“You should dress up more often,” Sinclair said gruffly.

“I don’t really get the chance.” Annie glanced across the room, where she could see a partial reflection in the mirror on the large wardrobe. She looked imposing in the long dress, and the dramatic blue brought out red-gold highlights in her hair. Sinclair’s tall form blocked one half of the view, his broad shoulders in a striped shirt concealing the cleavage he admired. From this angle they almost looked like a couple, the distance between them foreshortened as if they were pressed together.

Like that could ever happen.

She attempted another carefree laugh, and again it vanished in the air, which suddenly felt hot and oppressive. Sinclair’s frown deepened, and she shivered under his fierce stare. Words failed her as their gaze locked for a second, two seconds, three …

Sinclair’s lips met hers with sudden force as his arms gathered her close. She melted, her mouth welcoming his and kissing him back with six years of unspent passion.

I’m kissing Sinclair.

Dear Reader,

I recently spent two years living in England, surrounded by history. We lived in a medieval barn where you could look up at curved ceiling beams that had held the roof up for centuries. From the kitchen window I could see the site of Roman baths, and I found stone tool fragments and shards of pottery every time I did any gardening. Even the oak trees were hundreds of years old, and I could imagine Roundheads and Cavaliers challenging each other under their spreading branches. All this made me want to write a book where history reaches into the present. At the heart of my new series, THE DRUMMOND VOW, is a lost chalice, a family heirloom that—if found—could hold the power to shape the destiny of three men, and the women who love them. I hope you enjoy this first book in the series.

Jennifer Lewis

About the Author

JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at jen@jenlewis.com. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.

The Cinderella Act

Jennifer Lewis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Jordan

One

“Are you sure this is safe?”

Annie tried to keep her eyes off Sinclair Drummond’s enticing backside as he climbed the rickety wooden stairs to the attic.

“No.” He flashed her a grin that made her knees wobble. “Especially with the curse hanging over our heads.”

“I guess I’ll take my chances.” As his employee, Annie Sullivan could hardly refuse. She stepped onto the first rung of the hand-hewn stairs that were barely more than a ladder. They led up into the ceiling of the old barn, which was attached to the house so Drummond ancestors didn’t have to face bitter winds howling in from Long Island Sound while tending to their animals. Now all it contained was an impressive collection of spiderwebs and brittle horse tack. The steps creaked alarmingly. “Have you ever been up here?” She hadn’t, which was strange in itself.

Sinclair reached the top and pushed open a trap door. “Sure. When I was a kid. I used to hide up here when my parents argued.”

Annie frowned. She couldn’t imagine his quiet, dignified mother raising her voice, but she’d never met his father. He’d died in some kind of accident years ago.

“I doubt anyone’s been up here since.” He disappeared into the dark hole, and she climbed the stairs behind him with a growing sense of anticipation. A light snapped on, filling the opening with bright light. “I’m glad that still works. I didn’t fancy searching by candlelight.” Rain drummed on the shake roof overhead. His voice sounded far away, and she hurried to catch up to him. Her head cleared the entrance and she saw a row of uncovered bulbs dangling from the center beam of the windowless attic. Boxes and crates were piled along the sides, among disused tables, chairs and other, less identifiable pieces of furniture. The far wall was almost hidden behind a stack of big leather trunks bearing steamer labels. Despite the size of the room, very little of the wood floor was visible.

“So this is what three hundred years’ worth of pack rats leave behind them. Where do we start?” Her fingers tingled with anticipation at rifling through the Drummond family’s possessions. Which was funny, since that’s what she did every day in her job. Of course dusting and polishing silver wasn’t nearly as exciting as opening an old steamer trunk filled with mothballs and mystery.

Sinclair lifted the lid of a chest, which appeared to be filled with folded quilts. “Hell if I know. I suppose we just start plowing through and hope for the best.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, and she watched his muscular forearm reach boldly into the fabric. “The cup fragment is made of metal, apparently. Possibly silver, but more likely pewter. It doesn’t have any inherent value.”

His shirt strained against his strong back as he reached deeper. Annie’s heart rate quickened. Why did her boss have to be so gorgeous? It wasn’t fair. She’d worked for him for six years and he’d only grown more handsome with age. He was thirty-two and his thick, dark hair didn’t bear a single strand of gray, despite his two expensive divorces.

“And it’s supposed to be cursed?” Annie suppressed a shiver as she glanced around. Her Irish ancestors would be crossing themselves.

“It’s the family that’s cursed, not the cup.” Sinclair lifted his head and shot her a disarming glance. “Three hundred years of misery, which can apparently be lifted if the three parts of this ancient cup are put back together.” He snorted. “I think it’s a load of rubbish, but my mom is really excited about it. She’s sure it will change all our lives.”

“I was glad to hear she’s doing better. Did they ever find out what made her so sick?”

“A rare tropical disease, apparently, similar to cholera. She’s lucky to be alive. She’s still quite weak so I’ve told her she should come out here for some rest.”

“Absolutely, I’d be happy to take care of her.”

“I’m hoping she’ll come nose around up here herself. Then you won’t have to do all the work.”

Annie’s heart sank a little. So she couldn’t look forward to a summer in the attic watching Sinclair’s broad hands reaching into mysterious boxes. She’d worked here for six years, yet on some level they were almost strangers. She loved being alone with him when there were no guests to entertain and she got a glimpse of a more relaxed Sinclair. The search for the cup seemed like a great opportunity to get to know him better. Instead, she’d be up here sweating under the rafters by herself. Still, the history all around her was intriguing. She walked over to a tall woven basket and lifted the lid. Coiled rope filled the inside, and as she pulled at it, she could imagine the hands that wound this rope in an era before machines. Everything around them must tell a story. “Why does she think the family is cursed? You all seem very successful.”

Her own family would probably kill for a fraction of the abundance the Drummonds enjoyed.

