wild One by Bronwyn Jameson, the mayor’s daughter turns up the heat on the small town’s bad boy made good.

So pamper the romantic in you by reading all six of these great new love stories from Silhouette Desire!

Enjoy!


Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

## Cinderella & the Playboy. Laura Wright


First, I thank God With

His hand on my shoulder, anything is possible….

This book is dedicated to two amazing people: my husband, Daniel Ionazzi, and my best friend and critique partner, Julie Hogan. Where one gave me wings to fly headfirst into my dream, the other gave me fresh air and clear skies. You are the rocks, the ears and the encouraging voice. I love you both with all of my heart.

## LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota, Laura has also lived in New York, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. On those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

## Acknowledgments

To my teacher, mentor and friend, Barbara Ankrum: I’m forever in your debt for showing me this exquisite world.

To my best girls, Julie Ganis, Tami Goveia and Patti Chung: I thank you so much for your friendship and hard work, and I share this with you.

To my Aunt Marsha: Thank you for being you….

A special thanks to Steve Philipson for teaching me all about gliders and soaring in them (from the ground, of course).

And to you who are reading this: May I always grant you words from my heart and stories from my soul.

## Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

## One

“You need a wife.”

It was a ridiculous piece of advice and C. K. Tanner barely raised an eyebrow before responding, “You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me.” Jeff Rhodes grinned widely. “I’m too valuable…your CFO and your friend.” He slid a fax across Tanner’s massive desk. “And speaking as both, I see no other way. Two other corporations are chomping at the bit for this deal, and both CEOs have wives. It looks to me like Frank Swanson wants an honest, good old-fashioned family man. So if you’re hell-bent on acquiring the Swanson Sweets Candy Company, you’d better consider producing a Mrs. Tanner ASAP.”

Swiveling around in his chair, Tanner turned to face the floor-to-ceiling windows. From his offices on the thirty-first floor, he stared out across the city of Los Angeles and beyond to the ocean. It was a crystal-clear Wednesday in October—no smog, perfect sunshine—but he barely saw it. His mind raced to find another solution to the problems plaguing what should have been an easy purchase. He wanted that candy company. Hell, he wanted every company that posed a challenge to him. Acquisitions seemed to fill a hole in him, even if the feeling was only temporary.

Jeff was right, though. Acquiring Swanson Sweets was going to take more than quick thinking, clever strategies and Tanner’s trademark never-say-die negotiating style.

Friday morning he was flying to Minneapolis. He was the last of the competitors to stay with the Swansons for the weekend. It was a chance for each man to see how the company was run, tour the plant, and get to know the family behind the chocolate.

“I spoke with Harrison this morning,” Jeff said, breaking off Tanner’s thoughts.

Tanner inhaled sharply. Mitchell Harrison was as ruthless a businessman as they came. He also wanted to own Swanson Sweets—and would be willing to pay top dollar for the honor. Harrison’s own candy company was a longtime rival to Swanson Sweets, and he was looking to eliminate the competition. But the man was three times divorced and a notorious womanizer. Tanner had heard through the acquisition grapevine that Swanson wouldn’t even review a bid from Harrison—no matter how high he went. And Tanner couldn’t help but assume that the reason was rooted in Harrison’s spotty reputation.

Jeff cleared his throat. “He’s willing to pay a hefty premium to buy Swanson Sweets from you once you get it from Swanson.”

“I’m still considering it,” Tanner answered tightly.

Tanner ground his teeth. What the hell was he considering anyway? Buying and selling. It was his standard M.O. But in this case, taking a man’s life’s work and selling it to the highest bidder—to someone who only wanted to dissolve the company—well, for some reason this time that wasn’t sitting very well with him.

For forty-two years, Frank Swanson had poured everything he had into his candy company, built it from the ground up, with his family by his side. He was ready to retire and had two married daughters who weren’t interested in taking over. He was willing to sell, but his actions seemed to verify Jeff’s assumption that Swanson would only sell to someone with values similar to his own.

Tanner rubbed his jaw. Why any man would choose to settle down, get married and have children was beyond him. All investment and no return. Perhaps if you could see into someone’s heart, know their motivations, predict their actions, it might work. But you couldn’t. Family was trouble with a capital T.

He had little room for opinions in this matter. If a wife was what it was going to take to win, Tanner would sure as hell do it.

He leaned back in his chair. “So the question now becomes who.”

“How about Olivia?” Jeff prompted.

“I don’t think so.”

“Karen?”

“Too aggressive.”

“What about that actress you were seeing?”

Tanner chuckled and stood up. “And have every conversation reduced to liposuction and fat grams?” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass of water. “This woman can’t be anyone I see socially, Jeff. I don’t want my female friends thinking marriage is ever an option with me. I need a simple woman, sweet, elegantly dressed. Educated, but not snobbish. No party girls.”

Jeff muttered an oath. “This is L.A. Where are you going to look? The library?”

Tanner drained his glass. “Why not? I can turn a sparrow into a swan if I have to.”

Jeff laughed. “Hell, if you’re looking for a sparrow, why not try your mail room?”

Tanner’s head came up with a snap. “What’s in the mail room?”

“My secretary informs me that the hardworking ladies down there run a sort of daily Tanner Watch. Most of them have quite a crush, apparently.” With a snort, he added, “Well, all except for one, she says.”

Tanner sat down on the edge of his desk, fascinated by Jeff’s knowledge of the downstairs machinations of Tanner Enterprises. “Oh, really? And who does your secretary say that one is?”

“Abby something-or-other.” Jeff chuckled.

A redhead with killer green eyes and a soft mouth snaked through Tanner’s mind. Polite and shy, the pretty lady who brought him his mail never tried to catch his eye like most of the women in the office. She wore frumpy, conservative clothes to hide whatever she felt she had to hide, but Tanner had always had a sneaking suspicion that what she was hiding was worth a look.

