The Cinderella Seduction: A Suddenly Cinderella Novel (Entangled Indulgence) (17 page)

Epilogue

Upper East Side, Manhattan

July 4, One Year Later

Seated beside Stefanie, Nick lifted his wineglass in toast, gaze honing in on their host and hostess batting smiles back and forth from the head and foot of the red-white-and-blue cloth-draped table. “To our dear friends, Greg and Francesca, we thank you for your gracious hospitality in hosting us for your Independence Day celebrations—and congratulations on your engagement!”

Raised glasses, cheers and shouts of “here, here!” traveled the four corners of the apartment’s open dining room. Feeling fortunate indeed, Stefanie scanned the guests’ beaming faces: Greg and Francesca, Ross and Macie, and Macie’s stylist friend Franc and his husband, Nathan, recently returned from LA. Samantha and Mara had retreated to hang out in the living room but would be brought back for dessert.

Only Starr and Matt were missing. The newlyweds, also newly pregnant, planned to join them for the Macy’s-sponsored fireworks later that evening. In her first trimester, Starr was sensitive to scents, foods especially. Laying a hand atop her own burgeoning belly, Stefanie was thankful her pregnancy nausea had ended after the first few weeks.

Taking a sip of milk, she glanced at her husband’s handsome profile. After almost a year together and now with a baby on the way, she still found him as swoon-worthy as ever, even more so. “A Fourth of July engagement party is a great idea. I wish we’d thought of it.”

Their October wedding had been celebrated in Crete, accompanied by the traditional feasting, drinking, and dancing, all of which had lasted into the next morning. Though in the process of divorcing, her father had been there to give her away. Nick’s audit had revealed that Jacquie’s wrongful expensing in support of her lavish lifestyle was the least of her sins. A second set of books showed she’d been skimming funds for years, including taking kickbacks from construction companies in return for ensuring that their bids were accepted. It was no wonder Acropolis Village had been behind schedule from the start. Slowly the money was being recovered and the construction completed. Thanks to Nick’s new marketing campaign, nearly 90 percent of the units were sold. What had been a mud pit was now a thriving Greek American retirement community.

All of her friends had been able to make the trip over as well. Macie had been her matron of honor, Mara the adorable flower girl. Turning the catering over to staff supervised by her soon to be mother-in-law, Hermione, had called for a fair degree of self-restraint but as everyone had pointed out, being a bride was a full-time job. A monthlong honeymoon exploring Greece had followed. Her long awaited “dream vacation” had finally come true and then some.

Beneath the table, Nick’s fingers laced through hers. Turning to face her, he lifted her hand to his lips, the light caress causing her to shiver. In a voice meant for all to hear, he answered, “That would have meant waiting a year to marry you and that, my darling Stefanie, I was not prepared to do.”

Giggles from the women and groans from the men traveled the table.

Reaching for another caviar deviled egg, Ross glanced at Macie. “Nick, have a heart. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“Quite,” Franc put in, forking up a bite of braised beef rib and popping it into Nathan’s mouth.

“I just bought a diamond, so I’m pretty sure I get to coast on that for a few more days at least,” Greg put in, shooting his wife to be a wink.

“I should say so.” Smiling blithely from the far end of the table, Francesca waved her left hand in the air, the vintage canary diamond bringing to mind the stones in their communal Cinderella slippers. Prior to everyone sitting down, the ring had been passed around and duly admired by all the females present. “The only things I adore more than this ring are you and Samantha.”

Thinking how far they’d all come since last year’s celebration in DC, Stefanie squeezed Nick’s hand beneath the table. “I can’t wait for the fireworks later.” She turned to their hostess. “And, Francesca, the food is fantastic.”

Emerging from the living room, Samantha carried her plate up to the table for seconds. “Yeah, Mom, it sure is. I haven’t had truffle mac n’ cheese like this in a l-o-n-g time,” she said, piling on more pasta.

Macie held up her hands in mock surrender. “What can I say, kid, I may not be much in the kitchen, but I’m the queen of carryout.”

“You sure are, honey.” Ross leaned over and planted a smacker on his wife’s cheek. “Though you do make a helluva huevos rancheros.”

Macie’s laughing gaze moistened to melting. Using her thumb, she wiped a dab of barbecue sauce from the corner of her husband’s grinning mouth. “I ought to. I learned from the best.” She shot Stefanie a wink.

Expression amused, Francesca said, “Finding a competent caterer is half the battle, isn’t it?” Looking down the table to Greg, seated closest to the open kitchen, she added, “Darling, can you check in with our culinary lovebirds and see where they are with serving dessert?”