“The Drummonds have done all right for themselves over the years. An old family legend has my mom convinced, however, that we’re all cursed, which is why she got so sick.” He lifted out a pile of clothes and she blinked at the powerful muscles in his thighs, visible through his pressed khakis, as he leaned to touch the bottom of the trunk. She startled as he suddenly looked up. “And why none of us can stay married for long.” His blue-gray eyes shone with a wry mix of humor and remorse. “She’s on a quest to unearth the three pieces of the cup and put them back together. She’s sure it will turn things around for the Drummonds.” He shoved the clothes back in the trunk and slammed the lid. “Of course I don’t believe in the curse but I’d do anything to help her recover, and this has her really excited so I promised to help.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

“Not really.” He shoved a hand through his hair as he surveyed the piles of debris left over from former lives. “If it keeps her occupied she won’t start nagging me to marry again.”

Annie had watched grimly as he’d courted and dated his calculating and phony second wife. She wasn’t sure she could stand to go through that again. “I suppose she’s desperate for grandchildren.”

“Yes, though you have to wonder why. Is it really necessary to carry the curse through to another generation?” His crooked smile made her smile, too. Of course his mother wanted grandchildren to spoil and fuss over. Though she wasn’t likely to ever get any, if Sinclair’s taste in women was anything to go by. She’d never met his first wife, but Diana Lakeland wasn’t the type to risk her figure on a pregnancy. She’d married Sinclair for the wealth and prestige that made him one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, then grown tired of him when he didn’t want to jet around the world attending parties every night.

If only he could see he was wasted on those spoiled princesses. She couldn’t tell him that, though. It was part of her job to be friendly, even intimate. But she also had to know where to draw the line between professional and personal, and never cross it.

She moved away from the basket of rope—more than enough to hang yourself with—and lifted a small wooden box from a high shelf. She opened the lid and found a cache of what looked like hairpins. Expensive ones, carved from tortoiseshell and bone. She wondered what Drummond damsel had tucked them into her tresses. “This does feel like looking for a needle in a haystack. Though it’s an interesting haystack. Who did the cup belong to?”

“The Drummonds come from the Scottish Highlands. Gaylord Drummond was a gambler and drinker, who lost the family estate in a wager in 1712. His three sons, left penniless and landless, set out for America to seek their fortune. The brothers went their separate ways after their ship docked, and apparently they split up a metal chalice of some sort, each of them taking a piece. They intended to reunite the cup once they’d all made their fortunes. One of them settled here on Long Island, and built a farm where we sit today.”

“I suppose that explains why you have such a large piece of prime waterfront real estate.” The original farmhouse had been expanded over the years into a magnificent shingle-style “cottage” with bold gables and wide verandas. The old potato fields had been transformed into pristine lawn and lush orchards of apple, pear and peach trees. Once a sleepy village, Dog Harbor was now surrounded by the suburban sprawl of New York City. One ancestor had sold a field to a post-war developer to build tract housing. Sinclair’s father had bought it back at great expense—houses and all—and turned it back into an emerald sward of grass. The cool water of the Long Island Sound lapped against a neat pebble beach about three hundred feet from the house.

Sinclair laughed. “Yes. The old homestead has matured into an excellent investment.”

“What I don’t understand is … how do you break up a cup?” It seemed hard enough to find a whole cup in this mess, let alone a piece of one.

“My mother says it was specially constructed to be taken apart and then put back together. She suspects it’s an old communion chalice that was constructed like that so it could be hidden, maybe from Viking invaders or Protestant reformers, depending on how old it really is. The story of the cup has passed down from generation to generation, though no one knows what happened to the pieces. My mom says she’s tracked down the descendants of the three brothers, and contacted each of them about her quest.”

“I think it’s exciting. And a nice opportunity to reunite the family.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve never heard much good about the other Drummonds. We’re all surly sorts who keep to ourselves.” He raised a dark brow.

“You’re not surly.” She immediately regretted her pointless comment. The last thing she needed was for him to know she was smitten with him. “Well, not all the time, anyway.” Now she was blushing. She hurried to a darker corner of the attic and pulled at a drawer. “Where do the others live?”

“One brother became a privateer raiding the East Coast and the Caribbean.”

“A pirate?”

Sinclair nodded. “So the legend goes. His ancestors are still down there—or one of them, anyway—living on an island off the Florida coast. Since Jack Drummond’s a professional treasure hunter I hardly think he’ll help us find the cup.”

“He might be interested in the family angle.”

“I doubt it. The third Drummond brother got rich up in Canada, then went back to Scotland and bought back the family estate. His descendant lives there now. My mother hasn’t been able to even get James Drummond to reply to her emails. She’s tireless, however, so I’m sure she’ll get through to him eventually, once she has her strength back.” He lifted a box down from the top of an old armoire. “There aren’t a lot of Drummond descendants out there. They don’t seem to have had many children and a lot have died young over the years. Makes you wonder if the curse is real.”

Was Sinclair cursed? If anything, he seemed to live a charmed life, dividing his time between his Manhattan penthouse and his other fabulous houses. She saw him for only a few weekends of each year, and maybe a couple of weeks in the summer. Just enough time to gaze dreamily at him but not enough to know his secrets. Did he have secrets? Passions and longings?

She tried to shake the thought from her mind. His inner life was none of her business.

“Some of this stuff really shouldn’t be moldering away up here.” Annie lifted a porcelain serving platter from its perch underneath another coil of rope. “I bet you could take this on Antiques Roadshow.”

Sinclair chuckled. “And have them tell you someone bought it at Woolworth’s in the 1950s.” He stood over a big wood trunk, larger and obviously older than the steamer trunks piled high in several places. The inside appeared to be filled with folded clothing.

“Wow, look at that lace.” Annie moved beside him, trying to ignore his rich masculine scent. She reached into the trunk and fondled the snowy cotton. “It doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn.” She lifted the garment, which unfolded in a single soft movement, revealing itself as a delicate nightgown or petticoat. “Who did this belong to?”

“I have no idea. I confess to only ever rifling through the boxes with firearms and other guy stuff in them.” Again his mischievous grin made her heart quicken. “I never touched the girlie stuff.”

“Would you look at that.” Setting the petticoat aside, she peered into the large wooden chest to examine a richly worked bodice of green satin with red-and-gold edging. The needlework was exquisite and the material shone as if it had been woven yesterday. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Sinclair pulled the garment from the trunk and held it up. Low-cut at the neck and with a tiny waist, the dress was an extravagant ball gown.