But he’d never know. The woman had a demeanor—a look he could spot with accuracy—that had “home and hearth” written all over it. And he stayed a million miles away from women like that.

“You know,” Jeff began, a light glowing in his eyes that made Tanner nervous. “She’d be perfect, boss.”

“Perfect for what?”

“To play the role of your wife. I hear she’s sweet and simple and smart. And she’s definitely not someone you see socially.” Jeff’s grin widened. “There’s also no chance of her wanting more from you because, hey, according to the office scuttle, she doesn’t like you at all.” He chuckled. “Hot damn, I never thought I’d see the day when a woman could resist the great C. K. Tanner. I think I might be in love with this girl myself!”

A scowl found its way to Tanner’s face. “I’ll tell you what, Jeff. How about if I give you two minutes to get back to work before I fire you?”

Jeff laughed, stood up and headed for the door. “All right, all right. It was just a thought. I guess you don’t need my help if you’re going on a wife hunt, anyway. You’ve always done just fine with the ladies on your own.”

“Damn right I have,” Tanner muttered as the door closed. But still, the idea lingered.

He leaned back in his chair. How about enlisting a woman who didn’t like him? No strings, no calls afterward. Strictly business. That would make things pretty neat and tidy when it was time for a “divorce,” wouldn’t it?

His gaze flickered to the Swanson file that lay open on his desk. Challenges made a great life even better. If his first challenge was to persuade the head of Swanson Sweets to sell him his company, why not enlist the help of the second challenge to do it?

With a satisfied, confident smile, Tanner flipped through the file as he awaited the arrival of his daily mail with grossly uncharacteristic anticipation.

Funky Latin music reverberated off the cold, white walls in the mail room of Tanner Enterprises. Abby McGrady salsa’d her cart, piled high with packages and letters, toward the elevator, grazing the edges of a few desks on her way, mumbling a “sorry” to the chipped paint.

“Say hi to my boyfriend,” Dixie Watts called from the sorting area. “Let Mr. Tanner know that he can pick me up on the loading docks at seven for our date.”

Balancing several cups of coffee on a tray as she walked past Abby, Janice Miggs put in her two cents. “And since he changes women every week, tell him I’m available next Friday.”

“Every week?” Mary Larson laughed. “Try every hour on the hour.” Then she waved over at Abby. “That certainly doesn’t mean I’m not free next hour or the hour after that.”

“Stop teasing her,” Alice Balton said. “You know how she feels about him.”

Dixie raised an amused brow. “And she knows how we feel about him.”

Laughter filled the large, windowless room. Several of the girls hooted and catcalled, while John, the mail room’s manager, rolled his eyes.

Abby danced into the elevator with a good-natured grin, calling back, “I’m here to save you from yourselves, ladies. He’s just not good enough for you.” But as the doors closed and she depressed the button for the penthouse, her smile faded.

Admittedly, C. K. Tanner was one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen, but he was also one of the most arrogant. He barely acknowledged anyone who didn’t have a title attached to their name, and probably hadn’t spoken more than two words to Abby in the year and a half she’d been bringing him his mail.

But her opinion of him came from more than just his lack of polite communication. C. K. Tanner was a grown-up version of Greg Houseman, the terribly charming rich kid who’d stolen a poor girl’s teenage heart, taken her virginity, then dumped her flat. She knew from painful personal experience that men like C. K. Tanner could be Sir Lancelot one moment and Blackbeard the next. And she would never forget that one rarely came without the other.

She sighed heavily. Lord, she had bigger things to think about than the workaholic Midas who hardly knew life existed below the thirty-first floor. Like how on earth she was going to open her art school on the shoestring her budget would afford her. Granted, her job in the mail room paid her full benefits and allowed her flexible hours—she was out of the office and working on her canvas by two o’clock each afternoon—but the amount of savings she’d amassed wasn’t even close to what she needed.

Every day she was receiving more and more calls from parents who desperately wanted their children in an art class but couldn’t afford the steep tuition at any of the art schools in town. The community center where Abby taught didn’t have programs for kids, and they’d told her emphatically that if she wanted to start one it would have to be held somewhere else. Now she had a waiting list a mile long and only a few thousand dollars saved.

It was beginning to look as though her dream would just have to wait a little longer.

The elevator dinged and she pushed the cart down the hall. No spirit-lifting music played on the executive floor, only the low tones of deals being made came from behind the closed doors and throughout the busy hallways. She paused in front of Mr. Tanner’s corner office, plastered on a smile, smoothed her hair back, then cursed her Irish ancestry for giving her the thickest, curliest red hair on earth as she knocked lightly on his door.

“Enter,” came that same husky command that she’d heard every morning for the past year and a half.

Briskly and with purpose, Abby opened the door and moved into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Tanner.”

He glanced up and smiled. “Good morning.”

She hesitated, her brows knitting together. She couldn’t remember him ever looking at her before, let alone smiling. Swallowing the lump that had just come into her throat, she placed his mail in the wire mesh In basket on the edge of the desk and tried to ignore the spicy scent of his cologne, which always seemed to throw her for a loop whenever she got too close. “Your mail, sir.”

His smile widened and warmed. “Thank you, Abby.”

She froze. Abby? She had no idea that C. K. Tanner even knew her name. What was going on here? And why was he giving her that smile—that unnerving, sexy and very Lancelot-like smile?

Blackbeard, Abby. Think Blackbeard.

“Well, have a good day, sir,” she said, turning quickly to go. But the sleeve of her blouse had other plans, catching itself on the wire basket. Laughing nervously, she tugged on the stubborn fabric, trying to free herself. But it wouldn’t budge. She gave it one last swift pull, but only managed to send the basket of mail flying. On a gasp, she lunged to catch it, hearing her shirt tear as she landed gracelessly.

