Cinderella and the Playboy / The Texan's Happily-Ever-After (9 page)

I'll drop them at the cleaners after work tomorrow, she thought. Along with the top. Then I'll mail them back to Chance.

She pulled the tank off over her head, folding it neatly atop the slacks, before she turned on the sink taps. Cupping her hands, she splashed cool water on her face, reaching blindly for a hand
towel. She blotted moisture from her skin before tugging the band from her ponytail. As it pulled free and let her hair tumble about her shoulders, she ran her fingertip over the base of her throat. The gesture was pure habit. She'd worn the locket with Annie's picture and lock of hair since her daughter was born.

But this time…the chain wasn't there.

Dismayed, Jennifer stared with consternation at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she'd been wearing it earlier in the day when she'd dressed to go out to brunch. Frowning, she mentally reviewed the afternoon and realized that the last time she'd noticed the locket was after they'd returned to the town house. Chance had rushed her upstairs and stripped off their clothes before tossing her on the bed. He'd joined her immediately and she remembered the slide of cool metal over her skin when Chance's lips brushed the locket aside, replacing it with his mouth.

Maybe I lost it in his bed,
she thought. She hoped the locket had ended up tangled in Chance's sheets rather than broken and lost on the street or the bus.

She would have to call Chance and ask if he'd found her missing locket. Misgiving warred with delight at the thought. She wasn't sure she had the fortitude to walk away from him a second time.

The night with Chance was a fairy tale—a few days stolen for herself, Jennifer thought later that evening.

With Annie tucked into bed after telling Jennifer about the fun things she did with Linda's children, Jennifer walked back into the living room and dropped onto the sofa.

She switched on the television, browsing through channels with the remote control and finally settling on a news station. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a white cotton camisole, she tucked her legs under her and stared blindly at the TV screen. She couldn't make herself care about the political news or the latest scandal caused by a local state representative.

She couldn't stop thinking about Chance.

It wasn't just the sex—which had been amazing. It was his sense of humor, the discovery that they both loved or disliked some of the same movies. They'd argued hotly in defense of book titles the other had merely shrugged over but, each time, the contention had ended with laughter and kisses.

She'd never met anyone like Chance before.

And now that her night with him was over, she had to admit that spending time with him meant more to her than a brief, spicy interlude to her nonexistent dating life.

She had feelings for him. She wasn't sure
exactly what those feelings were, or how deeply they ran, but the ache in her heart wasn't simple. That nothing could ever grow between them only made her chest hurt more.

There was no possible future between a waitress at the Coach House Diner and a doctor at the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Their lives were too different; the disparity in their background and income too great. She wouldn't see him anymore, outside the diner.

Jennifer knew it was for the best but somehow the thought of going back to pouring Chance his morning coffee while knowing she'd never be more than a one-time date made her pain grow.

It's no good yearning for the moon, she told herself stoutly, wiping dampness from her cheeks. I knew when I agreed to go out with him that it was a one-shot deal. No future dates, no building dreams of a relationship.

She switched off the television and the living-room lights, entering her bedroom where the bedside lamp threw a pool of soft white over her solitary bed.

It's time for Cinderella to go back to her real life,
she told herself as she climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness except for the faint glimmers from the streetlights outside marking the edges of the window blinds.

Resolutely, she closed her eyes but when at last she slept, she dreamed of Chance.

Chance had barely shrugged into his lab coat on Monday when the phone on his desk rang. The caller was Paul Armstrong's secretary, who relayed a message that he was needed in Paul's office immediately.

Wondering what could possibly have happened to impact his research funding this time, he left his office and headed down the hall.

He tapped on the half-open door to Paul's office and stepped inside. “Morning, Paul…Ramona.”

“Good morning, Chance.” Paul leaned against the front of his desk, hands tucked into his slacks pockets. Ramona Tate, the institute's blonde, blue-eyed public relations expert—and Paul's fiancée—smiled warmly.

Chance didn't miss the worry on both their faces, however, and he mentally braced himself. “Is everything all right?”

“I'm afraid not,” Paul said grimly. “There's no easy way to tell you this so I'll just say it—a former patient has filed a paternity suit and named you as the father of her baby.”

Chance was stunned. Of all the possible subjects for bad news, this one had never occurred to him.

“That's crazy,” he said when he could speak. “Totally insane. Who filed the suit?”

“Georgina Appleby.”

Chance bit off a curse.

“I know.” Paul grimaced, shifting to cross his arms across his chest. “The institute is behind you one hundred percent in this, Chance. Whatever we can do to help, we will. Just let us know.”

“I'm so sorry,” Ramona said with sympathy. “The timing of this lawsuit is just terrible. You've barely had time to relax after proving how false those outrageous allegations were about funding for your research with Ted.”

“I have no doubt you'll win the day in this, too,” Paul told him resolutely.

“Thanks.” Chance frowned and raked one hand through his hair, thinking out loud. “I should call my attorney. Has the institute been officially served with copies of the documents?”

“Yes. I had my secretary run a copy for you.” Paul picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Chance. He turned back to his desk and picked up a copy of the
Boston Herald,
passing that over, as well. “The newspapers already have the details.”

Chance took the paper, folded open to the society page. Heavy black marker circled two paragraphs of the
gossip column with quotes from Georgina Appleby. “She stops just short of slander,” he said grimly.

“No one who knows you will believe it,” Ramona stated firmly.

“Maybe,” Chance commented, rereading the last paragraph, coldly furious. “I'd like to take this to my attorney, as well.”

“Keep it,” Paul told him. “I read it on the way to work this morning.”

“I'd also like to take a short leave of absence to deal with this,” Chance suggested. “The smear against my reputation is probably unavoidable, at least temporarily, but I don't want to damage the institute's image with bad personal publicity.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Paul said.