“It’s stunning. And that blue one underneath it looks spectacular.” She reached in and fondled a striking peacock-blue silk garment with tiny pearl bead accents. “These should be in a museum.” It seemed a crime to leave them unseen in the dusty attic even a minute longer. “Let’s bring them down into the house and hang them properly.”

“If you like.” Sinclair looked skeptical. Of course he probably only cared about finding the cup. “Sure, let’s do it.”

Had her face betrayed her disappointment so readily? His sudden change of heart touched her. She smiled. “Great! I’ll carry as many as I can.”

Sinclair strode down the narrow, rickety stairs without a moment’s hesitation, despite his arms being filled with clothes. Annie teetered behind him, the heavy garments weighing her down and making her worry about missing her footing. “We can put them in the big wardrobes in the yellow bedroom. They’re empty since your mom gave away those old fur coats.”

She followed Sinclair back into the house and they laid the garments on the wide double bed. “I can’t believe how beautiful this gray silk dress is. How on earth did they weave the silver and blue into the fabric?”

“Probably took someone years. Things were done differently back then. Each item was a handmade work of art.”

“I suppose ordinary people never even touched anything like this.” She fingered the delicate fabric with its intricate ribbon detailing. “Unless they were helping madam fasten her corset, of course.” That’s what she would have been doing back then. Hey, she was still more or less doing it now, in a time when most women her age sat in plastic cubicles talking on the phone all day. She let her fingers roam inside the deep pleats at the waist and sighed. “What a stunning dress. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Why don’t you try it on?” Sinclair’s deep voice surprised her. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Me? I couldn’t possibly. They’re museum pieces, and my waist isn’t nearly that small.”

“I disagree. About your waist, that is.” His eyes settled on her waistband for a moment, making her stomach clench. Had her boss ever glanced at her waist before? She didn’t think so.

Her heart pounded with excitement at the prospect of trying a dress on. Of course she could always wait until she was all alone in the house. But then someone would notice it had been worn, and she’d look foolish. What if this was her only chance? “Well …” She plucked gently at the peacock-blue evening gown. “I still don’t think they’ll fit, but …”

“That settles it. I’ll discreetly turn away until you need help with the fastenings.” He strolled to a tall arched window on the far side of the room.

Annie’s heart quickened. She had an odd sense that a line between them was about to be crossed. Sinclair wanted her to try on the dresses. What did that mean?

Nothing, silly. He thinks it would be fun for you and he’s humoring you. Don’t get carried away. Really. This was foolish. She’d end up ripping a seam. “I’m sure they’re supposed to be worn with all sorts of elaborate corsetry and I don’t think—”

“Do you want to go back up and hunt for the cup?” He lifted a dark brow.

She hesitated, her fingertips still pressed against the rich fabric. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe just one dress.”

Sinclair nodded, a smile in his eyes, and turned away.

How sweet of him to let her try on a family heirloom. But which one? Without hesitation, she chose the rich peacock-blue. She held it against herself for a moment—the length was about right—and though the waist was narrow, it wasn’t quite as tiny as she’d first thought. Maybe it would fit, after all.

She resisted the urge to turn and check on Sinclair as she unbuttoned her Oxford shirt. She knew him too well to imagine even for a second that he’d be sneaking a peek. He had women falling all over him wherever he went, and barely seemed to notice them.

She lowered her khakis and stepped into the crisp blue fabric. It was creased from being folded and smelled slightly of camphor, but otherwise looked fresh as if it were sewn yesterday. The tiny pearl beads tickled her arms as she pushed them into the short, puffed sleeves. The low-cut neck revealed a broad expanse of her white Cross Your Heart bra, so she quickly undid the bra and slipped it off through a sleeve. She had done up nearly half the tiny, fabric-covered buttons by the time Sinclair asked if she needed help.

“Just a few hundred more buttons.” She smiled, already feeling like a princess in the luxurious gown. It fell to the floor and gathered there slightly, suggesting she should wear heels.

“Wow.” Sinclair had turned and stood, staring at her. “Annie, you look spectacular.” His eyes widened slightly as he surveyed her, slowly, from head to toe. “Like a different person.” He crossed the room and fastened the last few buttons. “As I suspected, it fits.”

“Odd, isn’t it?” She fought the urge to giggle like a little girl playing dress-up. It didn’t help that Sinclair’s fingers were so near her skin that she felt giddy. “But why would we think people had different bodies two hundred years ago? They weren’t so different from us.”

“No, they weren’t.” Sinclair’s voice was lower than usual. Done with the buttons, he moved in front of her again. His gaze rose over her neck and cheek, and she self-consciously tucked away a loose curl that had escaped her bun.

He frowned slightly. “You look pretty with your hair up.”

“I always wear my hair up.” She reached self-consciously for her bun.

“Do you? I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before.” His gaze heated her skin.

“It’s the dress.”

“Maybe it is. You hide under your clothes and conceal the fact that you have a beautiful figure.”

Her breasts swelled inside the fitted bodice. The cut of the dress acted as a bra, lifting things front and center. “Funny, I’m not sure I’ve ever had cleavage before.” She tried to laugh, to hide her shock at her own bold statement, but the sound withered under Sinclair’s stern regard.

“It suits you,” he said gruffly. “You should dress up more often.”

“I don’t really get the chance.” She glanced across the room where she could see a partial reflection in the mirror on the large wardrobe. She looked imposing in the long dress, and the dramatic blue brought out red-gold highlights in her hair. Sinclair’s tall form blocked one half of the view, his broad shoulders concealing the cleavage he admired. From this angle they almost looked like a couple, the distance between them foreshortened as if they were pressed together.

Like that could ever happen.

She attempted another carefree laugh, and again it vanished in the air, which suddenly felt hot and oppressive. Sinclair’s frown deepened, and she shivered under his fierce stare. Words failed her as their gazes locked for a second, two seconds, three …

Sinclair’s lips met hers with sudden force as his arms gathered her close. She melted, her mouth welcoming his and kissing him back with six years of unspent passion.

