The Cinderella Seduction: A Suddenly Cinderella Novel (Entangled Indulgence) (4 page)

She stepped out of the shower, bundled herself into her terrycloth robe, and walked up to the mirrored vanity. Using kitchen utensils was second nature but styling products and tools still felt foreign in her hands. She picked up the rounded styling brush and the hair dryer and got to work, mimicking the movements Macie’s DC stylist had taught her. Switching off the dryer, she admitted the result was surprisingly good.

Chopped to just below shoulder length and with her formerly heavy bangs swept to the side and softened into face-framing layers, her new haircut made her look and feel like a different person—a woman a visiting Greek tycoon might find worthy of a second glance, maybe even more. Bolstered by the beaming smiles of Macie and the stylist and the fizzy wine they’d fed her, she’d even let herself be persuaded into “playing with color.” The caramel highlights were a subtle touch that added texture and volume to the cut’s chic simplicity. Given she’d be serving food, she settled on a softly upswept French twist, following Macie’s suggestion to loosen a few face-framing tendrils.

Next was makeup. Surveying the baffling array of brushes, she took a deep breath and dove in. Twenty minutes later, she stepped back to evaluate her handiwork. The smoky shadow and smudged liner accentuated her eyes, which until now she’d always thought of as “boring old brown.” Freed from glasses and framed by mascara-lacquered lashes, they didn’t look boring at all but large, even luminous. A dusting of blush brought out cheekbones she hadn’t realized she had. Lining her lips with a peach-colored pencil and filling in with like-colored lipstick made the mouth she’d always thought of as too wide look lush instead.

A spring in her step, she padded out into the bedroom. The lapis-colored belted swing dress was an eye-catching alternative to black with a similar slimming effect, or so Macie had said. Unused to wearing anything remotely fitted, she’d required considerable coaxing to even try it on but had been pleasantly surprised. The dress had seemed to peel off ten pounds.

She took a deep breath and unbelted her robe. Letting it slide, she reached for the dress. She stepped into it and brought it up over her legs, buttocks, and shoulders. She reached for the zipper tab and, out of habit, sucked in her stomach. There was no need. The zipper glided effortlessly upward, its metal teeth closing without a hitch. Letting out her breath, she stuck her feet into strappy white kitten heels and stepped up to the full-length mirror anchored to the closet door.

“Wow,” she said, belatedly realizing she’d spoken aloud.

She scarcely recognized herself. The polished, put-together woman who stared back at her might not be a perfect ten, but she was…inviting. She hadn’t dropped a pound and yet for the first time in her adult life she felt genuinely sexy and pretty.

Keeping watch on the time, she went downstairs to begin boxing up the dishes. In the midst of doing so, her cell phone sounded. The theme to
Zorba the Greek
identified the caller as her pop.

Holding the phone to her ear and pulling plastic wrap over a cheese and olive platter, she said, “Hey, Pop, I’m getting ready to leave in a few.”

“Stay put.”

Stefanie dropped the roll of wrap. “Why? I’m on my—”

“I am stricken. I have a terrible flu.”

“You sounded fine when we spoke last night.”

His froggy voice didn’t fool her for a moment. He was faking it.

“It came on very suddenly.”

She tapped her recently manicured nails on the granite counter. “Hmm, you don’t say. What are your symptoms?”

“Er…a terrible griping in my belly and…a fever, very high. Considering the circumstances, I’m putting myself and Jacquie and the twins under quarantine until this passes.”

“Quarantine!” She nearly dropped the phone.

“I cannot very well welcome Niko Costas into a hotbed of germs, now can I?” he said reasonably—too reasonably. “I am afraid you will have to host him at your house.”

Stefanie groaned. “Pop, don’t do this to me.” It was one thing to take Costas around town, to flirt in the service of softening him up, but quite another to be left alone with him on the front lines, solely responsible for his care and feeding.

“It is done,” he announced firmly, not sounding sick at all. “I’ve already contacted the car service with the change of plan and your address. The limo driver will pick him up from Dulles International as planned—”

“The limo driver! You hired a limo?” Considering their money troubles, shouldn’t they be cutting back?

Selective hearing was her pop’s specialty. As though she hadn’t spoken, he continued, “—and drive him directly to you. He should arrive soon.”