With her heart slamming against her ribs and a shaky smile plastered on her face, she raised the basket up in a sad show of victory, only to catch C. K. Tanner’s more customary hawk-like stare. Ah, that was more like it, she thought as she leveled her gaze with his own. Trying to pretend that she was calm and unruffled, she stood and set the basket down firmly.

Right onto the lip of his coffee cup.

Suffocating her gasp behind her hand, she watched the dark stain spread menacingly across his desk.

“Ohmigod,” she breathed, hearing him rush up beside her. “I’ll clean this up right away.”

“It’s not a problem.” His strong hands were on her shoulders, pulling her close to his side and away from the hot liquid, even as he rang for his secretary with the push of a button. “Helen, send housekeeping with some paper towels.”

Forgetting who he was and who she was for a moment, Abby glanced up at him—all six feet, two inches of him. Thick black hair, just a little wavy, licked the edges of his starched white collar. Olive skin, chiseled features, full lips and eyes the color of chocolate.

It was a stubborn, arrogant face, but drop-dead gorgeous nonetheless. With that half smile and bedroom gaze, he was the cover of a men’s magazine and the star of every woman’s fantasy. And he fitted his gray pinstripe suit like nobody’s business, while displaying an imposing confidence that permeated the air around him.

She could see why every woman in this building had a crush on him. And why her best course of action was to get as far away from him as possible—as soon as possible.

But she didn’t move.

He held her loosely against his side, those bedroom eyes now filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

The warmth of him, his strength against her, sent currents of heat zipping through her blood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tanner. I must’ve taken a clumsy pill with my vitamins this morning.”

Finally he released her and she felt as though she could breathe again. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll be cleaned up momentarily.”

As he walked back behind his desk, a woman from housekeeping entered and silently mopped up the mess. She was gone in seconds, and Abby turned to make her own hasty retreat. She wasn’t about to hang around and give him time to fire her.

“Please stay for a moment, Abby.” His words stopped her and she looked over her shoulder to see him smiling at her—again—his deep-brown eyes roaming her face. I’ll bet he’s one great kisser.

Before she could scold herself for such an outrageous thought, he asked, “Can I get you a safety pin or…”

Abby put her hand over the tear in her white blouse. “It’s nothing. I can take care of it.” And I should go.

“I insist. If you tell me the name of the boutique where you shop, I’ll have a new one here in an hour.”

Abby tried not laugh. Mostly because it might come out as a wheeze, but also because he’d said “boutique.” She’d gotten that blouse for ten dollars at a discount store. “It’s not necessary, I have another shirt in my locker, but thank you.” Of course, she didn’t have anything in her locker but chewing gum and an extra pair of nylons, but she wasn’t going to share that with him. All she wanted to do now was get out of C. K. Tanner’s office before he gave her two weeks to clear out that locker and never come back.

“How long have you worked for me, Abby?”

Oh, here it comes. “A little over a year, sir.”

As he eased into his brown leather chair, he motioned for her to take the seat opposite. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment.”

Abby bit her lip. “Uh…yes, sir.”

“I’d like to talk to you about something.”

She perched at the very edge of the seat and blurted it out. “Am I being fired? I’m very sorry about the coffee. And that small fire in the mail room last week really wasn’t my fault.”

She thought she saw a hint of laughter behind his eyes, but it passed as he said, “I’m going to Minnesota for the weekend to spend some time with the head of a certain candy corporation. I’m interested in buying his company.”

Abby cocked her head to the side. Why in the world was C. K. Tanner sharing this information with her? And, Lord, what was the proper response? She opted for a short congratulatory speech. “How…nice for you, sir. I’m sure it will be a very good invest—”

He stopped her with just a lift of his brow. “The catch is, I’m fairly certain he wants the company to go to a family man. And as I’m not married or even in the market to be, I find myself in a disconcerting position.” He leaned back in his chair. “Abby, I need you to pretend that you’re my wife.”

Abby hesitated, blinking with bewilderment, not at all sure she’d heard him correctly.

“Don’t misunderstand me. This is strictly a business trip. I need you to act the part of my wife just for the weekend.”

Okay, she had heard him correctly, but that knowledge brought little comfort.

He crossed his arms over his rather broad chest. “I’m afraid I’m one of those abrupt, come-to-the-point kind of businessmen.”

She nodded and managed to choke out, “To say the least.”

“You’re not married—”

“No, I’m not, but—”

He nodded. “Good. Then I would be honored if you would accompany me to this function.”

Abby just stared at him. “Is this some kind of joke, sir?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“You want me to pretend to be your wife for the weekend?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s just business?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated, laughter erupting in her throat. She couldn’t help it. It was all so ridiculous. She came to her feet and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I have to decline.”

He studied her for a moment. “Believe me when I say that you will be well compensated.”

She stood there, blank, amazed. “You’re asking me to go away with you for the weekend and lie about who I am.”

He nodded casually, confidently, as though he’d asked this of a million different women—a million different times—and every one of them had said yes. Well, she wasn’t like other women and she wouldn’t help C. K. Tanner with his deceitful little plot in a million years.

“My answer is no.” She turned and pushed her cart out the door, calling back in the most professional voice she could under the circumstances, “Good day, Mr. Tanner.”

Abby McGrady sure had spunk, Tanner mused a few hours later as he opened his door and ushered the private detective into his office. And he didn’t know too many women like that. He was rarely surprised by people—even more rarely rejected by them.

And in less than ten minutes Miss McGrady had accomplished both.

She intrigued him. And there was certainly no denying his attraction to her—in spite of that “I just baked fresh cookies and you need to call me if you’re going to be late” home and hearthiness. Spending three days and nights pretending they were man and wife would only be possible if he kept reminding himself how much like oil and water they truly were.