His kiss was intoxicating as strong liquor. Annie’s legs wobbled and she clung to him as their tongues wound together. Her nipples thickened against the luxurious silk.

His scent was subtle, masculine and inviting. She’d never been this close to him before. His skin looked smooth, but now she could feel the roughness of his cheek as he nuzzled her. His fingers wound into her hair, loosing her bun, and a rough groan escaped his mouth.

A coil of lust unwound inside her. His desire, his need, was palpable. She could sense it vibrating in his thick muscles and heating his tanned skin. His breath grew hot on her cheek, further stirring the passion unfolding in her belly.

What are we doing?

The thought seemed very far away, as if someone else was thinking it. Her fingers climbed into his thick, dark hair. It was silky to the touch. She could feel his hands sinking lower, to cup her buttocks, and she arched against him as he squeezed her. His breath came hard and heavy, giving their kisses an air of fevered desperation.

I’m kissing Sinclair. The thought flashed in her brain like a power surge. But instead of setting off alarms of warning, it sent ripples of excitement dancing to her fingers and toes. How many nights had she lain awake imagining this moment?

His kisses were rougher and harder than she’d imagined, fueled by desire more powerful than she’d dared to dream of. His hands fisted into the delicate fabric of her dress, feeling for her body beneath. He pulled her closer and his thick erection jutted against her. She gasped at the sensation, such a bold sign of his desire—for her.

His name fell from her lips in a rasped whisper. She pulled his shirt loose from his pants and reached for the warm skin of his back. His muscles, thick and roping, moved beneath her hands. She’d seen him without a shirt more than once, but never imagined the feel of all that strength under her fingers.

He plucked at the buttons along the back of her dress that they’d only just fastened. Her skin tingled at the prospect of being bared by his hands.

Are you really going to let him undress you? Her entire body answered, yes. Sinclair must have been hiding feelings for her the same way she’d been hiding them for him. Which was odd. She’d had no idea.

She giggled as he slid a hand inside the back of her dress. She’d already removed her bra and his fingers felt risqué and sensual against the bare skin of her back. More so as he lowered the dress and bared her breasts to his appreciative gaze. A lock of dark hair hung uncharacteristically in his eyes as he carefully pushed the dress past her waist. It seemed a shame to take it off after only a few minutes, but apparently it had already worked some kind of magic.

She stepped from the dress while unbuttoning Sinclair’s shirt. She parted it and sighed when she saw his chest. Taut muscle with a slender trail of dark hair disappearing below his belt buckle.

Her nipples had stiffened to tight peaks, which bumped against his chest as she fumbled with the belt. The leather was stiff and Sinclair distracted her by nibbling on her ear. She could feel his fingers dipping below the waistband of her panties—if only she’d worn more sensual ones! She blushed at the thought of him seeing her oh-so-practical cotton granny briefs.

But Sinclair didn’t seem to notice. His breath came hot and hard against her neck, in between ravishing kisses that stole her breath. His erection interfered with her efforts to unfasten his pants. When she finally got the zipper down she could see him straining against his boxers.

Her own breathing was labored and unsteady. Heat licked at her insides and she longed to press her naked body against his. With effort, they both pushed his khakis down past his strong thighs and he stepped out of them. They stood facing each other, a few scant inches between them. His body was perfectly toned, his stomach flat and hard behind his fierce arousal.

Annie swallowed. Were they going to make love right now? All signs pointed in that direction. Sinclair’s eyes were closed, and his hands roamed over her body. Her skin stirred and sizzled under his touch. She felt the curve of his strong cheekbones and kissed him gently on the lips. How could such an ordinary day take such a wonderful and extraordinary turn? Maybe it was something to do with the mysterious cup.

Or was it the curse?

A dark shard of doubt cooled her skin like a sudden draft from a window. This man was her boss. On the other hand, the train had left the station. They stood naked in the fourth guest bedroom, the crumpled remains of their clothes at their feet. It was already too late to turn back and pretend that nothing had happened.

And she wanted nothing more than to take this surprising intimacy even further. She wondered if she should tell him she was already protected by the IUD she wore to ease her painful periods? She didn’t want to spoil the delicious moment, so instead she kissed him again on the mouth.

“Annie,” he groaned. “Oh, Annie.” She almost exploded at the sound of her name on his lips. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her body ached to mesh with his and soon they were on the bed, him entering her with exquisite tenderness, while feathering kisses over her lips and groaning with unconcealed pleasure.

Annie wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t all that far from being one, but she had some idea what sex was all about. Still, she’d never experienced anything like the intense sensations that rocked her body. Sinclair’s fingertips pressed into her flesh as his mouth claimed her, licking and biting her with abandon until she gasped and squealed with pleasure.

She’d never imagined Sinclair having such an uninhibited side. He always seemed so straitlaced and conservative.

Sinclair moved with deft prowess, skilled at taking her to new heights of pleasure, and keeping her there until she was ready to burst into flames, then shifting position for an entirely new approach to ultimate sexual bliss. To see—and feel—him breathless with excitement and driven by obvious hunger for her, almost drove her insane with pleasure.

“Oh, Annie.” Again he murmured her name, licking her lips and burying himself so deep she thought they’d become one.

“Oh, Sin.” She’d imagined calling him that, fantasized about it being her pet name for him like he was some duke from one of her favorite novels. To hear the affectionate abbreviation on her lips, for it to sound so natural in the air, almost made her laugh with pleasure.

Sin. Surely that’s what this was. But it felt so good it couldn’t be entirely wrong. Sinclair claimed her mouth with a powerful kiss and her body burst into a convulsion of pleasure that left her shivering and gripping him.

Goodness. She’d never experienced that before. It must be the famous orgasm magazines loved to rave about. Sinclair released a deep, shuddering groan and fell against her, gasping for breath. Then, without a pause, he rolled them both over until she was on top and held her there, his arms fast around her and his eyelids shut tight.

“Damn,” he said at last. “Damn.”

Two

Sinclair wrapped his arms tightly around his lovely companion. Her strawberry-blond hair fell across his face. Her pretty, pale blue eyes looked at him shyly behind long lashes. He kissed her mouth again, her lips so soft and wet.