Soon?
Was it possible to have heart failure and a racing pulse simultaneously? “Pop—”

“I must go. I feel another bout of the sickness coming on. We’ll speak again tomorrow. Good luck, little one.” He clicked off the call.

Setting down her cell, Stefanie felt her frustration slide into panic. Her personal living area was limited to her loft, a barebones space furnished with a dresser, night table, and her
bed
.

I could seriously use a hit of chocolate right now.

There must be a bite of Bakers’ tucked away somewhere. Pawing through her pantry, struggling to remember where she’d deliberately hidden it from herself, she heard the front door knocker drop. Holy shit, it was him. Nikolaos Costas. It had to be.

She closed the cabinet and drew a deep breath, forcing air into her seizing lungs. A second
clang
, this time more of a slam, reminded her that her “guest” still waited and with less-than-perfect patience. She crossed the wormhole-riddled floorboards on wobbly legs, only now noticing how her fancy new shoes pinched. Her clammy hand curled around the cut-glass knob, slowly rotating it. She pulled back, the door opening on a squeal of rusted hinges and heat-swollen wood.

Thickly lashed hazel eyes stared back at her. “Miss Stefanapoulous?”

She opened her mouth to answer but a mute nod was the best she could manage. The paparazzi photos didn’t begin to do him justice. Nikolaos Costas had chiseled features and thick, dark hair, the latter worn layered and longish, the ends curling about the collar of his crisp white shirt. Olive-colored skin stretched over a high forehead, sharply boned cheeks, and a nicely squared jaw. Light lines bracketed his magnetic eyes and full-lipped mouth, suggesting that he was no stranger to smiling as well as in his mid to late thirties. And he was tall, at least six feet. Wearing her modest two-inch heels brought them at eye level.

His mouth curved upward as if stunning women to speechlessness was a matter of course. Then again, from all she’d read about him, it probably was. “Good evening. I am Nikolaos Costas,” he announced, his accented voice deep and velvety. “We are expected, yes?”

Lost in his eyes, it took a moment for his question to sink in.
We?
Stefanie stepped back—and stared down.

A second pair of thickly lashed and openly curious hazel eyes looked up into hers.

Shock slammed her. Her Greek player had a
kid
with him.

The little girl, who looked to be about six or seven, was a feminized Mini Me version of Costas as well as a real cutie. Her brown hair was gathered into a single ponytail, the pink bow matching her dress. She held a Hello Kitty miniature purse in one hand; her other hand wound about Costas’s pinkie finger.

“This is my daughter, Mara. I hope it is all right that I brought her.”

Daughter?
Daughter!
Her playboy captain of industry was a…family man?

Even though she’d surmised as much, his confirmation that he had not a niece or young cousin along but an actual…offspring sent Stefanie reeling.

Stepping back for them to enter, she said, “Y-yes, your daughter, right, of course she is. Please…come in.”

He steered the child inside ahead of him, his broad-shouldered body filling her foyer, his musky sandalwood scent seesawing her senses. “Thank you for your understanding,” he said, the sentiment sounding sincere, even gracious, not at all like the glib player she’d anticipated.

Not trusting her shaking hands, she closed the door with a push of her foot. “No problem. I love kids,” she said truthfully, mentally seeing her “seduction” plan as a balloon pricked by a pin.

Amidst the dissipating shock, a strange mixture of disappointment and relief set in. She wasn’t going to have to stray from her comfort zone after all. Nikolaos Costas had a child traveling with him and presumably a wife waiting back in Greece. She might as well have met him at the door wearing her comfy T-shirt, sweatpants, and Crocs. Thinking of her plucked pelvis and Victoria’s Secret thong, her closet crammed with designer clothes and bathroom vanity blanketed by cosmetics and styling products brought laughter bubbling.

“Something amuses you?” Costas asked, gaze sharpening.

Battling the giggles, Stefanie shook her head. “I’ve just had a…very unusual week.” She focused on the child, extending a hand that thankfully was no longer either sweaty or shaking. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mara.”

Tiny fingers took firm hold of hers. The innocent trust implicit in the gesture gave Stefanie’s heartstrings a jerk. Pink ribbon lips parted to proclaim, “I’m hungry.”