Of course, first he had to get Abby to agree to come with him.

Tanner motioned for the detective to take a seat. He’d given the man just three hours to find out as much as he could about Abby McGrady. Tanner already knew she had the right qualifications—smart, quick and attractive—all musts for a good corporate wife. She needed some help with her wardrobe, but that could be taken care of in an afternoon. But her most valuable asset was the fact that her personal—and inexplicable—dislike of him would keep their arrangement totally professional, and that’s what he needed more than anything—no strings.

“Her full name is Abigail Mary McGrady,” the detective began, his gaze focused intently on the paper in front of him. “She’s an aspiring artist. Graduated Los Angeles School of Fine Art in 1998. Teaches an art class Tuesday and Wednesday evenings at the Yellow Canyon Community Center. Miss McGrady has a small apartment close by in West Hollywood where she grows roses in pots on her deck. She buys mint-chocolate-chip ice cream every Friday night after work and she turns twenty-five October the seventh.”

“That’s this Sunday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Actually I did find out something that might be helpful.”

As he listened to the detective, Tanner felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile.

## Two

The note that had been taped to the door at the start of class was permanently tattooed in Abby’s mind.

To all art students and staff:

Unfortunately, due to an overwhelming demand for computer courses, we are forced to cancel art classes for the semester. Next week will be your final class and prorated refund checks will be mailed to you. We are doing our best to bring back this art course next semester. Please accept our sincerest apologies.

Yellow Canyon Community Center

What else could go wrong today? Abby wondered as she waited for her students to finish a watercolor exercise. First she’d spilled coffee all over her boss’s desk, then he’d proceeded to ask her to pretend to be his wife for the weekend. And, worst of all, for just a moment when she’d been hypnotized by his gaze, she’d actually been tempted to say yes. With the way her life had been going lately, a weekend of adventure with her gorgeous boss just didn’t sound like a fate worse than death.

But that was her lonely heart talking. When her brain wrapped around the fact that this guy was not only a cocky Casanova, he was also her boss, she’d straightened out.

It would be just business, he’d told her earlier that day. Well, of course it would be just business. The man went out with supermodels and actresses who wore Gucci and smelled like eight-hundred-dollar perfume, not a clumsy mail girl who wore clothes from the secondhand store and considered Ivory soap her signature scent.

But one question still lingered: Why her? With all the women who drooled over him, why had he asked her?

Abby sighed and shook her head. It would remain a mystery. By now Mr. Tanner had probably forgotten her name—forgotten she even existed—and found someone else to play his wife for the weekend.

“Everyone done?” she asked the class when several faces appeared over the tops of their easels.

They all nodded.

She exhaled heavily as she stared at the dejected expressions on their faces. “The center can make more money with computer classes, you guys. And this is a slow time of year for them.” She smiled weakly. “But I’ll figure something out, I promise. Give me a week.”

“I can’t afford lessons anywhere else,” one student said.

“Shoot, I can hardly afford them here,” another added.

Abby nodded. “I understand, but—”

“What if they were free?”

The husky baritone came from the direction of the doorway. The entire room turned to stare, including Abby. Her eyes widened and her heart slammed against her ribs.

C. K. Tanner stood in the doorway, his eyes set on her.

Gone was the pinstripe suit. Jeans and a simple sweater had taken its place. Simple. Hah! Nothing on or about C. K. Tanner was simple, Abby thought wryly, wishing she’d fixed her hair or worn something nicer—something from a boutique.

He moved into the room with the confidence of a general. Tall, dark and sexy as all get-out. And the way he fitted into those jeans had to be illegal, she mused, then quickly told that half of her brain to shush.

“My name is Tanner,” he informed the class. “I’m a friend of Abby’s.”

“Go, Abby,” one female student hooted.

Everyone laughed. Abby’s cheeks burned.

“He’s not a—” she stuttered, then frowned at him, whispering, “I haven’t changed my mind, sir.”

“Hear me out, Abby,” he whispered back. “There’s an element to this proposal that might interest you.” He plunked down beside her on the desk and addressed the class. “I’m here to offer all of you,” he glanced over at Abby, “and you, too, of course, a building where you can hold your art classes. As for the rent—”

“Here it comes,” muttered one of the students.

“It will be a dollar a month,” Tanner finished.

Silence. All twenty students stared openmouthed at Tanner, then at Abby, then back again.

Abby’s muscles felt like water, but her temper was piqued. The man had some nerve. How dare he come in here and raise her students’ hopes like this. How dare he come in here and make their teacher’s pulse race. She jumped off the desk and motioned for him to follow. “Come with me,” she said, the sound of hoots and catcalls following them as she pulled him out of the room.

Once out in the hallway, Abby whirled on him, ready to give him what for. But her heel caught on the doorsill and she pitched forward into his arms.

Her cheeks flamed. Why did her clumsy nature have to show itself every damn time C. K. Tanner was near? Was she cursed?

“I got you,” he said in a husky whisper, tightening his hold on her.

Man, he felt good, she mused, steadying herself on her feet. All solid muscle and formidable strength.

Get a hold of yourself, Abby. The guy’s a corporate jerk.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Tanner?” she asked, once she was free from his grasp and a few feet away.

He grinned. “Well it looks as though I’m saving your neck—and your class. Now they have a space.”

She glared at him. “How did you know we needed a space?”

He shrugged. “Does it really matter? The point is you need one.”

Abby couldn’t refute that inescapable logic. “I guess I don’t need to ask why you’re doing this. But right now my students are wondering why. And I’m sure some of them have some pretty…obscene guesses.”

He raised a lazy brow. “Like what?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Why do you care so much about what people think, Abby?”