“Thanks. My hope is that my attorney can expedite arrangements for an HLA paternity test. Once the results are back, I can prove the case has no merit and I can come back to work. Without being followed by reporters and bad press,” he added, shaking his head.

“Sounds good,” Paul replied.

“I didn't get to see much of you at the Founder's Ball,” Chance noted in a purposely abrupt change of subject.

“We saw you with a stunningly lovely blonde
woman,” Ramona commented, following his lead. “But you left before we had a chance to learn who she was.”

“I'm keeping her identity a secret,” Chance told her with a faint grin.

“Oh, yeah?” Paul lifted an eyebrow, the look he gave Chance speculative.

“Yeah.” Chance didn't respond further, guessing that Paul had picked up on the possessive note in his voice. “How's your mother, Ramona?”

Ramona brightened, exchanging a quick glance with Paul. “My half sister, Victoria, has agreed to donate bone marrow so I'm very hopeful that her prognosis will improve.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Chance told her. “Very glad.”

“Dr. Armstrong?” Paul's secretary tapped on the door panel, then peered into the room. “I'm so sorry to intrude, but Senator Johnson is on the line. He wants to talk to you about a potential donation from a constituent.”

“I'm sorry, Chance. I have to take this call.” Paul pushed away from the desk.

“Of course. I'll let you know about any developments.” Chance headed for the door.

“Take care,” Ramona called after him. “Remember, we're here if there's anything we can do to help.”

“I appreciate that.” Chance lifted a hand in reply
and left the office, striding down the hallway and back to his own office.

He shrugged out of his lab coat and pulled on his leather jacket. Within seconds, he left the office with the sheaf of lawsuit papers in his hand. His partner, Ted, was at his desk and apparently deeply immersed in a report when Chance paused in the doorway.

“Hey, Ted.” He waited until Ted looked up. “I'll be out of the office for a few days but if anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

Ted blinked in surprise, frowning. “What's up? You okay?”

“I'm fine.” Chance lifted the lawsuit documents. Ted's gaze flicked to the papers and he frowned as he looked back at Chance. Before he could ask, Chance interrupted him. “Long story. I'll explain later.”

“All right.”

Chance nodded and turned to leave, stopping when Ted called after him. “Hey, if you need me, call.”

Chance glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “I will. A guy never knows when he might need help disposing of a body. I'll keep you on speed dial.”

Ted snorted and Chance strode off down the hall.

It was good to know he had friends who would stand by him if he needed help.

Not that he'd need help with this, he thought with
a dismissive frown. Georgina Appleby was a young woman with emotional problems. Even if he'd wanted to compromise his professional principles to sleep with her, her emotional vulnerability would have stopped him.

He'd been concerned about her stability when she'd originally come to him for help with fertility issues. His doubts had deepened when her actions became erratic. He'd referred her to a fellow physician who specialized in patients with her particular combination of conception problems and emotional issues.

Though he'd known she was emotionally unstable, it hadn't occurred to him to consider whether she was mentally unbalanced.

Which is what she must be to file a paternity suit when a blood test will easily prove I'm not the father of her child, he thought grimly. He could only imagine the kind of lawyer who would agree to take such a frivolous case.

He dialed his attorney's office while walking to his car and having confirmed a meeting within a half hour, drove away from the institute. The route to his attorney's office took him down the street, past the Coach House Diner.

Damn it,
he thought with frustration. He didn't want to spend the day fighting another unfounded
allegation against his good name. He'd been scheduled to run a test analysis in the research lab today. Then he'd planned to order a dozen roses and knock on Jennifer's door to deliver them in person. The night she'd spent in his bed had rocked his world and he was uncharacteristically unsure of her. He felt driven to cement their connection as soon as possible.

He smacked the heel of his hand against the leather-covered steering wheel in frustration. He had to get rid of the paternity suit and return to his normal life—and Jennifer.

The meeting with his attorney went well. He advised Chance to go home and search through his patient files to identify all contact with Georgina Appleby. The attorney wanted details of each time she'd had an appointment with Chance.

He had also been adamant that Chance maintain a low profile—and specifically told him not to date anyone, warning him that he was likely to be followed by reporters in search of fuel for the gossip columns.

Their conversation convinced Chance that he needed to protect Jennifer from unwanted publicity—which meant that just as he would stay away from the Armstrong Fertility Institute offices, he also had to stay away from the diner.

Fortunately, an appointment for the HLA blood
test was set within the week and once the results were back, Chance knew he'd be cleared—and free to see Jennifer again.

Still, putting his plans on hold, though necessary to protect her, didn't sit well.

He dialed her home number from his cell phone but reached her answering machine. Finally, unwilling to explain the situation without speaking to her in person, he left a brief explanation telling her that something important had come up and he would be in touch in about a week.

Edgy and restless, frustrated that he hadn't been able to talk to Jennifer in person, he drove home. His neighborhood was bursting with spring color—pale green leaves unfurling on trees and window boxes blooming with brilliant purple, blue, yellow and pink flowers. Although he'd chosen to buy his town house in part because of the charming neighborhood, today Chance barely noticed his surroundings. He was preoccupied with how much he'd wanted to talk to Jennifer in person. If he couldn't see her, he needed to hear her voice.

He tossed his car keys on the kitchen's tiled island countertop and switched on the coffeemaker. Within moments, the aroma of brewing coffee filled the air. Just as the timer beeped to announce the
coffee was ready to pour, the door knocker sounded, its rapping echoing through the entryway and into the kitchen.

Chance strode down the hallway and pulled open the door. A distinguished, silver-haired man in a gray suit stood on the porch, a chauffeur-driven, long black town car parked at the curb behind him.