“Mara, mind your manners,” her father admonished. Shifting his attention to Stefanie, he said, “Please accept my apologies. I’m afraid Mara missed her lunch and her nap, a calamitous combination when one is seven.” He punctuated the apology with a sheepish smile.

Charmed despite herself, Stefanie shrugged. “No worries, I get pretty cranky when I’m hungry, too.” Smiling down at the child, Mara, she asked, “You like baklava, baby?”

Mara brightened. “Oh, yes, very much.”

Stefanie felt a smile breaking over her face. “In that case, you’ve definitely come to the right place.”

Chapter Three

So married and so hot—this was so not fair!

Averting her gaze from her VIP visitor, Stefanie opened the bottle of chilled retsina and poured two glasses, a full one for her guest and a half for her. Even knowing Costas must be married, she couldn’t afford to relax her guard, not while he held her pop and their family business in the palm of his broad, capable-looking hand. Softening him up by flirting was now out of the question, but she had one last card to play: her cooking. She’d always believed the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach—even if the stomach in question happened to be a perfect six-pack.

“It seems we’re the first to arrive,” Costas remarked, lifting Mara up onto one of the counter stools. “You look as though you are preparing for a picnic,” he added with a smile, surveying the cookware packed in portable sleeves.

Pouring a plastic cup of milk for Mara and adding a generous squeeze of Hershey’s syrup, Stefanie admitted, “Not a picnic, but there has been a change of plan.”

He served the milk to Mara, his gaze losing its good humor. “How so?”

“Unfortunately my father is flattened with the flu. He sends his regrets.”

He met the news with a stony stare. “He is canceling?”

“Postponing,” Stefanie amended, handing him a wineglass. He reached out to take it, and she noted he didn’t wear a wedding band. Then again, not all married men did—especially not the cheaters… “Sending you home to Greece with the flu hardly seemed the way to express our appreciation for all that Costas International has done over the years to help us thrive,” she said, choosing her words with care.

He looked at her askance. “Sometimes these sudden attacks of influenza are but a day’s duration,” he said, twirling the untasted wine by the glass stem. “Perhaps he will be sufficiently recovered tomorrow for us to meet?”

“Perhaps,” she said doubtfully, folding back the foil from her secret weapon, the rack of lamb.

“It is not my custom to chase business associates across the seas. I made this journey as a courtesy in deference to your father’s longstanding relationship with mine.”

Willing a whiff of rosemary, thyme, and pearl onions his way, she answered, “Relationships are important, especially long-term ones. My father appreciates the honor you do us by making this trip. We all do.” He greeted that statement with a grunt, and Stefanie hurried to add, “And I will be most honored to host you here.” Serving him from her kitchen counter wasn’t ideal, but given her space constraints, it would have to do.

He regarded her over the rim of his untouched glass, though she didn’t miss the slight twitching of his nostrils as he breathed in the aromatic steam. “Yes, I will permit it…provided I may help.”

Considering the gilded surroundings he must be used to and the fleet of servants at his beck and call, his offer surprised her.

Before she could determine whether or not he was sincere, Mara piped up, “I want to help, too!”

Dividing her gaze between them, Stefanie smiled. “Thanks but I have everything under control.”

The kitchen was her kingdom. Helpers, no matter how well intentioned, were more often than not a hindrance. Working under Nikolaos Costas’s eagle eye was distracting, to say the least. Keeping a counter’s length between them at least provided some barrier to being completely immersed by his hotness.

His hazel gaze locked onto hers. “I insist.”

She opened her mouth to refuse when it struck her that she’d just been given a golden opportunity to begin her gastronomic seduction. She picked up a ladle, dipped it into the sizzling juices from the lamb, and blew on the liquid. “Okay, as long as you don’t mind being my taster.”

“Taster?” The look he sent her suggested suspicion of poison.

“For the spice,” she said quickly, holding the ladle toward him. “I’m not sure I’ve got it quite right. Too much rosemary, not enough pepper, it’s hard to say,” she lied. The lamb,
her
lamb, would be superbly seasoned as it always was.

His big, athletic body relaxed visibly. “I am sure you are a most competent cook.”

Competent, hah!
Mister, better buckle up, because you have no idea what ambrosia is about to hit your taste buds.
Sugaring her tone, she answered, “Please, I want to make certain it isn’t too spicy for your taste—or Mara’s.” She slanted a look to the child, who’d climbed down from the stool to examine her reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator front.