“Why don’t you care more?” She looked directly at him, choosing her words carefully. “Look, Mr. Tanner, I don’t understand this. Why me? You must have a dozen women who would do this for you.”

“I need a stranger,” he said simply. “I have no wish for anyone to know about it, nor do I want my…” He hesitated a moment, as if searching for just the right word. “I don’t want my female friends thinking the words C. K. Tanner and marriage belong in the same sentence. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid I do.”

“Here. Maybe this will help you decide.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

With great reluctance she took it and peeked inside with as much unease as if it held a snake.

“It’s a contract and keys to a warehouse space downtown.” He rubbed his jaw. “You can pay me the twelve dollars in advance or at the end of the year. I don’t care.”

She pulled out the small set of keys, shock slamming through her. A whole building for a year for twelve bucks. What on earth did he expect her to do on this weekend? There had to be more to this than—

As if reading her mind, he answered her silent queries. “Three days. That’s it. I’ll probably be down at the plant most of the time. You won’t have to see me very much.”

That should have reassured her, so why was every traitorous part of her balking at the notion?

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he continued. “In the bathtub—whatever makes you comfortable.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever makes me comfortable?”

“Trust me, Abby, you have nothing to worry about.” His voice was resolute, his eyes sincere.

She buttoned and unbuttoned the collar of her sweater nervously.

He glanced down at the keys in her hand. “I’m sure you could find many uses for that space.”

Darn right she could. That warehouse would save her art class. And with her own space she could hold classes on weekends for kids, for anyone who wanted to learn. But at what price? She’d be breaking a vow she’d made to herself years ago that she’d never let another Richie Rich invade her life. They were bad news. There was also the added discomfort of having to lie and deceive people she hadn’t even met.

But the students, the kids. That was almost worth it. “You’ll sleep in the bathtub?” she asked skeptically.

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Somehow she doubted he’d ever been a Boy Scout. “Three days?”

He nodded. “Plus time for your makeover and your briefing.”

“I have to get a makeover?” she stammered in bewilderment. “What briefing?”

“You need to know all about me, Abby. My habits, likes, dislikes.” He hesitated, giving her an appraising look from the tips of her vintage saddle shoes to the top of her unruly mop of hair. “You’re a beautiful woman, Abby. God knows why you’d want to hide it. But I think I know someone who can help us with that.” He retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow afternoon at one.”

A knot formed in her stomach. “What about work?”

“You have the next two days off.” He regarded her with serious eyes. “Courtesy of the boss. Oh, and Abby, I’d like to keep this arrangement confidential.”

“Wait just a minute. I haven’t said I would—”

He grinned. “Yes, you have. I saw it in your eyes when you held the keys to your new warehouse space.”

She ground her teeth, knowing he was right and wishing with all her heart that she could just toss those keys right back at him. But the students, she thought, glancing through the window. They depended on her. And not only that, if she agreed to this farce, her children’s program could start immediately.

She looked back at Tanner. His brown eyes practically bored straight through her. Her pulse sped up and she felt sixteen and breathless. The kind of man she’d always vowed to stay away from was going to be her “husband” for three days.

“There will have to be some conditions,” she said firmly.

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you a list tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait.” And there it was. That damn half smile again. “’Night, Abby.”

She watched him as he walked down the hallway, cell phone to his ear. Completely unruffled and utterly pleased with himself.

She shook her head, pretty sure she’d just made a deal with the devil. And if he took her soul, she prayed he’d leave her heart intact.

“Are you sick or something?”

Abby rolled her eyes at the suspicious tone in Dixie’s voice. It was lunchtime at Tanner Enterprises, and Abby had expected her friend’s call, but she hadn’t expected the overwhelming desire to tell Dixie about the upcoming weekend with their sexy boss. But unfortunately Abby knew she couldn’t say a word.

“Abby, spill it,” Dixie demanded. “I can’t remember you ever taking a day off since you started here.”

Abby sank deeper into her wicker chair as she stared out at the neighborhood’s midday activity from the tiny deck attached to her tiny apartment. “I have a really bad headache, that’s all,” she quickly explained. It was the truth actually. A headache that hadn’t gone away since yesterday’s mail route had taken an unusual little twist. Well, a major upset actually. And now here she was, waiting for C. K. Tanner to pick her up for a makeover.

She was crazy to agree to this. Truly. No matter how they dolled her up, she wasn’t sophisticated or chic. She was the poor relation at best, and she wondered if she’d get through this weekend without serious damage to her self-respect.

If she could just forget this whole thing, she would. But last night she’d told her students that their class would continue. And this morning she’d called every last parent on her waiting list to tell them that their children would have a place to study art. The deed was done.

She was so deep in thought, she barely heard Dixie ask what she was doing for her birthday. “So, Abby, what’ll it be? Chippendales or club hopping?”

Birthday. Oh, Lord. Sunday. She’d be in Minnesota. Thank God her parents were out of town and they’d had her birthday celebration last weekend. Having to make excuses to them would be virtually impossible.

“I’ll be hiding under a rock,” she muttered, her mind searching in vain for another excuse when Dixie came asking again—which, of course, she would.

Dixie snorted. “Why you hate birthdays I’ll never know. Perky people are supposed to love birthdays.”

“I like other people’s birthdays. It’s just when I’m the one getting older—”

“You’re turning twenty-five, for goodness sake.” Dixie sighed. “I don’t think that qualifies you for Grandma Moses status yet.”

Abby laughed. “It’s not a vain, getting-wrinkles sorta thing, Dix. It’s a productive thing. I really wanted to have the art center up and going by now. And—”

She halted midstream. Having her very own art center was exactly what was happening. No more excuses or feeling sorry for herself. She was going to have her dream fulfilled—and all because of C. K. Tanner.