The sense of relief was extraordinary. Apparently going through his second divorce could set a man way off balance. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and at peace. He leaned forward and nuzzled her soft skin, with its pretty freckles. “You’re a miracle,” he whispered in her ear. Her cheek plumped against his as her lips formed a smile. The blissful weight of her body on his pushed him against the soft mattress, trapping him in the aftermath of such sweet pleasure.

He let out a long, deep sigh. Sometimes life could be so complicated, and you just needed to get back to basics. He let his fingers play in the silky red-gold hair waving softly about her cheeks.

“That was unexpected.” Her voice sounded like music.

“Yes.” His brain was too fogged for conversation. “And wonderful.”

“It was. Though I hope my pot roast is okay. I totally lost track of the time.”

Pot roast? Sinclair managed to find his wrist somewhere underneath her soft back and pulled it reluctantly out. “It’s nearly five.”

Sinclair’s muscles were tensing up all over. Five in the afternoon. Pot roast overcooking somewhere. Present-day reality crept, unwelcome, into his mind. This delicious sylph in his arms was not a pre-Raphaelite fantasy maiden come out of the mists to entertain him.

She was his longtime housekeeper, Annie Sullivan.

“What’s the matter?” Her soft voice filled with concern.

His stomach tightened as he lifted his arms from her. Had he really kissed her on the lips and pulled her into bed with him? His mind swam. He must have been in a psychosis of lust. His friends had warned him that going without sex for too long could do crazy things to a man’s brain.

And now he was naked, sweaty and breathless, weighed down by the unexpectedly curvaceous body of the woman who polished his silver.

His head crashed against the pillow. In a way this was very stereotypical. Just the kind of thing his unsavory ancestors probably did with their staff. Another damning proof that he was no better than all the lying, cheating, philandering Drummonds who came before him.

Annie had noticed his change of mood. She, too, had stiffened and now pulled away, moving off him and to the side, with the snowy matelassé coverlet wrapped around her. Sinclair tugged the sheet up over his exposed flesh.

It was his fault, of course. “I’m so sorry.”

Annie’s cheeks were stained with red. She tucked her tresses behind tiny pink ears. He burned with shame that he’d taken such a good woman to bed without, seemingly, a moment’s hesitation.

“Honestly, I’m not sure what came over me.” Still reeling, he sat up and held his head for a moment. Was he in the grip of madness? Perhaps the same tropical malady that kept his mother in a delirium for nearly a week?

Contraception. The grim thought stabbed at his already pounding brain. “I don’t suppose you’re … on the pill.” The unromantic utterance hung in the air like a poisonous cloud.

“Not the pill, but something similar. I won’t get pregnant.” Her silvery voice had shriveled to a tinkle. She climbed from the bed, back to him, still holding the coverlet about her naked body.

And what a body. He had no idea Annie was hiding such lush and inviting curves below her staid Oxford shirts and loose khakis. Desire snuck through him again, hot and unwelcome, and he pulled the sheet higher over his chest.

Annie had already tugged her rumpled shirt and khakis back on, and buttoned them with urgent fingers. He averted his eyes, cursing the demon of lust that had led him so badly astray. He’d better start exercising more regularly, and taking cold showers, to make sure nothing like this happened again. It was bad enough to be unprofessional in his own house, but what next, would he sleep with his administrative assistant, or the office receptionist?

A hushed curse escaped his lips, and Annie flinched. He startled, now aware that he’d added insult to injury. “I was cursing myself. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Me, neither,” she muttered, tucking her shirt in. She picked up the blue dress from the floor, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll hang this in the closet.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Her lush body once again hidden under her practical attire.

Sinclair drew in a slow breath. He had to get out of here and back to Manhattan—stat. Annie left the room and closed the door behind her. He climbed out of bed and pulled his clothes back on, still in a daze of confusion. As he reached for his shoes, he saw her ponytail holder where it lay on the floor. It must have fallen out of her hair, releasing her locks as they …

He shook his head. How could this happen? He prided himself on maintaining control in all aspects of his life. He glanced at the pile of dresses where they lay on a wooden armchair, the lush fabrics lifeless, so different from how that dress had looked draped over her sweet hourglass figure.

He hurled himself from the bed with another curse. Clearly he was in the grip of temporary insanity. He’d better bury himself in work and make sure neither his brain nor his body had time and energy enough for such foolishness.

He dragged his clothes on and exited the room. The hallway was silent, the wood floor shining in midmorning sun. Annie had tactfully disappeared, something she had a proven talent for doing. He also knew she would conveniently reappear if you happened to need her. She had almost magical qualities as a housekeeper.

Now he wished to hell that he didn’t know about all the other qualities she possessed. He’d much rather not have felt the velvet texture of her skin under his fingertips. He’d rest a lot easier not knowing that her breath tasted like honeysuckle, or that her eyes turned that particular shade of sea-foam blue when she was aroused.

Rarely did he pack anything when he came here for the weekend. He had a closet full of casual wear that he pulled from. All he needed was his wallet and keys, which he found in their usual place on his study desk. Pocketing them with relief he strode for the side door, where his car stood ready to drive him back—at high speed—to normalcy.

The screech of tires on gravel confirmed what Annie had hoped for and feared. Sinclair was gone. She leaned against her bedpost for a moment, letting the odd mix of emotions flow through her. Her body still hummed and throbbed with the sensations he’d unleashed only a few minutes earlier. She could still feel the urgent impression of his fingers on her skin as he drove her to unknown heights of pleasure.

She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. Why? And why now? Everything had been going so smoothly. She’d set up a savings account and a budget and was socking money away at an impressive rate, with the goal of buying her own forever home. Her own mini-Drummond mansion, where she could build her own self-contained world. She’d even found a fun sideline making crocheted cuffs and scarves to sell on the internet, with a view to being fully self-employed one day. Maybe she’d even own her own shop. All of this was largely possible because she was alone here 95 percent of the time, while the illustrious Drummonds lit up Manhattan or visited their homes in warmer or more fashionable places. This job was a dream for someone who simply wanted peace and quiet in return for some dusting and polishing. The fact that it paid well and came with a full slate of benefits was almost ridiculous.