“Sure thing, babe.” Greg turned and called toward the kitchen, “Fred, Deidre, can you put a move on the menu? We’re ready for the strawberry shortcake.”

Makeup melting and short, blond hair sticking out in all directions, fashion photographer and erstwhile reality TV coach Deidre Dupree stomped out from the kitchen, an apron tied about her black linen shift dress. “Hold your horses, we’re working as fast as we can back here, aren’t we, sugar plum?”

Sugar Plum, a twentysomething man wearing a chef’s jacket and a nearly soaked-through head scarf, frowned out the open kitchen at Francesca. “Dee’s deal with you, which I had no part in, was dinner for four, not nine.”

“I make
ten
,” Mara called out from the other room. “Can’t you count?”

The table roared.

Dabbing at her eyes, Francesca answered, “True, but you might consider the difference as payment in part for the year I allowed you to live here rent-free.” She swung her head to Deidre. “And considering it’s taken you more than a year to honor our wager, which
you
proposed, adding additional guests as interest is only fair.”

That shut them both up.

Watching Deidre slink back inside the kitchen with her lover, Stefanie bit her lip against laughing. Chef Freddie, Stefanie had learned, was Francesca’s former boyfriend. Deidre had snapped him up to be her latest boy toy, flaunting the relationship to fuel an old feud between the two photographers. Her further scheming on the set of
Project
Cinderella
had caused Francesca and Greg to break up—nearly for good. Upholding her end of their bet on the show’s winner—Greg—was the very least she could do.

Still, old habits were the hardest to break. Stefanie pushed back from the table. “I’ll go in and help them.”

A chorus of “Nos” greeted that proclamation, Nick’s voice leading. “For once, Mrs. Costas, you are going to sit and be served if I have to tie you down.” A wicked smile and the brush of his thumb over an especially sensitive spot on the inside of her wrist accompanied the “warning.”

Mrs. Costas. Coming up on their first year anniversary, Stefanie should be used to the title but hearing Nick address her as such never failed to melt her. Giving up, she settled back into her seat. “I’ll try.”

Mara popped her head inside the dining room alcove. “We’re having strawberry shortcake!”

After almost a year of living in the US, she was expanding her roster of approved desserts, although Stefanie’s baklava still led the list. Once Acropolis was complete and Stefanie’s baby safely delivered, they would return to Greece for six months. Nick was eager to get back to Crete to oversee Phase II of the new convent orphanage. With Olympia once more operating in the black, the dividends from his and Stefanie’s shares had enabled him to expand the project plans beyond its original scope. For her part, Stefanie had fallen head over heels in love with her adopted homeland. Then again, it was the birthplace of her beloved mother and now her adored husband.

Stefanie waved her over to join them. “You bet we are, baby.”

Trotting over to burrow in between her and Nick, Mara laid her hand lightly atop Stefanie’s stomach. “I’m tired of waiting. Is the baby here yet, Mama?” She’d already put in her “order” for a brother, although Stefanie and Nick were keeping the sex as a secret until the big day.

Everyone laughed. Stefanie shook her head. “No, not yet, sweetie, though hopefully dessert will arrive soon.”

A smile erased Mara’s momentary disappointment. “This is the best Fourth of July ever!”

Looking between her handsome husband and their adorable daughter to their circle of smiling friends, Stefanie felt a wave of gratitude wash over her.

Eyes filling with happy tears, she said, “Yes, sweetie, it absolutely is.”

…

Eternity AKA The Great Beyond

Standing at the portal looking down onto Earth, screen legend and now spirit guide Maddie Mulligan took in the festive scene with Carlos Banks, her likewise-departed husband.

“I do so love a good party,” Maddie enthused, clasping satin-gloved hands. “Only where is the champagne fountain? You can’t have a proper party without bubbles.”

Beneath his immaculate mustache, Carlos smiled. “As in Life, my love, your wish is my command.”

He snapped his fingers, and a marble fountain spraying pink champagne appeared beside them. A second snap brought two fluted glasses materializing in midair. He retrieved them and filled each in turn.

Handing one to his wife, he raised his glass in salute. “Brava, my darling, you’ve done it! All four of our Cinderellas are settled Happily Ever After with their soul mates.”

Taking a sip of her champagne, Maddie nodded. “First Macie and Ross, then Starr and Matt, followed by Francesca and Greg, and lastly Stefanie and Nick—it’s been quite a journey for everyone.”

“For us as well.” Carlos lowered his glass. “Time to retire the shoes, I should think. Perhaps we could arrange to have one of our protégées donate them to the proper museum, somewhere they’ll be displayed for others to see and enjoy?”