“As you wish,” he conceded, reaching out to guide the ladle to his mouth. As he did, his hand brushed hers. The casual contact flared her fingertips, the sensation that of static electricity—on steroids.

He bent his head to taste, and Stefanie had the sudden crazy urge to reach out and feather her fingers through his dark hair to test its seeming softness.

“Mmmm.” He straightened, his tongue gliding over his lower lip, his expression one of unguarded ecstasy.

Is that how he would look after sex?
Stephanie wondered and then slapped aside the thought. Whether or not he upheld his vows, so far as she was concerned he was still married—and strictly off-limits. Still, it struck her as weird that all her Internet sleuthing hadn’t surfaced a single mention of his wife.

Stepping back, he said, “That is good, very good, even better than my mother’s—but you must promise not to tell her I said so.” His teasing smile all but knocked the breath from her lungs.

Caught up, it took her a moment to wonder why he’d mentioned his mother’s cooking but not his wife’s. Could he be a widower? The surge of hopefulness that possibility brought about bordered on sinful.

“Thanks, but I doubt I’ll be running into your mother anytime soon, or ever, so your secret is safe with me.”

He shrugged, but his gaze held hers, drawing her like metal to a magnet. “One cannot always predict whose paths Fate will choose to cross.”

Handsome
and
charismatic—add in brilliant and billionaire and there was no mystery why A-list actresses and supermodels swooned at his feet. Flushed, she slipped the platter of dolmades from its traveling case. Pulling back the plastic wrap, she proffered the plate. “Would you mind trying this, too? I’m concerned the rice may not be cooked through.”

Another lie. The rice would be perfectly cooked as it always was. Along with the traditional parsley, dill, mint, and salt and pepper, she’d added her secret ingredient: finely chopped pine nuts. Even after all her years of cooking, it never ceased to surprise her how adding or subtracting a small amount of a single ingredient could alter the character of a dish. And though it cost her more in money and time, she always bought fresh vine leaves—always. They made all the difference.

His pleasant smile belied the feral gleam in his eyes. “Certainly, only I have not yet washed my hands. If you will be so kind…?” Gaze locking on hers, he leaned forward for her to feed him.

Oh…my…God.

Was this how they entertained in Greece? Aware that her hands had begun to tremble, she picked up a grape leaf and aimed the olive oil-drenched appetizer at his parted lips. As she did, her fingertips grazed his moist mouth. She shivered, a tingle traveling the length of her spine.

“Mmmm.” He slid his tongue along his lower lip, savoring, and Stefanie’s tingle ceased traveling and settled squarely between her thighs. Straightening, he swallowed, the motion tugging the corded muscles of his throat. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” The question and the praise underlying it seemed genuine.

She set down the plate, grateful she didn’t drop it. “My mother was from Athens.”

His smile broadened, the warmth of it reaching his eyes and igniting the flashes of amber in his irises. “She taught you well.”

Swallowing against the sudden thickness in her throat, Stefanie nodded. “Thanks, I like to think so.”

Their culinary mother-daughter sessions had been about more than cooking. Although Stefanie hadn’t realized it at the time, Rosaria had used food as a metaphor to teach her about life, molding her into the woman she hoped she’d become. A watched pot never boils—be patient, results take time. Likewise “haste makes waste” hadn’t been only about setting out too much flour.

Stefanie shifted away to open the refrigerator. Bending, she brought out the platter of sliced feta and olives she hadn’t had the chance to pack. Turning back, she set the platter on the counter. “I don’t have a dining room anymore, so we’ll have to eat here at the counter.”

He shrugged, as if dining informally were a way of life for him, which she knew it couldn’t be. “It is good here.”

Still, Stefanie felt compelled to explain, “I own a personal-chef business—a catering company called Good Enuf to Eat,” she added, his confused expression reminding her that English wasn’t his first language. “I run the business from this kitchen and live in the loft above. Unfortunately it’s only big enough for…my bedroom.” Ridiculous though it was, saying
bedroom
brought on a blush.

“You do not work with your father?” He sounded surprised.

Reaching for the knife to slice the bread, she shook her head. “I sit on the board, but I’m not actively involved in running the business.”