And now she’d ruined everything.

She peered out the window toward the driveway, to see if she’d imagined the car leaving. No, the expanse of gravel was gray and empty, the old oaks standing guard on either side. Sinclair had sped back to his other life, and no doubt to all the women who awaited him there.

Drawing a breath down into her lungs, Annie stepped out into the hallway. Her own bedroom was on the ground floor, near the kitchen, away from the family suites. The house was empty and quiet as usual, but somehow the peaceful atmosphere had been whipped into a frenzy of regret. She headed along the downstairs corridor, where everything looked oddly normal, to the fourth spare bedroom—the one they hardly ever used—where they’d …

She pushed on the door gingerly, afraid of what she might find behind the polished oak. Her heart sank at the sight of the rumpled bed, one pillow flung carelessly aside and the sheet pushed to the end of the mattress. Her eye was drawn to the stack of rich Victorian dresses piled on the stark wood chair. The closet stood open where she’d hung the dress he’d buttoned onto her, then peeled off her. It looked so innocent draped there over the hanger. She could hardly blame a dress for what she’d done.

Two decorative embroidered pillows, scattered in the heat of their passion, lay on the floor. Where had the passion come from? She’d harbored fantasies about Sinclair almost since she first met him. Who wouldn’t? He was tall, dark, handsome and filthy rich, for a start, but he was also such a perfect gentleman, so quietly charming and old-fashioned. A chivalrous knight in twentieth-century garb. Always polite and thoughtful to her, as well as his wealthy guests. It was impossible not to dream about him.

She picked the pillows up and automatically plumped them, then put them on the dresser. She could hardly put them back on this chaotic bed. She’d have to strip the sheets and wash them. She couldn’t resist sniffing the pillowcase before she removed it. Faint traces of Sinclair’s warm, masculine scent still clung to the white cotton. Her eyes slid closed as she let herself drift back for a second to the blissful moments when he’d held her in his arms.

Idiot! He probably thought she was a “fast woman.” Which, apparently, she was. They’d gone from playing dress-up to the bed in less than five minutes. It didn’t get much faster than that.

She shook her head and yanked the pillow from its case. Would she ever be able to look him in the face again?

Annie was hugely relieved when Sinclair didn’t arrive the next weekend. She followed his instructions and continued sorting through all the old stuff in the attic. After a couple of days she’d found so many intriguing items that she decided to start an inventory. There was no sign of the cup fragment yet, but she found all sorts of other things that would probably make jaws drop on Antiques Roadshow, and it would be a shame for them to rot away for another three hundred years because no one knew they were up there.

The inventory also kept track of how much stuff she’d looked at, when it seemed like she’d barely made a dent in the piles of belongings stacked against each wall. She didn’t want Sinclair to think she was slacking off now that she’d slept with the boss.

The memories made her cringe. He hadn’t called, but then why would he? He’d already apologized for what he no doubt regarded as a disgusting lapse of judgment. What more was there to say?

Her heart could think of more things, but she told it to keep quiet. Sinclair Drummond could never have real feelings for her. In addition to inheriting money and estates, he’d started his own hedge fund business and made millions, which she’d read about in Fortune and Money magazines. As many articles as she’d read, Annie still didn’t even fully understand what a hedge fund was. Sinclair had a degree from Princeton University, and she had a high school equivalency diploma. He’d been married twice, and she hadn’t even had a serious relationship. They had literally nothing in common, except that they both slept under the roof of this house—her far more often than him.

Another week went by with no sign of Sinclair. Then the weekend loomed again. Friday evenings always made her jumpy. That’s when the weekend guests would show up. Usually there was warning, but not always. She kept the house in a state of gleaming readiness, basics in the fridge, fresh sheets on the beds and fresh beach towels at the ready, just in case.

In the past she’d waited anxiously near a window, hoping that Sinclair would show up, preferably without some gym-toned investment banker girlfriend in tow. Today she chewed a nail. What if he did turn up with a woman? Could she greet him with her usual smile and offer to take their bags, as if she hadn’t felt his hot breath on her neck and his hands on her bare backside?

When a car pulled in, her blood pressure soared. She immediately recognized the sound of Sinclair’s engine. Fighting an urge to go hide in the pantry, she hurried to the window. Please let him not have a woman with him. Spare her that at least, until she’d had more time to forget the feel of his lips against hers.

She cringed when an elegantly coiffed blonde alighted from the passenger seat. Thanks, Sinclair. Maybe he wanted to let her know, in no uncertain terms, that there was no possible future between them. Not that his hasty and apologetic departure two weeks ago had left any doubts on that score. Should she greet them at the door?

She wanted to run out the back door and head for the train.

You’re a professional. You can do this. She patted her hair and straightened the front of her clean pink-and-white-striped Oxford shirt. If he could pretend nothing had happened, so could she. Sooner or later they’d talk about it, and maybe they’d laugh.

Or maybe they’d never mention it. It would just be one of those wild, crazy things that happened.

Except that they usually happened to people other than her.

She pulled open the front door. “Good evening.” Bracing herself against the supercilious presence of his newest lady, she nodded and smiled.

“Hello, Annie.” His rich voice stabbed her somewhere deep and painful. “You remember my mother, of course.”

Annie’s gaze snapped to the elegant blonde. “Mrs. Drummond, how lovely to see you!” Thin as a rail and tanned to a deep nut-brown at all times of year, Sinclair’s mother gave the appearance of being much younger than her fifty-odd years. She spent most of her time traveling on exotic art tours, and Annie hadn’t seen her for nearly eleven months. Now, in her neurotic state, she’d transformed her into an imaginary rival.

“Annie, darling, I do hope I won’t be a burden.” Her big, pale gray eyes looked slightly glassy, and her tan wasn’t quite as oaken as usual. “But the doctor says I’m out of the jaws of death and ready for some sea air.”

“Fantastic.” She hurried around to the trunk where Sinclair was retrieving their weekend bags. Then the rear passenger door of the car opened. She almost jumped. A tall, slender woman with dark hair climbed out, mumbling into a cell phone.