Maddie glanced down to her feet, shod in red velvet heels festooned with canary-colored stones, the divine replica of the physical shoes on the earth plane. “There is the Museum of the Moving Picture in Queens, I suppose,” she suggested with half a heart.

The pitched voice of a young woman, still a girl, pierced through the stratosphere of pink clouds, floating angel fluff, and the ubiquitous harp music. “But, Dad, that is so not fair!”

Maddie and Carlos exchanged alarmed looks. “Oh, dear, don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise so soon?” she said.

Holding hands, the dearly departed pair edged closer to the portal and peered down to Francesca’s flat. Samantha Mannon paraded about the parlor, the cuffs of her denim trousers rolled up past her ankles, her feet tucked into the red velvet slippers.

Voice gruff, Ross, her father, said, “No seventeen-year-old needs vintage shoes, or vintage anything for that matter. They’re too adult for you. Take them off and give them back—now!”

She folded her arms and glared. “But Mom and Macie promised it would be my turn next!

“She’s right, we sort of did,” Macie answered, shooting a beseeching glance at Francesca.

“We can’t keep her as a little girl forever,” Francesca said around a sigh.

Expression exasperated, Samantha looked to each of the assembled adults in turn. Other than her father, the men remained wisely silent. “Do I really need to remind you all that I go to college in the fall?”

Pulling back from the portal, Maddie murmured, “They do fit her perfectly.”

“But she’s a child yet,” Carlos protested, sounding much like Samantha’s father.

“Yes, she is,” Maddie agreed. “But children grow up. I was not much older than Samantha when I left Dublin for Hollywood to find my fortune—and my True Love.”

Softening, he said, “Since you put it that way—”

“Mind you, the decision is not ours to make,” Maddie broke in. “The shoes only fit those whom they are meant to guide toward Happily Ever After.”

Knowing that was true, Carlos heaved a sigh. He looked down at his half-finished champagne, hesitated, and then blinked the fountain and glasses back into oblivion. “Are you saying we haven’t yet earned our retirement? Must we labor to bring about another Happily Ever After for another headstrong young woman?”

Maddie reached out and laid her gloved hand on the lapel of his smoking jacket. “Perhaps we must, my dear Carlos, someday soon—but not quite yet.”

Acknowledgments

As I wind up my Suddenly Cinderella series, I’d like to thank the following: my team of talented editors, Stacy Cantor Abrams with assistance from Alycia Tornetta; Danielle Barclay, Jessica Estep, and Barbara Hightower for doing such a diligent job of publicizing the books; and of course my wonderful agent, Louise Fury for everything—always.

For years I’ve signed off on my blog posts, e-mails, and books with the sentiment, “Wishing you fairy tale dreams come true.” Heartfelt thanks to Entangled publisher Liz Pelletier for providing such a dream home for my series.

About the Author

Award-winning author Hope Tarr earned a master’s degree in psychology and a PhD in education before facing the hard truth: she wasn’t interested in analyzing people or teaching them. What she really wanted was to write about them! Hope has written more than twenty historical and contemporary romance novels for multiple publishers and is also a cofounder and a current curator of Lady Jane’s Salon® New York City’s first and only monthly romance reading series, now in its fifth year with seven satellite salons nationwide. Find Hope online at her websites at
www.HopeTarr.com
and
www.LadyJaneSalonNYC.com
as well as on
Twitter
(@HopeTarr),
Goodreads
(
www.Goodreads.com/HopeTarr
) and
Facebook
(
www.Facebook.com/HopeC.Tarr
).

Check out the first chapter from
A Cinderella Christmas Carol
!

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, December 24th

Union Square, Manhattan, New York

“Happy Holidays, Ms. S.”

Standing in her apartment building’s marbled lobby, managing editor of
On Top
magazine Cynthia Starling—Starr—scowled at her doorman’s grinning face. Even in the midst of pulling a double shift on Christmas Eve, Jimmie was so chock-full of holiday cheer it was almost sickening. Strike the almost—it
was
sickening.

He let the glass door fall gently closed behind her, his thin navy uniform scant protection against the raw, gusty evening. “Got big plans?” His eagle-eyed gaze rested pointedly on the plastic bag of takeout Thai food weighing down her left arm.

Starr swallowed a groan and settled for a noncommittal shrug. Doormen were notorious gossips, and a nice guy like Jimmie was no exception. She thought wistfully of her former Brooklyn Heights pre-war walkup with its creaking pipes, cracked plasterwork—and patina of privacy. Her current sleek new building boasted an onsite laundry room, gym, and a rooftop deck, not to mention its posh Union Square location, a mere ten-minute subway commute to the
On Top
offices. Still, at times such as this, she’d gladly sacrifice the luxury and convenience to be able to slip in and out without an audience.