“You’ll get there, Abby,” Dixie was saying. “One day at a time, you know? Hey, I know what would make you feel better.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“A date,” Dixie exclaimed. “Better yet, a man.”

“What’s the difference?” she couldn’t help saying.

“A thousand miles, hon.” Dixie chuckled. “A man sticks around—he’s a boyfriend, a husband.”

Down the street the wind kicked up leaves with a flourish, announcing the arrival of a gleaming black Mercedes that Abby could only assume was C. K. Tanner’s. This was a modest neighborhood, where understated Spanish homes sat quietly bracketed by smallish apartment complexes. It was a tan Ford kind of neighborhood, not a luxury full-size.

Abby felt her heartbeat pick up speed as the car slowed to the curb in front of her apartment. The windows were tinted a light smoke color, but she knew it was him. The driver’s side door opened and he stepped out, looking unbelievably handsome. Damn him.

You need a man, a husband, Dixie had said. Abby stifled a laugh. If her friend only knew that she was going to have a husband for three days, and it was none other than the mail room’s fantasy, C. K. Tanner.

“Listen, I’d better go,” Abby said, coming to her feet and stepping back into her apartment. “I’ve got to take some, ah…some more aspirin.”

“Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Ah…I’ll see how I feel.”

“Sure you don’t want me to bring you anything? I have an hour for lunch.”

Abby’s stomach dipped as she heard Mr. Tanner’s footsteps heading down the hall. “No, thanks. I’m good. Just lots of bed rest.”

“All right, hon. How about a birthday lunch with the girls and me on Monday, then? We’ll continue the celebrating.”

“Perfect.”

“And don’t think you’re getting off the man subject so easily.”

A knock at the door caused her to jump. “Sure thing, Dix. I’ll call you.”

She ran to the door, swinging it wide. “I’m sorry for not meeting you downstairs, sir, but…” Her words trailed off as she took in the man leaning against the doorjamb.

“No apology required,” he said, his smooth baritone filling the space between them.

Her stomach dipped. “Would you…ah…like to come in?”

“Sure. For a moment.” He inclined his head. “See how my wife lives.”

Wife! Abby cleared her throat, and tried to stop her gaze from raking over him as he walked confidently into the apartment. Black jeans encased his strong legs and a ribbed black sweater molded to his torso, accentuating his muscled chest and broad shoulders. Some odd sense of pride welled within her, as though he belonged to her, but she quickly pushed such a ridiculous thought aside. Remember why this man’s here—why he’s hired you, she chided herself.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Tanner?” she said, trying to sound light and cheerful. “Coffee, soda?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him walk around her apartment, looking at her knickknacks, artwork, furnishings and books, assessing. He stopped in front of one of her paintings. An abstract acrylic portrait of a man with normal features except for his eyes. Where pupils should have been there was only a deep shade of gray.

“This is an exceptional piece,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”

She grinned in spite of her nerves. “I am.”

He hesitated, his gaze remaining on the painting. “You’re very talented, Abby.”

“You sound surprised, sir.”

He shook his head. “Impressed. Maybe even the smallest bit envious. I can recognize extraordinary art when I see it, purchase a gallery filled with it if I wanted to, but—” he chuckled “—I can barely draw a stick figure.”

“Well, some people have the art gene and some have the business one, I guess.”

“You certainly have the art one in spades.” He moved closer to the piece. “And who’s the subject?”

“A man I knew a long time ago.” Abby went to stand by him. “He had trouble seeing.”

“He was blind?”

She nodded. “In a way.”

He turned to look at her then, his brown eyes probing, searching, making her uncomfortable in both mind and in body.

She swallowed and took a step back. “Shall we go?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded, and Abby went to gather her things.

They were out of the apartment, down the stairs and walking toward the car when Tanner moved slightly ahead of her to open the car door.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, trying not to sigh when she sat down on the plush leather seat. The interior of the car was immaculate: no candy-bar wrappers, no coffee cups. The leather looked polished, brand-new, and nary a dust bunny lingered on the dash, or in any crevice for that matter. Perfectly in order, just like the man.

He slid into the driver’s side and shot her a look. “You can’t call me ‘sir.’” He turned the key in the ignition and the car sprang to life, purring like a purebred cat. “I think it would be best from this moment forward if you called me Tanner.”

“Shouldn’t I call you by your first name?”

“No one calls me by my first name.”

Abby looked up at him curiously. He had his seat belt on, his gearshift in first and his gaze on her. “For the next several days you aren’t my employee, Abby. That’s certainly not the impression I want Frank Swanson to have of…” A smile tugged at his lips. “Why don’t you just call me Tanner, or if you feel a surge of bravery,” the smile widened, “honey or dear.”

Heat surged into her cheeks at his suggestions, but she barely felt it through a bristling of indignation. “Excuse me for saying so, but I think it’s vastly important to remember that I am your employee, sir…ah…Tanner.”

“Sir Tanner.” He put on a good show of considering that as he let out the clutch. “I like it.”

Abby couldn’t help but roll her eyes as he pulled away from the curb, chuckling.

They were quiet for several blocks, but when Tanner entered the freeway, he broke the silence with business. “When we arrive at the house, you’ll have your makeover. I’ve allowed two hours for this. Then we’ll have a dinner meeting and get to know each other. I’ve decided that we will be newlyweds, just married and trying to keep it quiet. The press keeps tabs on my marital status, so I’ll tell the Swansons we eloped.” He barely stopped for breath. “This weekend, I feel the conversations should be primarily on business, but feel free to interject….”

As he continued to explain the details and events of the weekend, Abby began to drift off. She couldn’t help it—actually what she couldn’t help was staring at how his muscles tightened against the fabric of his jeans when he shifted gears.

She knew she had to get a grip and listen to his recitation on business protocol, but it was like being briefed by the Pentagon, for goodness sakes. She decided to find out some information that would really be helpful.