Annie’s heart sank. Just when she thought she’d dodged that bullet, here was the new girlfriend.

She reached for one of the expensive bags, but Sinclair muttered, “I’ve got them,” took them both and strode for the door. She quietly closed the trunk, painfully aware of how he’d avoided meeting her eyes.

“Mrs. Drummond, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea. If you’re allowed to drink tea, that is.”

She glanced back at the willowy young woman attempting to close the car door while juggling three large bags and her cell phone. It was probably in her job description to seize her bags with a smile, but she didn’t have it in her.

“Annie, dear, this is Vicki.” Mrs. Drummond indicated the girl, who looked up from her phone call long enough for a crisp smile.

Great. Vicki looked like exactly the kind of girl Sinclair didn’t need. Arrogant, cold and demanding. Shame, that seemed to be the kind of girl he liked.

Maybe he deserved them.

“Hello, Vicki. Let me take that.” Apparently she did have it in her, she thought, as she reached for the big silver bag with the D&G logo. Vicki, engrossed in her call, handed it over without a glance. Her sister always told her that she shouldn’t be waiting on these people hand and foot like an eighteenth-century parlor maid.

With a suppressed sigh, and of course, a polite smile, she led the way into the house, glad she’d kept it polished and ready as usual. Sinclair had disappeared, probably up to his room. With a heavy heart she climbed the stairs with Vicki’s bag in her hand. Vicki followed, laughing gaily into her phone. A glance into Mrs. Drummond’s usual suite confirmed that Sinclair had already dropped his mom’s bag on the bed. His room was the next one over, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if Vicki’s bag was supposed to go in there, too.

“You don’t think I’m going to sleep with Sin!” Vicki’s voice pealed down the hallway.

Annie wheeled around. Vicki strolled along the hallway laughing. “God, no. I don’t think I even slept with him when we were teens, but it’s so long ago I can’t remember.”

“Vicki can go in the blue suite,” said Mrs. Drummond.

“Perfect. Suits my mood.” Vicki stopped and rested a bag on her hip for a moment, giving Annie time to take in her skinny gray parachute pants and skimpy white tank top, with a strange silver symbol dangling from a chain between her high breasts.

Annie blinked. “Of course.” So Vicki wasn’t Sinclair’s new girlfriend. Apparently she was someone from his past.

“Vicki’s an old and dear friend of the family. I’m surprised you haven’t met her before, Annie.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of a visit to the Drummond manse,” said Vicki, hoisting her snakeskin clutch higher under her arm. “Funny how the years have slipped past. I’m thrilled to be here with you all.”

Annie caught what might have been the barest possible hint of sarcasm in her voice, and her back immediately stiffened. Was Vicki here to take advantage of their hospitality, then make fun of them? She certainly didn’t look like Sinclair’s usual friends, with their carefully coiffed blond hair and cashmere twinsets.

“And we’re thrilled to have you here, darling.” Mrs. Drummond walked up to Vicki, placed a hand on either side of her head, and gave her an effusive kiss on the cheek. Vicki’s eyes closed for a second, and her forehead wrinkled with a pained expression. Annie stood staring. She’d never seen such a display of emotion from Mrs. Drummond. “It’ll be like old times.”

“God, I hope not.” Vicki shook herself. “I do hate traveling backwards. But it is good to be among old friends.” She looked ahead down the hall. “Which is the blue one? I’m dying for a shower.”

Annie jolted from her semifrozen state. “Sorry, it’s this way. I’ll bring fresh towels. Do you need some shampoo and conditioner?”

“I’ve got everything I need except the running water.” Vicki’s gaze lingered on Annie a teeny bit longer than was conventional. Annie’s stomach clenched. She got a very odd—and not good—feeling about Vicki. Who was she, and why was she here?

For dinner, Annie prepared one of Katherine Drummond’s favorite meals, seared salmon with blackberry sauce, accompanied by tiny new potatoes and crisp green beans from the local farmers market.

“How lovely! Obviously Sinclair remembered to tell you we were coming. I’m never sure if he will.” Katherine shot a doting glance at her son.

Annie smiled, and avoided looking at Sinclair as she served them. Experience had taught her to be prepared for almost anything. And she did get real satisfaction from doing her job well. The room glowed with fresh beeswax candles handmade by a local artisan, and the windows sparkled, letting in the warm apricot light from the evening sun. If anything about the house was the least bit unwelcoming or unpleasant, it wasn’t from lack of effort on her part.

She leaned over Sinclair to top up his white wine. His dark hair touched his collar, in need of a haircut. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered its silky thickness under her fingers.

An odd sensation made her look up, and meet Vicki’s curious violet gaze. She turned away quickly and topped off Katherine’s glass, then Vicki’s. Had Vicki noticed her looking at Sinclair?

“It doesn’t seem entirely fair for Annie to be running around topping things off when she made this lovely meal.” Vicki’s silvery voice rang in the air. Annie winced.

“She’s right, of course,” chimed in Katherine. “Annie, dear. Do bring a plate and join us. We’re just family tonight, after all.” She reached across the table and took Vicki’s hand.

Vicki’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she held Katherine’s hand and smiled. “You’re so sweet.”

Annie hesitated, humiliation and mangled pride churning inside her. She’d been enjoying this meal as the server, but sitting down at the table with them opened all kinds of uncomfortable doors. How would she know when to get up and bring the next course? Should she join them for a glass of wine, or stick to water so as not to burn the chocolate soufflés? “I already ate, thank you.” The lie burned her tongue.

“Do join us anyway, won’t you?” Katherine indicated the empty chair next to Sinclair. “I’m dying to hear how your investigations in the attic are going.”

Annie pulled out the chair, which scraped loudly on the floor, and eased herself into it, as far away from Sinclair as possible. He hadn’t looked up from his salmon. Had he even glanced at her once all evening?

Better that he didn’t. She couldn’t bear the thought of him looking at her with disgust and disbelief at his lapse of judgment. “I’ve gone through quite a few of the old boxes and trunks. I’ve made an inventory. Shall I get it?” She itched to get up. At least her notes would give her something to do with her fingers.