“I see,” he said, and his tone had Stefanie thinking the admission might have been a mistake.

Fearing she might have given him a false impression, she hastened to add, “I’ve been on the board since I turned twenty-one. While I’m not hands-on, I am knowledgeable about all projects, especially Acropolis Village. It’s the—”

“I am familiar,” he broke in. “I would very much like to visit the site while I am here.” The
site
, meaning he was well aware the project wasn’t close to completion.

Heart drumming, Stefanie moistened her dry mouth. Could getting him there really be this easy? “I can drive you out tomorrow morning if you’d like,” she said, trying not to sound overeager. If she could manage to sell him on the vision for the project, perhaps he might be more open to overlooking how far behind schedule they’d fallen.

He inclined his head. “I would like that very much, yes.” He picked up his wine, yet to be tasted, and looked over at her expectantly.

Right, oops, shit
. So much for the Greek manners her mother had worked so hard to instill. As the host, it fell to her to make the first toast. Until she did, a guest would not drink. In all the confusion, the custom had slipped her mind.

Feeling like an oaf, Stefanie raised her glass. “
Stin iyia mas
.”
To our health.

The generic sentiment satisfied the social obligation and yet something inside Stefanie spurred her to claim her courage and say more. Her grandfather had not sacrificed to come to America and build Olympia Development from the ground up only to have his legacy dismantled by the machinations of an oily con man and the greed of her present handsome, smiling houseguest.

Channeling the boldness of that maverick generation, she added, “And to a continued profitable partnership between our families.”

“
Yamas
.”
Cheers
. Gaze unwavering if noncommittal, he touched his glass to hers.

Stefanie waited for him to drink and then took a sip from her glass.

Setting aside his wine, he said, “I am Niko to my family unless Mama is cross with me, in which case I am Nikolaos. But please call me Nick as my other American friends do.” He flashed another smile, and Stefanie felt as if a Mediterranean sun seared her face.

“Nick it is,” she said, resisting the urge to fan herself. “I’m Stefanie.”

“Stef-an-ie,” he repeated slowly, carefully, as if savoring each syllable.

Gaze on his lips, the bottom one balancing the tiniest droplet of wine, she caught herself licking her own. “Great, well, I’ll just uh…see about getting supper—”

Clanging cut her off. Had her father changed his mind about delaying and decided to confront Costas after all?

She glanced over to her guest…Nick. “I’ll just…see who that is.” She dusted off her hands and hurried out into the hall.

Feeling as though she were living a remake of
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner
, she opened the door. Instead of her father, her stepfamily—Jacquie, Lettie, and Lena—stood on her stoop.

“Your bell’s busted.” Her stepmother shoved a store-purchased plastic party platter at her.

Stepping aside for them to enter, Stefanie stared down at the unappetizing platter—anemic vegetables served with a side of grayish dip—and suppressed a shudder. “A crudités platter, how…thoughtful.”

Jacquie shrugged bony shoulders. “Don’t thank us, Stefanie, this is what families do.”

“The dip is made with low-fat sour cream,” Lena put in, nibbling polish from a metallic-blue nail. Given all the dieting she did, the poor thing was probably that hungry.

“It says so in the ingredients,” Lettie added, crowding close and stabbing a finger at the store sticker.

Stefanie bit back a laugh. “Yes, I see. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

Jacquie shrugged as if taste were her very last consideration. “I bought it with you in mind,” she said, raking her gaze over Stefanie, her red lips twisting. “I know how you struggle with your weight.”

Hard-pressed not to hunch her shoulders and hide behind her hair, Stefanie focused on pulling the Safeway price sticker off the domed plastic lid. As galling as she found her stepfamily’s insults and innuendos to be, she’d so far refused to stoop to their level. “I thought Pop put you all under quarantine.”

Dropping her voice, Jacquie admitted, “We’re in perfect health and so is your father, other than stress making his ulcer act up. I couldn’t very well stand by and leave you stranded here with the sole responsibility of upholding our family name.”

At times such as this, it was hard to hold back from pointing out that Stefanie had been born a Stefanopoulos while Jacquie had married into the name. But as her mother had been fond of saying, a wise head keeps a closed mouth. The evening held more than enough challenges without them bickering.

“Thank you, Jacquie, that’s very…considerate.”