“So, who’s Frank Swanson?” she asked.

“Have you heard of Swanson Sweets?”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “I have at least one bag of chocolate mints and one box of dark chocolate-covered cherries in my fridge at all times.”

She had a nice laugh, Tanner thought as his gaze swept her lightly. It moved from high to husky like an ocean wave, causing his gut to tighten. But it was that kilowatt smile of hers—a smile that came from her eyes as much as it did her lips—that had him straying from his “this is just business” commitment. He’d have to watch that.

When the freeway came to an end, Tanner turned right—toward home—the ocean and beach to his left. Automatically he opened his window and breathed in the salty air.

“You must really love candy, huh?” Abby said.

He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff.”

“Then why buy the company?”

He laughed.

She opened her window, as well. “Okay, so maybe that’s a really naive question in your world, but I’d really like to know.”

He delivered his pat answer without giving it a thought. “It’s a profitable venture.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she was going to press him for more, but she didn’t. Instead, she looked back and forth from the ocean to the palm-tree-lined streets, then turned to him. “You live in Malibu?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just figured you for a Beverly Hills kinda guy, that’s all.”

“And what kind of guy is that?”

“One who likes to be close to town, close to the action and all the pretty—” she stopped short, her cheeks growing pinker by the second “—the pretty sights.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Like the La Brea Tar Pits?” Even Los Angeles natives joked about the city’s lack of culture.

She was silent a moment before she said, “Maybe you should tell me a little bit about yourself so I’m not guessing. Tell me about your family.”

Tanner’s mind filled with sharp images he rarely acknowledged, much less talked about: the death of his mother; his workaholic, womanizing father, who had immediately shipped Tanner off to boarding school; his lonely childhood devoid of contact with his father, devoid of holidays in the family bosom; endless days and nights of learning how to control his emotions and become a ruthless businessman.

He cursed silently and told Abby McGrady all she needed to hear. “I’m thirty-two years old. I was born June twentieth in Manhattan. I run ten miles every morning, prefer whisky to wine and rarely go to bed before two in the morning.”

“Jeez.” Abby laughed softly. “Talk about a thirty-second life story.”

That was usually enough to satisfy most women he knew. Tanner pulled into his driveway, clearly marked by the Private Property and No Trespassing signs. Certainly it would be enough to satisfy a woman he was only going to know for the rest of the week. “All right,” he said, sending her a sidelong glance. “How about this for a revelation—this is my first marriage.”

She smirked at him. “No shock there, sir.”

“Abby,” he scolded.

But he got no response. She was staring, transfixed, out the windshield, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Full, pink lips that he wanted to run his thumb over to feel, then his tongue to taste.

But he wouldn’t.

He shoved all thoughts of her and him and lips and tasting away and helped her out of the car. “What do you think of the place?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she sounded a little sad.

“But?”

She raised a brow at him as they walked up the front steps. “But what?”

“I read people’s reactions for a living, Abby.” He held the front door open for her. “I can tell when someone’s not telling me the complete story.”

“It’s just…so enormous.” She glanced around, taking in the black marble floor, chrome and glass accents and circular staircase. “You live here all by yourself?”

He nodded. Damn right he did. In fact, he’d never even brought a woman here. It was his place of solace, to relax, think.

He had a decidedly bacheloresque penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard that he usually used for entertaining. He could’ve taken Abby there. But he had neighbors who liked to gossip, and the Malibu house had just seemed more appropriate for her makeover and their dinner meeting.

He followed her with his gaze as she moved over to the fireplace and touched the empty mantle gingerly.

“You must not spend much time here.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There are no pictures or mementos or…anything.” She shook her head. “You should do something about that. It’s not fair to the house.”

He frowned. Not fair to the house? What the hell did that mean? His house was exactly as it should be: comfortable and functional. Just because he didn’t have a bunch of meaningless clutter on his mantel like at her place—art supplies everywhere, a million pictures of her family decorating her desk and tables.

He shook his head at her annoying observations. Never in his life had he met anyone who just said whatever was on her mind or asked whatever question popped into her head like she did. People who didn’t think before they acted were headed for disaster, didn’t she know that?

Hell, it was good that this woman was only going to be around for a weekend.

He nodded at the stairs. “Why don’t you go upstairs now, first door on your right. The team’s waiting for you.”

Her eyes widened. “The team? What team?”

“Your makeover team,” he said, turning to go.

“Wow,” he heard her say quietly. “It’s going to take a whole team?”

With his back to her, he couldn’t help but smile at her guilelessness.

“Hey!” she called to him. “I thought you might want to ask me a few questions about myself.”

“Later. At dinner,” he replied succinctly as he reached the door. “I have work to do.”

It was only partly a lie, he thought as he turned in the doorway and watched her walk up the stairs, her hips swaying gently with the movement. He did have work to do, always had work to do. But this time he was using it as an excuse to get away from the pretty redhead who was threatening to drive him crazy.

## Three

“Darling, you have wonderful bone structure.” The makeup artist, who insisted on being called “La George,” clasped his hands together, a genuine look of relief on his face as he studied Abby’s features. “Not to mention a gorgeous head of hair.”

Wanda, the hairstylist, nodded and smiled. “You really do.”

Donald, the last member of the team, held several gowns up under Abby’s chin. “Great coloring. I think the green strapless to match her eyes. Let’s get to work, people.” He smiled at Abby. “You ready, Cindy?”

“It’s Abby,” she corrected gently.

He laughed. “Not today, darlin’. Today, it’s Cindyrella.”

Abby couldn’t help smiling at them, her team, so excited about their task. She tucked a wayward and very wet curl behind her ear, then pulled her robe closer around her. They were a nice lot and she wondered if they knew the reason for this makeover. She guessed not. C. K. Tanner wasn’t the most open person on earth, she thought, remembering his brief essay on himself in the car earlier.