“No need for that right now. I’m guessing you haven’t found the cup piece yet.”

Annie shook her head. “I’m looking at every item I pick up to see if it could possibly be part of a cup, but so far nothing even comes close. I don’t suppose there’s a description of it?”

Kathleen sipped her wine. “Only that it’s silver. It isn’t jewel-encrusted. In fact we suspect it’s not silver at all but pewter or some base metal. Odd, really, that something so precious to them would be so valueless.”

Vicki leaned back in her chair. “It demonstrates an awareness of human nature. If it had real value, someone might have melted it down or pried the gems off to make earrings. By making it valueless to anyone but the family, they ensured its survival. Was it contemporary to when the brothers sailed from Scotland?”

“We don’t know.” Katherine took a bite of her green beans. She ate very slowly and cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure whether the food was poisonous or not. Probably an effect of her illness, but it didn’t help Annie’s already frayed nerves. “The cup could be much older than three hundred years if it was passed down through the Drummond family before they came to America. No one knows where the legend about it first came from. When I first married Steven, Sinclair’s father …” she looked at Annie “… his mother was still alive and loved to tell stories of the family history. She often wondered aloud whether it was time for us to put some serious effort into finding the cup.” She raised a brow. “Her own marriage wasn’t a happy one, and all of her sons—including my own husband—were rather wild.”

She looked thoughtfully at Sinclair for a moment. He appeared to be engrossed in cutting a potato. “Since then I’ve often wondered if finding the cup would somehow shift the course of fate and make life easier for all members of the family.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Vicki. “The legend says it will restore the fates and fortunes of the Drummond menfolk, and I think as women we all know that makes life easier for us, too.”

Annie felt a nasty jolt of realization. Katherine Drummond had brought Vicki here in the hope that she really would become a member of the family—as Sinclair’s next wife.

A cold stone settled in her empty stomach.

“There are all kinds of interesting things up in the attic,” she said quickly, anxious to pull herself out of a self-involved funk. “So far I’ve found everything from an old hunting horn to a huge pearl brooch. That’s what made me decide to make a list. It would be a shame for so many special things to stay buried.”

“Sometimes keeping things buried keeps them safe,” replied Katherine with a slightly raised brow. “Especially in the age of eBay. Though I imagine Vicki might disagree.”

Vicki laughed. “I believe in matching objects with their ideal owner.”

“Vicki’s an antique dealer,” explained Katherine.

“Though some people have other words for it.” Vicki lifted a slim, dark brow. “After all, value is in the eye of the beholder.”

“I thought that was beauty.” Sinclair said what were possibly his first words of the whole dinner. A hush fell over the table.

“Aren’t they really the same thing?” Vicki picked up her wineglass and sipped, gaze fixed on Sinclair.

Annie swallowed. Vicki oozed confidence, both intellectual and sexual. Of course Sinclair would be interested in her. She, on the other hand … “Let me clear the dishes.” She rose and removed two of the serving platters.

“Value and beauty often have no relationship at all.” She heard Sinclair’s voice behind her as she exited for the kitchen. “Some of my most profitable investments have been in things that no one wants to look at: uranium, bauxite, natural gas.”

“So you most value things that are plain and dull.” Annie cringed as if Vicki’s comment was directed at his interest in her. Not that he had any obvious interest in her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t looked at her at all since their perfunctory greeting.

“I most value things that are useful.”

“What are we going to do with this son of yours?”

Annie scooped leftover potatoes into a plastic container to save for her own dinner.

“Well, Lord knows I’ve tried to loosen him up over the years, to no avail.” His mother’s voice carried from the dining room. “I think this legendary cup may be our only chance.” The women’s laughter hurt her ears. She was so clearly not a part of this tight-knit group.

And she’d better go retrieve the rest of the plates. She entered the dining room quietly. Conversation had shifted to some upcoming party. For a split second she felt like Cinderella, destined to help everyone get ready for the ball, knowing she’d never get to go.

She picked up the untouched plate of bread rolls, and couldn’t resist sneaking the briefest glance at Sinclair as she lifted it off the table. When she looked up, their eyes met.

His cool, dark gaze sent a chill through her, at war with the swift, hot wave of attraction. Then he looked away. “I’m going sailing tomorrow.” He spoke in his mother’s direction. “I’ll be gone all day.”

“All the more time for Vicki and myself to make ourselves at home in the attic.”

Annie’s hands trembled, clattering the two plates she carried. Was she being ousted from the task of looking for the cup? She realized with a pang of disappointment that she’d come to feel quite proprietary about the attic and its trove of discarded treasures.

Which was silly. None of them were hers and they never would be. That blue dress hung in the closet a few yards away from where she stood, in the spare bedroom. For a few brief moments it had felt like hers, like she was meant to wear it. In retrospect it had been wearing her, and had turned her—briefly—into another person. Maybe it was better that she stay away from all this odd old stuff with mysterious powers.

She carried the plates into the kitchen, scraped them and put them in the dishwasher. Her ears were pricked for the sound of Sinclair’s voice, but all she heard was the chatter of the two women.

He doesn’t care about you. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. An act of madness.

“Annie.” His voice right behind her made her jump. She wheeled around and saw him standing, larger than life, in the kitchen. “We need to talk.”

She gulped. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed. Stress had carved a line between his brows. “When we can be alone.”

She nodded, heart pounding. Sinclair turned and strode from the room, his powerful shoulders hunched slightly inside his starched shirt.

He’d been so taciturn tonight, barely joining the conversation. Was he thinking about her? She rinsed the cutlery and put it into the dishwasher. For a while she thought he’d simply pretend nothing had happened. He made no contact with her after they’d made love and two weeks had gone by. She’d almost started to believe she imagined the whole, crazy thing.

But now he wanted to be alone with her. Wanted to talk to her. Her blood pumped harder. Worst-case scenario, he wanted to fire her. Best-case scenario?

She chewed her lip.

“Annie, darling, could you bring more Chablis?”

She wiped her hands on a towel and headed for the wine cellar.

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