Jimmie walked over to the kidney-shaped front desk, its glossy maple veneer buried beneath stacks of newly delivered parcels. “Before I forget, something came for you this morning.”

“Great,” she said, glancing down at her already full arms. Another holdup, just what she needed. Would this day—this
holiday
—never end?

Jimmie darted behind the desk. Burrowing through the piles, he brought out a medium-size box covered in plain brown packing paper and handed it to her. “Hope it’s just what you asked Santa for.”

Santa—oh, puh-lease!
“Yeah, whatever, it’s probably a work thing, but thanks.”

Her gaze zoned in on the return address, and she snatched it, pulse picking up. Although there was no name, the Washington, D.C., address gave her a pretty good idea of the sender.

Macie Freakin’ Graham!

She hadn’t spoken to her former features editor since Macie had gone rogue on her that autumn, falling for the subject of her undercover investigation—famous radio personality Ross Mannon—and quitting not only the story but also the magazine, right in the middle of Starr’s staff meeting, no less. That Mannon had once done his damnedest to take down the magazine was apparently forgiven and forgotten in the hormone rush that Macie’s month-long masquerade as his housekeeper must have released.

So much for five years of grooming! So much for gratitude! If it hadn’t been for Starr, Macie would still be writing engagement announcements for her hometown newspaper. At the very least, Macie might have given her a heads-up on the whole quitting thing. Still, a part of Starr—the squishy soft part she worked really hard to hide—wasn’t only professionally put out but personally hurt. Over the course of five years of shared Fine Wine Fridays and Sushi Saturdays at
On Top
, plus the occasional movie and drinks meet-up outside of work, she’d thought she and Macie had become more than just boss and employee, that on some level they were…
friends
.

Lesson learned.

So far she’d refused to reply to the wedding invitation along with Macie’s other overtures—e-mails, texts, and even a few sad-sounding voice messages. If Graham—make that Graham-
Mannon
—thought she could soften her up with some bullshit holiday peace offering, she was about to learn otherwise. Still, being human meant being, on some level, curious. She’d take the box up to her apartment, allow herself a quick peek inside, and then give it to Jimmie with instructions to ship it back.

“Thanks.” She tucked the parcel beneath her arm and turned to go.

Jimmie’s voice stalled her. “Look, Ms. S., I was just wondering if you maybe don’t have plans for tomorrow”—once again his gaze slid down to the takeout bag knocking against her knee—“maybe you’d like to join me and my family at the homeless shelter for women and kids in Astor Place. They put on a big Christmas spread every year. My wife and kids help with serving the food, and I dress up as Santa. We’ve been going every Christmas Day for five years now, and I wouldn’t miss it. If you could see the smiles on those little kids’ faces when…”

He bleated on, but Starr tuned him out. If Jimmie wanted to spend his day off stuffed inside a Santa suit, that was his business, but Starr considered holiday-inspired volunteerism a crock. Being charitable one day a year might make do-gooders like Jimmie feel all soft and gooey inside, but people needed to eat three hundred and sixty-five days a year, not only on December twenty-fifth.

Aiming her gaze at the bank of elevators, one of which was out of order yet again, she shook her head. “I have other plans, but thanks.”

It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. She did have plans—plans to spend the holiday home alone with her cat—but that didn’t mean Jimmie’s was her only invitation. There had been another—from the magazine’s new art director, Matt Landry.

With his sexy half smile, washboard abs hinted at beneath his T-shirts, and hazel eyes that shifted from mostly blue to mostly green with mesmerizing swiftness, Landry was too hot for her to manage as she did the other members of her team and too damned good at his job for her to do anything other than get out of his way. Being anywhere in his vicinity turned her insides to Jell-O and other parts of her to the scalding liquid mocha lava cake they’d featured in December’s food column. The degree to which she’d noticed him, every nuance of him, from that very first interview seven months earlier had alarmed her. It
still
alarmed her. At thirty-four—okay, soon-to-be thirty-five—she was too old to indulge in an office crush, but also sufficiently senior that she couldn’t risk letting it become anything more. And then there was the issue of their not-exactly-insignificant age gap. Landry might have the aura of an old soul, but his smoking hot body had walked the earth for just twenty-eight years.