Short and to the point, his little background report on himself probably left out some pretty interesting details.

But then again, she had some interesting details of her own she wasn’t about to share with him. Like how much that sophisticated, charming demeanor he displayed reminded her of the act Greg had used until she’d finally believed that he’d loved her, too, and had given him the most precious gift she could give a man.

She let out a sigh. Why was she even comparing the two people or the two situations? This wasn’t high school, and her boss had no interest in her other than business.

La George smiled down at her, his eyes glistening, lip liner poised and ready. Truly, this was no romantic endeavor. But if her makeover team liked thinking of her as Cindyrella, she wouldn’t enlighten them further. She’d let them have their fun, and maybe let herself have some, too.

As Wanda plugged in curling irons and blow dryers, Abby gazed about the room. If ever a storybook had come to life, with people, props and costumes, this room would have been beyond the author’s imaginings.

It was a den of some sort and quite different than the downstairs. Where that was modern and cold, this room was warm and inviting. Its very presence in the austere house made its owner even more enigmatic than before, and Abby wondered for a moment what else besides a cozy room lay hidden beneath C. K. Tanner’s cool, calm, collected and ultraprofessional exterior.

Tall ceilings, dark-blue wall hangings and worn, comfortable tan leather chairs. Bright sunshine blazed a trail to the spectacular ocean view from the windows that made up one long wall. A large, tan sofa with two cushy pillows tucked into its corners faced a brick fireplace several steps above the roomy dressing area, where Abby and the team were assembled.

Her stomach clenched. Again, she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off. Wife to millionaire playboy, C. K. Tanner.

“Chin up,” La George commanded, a powder puff in his hand.

Solid advice from the makeup artist. That’s exactly what she’d do. Because her future and the future of her art school were riding on it. She’d simply keep her chin up, be herself this weekend, do the best she could not to embarrass herself or Tanner and pray that the candy man believed them.

In the entryway mirror, Tanner straightened his chocolate-brown Armani tie, shrugged into the matching jacket, then glanced at his watch. Good God, two and a half hours. What were they doing up there? He’d knocked on Abby’s door more than twenty minutes ago, but Wanda had told him she wasn’t ready yet. He shook his head. She was already a beautiful woman—she didn’t need that much help, for heaven’s sake. He was almost afraid to see what they’d done to her.

Upstairs a door opened, and Tanner heard several voices whisper and giggle. Then the sound of high heels on the wood stairs echoed throughout the foyer.

“Finally,” he mumbled under his breath, then called out, “I don’t know if you’re a wine drinker, Abby, but I opened two—”

His voice broke off midsentence as he stared openmouthed at the vision that was slowly descending the stairs. Gone were the baggy clothes and the mop-top hair. Her green eyes flashed fire, reflected in the emerald silk dress cut just below the knee and just above the bust, accentuating a soft curve he’d only imagined she possessed. Her hair, which had usually been up or hidden, fell past her bare shoulders in rich, red curls. And then there was something he couldn’t have seen—Abby McGrady had legs that went on for days. Heat surged into him, circling, landing deep in his groin.

She reminded him of a damn Botticelli painting. Innocent and sexy at the same time.

She looked like trouble.

He muttered an oath as he realized for the first time what he’d done. He’d picked a woman who didn’t want him—a woman who aggravated and intrigued the hell out of him—a woman who was beginning to make him question his own rules about “good girls.”

She reached the bottom step, smiling at him a little nervously. “What do you think?”

Images of creamy skin, tangled limbs and red hair blowing in the ocean breeze flashed in his mind. Stay cool, boy, or you’re cooked. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, feeling in control once again. “You look fine, Abby.”

Abby felt her eyes widen, her cheeks turning instantly scarlet. She looked down at her shoes. Fine? She’d just spent hours being plucked and curled and powdered, and the man had the nerve to tell her she looked fine? She didn’t expect him to tell her she looked stunning or anything, but pretty would’ve done it, or really good.

Abby sighed inwardly. Oh, who was she kidding? She felt gorgeous for the first time in her life and she wanted him to tell her so. She wanted him to tell her that she looked beautiful—as beautiful as the models and actresses he dated. But what she got was “fine.”

He’s your boss, Abby. You’re not here to get compliments, you’re here to work.

Tanner raked a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “We should talk.”

“All right,” she said with the most professional nod she could manage.

“Dinner’s almost ready.” He turned and headed down the hall. “Come with me.”

Sure, this was a business thing, she reminded herself as she followed him down the hallway, through room after room. This wasn’t real. Tanner wasn’t her husband, this wasn’t her home, and she didn’t normally wear two-inch strappy sandals and a killer dress. But for the next several days she would, she did. She truly felt like a princess, and she was going to make the most of it.

“I’d like to show you something,” Tanner said moments later as she followed him into what appeared to be his office. It was a gorgeous room, she thought, if you like the cool, clean, sparse look. Tall ceilings, white walls, impersonal artwork and a stone fireplace that looked as though it had never held a fire. And once again, there were no special items, no photographs of anyone anywhere.

With its view of the ocean, open sliding-glass door and billowing curtains, she was certain she’d seen its like on the cover of Architectural Digest.

And what a view, she mused, stepping outside on the balcony and breathing in the sea air. The show that Mother Nature was putting on tonight was spectacular. Sheets of red blazed across the darkening sky like the fuel tracks of a fighter jet—its mirror image a cool pink displayed below on the ocean’s surface.

“Abby?”

She turned sharply, realized she’d been lost in thought and left the balcony. “You must love living by the ocean.”

He smiled and said, “I do,” then took out a velvet box from the top drawer and placed it on his desk. “I have rings for us.”

Abby froze. Rings? She hadn’t even thought about—