For a guy still in his twenties who’d spent most of that time in his native Florida, he’d amassed an impressive portfolio. Even the low-profile catalogue and hotel brochure stuff had blown her away with its unique vision and edgy creativity. His was a high-energy vibe that
On Top
needed to tap into. To live up to the boast of its name, the magazine needed more than a new logo. It needed a fresh vision, an artistic voice that would resonate with its Generation-Y readership. Leafing through his book, Starr had quietly conceded that Matthew Gabriel Landry was the very best candidate for the job. She couldn’t exactly justify not hiring him simply because she didn’t trust herself around him. Time was money and interviewing candidates took up both. Besides, a stud like Landry probably had a harem of twenty-something twits on the hook. She’d figured on being more or less invisible to him as a woman.

She’d figured wrong.

That evening, while cramming papers into her laptop case in preparation for leaving, she’d had the sudden disconcerting sense of being watched. She’d looked up—and found Landry standing in her open office doorway, his intense hazel eyes stroking over her, the shifting sands of his irises caressing her face. The times when he showed up unexpectedly, and her guard was down and her will weak, the brilliance of his beauty seemed to burn her aquamarine eyes to ash and drain the last drop of moisture from her mouth.

“What is it, Landry?” she’d snapped, and immediately felt the hot sting of a blush strike her cheeks, her redhead’s porcelain complexion, as always, a dead giveaway.

He’d hesitated, the fluorescent hallway lights haloing his shoulder-length hair—the wavy chestnut locks freed from his customary work ponytail. “A group of us is going for drinks. You know, chill out and celebrate tomorrow being a holiday. I—
we
—were wondering if you might want to come with.”

She’d shoved a copper-colored curl out of her eyes and let out a brittle laugh to cover her heart’s wild drumming. “And risk being lynched? I don’t think so. Thanks but no thanks.”

It might be Christmas week but the magazine world had already moved on to Valentine’s. As the month of hearts and flowers, February was their single biggest seller of subscriptions and generator of ad revenue. It was also scarily behind schedule, and with Macie’s replacement yet to be found, Starr was seriously short-staffed on the editorial side. To make up the missed time, she’d told her entire team, including Landry, to be back in the office on December twenty-sixth. She’d never been exactly popular with her people, but the tough decision to curtail Christmas vacations had hefted the bar toward hate.

The December holiday-themed issue had come out weeks ago. She mentally ticked off the article titles and taglines.
Cuddling up on Christmas Eve, Latest Lingerie Trends and Mistletoe Must-Haves, What to Wear (and NOT to Wear) to Sleigh Him on New Year’s Eve
, and, of course, the latest reworked take on what was pretty much every month’s anchor story: sex.
Hanukkah Hankie Panky and Christmas Canoodling: Seven Sexy Secrets to Have Him Ho-Ho-Hoing in the Sack
. Imagining canoodling with Landry beneath a brightly lit Christmas tree—the silken feel of his taut, Florida-tanned flesh bared and rippling beneath her fingertips, her wearing skimpy scarlet lingerie and five fewer pounds—shot a quiver of desire through her.

“The way you’re smiling, Ms. S., you must be planning on some serious celebrating for sure.”

Snapped back to attention, Starr spied the knowing smile on Jimmie’s face and felt hers flame. “My plans aren’t anyone’s business.”

Like a bum Christmas tree bulb, Jimmie’s smile flickered to blackout. “Sorry about that, Ms. S. You have a good hol—
time
whatever you do.”

Eager to escape, she marched over to the working elevator and jabbed the button. Tapping her foot as the floor numbers dipped downward with maddening slowness, she silently ticked off her to-do list. Most of the action items had been taken care of earlier, if not altogether crossed off. Still, the sense of having let something slip nagged at her. The elevator landed—finally!—and the double doors pulled back. She stepped swiftly inside and pressed the fifth floor and close buttons before anyone could join her. Not that there were many people left around. The one upside to Christmas was it emptied out the building. By now, more than half of her fellow residents would have left the city for somewhere else, somewhere they identified as “home.” The laundry room, gym, and elevator would be more or less hers until Sunday night.

Watching the elevator climb to her floor, she couldn’t wait to get inside her apartment. Christmas Day might be a load of crap—it
was
a load of crap—but it was still a day off. A day to read, to marathon watch all the TV she missed during the week, and to chill out with her Maine Coon cat, Molly Jane. Hers might not be a storybook existence, but at least she was living in reality, not some glittery Christmas Fools’ Paradise.

But the biggest reason of all for spending the holiday alone, the reason for the single Crumbs cupcake tucked inside the top of her takeout bag, was that tomorrow wasn’t
only
Christmas Day. Crappy Christmas was also her crappy birthday, her
thirty-fifth
.

Yes, Virginia, there was a Santa Claus—and in Starr’s case the Jolly Old Elf had pulled double duty as Santa Stork.